SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.




1iiessrs.  Roberts  Brot hers' Publicationso
BED-TIME STORIES.
BY
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADDIE LEDYARD.
Square I6mo.  Price $I.5o.
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as, we have no doubt, many a boy and girl will do who takes our advice and secures
this delightful budget of stories out of their first savings. Parents, who appreciate
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JOIVMEN9S HEARTS.
BY
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON,
AUTHOR OF' BED-TIMIE STORIES.
The sense of the world is short, -
Long and various the report, -
To love and be beloved;
Men and gods have not outlearned it;
And, how oft soe'er they've turned it,'Twill not be improved.
R. W. EMERSON.
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1874.




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
CAMIB RIDGE:
PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON.




TO
A FEW BELOVED WOMEN,
IN WHOSE FAITHFUL HIEARTS I HIAYE FOUND THE TRUTH AND
LOYALTY THAT ARE FRIENDSHIP AND THE
UNSELFISHNESS THAT IS LOVE,
I OFFER THESE PAGES, IN WHICH SOH1E OF THEIM, PERHAPS,
MAY SEE THIEMISELYES AS I HAVE
SEEN THEM.
L. C. M.
MAY, 1874.








CONTENTS.
PAGE
FLEEING FROM FATE...  o...        1
BRAINS................  131
TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE....... 157
LITTLE GIBRALTAR..........                   208
HOUSE:HOLD GODS.......   225
THiE JUDGE'S WIFE.....            258
A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT...          289
OUT OF NAZARETH..... 321








SOME WO lEN'S HEARTS.
FLEEING FROM FATE.
CHAPTER I.
ELIZABETH.
DUS5K was settling down upon the great, roomy
house in which the Fordyces lived. It was a
AIay evening, but chill, with some lingering breath of
the vanished winter, and a bright fire was kindled in
the great open stove. A servant brought in lights, and
plaoed one on the centre-table, and another on the
mantel. They revealed the group in the room quite
clearly. A set of merry young people were these Fordyces,-pure blondes, all of them, except one who
stood at the window, and who was not a daughter of
the house, though her name was also Fordyce.
Kate Fordyce was the eldest of the party, and besides her there were two other sisters, and two brothers,
- all Saxon, and rosy, and merry. They were teasing
each other good-naturedly, laughing a great deal, and
saying a good many things which passed with them for
wit, because it takes so little in this respect to satisfy
those who are ready and waiting to be amused.
The girl at the window paid no heed to them. She
1                A




2          SOME TWOMEN'S.IEARBTS.
was looking intently out towards the lovely, lonely
hills, where the rosy glow of the sunset still lingered.
A little at one side, as the windbw framed the landscape, was her uncle's iron manufactory, from which a
red light streamed high, and sparkling cinders rayed
off and glittered through the dusk. She always liked
to look out of this window at this hour. The manufactory, prosaic as it might be by daylight, gave to the
evening landscape a weird picturesqueness. Its mystery allured, as well as its brightness. Then there were
the hills, - not the one on which the village of Lenox
stood, -but the distant, solitary ones, where free winds
blew, which wild birds haunted. Their aspect made
her sad, oftentimes; touched her to pain; and yet she
used to say that if her ghost could come back she knew
it would walk among those hills. To-night, however,
and a great many other times when she looked at them,
they seemed to her like prison-walls, shutting her in
fiom the world, -the world which must be somewhere,
and mean something besides woods, and slopes, and
waters, - the world which held excitements the thought
of which thrilled her pulses, triumphs which fired her
fancy, delights which haunted her dreams. Would she
ever, ever know any thing about it; or was Lenox to
be all her world?
She was not unhappy. Her feeling was not positive
enough for that. She was only beset by the longing
to eat of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, - the
longing which is always the inheritance of an imaginative youth.




ELIZABETH.                    3
No one in the Fordyce household was at all unkind,
to Elizabeth. In a certain fashion they all loved her.
If there were an imperceptible dividing line between
them and her, it was she, not they, who drew it. For
they were not of her kind. Their father and hers had
been brothers, and certain family traits were reproduced
in them all. But this girl had taken something from
her mother which did not run in the Fordyce blood, -
a fine and keen imagination, a capacity to enjoy and to
suffer, of which they knew nothing. She was not heeding now their merry nightfall talk. Her thoughts were
far away, tilting in some great tournament of life, living in some other world of poetry, and passion, and
love, and woe.
She dared sometimes even to utter longing prayers
that a door might be opened into this world of her
dreams. It was almost the only prayer she ever said,
except the Lord's prayer, which she still repeated every
night as simply as a child. Of deep spiritual experiences, of mental conflicts, she knew nothing as yet.
She guessed vaguely at her own capacity for emotion.
I am glad that I can show her to you once, while still
all her sorrows lay before her.
" What does Queen Bess say?" her Cousin Kate
asked at last, going up to her and breaking in upon her
revery.
4' What about? I have not heard a word you have
been saying."
She turned as she spoke, and her face fulfilled the
promise of her voice. To do that was something, for




4           SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
the voice was no common one. It was not sweet, simply, but low, and clear, and tender. You felt that it
indicated a deep and thoughtful nature.
She was a tall, slight girl, this Elizabeth Fordyce,
whom her cousin called Queen Bess. She had clark
gray eyes, which sometimes seemed hazel, and sometimes black. They were shaded by lashes so long that
they cast a shadow. Her complexion was clear, but not
fair. She had no color in her cheeks, except when some
strong emotion stirred her, and then a glow, deep and
warm  as the heart of a summer rose, would suffuse
them. Her lips alone were bright always. Her head
was proudly set on her slender throat. Her hair was
soft, ancl dark, and abundant. Her features were not
faultless, but one who cared for her would never remember to find fault with them. She had a low, womanly
brow; too broad, perhaps, for some tastes. Her mouth
was not small, but the bright, mobile lips expressed
every passing shade of feeling.
I have told you all this, and yet I am conscious that
I have given you no true conception of Elizabeth. I
can only trust to your learning to know her as my story
goes on. In those early days, when, as I said, all her
troubles lay before her, she neither understood herself,
nor was understood by any one else. Perhaps no one
loved her quite well enough to take the trouble of
studying her. Her individuality was too decided for
her to be generally popular. Nor had it even been the
fashion in Lenox to call her pretty. Hier cousinswith their full contours, their pink cheeks, and yellow




EL IZABET.                    5
hair —- were spoken of as "the handsome Fordyces; 
but no one meant to include Elizabeth when this phrase
was used. And yet she had a charm of her own for
those who had ears to hear and eyes to see. As she
turned to ask what her cousins had been talking about,
her eyes and cheeks brightened, and the Fordyce
blondes paled beside her.
Kate answered her, speaking in a pretty, eager way,
which seemed like a reminiscence of the time when she
was fifteen; but then she had been kept young by overmuch petting, though she was twenty-four now, and
the eldest of the Fordyce sisters.
"We are talking about our May picnic. We must
have it on Thursday, or we can't, by any stretch of imagination, call it Ml[ay-day, for the month goes out on
that day. We were discussing the propriety of asking
Elliott Le Roy. Hie is boarding at the Gilmans, you
know."
"' But we have always said we never would ask any
of the summer boarders, - birds of passage, here today, there to-morrow, and caring nothing for any of us.
For my part, I think the one charm of the May picnic
has always been that we had only Lenox people, who
had known about one another all their lives. I don't
like strangers."
"You think you don't, I know; but there isn't one
of us who longs to see the world as you do. After all,
MIrr. Le Roy isn't exactly a stranger. He belongs to us
and to Lenox in a certain way. He is a cousin of Uncle
Henry's new wife. It's very different, don't you see,




6           SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
from some one of whom we know nothing? I suppose
Aunt Julia's having settled here was what attracted
him to the place. He keeps house in New York, she
says, - has an elegant establishment, though he is a bachelor. But he is an author, and he has so many associations and engagements in the city that he couldn't
get on with his work there, and, as it was something
he was in a hurry to finish, he came here for the quiet."
"An author!'
Elizabeth grew excited, though neither her face nor
her manner gave evidence of it. She was only eighteen
then, and full of enthusiasm; very young, too, of her
age, because she had lived so much in a world of fancy
and imagination, and known so little of the coarser realities of actual life. To her dreaming soul an author
meant something a little less than divine, —a sort of
demli-god, to whom she could have offered incense like
a pagan.
"What does he write?" she asked, with suppressed
eagerness.
" Oh, political things, I believe, and essays on history.
I heard Aunt Julia say that he was a philosophical historian, or a historical philosopher, I forget which. But
there's no doubt about his cleverness, any more than
about his money. She says he. is a real man of the
world, too, —very fascinating to women, as it is, and
he might be very dangerous if he were not so cold. He
has never loved any one, and does not care to marry.
He is a good comrade, she says, and generous in a certain way; but that comes of his brain, - his heart was
forgotten and left out when he was made."




ELIZABETHE.                   7
Long afterward Elizabeth remembered those words.
" I don't see why there should have been any question
about asking him,"' she said, quietly. "Very likely he
will think the whole thing a bore; but his belonging to
Aunt Julia gives him a claim to the courtesy of an invitation. For my part, I hope he'll come. I confess I
should like to see a real, live book-maker."
Bell Fordyce, the second daughter, laughed merrily.
"- There," she cried, "6 you see Queen Bess is as very
a woman for curiosity as the rest of us. We will have
the picnic on Thursday, and we will ask the bookmaker. Dick, you must see about it to-morrow; and
you and Rob must give all the rest of the invitations.
We girls shall have enough to do in making our part
of the good things; for I don't suppose even authors
are above eating at a picnic."
"' Why haven't we seen this Mr. Le Roy before, since
he is a family connection?" Elizabeth interpolated,
pursuing, as her habit was, the subject which interested
her.
" Oh, he only came on Saturday. I suppose Aunt Julia
would soon have brought him round, or we should have
met him there, for I guess he goes to her house every
day; but now she will be as busy about the picnic as
we shall, and I suppose we shall see him first on the
shore of the Mountain Mirror."
Then began a discussion about cakes and salads and
receipts; and Elizabeth turned back again to her window, for in this direction no one expected any thing of
her. So she withdrew into herself; and began to fancy




8          SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
what this man of the world, this scholar, this author,
would be like. How could people tell that he had no
heart? How unfair to pronounce such judgment when
they really knew nothing about it.  Just because he
had never loved any one yet, —as if every line were
long enough to fathom a deep nature.
She was quite prepared to make a hero of him, and
hitherto she had known only book heroes. It was'more.
than twenty years ago, —I am writing in the year of
our Lord 1873, - and even then Lenox had begun to
be a tolerably well-known summer resort. But of the
people who canme and went, the Fordyces, living at
some distance from the village, and taking no boarders,
saw very little.  There were, among the stalwart Berkshiremen, not a few in whom the elements of the heroic
were not wanting, —men of brains, and soul, and culture, -but Elizabeth had seen them so often that she
had grown used to them, and so never paused to speculate upon their possibilities. This new-comer represented to her the unknown, which to a fine and fresh
imagination is always the admirable.
CHAPTER ILo
AT THIE MOUNTAIN MIIIR0OR.
TnuI5sDAY dawned clear and bright, - warmer than
any day of the month had been before, -a perfect
time. Elizabeth looked out of her window in a trance




AT THE MOUNTAIN MIRROR.                 9
of delight and expectation. The lonely, lovely hills
had never seemed  so fair, so full of promise.  The
sky was a deep, lustrous azure, over which now  and
then some bit of white, fleecy cloud drifted.  Elizabeth
repeated snatches of verse to herself as she dressed.
She could not sing, but she recited in a chanting tone,
which was in itself full of musical suggestion.
She put on a pure white dress. Somehow she felt as
pure and fresh herself as the new day out of doors, -
the new day, washed with God's dews, and freshened
by His winds.  She was as simply glad and expectant
as a child; so she suited her attire to her mood.  She
brushed her soft hair away from  her forehead, and
coiled it into a net, through whose slender meshes all
its beauty was visible. A branch of coral fastened the
lace around her throat, and was her only ornament.
She might have sat for a picture of Undine, but bfor the
soul, already awakened, which  looked  out of her
luminous eyes.
She went downstairs, and found the rest all ready
for it was nearly nine o'clock, - Rob and Dick Fordyce
in their cool, gray suits; KIate in violet, Bell in pink,
and Emmie, the youngest one, in sea-green; for the
three graces were prejudiced  against dressing alike,
and they had been bright enough to discover that
azure is not of necessity the one idea of blondes.
They ate their late breakfast in a desultory way;
one and another jumping up at intervals, to put some
forgotten or neglected thing into the lunch-baskets.
About half-past nine they finally got themselves off




10         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
in a large, comfortable wagon drawn by two horses, the
three seats of which held them  all without inconvenience. As the residences of the various guests were
scattered in different directions, no rendezvous was
attempted until they should reach the picnic ground.
I will not bore you with any attempt to make you see
the Mountain Mirror with my eyes. You may be fortunate enough to go some day to a picnic in Lenox,
and behold with your own this deep, still tarn, which
reflects for ever the lofty peak that rises directly from
its western shore, the lesser hills at the east, and the
solemn, watching, cloud-swept sky high over all.
The Fordyce May picnic was held, year after year,
on this enchanted spot; and to climb the Peak, and
look from its summit over the wide-spread landscape,
was the fatigue which always earned them the right to
their repast. So they arranged at once, upon arriving,
baskets and hampers in a cool, shady place, and then
made ready for their mountain scramble. Presently
the rest of the company began to appear. Elizabeth
looked eagerly at the Gilman carriage, but found it
quite empty of interest for her, containing only Hannah
and Selina Gilman and their sandy-haired brother.
Half a dozen other well-laden wagons followed; and,
last of all, a light buggy, with a vicious-looking black
horse, driven by the only stranger of the party.
Elizabeth Fordyce sat very still in her place under
the trees, while her cousins went forward to welcome
Mr. Le Roy. She saw a tall, elegant-looking man,
dressed in speckless white linen, - a man with the un



AT THIE JMOUNTAIN MIRROR.             11
mistakable grand air she had associated with him in
her fancy. This hero, whose very name, befbre English spelling corrupted it, was -Le Roi, the king.
"A Saul, than his brethren higher and fairer," she
said softly to herself; and just then her cousin Kate
brought him up to her.
"Another Mliss Fordyce," Kate said gayly; "my
Cousin Elizabeth."
Elizabeth looked up, and met the gaze of a pair of
cool, speculative, yet reticent blue eyes, which told no
secrets and held no smile, though the lips below were
parted and revealed glittering rows of teeth. He was
very handsome,-that was her first thought; very satirical
also, was her second. He would be intolerant of sentimentality or weakness, some instinct told her. Well,
she had one gift, that of being able to keep silence;
and she need not expose any vulnerable points to his
shafts. She rose with an air as lofty as his own, and
gave him her hand. That momentary contact sent a
curious thrill through  her nerves, —not repulsion,
but as certainly not attraction, — prophecy, perhaps.
She did not try to analyze it as she sat down again,
and he passed on with his merry guide, to be made
acquainted with the rest of the party.
"See how he will let Kate bore him," thought Elizabeth to herself, "just because she is handsome. Good
and sweet as she is, she could have no comprehension
of such a man or such a career. How is it that,
even with the best men, beauty answers for every
thine a  




12         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
She forgot that her own face had not seemed unlovely when she looked at it in the glass that morning.
She came nearer to envying her cousin's yellow locks,
and pink and white prettiness, and eyes of china blue,
than she had ever come before to a feeling so mean. She
really wanted this Elliott Le Roy to be interested in
her. Not that she was thinking of him as possible
lover or husband, —Elizabeth was too proud to have
such thoughts a spontaneous growth in her mind,but she wanted to attract him enough to make him
talk with her, and give her a taste of that wine of life
which he had quaffed so long that surely its tang must
linger upon his lips. If her eyes were not blue, or her
hair yellow, she had at least the ability to appreciate
him; but probably he would not care to find that out.
Just as she was becoming disgusted with herself for this
phase of envious feeling, he came back to her, quite
alone this time.
"They are getting ready to climb the Peak," he said,
carelessly. 1" Do you go, - or shall we stay behind in
the shade, and let the rest look at the view -for us?'
That "we" stirred Elizabeth's pulses a little. I-Ie
had elected himself her cavalier, after all. But her
calm, pale face betrayed no eagerness or excitement.
"6 Imust go," she said, rising. 6 "They would not give
nme my dinner, else."
6And you expect to be hungry by and by? "
He eyed her critically as he spoke, beginning to
admire her composure and self-possession, - qualities
which he had expected to put to flight at once in




AT THE MOUNTAIN MIRROR.               13
any country girl whom  he might honor with his
attention.
"'Most unromantically hungry," she answered, smiling,
"I always am on  ay-dclay."
Le Roy lifted his brows.
"So this is May-day?  I really thought that had
been a month ago, when I saw the streets full of young
Hibernians, with paper wreaths on their bare heads."'"Oh, yes," she replied quietly. "That was Mayday in New York. It takes most fashions a month to
travel to Lenox. It is too cold here for flowers to
bloom on the first of May, and we never call it Mayday until there are blossoms enough to crown our
queen. We always make a wreath of violets for Kate,
and they are less blue than her eyes."
"6 Queen Katherine and Queen Bess, -I find myself
among the royal family."
She did not answer. She fancield that she detected
a shade of satire in his tone, and it stung her sensitive
pride. By this time the rest of the party had all
started. The three graces had given up 1Mr. Le Roy
to Queen Bess very willingly.  They were a little
afraid of himn and found themselves more at ease with
their village cavaliers. He had cut an alpenstock, as
he called it, for. Elizabeth, and another for himself,
while they had been talking; and now they started for
the climb, just enough behind the others to be out of
ear-shot.
For a while they were both silent. Elizabeth carried
little of the small coin of society, and she was resolutely




14.     SOM3E WOMEN'S HEARTS.
on guard. MIJr. Le Roy was thinking about her; just,
perhaps, on account of her silence. She interested him
because she was so unlike the women to whom he was
accustomed; so doubly unlike any one whom he could
have expected to meet in Lenox. He was used to
have women strive to please him, offer perpetual incense at his shrine, - but this girl was evidently indifferent with an indifference which he could not believe to
be assumed. She was gathering flowers and leaves as;
she went on, - a spray of dog-rose, a clump of violets,
a stalk or two of wild lilies of the valley, anemones, a
columbine, —he noticed the artistic grace with which
she grouped them. She walked with a free, grand
tread. Her voice was cool and clear, her accent perfect. How had it all come? His wonder culminated
in a question.
"Were you born in Lenox, Miss Fordyce?"
" Born and bred," — she answered, lightly,-" as
native a product of the soil as these violets. Indeed,
I have never been out of Berkshire county in my life."
" And, I presume, do not care to go out of it, since
it has suited you so well?" 
His eyes expressed the admiration which something
in her quiet self-respect forbade him to put into plainer
language. She smiled.
"There, at last, your penetration is at fault. I do
want very much to go away from Lenox. I should
want, when I am old, or tired of the world, to come
back here again, and die under these skies. I think I
could not rest quietly in my grave, unless I were




AT TIlE MOUNTAIN MIRROR.             15
buried in the shadow of these Berkshire hills. But in
the mean time I do long to see something of life. I
was interested to meet you to-day, because you came
from the great world outside, and I fancied there would
be something of its atmosphere about you, making you
different from the men to whom I am accustomeCd."
"And you are disappointedl?" he asked; and then
waited for her slow-coming answer with an interest for
which he mentally scoffed at himself.
She looked at him  thoughtfully and deliberately,
before she spoke.
"'No, I do not think that I am. You are not just
what I fancied, but there is something about you which
is not of Lenox."
He wondered in what respects he had failed to realize
her conception of him, - whether he were less than she
had thought, or more, - but he saw no encouragement
to ask the question in her quiet eyes; if indeed his own
pride had not stood as much in the way as her reserve.
Just then he registered a vow, mentally, that before
the summer was over he would knowe just what she
thought about him, just how much power he could
gain over her. The affair began, even in this early stage,
to interest him keenly.
Do not commit the error of fancying that his heart
was touched. His cousin had said, you know, that a
heart had been left out when he was made. However
that may have been, he certainly had not as yet developed any sentiment for Elizabeth Fordyce; but his
curiosity was thoroughly aroused about her, and his




16         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
masculine vanity, of which he had no small share, was
up in arms. Before the summer was over, not only
would he know her thoughts concerning him, but they
should be what he pleased to make them.
The encounter gave new zest to the prospect of his
summer campaign. He had planned to go to Newport
later in the season, after his literary work should be
accomplished; but there would be time enough for this
little innocent game of hearts before August.
Not a single throb of pity moved him, as he watched
this young, imaginative, fresh-hearted girl standing at
length on the summit of the Peak, and looking off
over the landscape, her dark.eyes shining, and the
swift color of excitement staining her cheeks.  Ie
began to think her really handsome, as he saw her now,
in contrast with her three cousins, whose beauty had
been so much more striking at first sight. Thzey were
"' well-blown," as he phrased it to himself. The sun
had treated them as he usually does light-complexioned,
thin-skinned women. Their delicate little faces were
flushed and scorched, till they looked like full-blown
peonies; and there was an unpicturesque disarray
about their general get-up which certainly put them at
a sad disadvantage.
Queen Bess looked as cool as when she started. Her
white robes were unstained. The flowers in her hands,
even, were not withered. She stood there, looking off
towards the world she longed to try, with her wide
eyes and her glowing cheeks, - an incarnation, surely,
of pure-hearted, high-souled, graceful womanhood. And




AT THE MOUNTAIN MIRROR.              17
Elliott Le Roy speculated about the phases of feeling
through which she should pass before he had done
with her, as coolly, and analytically, and selfishly, as if
that fine, strong nature of hers had not held capacities
for joy and sorrow which he could no more comprehend or measure than one could fathom the ocean with
a lady's ribbon.
The whole party went clown the Peak in company,
after half an hour's restful enjoyment of the view. Mr.
Le Roy was thrown with Kate and Bell Fordyce; or
perhaps he let himself drift into their neighborhood
just to see if it would pique Elizabeth. It vexed him
a little to perceive that it did not. She was just as calm
and bright as when she had climbed up the height at
his side, - silent for the most part, as she had been then,
but with a face full of enjoyment, eager eyes which
swept the landscape, and yet with gentle words and
attentive air for every one who particularly addressed
her. "Wild thing, shy thing," he called her to himself,
remembering a line of an old song. Would any one
ever tame her?  Would she ever come and go at any
man's best, - lay her heart in any man's hand? If so,
and he were not that man, it would be easy to hate him.
At the foot of the Peak she sat down again, and
began to make the violet-wreath for which they had all
been gathering blossoms, but for whose twining no
fingers were so deft as her own.  Preparations for
dinner were going on. A fire was kindled amid difficulties and laughter.  A kettle was hung on some
crossed twigs% and girlish heads bent over baskets and.
B




18         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
hampers. AMr. Le Roy looked on for a few moments
without offering his assistance, and then lazily sauntered
over to Elizabeth.
6 So you don't help to get dinner? " he asked her.
"No, my part is to make the wreath, and arrange
the flowers for the vases. I always put out fires when I
try to kindle them; and I think I can't be one of the
wicked, for whatever I do does not prosper, in a domestic line, at least."
"I think you could kindle some fires that many
waters could not quench, neither could the floods
drown," Le Roy said, slowly, watching her cheeks
for a blush which did not come.
" Could you get me some water from the spring for
these vases?" she asked, trying her flowers into one of
them, so coolly that he could not tell whether she had
comprehended him.
~" Don't send me away for cold water," he said, pathetically. "I get enough of that here."
Elizabeth laughed.
"Oh, you must do something as well as the rest, if
you want your dinner. Kate is Queen bee, and she
won't allow any drones in the hive."
"Cruelty, thy name is M~iiss Fordyce! 9" he sighed,
with a dramatic air; but he took a pitcher and brought
her the water, notwithstanding. When he came back
she made a diversion by filling her vases and putting
them on the table; and then the crown must be adjusted
to Kate's golden head; and by that time dinner was
ready.




AT THE MOUNTAIN MIRROR.               19
For the hour or two after the feast fate was unkind
to Mr. Le Roy. He had no opportunity to get Queen
Bess to himself; and he was one of those men for whom
nothing is so stupid as a general conversation. He revenged himself on fate by doing his utmost to disturb
the peace of mind of Miss Emmie, the youngest Fordyce, by pouring into her ear the most absurd and
unmitigated flatteries, which- she swallowed just as
children a little younger do candy, regardless of whence
it comes, but with eager and unsophisticated delight in
its sweetness. HIe soon tired of this too easy game,
and managing to get the ear of his cousin, Mrs. Henry
Fordyce, the most carelessly good-natured of matrons,
he asked in an undertone, - "Jule, would it be any
harm for me to invite one of those Fordyces to drive
home with me?"
Mrs. Henry considered a moment. "I don't believe
it would," she said at length. "' To be sure you never
saw them till to-day; but they are my nieces, and you
are my cousin. No, I don't see any harm."
Of course Elizabeth was the "one of the Fordyces"
whom VIMr. Le Roy had in his mind, and wanted to have
in his wagon. He went up to her, armed with her
aunt's approval.
"I wonder if you would have confidence enough in
my skill as a whip to trust me to drive you home?'"
he asked, adroitly, as if he were suggesting the only
possible objection to his arrangement. "I spoke to
Julia about it, and she thought you would be safe
enough. She has sat behind my horse two or three




20          SOMVE WOMEN'S HEARTS.
times; but there are not many things of which she is
afraid."  
Miss Fordyce considered a moment. It was not
quite the thing, even in primitive Lenox, to drive
with a gentleman so nearly a stranger; but then he
was her aunt's cousin, and he was an historical philosopher, or a philosophical historian, she had not found
out which yet, but she wanted to find out. Yes, she
would go.
They started a little earlier than the rest, for they
found they were agreed in dlisliking to take other people's dust; and it would be equally objectionable to
lead the cavalcade, and inflict on simple-hearted followers the annoyance they shirked for themselves. So
they solved the problem by starting half an hour in
advance of the time appointed; and though they took
the longest way home, and made a considerable detour
even from that, they were standing at the Fordyce
gate, and quite ready to welcome the three Graces on
their arrival.
Soon after they set out, Elizabeth plucked up courage and asked Mr. Le lRoy about his books. He saw
the eager light in her eyes, and smiled secretly. So it
was as an author that she was interested in him. That
might answer for the world, but he chose to make his first
impression upon her in his private capacity as a man.
He answered carelessly, -'" My books are not books
at all. The papers I am writing now may possibly be
put into book form some time; but the Bostonians are
to have the benefit of them first in the shape of lectures




AT THIE MIOUNTAIN $MIRROR.            21
before their Lowell Institute, - dull old lectures about
the history of a certain epoch. For the rest, I've only
written articles for the monthlies and quarterlies, and a
lecture now and then. Did Cousin Julia delude you
into thinking me an author, and so make all Lenox
ready to be shy of me in advance?"
"I don't know about the delusion. She certainly
said you were an author, - at least Kate told me so, -
and I cannot see any thing incorrect in the statement,
according to your own showing. I suppose Addison
was none the less an author because his best energies
were given to a daily paper."
"Oh, if you are going back into the classics, I cry
quarter. I foresee I shall find you too clever for me."
A smile flickered round his lips as he spoke, which
vexed Elizabeth and made her silent. She was willing
enough to be laughed with, but it would not be easy
to win her forgiveness for man or woman who should
laugh at her.
They bowled along for a little while under green
trees over the still country road. Le Roy had understood her silence, and was thinking bow to redeem himself. Presently he said, with a complete assumption of
frankness, - "I vexed you just now, but you vexed me
first. My ideal is so high that I feel myself a tyro, and
it sounds like satire when any one talks to me of authorship. Let us cry quits and begin again. I hacve seen
some really great men. When I was in England I
heard Robert Browning talk, and Tennyson. Which
do you like best?'




22           SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
" I don't know.  I think I should say Browning; and
yet Tennyson has written two verses which move me
more than almost any others in the language."
"What are they?"
He asked the question in a quiet, matter-of-fact way,
and she answered it as simply as if she had not been a
young girl, talking to a man whose fascinations had
already proved too much for many a woman's peace:-' Oh, let the solid ground
Not fail beneath my feet,
Before my. life has found
What some have found so sweet;
Then let come what come may,
What matter if I go mad,
I shall have had my day.
"Let the sweet heavens endure,
Not close and darken above me,
Before I am quite, quite sure
That there is one to love me;
Then let come what come may,
To a life that has been so sad,
I shall have had my day."
"Jove, how that girl could love!" Le Roy said to
himself, listening to the quivering voice, watching the
changeful color. "I should like to see how she would
look when once her whole nature was waked up."
When her voice died on the air, which seemed to
hold the echo of its melody a moment after the last
word was spoken, he looked at her steadily, till the
clear eyes drooped.
"You are tempting fate with that prayer, Miss For



A COSTLY EXPERIMENT.                23
dyce. You stand in the east of your life, and already
I see the rose of dawning. But you are cool of head,
if warm of heart, and I think you will not go mad.."
She did not answer. His longing to tame this " wild
thing, shy thing," was growing on him. I wish Elizabeth had had a mother just then to say a prayer for
her happiness; for Elliott Le Roy was a man pitiless as
death, and what he longed for he generally attained.
CHAPTER  III.
A COSTLY EXPERIMENT.
Mrs. HIENRY FORDYCE looked out of her window the
forenoon after the picnic, and saw her handsome elegant
cousin sauntering in at her gate. She was weak enough
to feel a little pride in her relationship with him, - in
his talents, his breeding, his good looks, his grand air,
his magnificence, generally speaking. She knew that
half Lenox was envying her her kinship with him; and
few things are more delightful to a naturally constituted
woman than those which tempt her erring sisters to
break the tenth commandment. She received her vis.
itor with impressment.
6"I looked for you, Elliott. I thought you were sure
to come and tell me how you liked Lenox."
"What I thought of your husband's nieces, you
mean," he corrected her, with a smile which held a
little covert satire.




24,SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
"Well! if you choose to put it in that way. I saw
that you drove Elizabeth home. Don't you think the
others handsomer?"
"Yes, I suppose so, if they weren't such duplicates
of each other. I like individuality."
" They are a good deal alike. People call them' the
three Graces,' you know, - or' the handsome Fordyces.'
When they say those things, of course they don't include Elizabeth."
"Does that hurt her feelings?"
"How  absurd. Would she say so if it did?  But
really I doubt if she cares, she is so full of her daydreams."
6And the others are not dreamers, - real blue and
gold, flesh and blood. Jule, it is warm, and I am lazy,
-just in the humor for gossip; which, after all, men
like quite as well as women, if only the subject is interesting.  So let me lie back here in this great easychair, and you tell me about Elizabeth Fordyce. She
has excited my curiosity, just because she is so unlike
the rest of them. How is it that she hasn't the family
beauty?"
"Why, you see her mother was a Nugent, and that's
where the dark eyes and hair, and the reserved, dreaming temperament come from. She's very like a picture
I've seen of her mother. There's but little Fordyce
about her, poor thing."
"It is unlucky, if her face is her fortune; but perhaps
she has money?"
"'Not a dime of her own. I've heard rumors since I




A COSTLY EXPERIMENT.                25
came here that she wasn't fairly dealt with in that matter; but Henry wont talk about it. You see her father
and the uncle she lives with were in business together,
and just after her father's death there was some embarrassment about money matters, and the firm came near
being insolvent.  So it was made out, somehow, that
no money was to come to her; but then her uncle took
her home, and has done by her just the same as by his
own children; so, after all, there is no fault to be
found. They've all been good to her, only I don't
think they understand her very well. They say she's
queer.
"' I suppose she likes her life? " he asked, with secret
curiosity.
"I don't quite know. She was eighteen last spring,
and KEate told me that she had been restless ever since
to get away and do something for herself. She would
have gone before now, only that her uncle was so opposed. But she has been studying with all her might
to fit herself to go as a governess at the first good
opening."
Elliott Le Roy smiled at the thought of some of Elizabeth's cool, little ways, and crisp, curt speeches. The
governess element did not appear to him to be very
strongly developed in her character. Having found out
all he wanted to know, he got up lazily.
"What, you are not going?"
"Yes, I'm afraid I must. It's a bore, rushing round
in the sun, and you knov, Jule, how I like to sit in
your cool, quiet parlor; but I must not quite forget all
2




26          SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
social laws even in this Berkshire Arcadia. It becomes
me to inquire about the health of the Fordyces after
their picnic."
As he walked along, however, it was only one of the
Fordyces of whom he thought, and that one, Elizabeth.
lie had said to himself, yesterday, "How that girl could
love!" and he was curiously tempted to try the experiment of making her in love with himself. He fancied
her petulant little ways; her pretty insubordinations;
the shy sweetness of her rare and hard-won tenderness;
and then the triumph of her full and free surrender.
Once it came across his mind that it wouldn't be so
very bad a thing to marry her. If he married at all, it?uzst be a woman who would not fetter him, -who
would demand little, and take what he gave, thankfully.
I-e had bachelor ways, single-man tastes, which he
would not be willing to sacrifice to any one. A girl in
his own set, well posted as to her dues, would not be
satisfied with any such half conquest. But this " wild
thing, shy thing," would she not be easy to content,
once that a man had tamed her? If some one were to
save her from her governessing career, and surround
her with elegance and luxury, how gratitude would
deepen and sweeten her love.
That reflection, by the way, showed how little he
really knew of women. Gratitude and love run in
parallels. There may be room for both in the same
heart, but they never touch, nor do I see how one can
deepen the other.
Mr. Le Roy laughed, a cynical little laugh, all to




A COSTLY EXPERIMENT.                27
himself, as he came to the Fordyce gate and the end
of his revery at the same time. After all, what did he
want of a gill with whom he certainly was not in love, -
who, at best, would be more or less of an incumbrance?
Still, it was only Miss Elizabeth Fordyce for whom he
asked at the door;. though the rest might be supposed
to hold equal claims upon his courtesy.
HIe was shown into a little room which, by tacit
consent, had been abandoned to Elizabeth. It was
furnished with quaint, old-fashioned. furniture, which
had been her mother's. A bookcase, well filled, was
one of its adornments. Ivy-vines had been trained
over the windows, into leafy cornices for the soft, white
muslin curtains. The few chairs were all easy-chairs.
The windows were open, but Elizabeth had a Southern
temperament, and liked warmth, so there was a little
grate with a tiny soft-coal fire, clear and bright; and,
near the fire, her delicate cheeks flushed by its glow,
sat Elizabeth. She had no means to make expensive
toilets, but she had the tact to make effective ones. HIer
dress was white, with violet ribbons; and a violet
odor floated out from her filmy hlandkerchief. Her eyes
kindled when she met Mr. Le Roy, and then drooped
again; and her visitor took in the whole picture, —
room  and  furnishings, and gracefill woman, - and
scoffed at Lenox for not having found out, before
this, who was the handsome Fordyce.
The shy eagerness of her welcome charmed him.
He sat down beside her, and began to talk to her about
some of the books lying on her table. He found that
V,




28          SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
she had both read and thought, though her high estimate of his ability made her diffident of expressing her
own ideas. Once or twice, however, she flashed into
passionate earnestness. Once was when he took up a
volume of Goethe.
"So you like the grand old German? " he said.
"Like him!" The dark, gray eyes flashed, the cheeks
flamed. " Mr. Le Roy, I hate him! "
" I presume you do not question his genius? 7'
"' The more genius, the more shame!" she cried, hotly.
"A  man that could coolly go to work to win one
woman's heart after another, just to see how love
would affect each different type, and then throw them
away like squeezed oranges. I try to think good will
always triumph over evil, in the end; but I have often
wondered whether there were soul enough in that man
to be worth saving. MfIind he had plenty of; but it is
not mind to which the saving promise of immortality is
given."
" So you think trifling with a woman's heart is the
unpardonable sin? "
"I don't know," she said, slowly. "God forbid that
I should pronounce any soul's sentence. Still, I know
but one worse crime in a man than winning a woman's
heart for pastime."
"What is that?  Your code of morals interests
me. "
"To marryi a wife without loving her," she answered,
in a still, controlled voice, but with cheeks and eyes
aflame. "When a woman found herself trifled with




A COSTLY EXPERIMENT.               29
and deserted, pride might come to her rescue, and her
day and chance for happiness might not be quite over,
for, romance about it how we may, women, and men
too, do sometimes love more than once. But, deceived
into a loveless marriage, what is there for the wife
to do but to die? I think I could never forgive that
wrong on earth or in Heaven."
"How if a woman marries a man without loving
him? "
" She wrongs him, surely; and her own soul yet
more. But the cases are not parallel. Love is not so
vital to a man; and, besides, I firmly believe that any
husband who has married a wife with a free heart can
win her love if he tries."
"Your experience must have been very limited; how
have you formed your theories of life? " he asked her,
wonderingly.
"They are only theories, as you say. I cannot tell
how they would stand contact with actual life. But
they were strong enough to make me hate Goethe."
She rounded her sentence with a smile, and then
took up some delicate sewing, and began stitching on
it, as if she considered the discussion finished.
Mr. Le Roy drew "Men and W5omen" from  his
pocket, and opened it first to "Evelyn Hope;" that
hopefullest poem of love and woe which poet ever
penned. Afterwards he turned a few pages to the
"Toccata of Galluppi's," and read it through. Two
lines stayed with Elizabeth, and kept her company
long after he had bidden her good-morning, and gone




30          SOM   WOMEN'S HEARTS.
" Some with lives that come to nothing, some with deeds as well
undone,
Death came tacitly, and took them where they never see the sun."
Would her life come to nothing?  Was she one of
the 1" butterflies" to " dread extinction"?  IHer existence, just then, seemed laid upon her as a burden, not
given her as a blessing.
Elliott Le Roy went out again into the June sunlight.  He  was becoming  singularly interested  in
Elizabeth; but it was precisely in the Goethe fashion
of wishing to try experiments with her.
"It would almost pay to marry her," he said to
himself, with his cool little laugh, "Cjust to see what
kind of wife she would make. She talked desperately
and defiantly enough, but she would be very submissive, I think, when she couldn't help herself. It's the
way with these high-mettled, true-blooded creatures,
whether horses or women. Once well-broken to harness, and there's no end to their faithfulness and
submission. I'd trust her. But she wouldn't give away
that heart of hers in a day."
He walked on, switching off dandelion-heads with
his light walking-stick. Lenox was more exciting than
he had expected. Perhaps he could not make Elizabeth
care for him, even if he tried; but at that thought he
smiled a little scornfully to himself. He had found
women so far very easy to win, though he had won
them not to wear, hitherto. So far in life he had loved
and ridden away; but curiously enough he did not for
a moment contemplate pursuing this course with Eliza.




.A COSTLY EXPERIMENT.              31
beth. If he won her heart he quite understood that he
must pay the legitimate price for his triumph. Nor
did this prospect very much trouble him. Partly because —come how those things may —she was so essentially thorough-bred that he could trust her to be equal
to any position in which he might place her; and
partly - though this was unacknowledged to himselfbecause even his Mephistophelian  nature was not
wholly free from the human longing to be loved, to
have one human creature to say a prayer for him if he
were in peril, or drop a tear for him if he were dead.
I think, too, that even this man of the world would
not have been quite bold enough deliberately to
resolve on trifling with such a "being of spirit, and
fire, and dew," as Elizabeth.
Still, whether in the character of trifler or man in
earnest, he went day after day to the Fordyce dwelling.
He read to Elizabeth, and talked to her. The country
ways learned to know his horse's footsteps, and the people, for a radius of ten miles round the village, grew
familiar with the handsome, haughtyface of the horse's
master, and the slight, dark-haired girl beside him.
Elizabeth's soul was in a strange tumult. All of life
had become savorless to her except the hours when he
was beside her; and yet with him she was never quite
happy or at ease. She wished in one breath that she
had never seen him; while in the next she shivered at
the thought of what Lenox would be when summer and
he had taken flight together.
"Do you love me, Elizabeth?"




32          SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
He asked her this one day, in a half-reckless mood;
piqued to do it, perhaps, by her inscrutable self-possession. It was six weeks after the picnic, - six weeks
during which there had not been a single clay when
they had not met. In August he was to go to Newport; and now it was the middle of July. They had
been talking of this, and it had seemed to her as if something tight round her heart were strangling it. She
sat silent, because she had not self-control enough to
speak calmly; and into this silence his question fell,"Do you love me, Elizabeth?"
She grew very pale, and her voice shook as she answered,-" God help me, I do not know. I never cared
for any one else, and I don't want to part with you;
but I had thought love was something more, or different.
Can't you help me to understand myself, I3r. Le Roy?"
The soft pleading in her eyes moved him. Her helplessness was so appealing, her voice so faltering, her
face so pale and sweet, that Elliott Le Roy came
nearer to loving her in that moment than ever he had
before. He took her close into his arms, and kissed
her, - a long, silent kiss, - his first. He felt something,
but I think he feigned more; for his was a nature to
which shams fitted themselves as a garment.
"I think you do love me, Elizabeth. Is it not so?"
With his eyes and lips on hers, the whole magnetisms
of his nature swaying her towards him, she answered
under her breath, -" If you care for my love, Mr. Le
Roy, I think you can keep it."
And in saying this she told him neither more nor less




A COSTLY EXPERIMENT.                33
than the truth. If he had honestly loved her, honestly
cared for her love, it would never have failed him.
She did not yet know herself; but he had all things in
his favor. He satisfied her pride, -he fulfilled the demands of her taste, - her heart might easily be his by
right of discovery, if he chose to enter in and take possession.
Would he choose?
For a moment a vague longing for the possible sweetness there might be in a true love, a true home, came
over him, and his manner was very tender.
" Shall I be a grand dame enough for your sphere in
life? " Elizabeth asked humbly.
" If I had not thought my rose perfect, should I have
tried to gather it?" he said in answer. "There are
other flowers in other gardens, - I have chosen here."
He had not said one word about his love for her, but
Elizabeth had not noticed the omission. Nor had he left
such words unsaid from any conscientious scruples, any
doubts of himself, but simply because they did not come
naturally to him. He was not an affectionate man;
and just here was the reef on which, had all her skies
been fair, all her winds favoring, Elizabeth was sure,
soon or late, to come to woe.
Underneath all her delicate shyness, her nature was
tenderly affectionate, and, where she deeply loved, very
demonstrative as well. She would never have wearied
of the manifestations of affection; while to be fond and
caressing, or even to endure such things patiently for
any length of time, -was not in Le Roy's mental consti2*                  c




34          SOME WOMEN'S HEAR TS.
tution. Elizabeth's instinctive and refined womanliness
was sure to keep her from wearying any man with unsought caresses; but it offered her no security against
that hunger of the heart of which one dies at last, just
as surely as of bodily famine.
The time for discovering this lack had not yet come,
and she fancied herself very happy as she sat at Le
Roy's side, and heard him tell how she had interested
him from the first. Nor was he insincere in this talk.
If I have given you the impression that he was a man
with no good qualities, no tender human feeling, no
respect for moral obligations, I have failed to render
him to you fairly. The trouble about correctly understanding people is that there are no pure temperaments;
no one is altogether bad or altogether good. The bad
preponderates fearfully in some natures; but no man is
left to live on earth when he is quite a devil, or fails of
translation when he is all a saint.
Sitting beside Elizabeth, in those first hours after he
had won her, Le Roy certainly felt a tenderness for her,
a real interest in her, which he had never experienced
for a woman before. It was far enough from the grand,
self-sacrificing devotion of a nobler man; but it was the
best he had to give, -let us do him justice.
As for Elizabeth, thinking of her in those hours, one
wishes over again that she could only have had a pure,
wise, good mother. Poor child! She was not in one
sense ignorant. She had read and thought in her way,
and framed her fine-spun theories; but she knew so
sadly little of her own heart.




HER MANACLE.                  35
And this engagement was but the type of half those
formed by young girls of eighteen the country over.
They do not guess what true love is or should be, -
they mistake for it their first heart-flutter, - they do
not comprehend their own natures, or divine what they
will need when they come to the full stature of their
womanhood; and yet they are very honest, and mean
all they say when they utter, in their ignorance, that
solemn vow which neither Heaven nor man could help
them to keep, until Heaven or man should be able to
make the sun move back on his course, or the streams
flow upwards towards the mountain tops.
CHAPTER  IV.
HER ]MANACLE.
THE next day, after the understanding arrived at in the
last chapter, was Thursday; and Mr. Le Roy started
ibr New York in the morning. Friday afternoon, the
last train brought him back again, and he went over in
the gloaming to see Elizabeth. She trembled a little
when he came to her side. It gave her a curious feeling to meet again, after his brief absence, this man, in
whose hands her future lay.  The agitation of her
manner made him think of the fluttering of some newly
caught woodland bird. He called her again, in his
thought, his "wild thing, shy thing," and experienced




36          SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
some of the pleasant excitement he had expected to feel
in her capture.
"Did you know you were to wear my fetter?" he
asked after a while. " I went to New York partly for
the purpose of providing myself with a manacle for
your securer binding."
"I think I shall not want to run away if you are
good to me," she said, in a low, shy tone.
"And I, you see, do not mean you shall run away,
whether or no. I shall hold on to you like Fate."
He laughed as he spoke; but he and she, in those
two sentences, had unconsciously struck the key-note
of their two lives.
The ring he put upon her finger was the conventional diamond solitaire, but unusually large and blilliant, for Le Roy was rich, and not niggardly. Elizabeth
had the intense love for beautiful things, which inheres
in such temperaments as hers; but the ring, handsome
as it was, gave her a singular feeling of discomfort. It
seemed to watch her, like a great, fiery eye. She felt
as if, in some subtle, inexplicable way, that eye were
her keeper. She was never quite the same self-willed,
independent girl after she wore it. It was as though,
like a conquered fort, she had given up her defences, and
hung out now the colors of the enemy. Not that she
allowed these thoughts any room in her consciousness.
She imagined herself very happy indeed, only some
occult influence had changed her from her old self.
Perhaps, as the days went on, Le Roy may have felt
this subtle change. At any rate, the two weeks which




HER JIANA CULE                  37
followed his betrothal were duller than he had expected. Some sauce piquante was wanting. He was
precisely one of those men, to whom the chief charm
of any object consists in the winning of it, - once his,
it was apt to pall upon his fancy. For six weeks past
there had been a certain lind of excitement about long
morning sessions in Elizabeth's little parlor, listening to
and drawing out her quaint fancies and crude theories,
afternoon rides behind his high-stepping horse, and
evening lingerings under moon and stars, amid falling
dew, and air heavy with summer odors. But now, that
all these things were orthodox, and he knew that it
was expected of him to pass a good share of his days at
Elizabeth's side, he began to grow tired of it all. He
thought of the little girl in Sydney Dobell's song, who
asked, ---'"Is she changed, do you think, papa?
Or did I dream she was brighter before  "
and would have liked to pat the aforesaid little girl
on the head for expressing his idea so well. Still, he
contrived to satisfy all Elizabeth's demands, - partly,
perhaps, because she knew so little of the ordinary
ways of love and lovers. Then, too, her nature was
generous, and not exacting.  Moreover, she had logical foundation for an entire faith in him. She had
neither fortune nor social influence, nor did she think
herself in the least handsome. She thought, therefore,
that the love which had sought her out, in spite of all
these disadvantages, must be deep, if silent. So she
went on, fancying herself altogether happy; but some



38         SSOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
thing had changed about her, she knew not what. She
was quiet and submissive to an authority, recognized, if
new; and, after all, the tamer had nothing to tame. It
was a household bird, which came and went at his
call, and wore his manacle willingly, but he could not
fancy her his " wild thing, shy thing," any more.
One day, in the first week of August, he stopped at
his Cousin Julia's on his way to Elizabeth.
" I am off for Newport to-morrow, Jule," he said,
when she came into the room, " and I thought I'd look
in on you a few moments before I went away."
1 "Are you off with Elizabeth?"
"No; without her."
"You know what I mean, - is it all over between
you?"'
Le Roy laughed. "Oh, no; it is all impending. I
want to be married the last of October. I hate bridal
tours, and all similar exhibitions of one's self to the
million; so I want the wedding just when it will be
pleasant to go back to town.  Elizabeth will have
enough to do in the mean time, and there is no reason
why I shouldn't have my usual five or six weeks at
Newport."
Mrs. Henry Fordyce looked at him for a silent moment; then she said, with an expressive lift of her eyebrows, -" Upon my word, you are a cool lover. But
Queen Bess can't blame me, whatever comes. I told
the Fordyces, before they ever saw you, that your
heart was left out."
"' If that be true of me, you will at least acknowledge




HER MANACLE.                   39
that I did well to select a wife who will not demand
that I should dance perpetual attendance upon her.
Elizabeth knows little of the ways of the world; and,
thank God, she is neither exacting nor demonstrative."
"Neither exacting nor demonstrative, is she?  Elliott, I quite understand the estimate you put upon my
penetration; but, trust me, if that is your opinion, I
know Elizabeth Fordyce better than you do."
A sarcastic smile crossed Le Roy's lips, but he suppressed it before it had time to rouse his cousin's ire,
and said, with the air of one willing to listen to reason, - "You may be more than half right; but at any
rate, the thing is done, and I came this morning to ask
your aid towards its being well done. If I have sometimes questioned your penetration, you know I have
never questioned your taste. The future Mrs. Le Roy
will not be a woman of fashion; but some society she
must see, and I am unwilling to be mortified by her
toilets.  You have lived in New York so long that
you will understand just what she ought to have. I
want you to help her with her preparations. Suppose
you go down with her next week, and arrange about
dressmakers, and the like. I will give you some blank
checks, and you must see that she has every thing
which she needs."
"But how will Elizabeth like this supervision?"
"I will make that all right with her. Of course
I don't mean that her taste is to be set aside in the matter; only you must tell her what and how much she
requires, and make sure that she has it."




40         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
Elizabeth swallowed a little pang at the announcement of her lover's approaching departure. She did
not speak just at first, but he saw a quiver of pain flutter round her sensitive mouth, and I think he was
human enough not to be sorry that she would regret
him.
"I thought you understood all that, dear," he said,
kindly. " My plans have been made for this sojourn at
Newport from the first. I am to meet a party of friends
there. It was an arrangement before I left New York.
It will give you all the more time for your preparations.
The last of October I want to take you home."
"My preparations will not be much," she said, a red
spot burning on either cheek.
"But I want them to be a good deal. Mrs. Le Roy
will not be shut up in a convent, and I want her
properly made ready for presentation to her husband's
friends. I have been talking to Julia about it this
morning. She will go to New York with you, and
help you shop. To save you trouble, I have left the
sinews of war in her hands, and she will see to all the
bills."
"' But, Elliott," - she called his name very timidly,
for she had not spoken it often, —" I don't like you
to do this. I should feel so much happier if you would
just let me have what my uncle chooses to give me,
until - afterwards."
He silenced the pleading lips with a kiss.
" I want you to be prepared for afterwards," he said,
resolutely, though not unkindly. "If you are ready to




.HER MANACLE.                 41
give yourself to me, and let me take care of you for
life, surely you need not oppose my pleasure in this
trifle."
She looked at the great diamond eye glittering on
her finger, - her manacle. The color came and went
in her cheeks. She shut her lips firmly to keep them
from betraying her by their quivering. Her eyes grew
moist. A tenderer, more generous man would have
understood her well enough to spare her this humiliation; but Elliott Le Roy was not tender, or in any
large sense generous, and he silently waited for her
acquiescence. She did not venture to blame him, even
in her heart. He did not know how she felt, and of
course it was not to be expected that he would. And
perhaps, after all, he hadc  a certain right to make sure
that she would not mortify him. So she said at last,
very quietly,- "I will give up my own will in the
matter to yours, and do as you and Aunt Julia tell me;
but I wish you had not desired this thing."
He ignored the last part of her sentence altogether,
and only thanked her for being such a good, sensible
little girl, just as he had felt sure she would be, when
she came to consider.
After all, the weeks of his absence passed quickly.
It was not in the heart of woman, least of all such a
beauty-loving woman as Elizabeth, not to be interested
in all the elegant things which were purchased so
lavishly for the future Mrs. Le Roy. Nor, indeed, was
she quite enough in love to have her lover's absence
take away all the brightness from her life. She under



42. ~SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
stood herself so little that she was not conscious of any
lack in her experiences; but there were depths in her
nature which Elliott Le Roy, let him love her never so
well, could not have sounded.  And yet, if he Accd
loved her generously and fondly, she would have gone
through life beside him, and he would never have
lacked any thing in her eyes. It is almost always easy
for even a man, who is not the right man, to hold a
woman's heart, if he will but love her enough.
Twice a week Le Roy Wrote to her, and she was
very proud of his letters. They were not love-letters,
though he always addressed her as the one to whom his
future belonged; but they were very brilliant letters,
full of wit, and observation, and satire. She was proud
that he should thus give her of his best; and her
answers, though she was not vain enough to perceive
it, paid him  back his own coin with usury. Elizabeth, in her modesty, had never understood her own
capacities; but Le Roy began to discover, during this
correspondence, that it would be in her power to dispute
the bays with him on his own ground, if she chose.
Early in September he came to see her for a day, and
admired the progress of her trousseau, delighting VMrs.
Henry Fordyce with his unqualified approval.  He
gave her at this time a second commission, - bridesmaid dresses of the loveliest blue silk for the "three
Graces."
"Not white?" she asked; for colored dresses were
less in vogue for bridesmaids then than they are now.
"Decidedly not white," he answered. "White is




HER MANACLE.                  43
fobr Elizabeth, alone.  They will be grouped around
her, and it is my fancy to have my pearl set in turquoise."
Elizabeth opened her gray eyes a little wider when
he told her that his absence was to be still farther
prolonged. He was going to the White Mountains
with the same friends whom he had joined at Newport.
She did not utter a word in opposition; but he answered the unspoken protest in her eyes.'" You are busy, my Queen, and I should only be in
your way. Besides, you know these are my last months
for enjoying myself en garpon."
She looked at him gravely. "Am I to be a burden
to you, Mr. Le Roy, —to stand in the way of your
enjoyment? "
"Not at all, foolish girl; only to change its nature a
little, perhaps;" but he thought to himself as he
spoke, that even this last was extremely unlikely to
happen.
So he went away again, and the preparations went on.
lie extended his trip into Canada, and was gone a
week or two longer than he expected. Then there
were arrangements to be made in New York for the
reception of the bride in her new home; so that somehow October was over before a positive time could be
fixed for the wedding; and it came off at last, on a
November morning, gloomy and despondent, which of
itself seemed to Elizabeth's imagination to presage ill.
The "three Graces," having made their own toilets
at an earlier hour, assisted at the bride's, by their pres



44         SOME WOM~EN'S HEARTS.
ence and comments; but a quiet little dressmaker, who
had set most of the stitches in the white robes, put them
on. Elizabeth stood up at last, fair and pale as a snow
image, with a wonderful radiance of shimmering silk
and falling lace about her. fMr. Le Roy came to look
at her before her uncle took her to church; his most
gallant, debonair self, on this occasion, quite ready to
pay her compliments.
"' Am I all right? " she asked him, a little anxiously.
" If the other Queen Bess had been a tithe as fair
she would never have died unwedded. But you look
like a wraith, - unreal, illusive. Will you' slip like a
shadow, a dream, from my hands'?"
"Not now," she answered. "If you should tire of
me, by and by, who knows what I would do?"
"Well, at least you shall wait for that," and then he
took her in his arms, and kissed her for the last time as
Elizabeth Fordyce. Did his kiss lack any thing, or did
some secret whisper of destiny make itself heard just
then in her soul? She clung to him an instant, in a
strange passion of emotion; was it regret for the wellknown past, or dread of the untried future, -who
knows? She only said, - "I shall have no one in the
whole world an hour hence but you. God help us if
we are making a mistake! "
Elizabeth Le Roy came out of the church, where
she had stood, a pale pearl, among her cousins,
brave in blue and gold and in their young, strong,
healthy beauty, whose brilliance no sentimental sor



HER MAANACLE.                  45
rows would ever dim, - among them, but not of them,
as she had been for so many years. She came out,
leaning on her husband's arm, and the keen, penetrating November air seemed to strike to her heart
with a sudden chill.
She had speculated sometimes, as what girl does not,
in her dreaming girlhood, about her wedding morning;
but somehow her fancies had never been any thing like
this reality. Still she tried to believe that she was not
only very prosperous, but very happy.
Mr. Le Roy, wealthy, elegant, critical, had chosen
her, -- her, out of the world full of women he knew.
He was going to take her from the stillness and inaction of which in those long, dreamy years her very
soul had grown tired, and carry her into the thick of
life, - such a life of stir, and tumult, and endeavor as
she had longed to try. What did it mean, that fate
should so have filled her cup to the brim? Why, to
her of all others, had this brilliant destiny opened?
And what ailed her, that she was not fuiller of selfgratulation, that she could take it so quietly?
They went home, and ate bride-cake, and drank
champagne; and then Elizabeth went away to take off
her misty robes. One last look her husband had of her
in those garments, as she turned at the foot of the stairs
to speak to him, her drapery, white and fleecy as
a cloud, falling about her, - a tall, slim shape, with
gleaming eyes, and hair of silken dusk, and face of
lilies not r.oses, save where the lips had budded red.
She looked too much like a spirit. Le Roy was glad




46         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
when she came back again in her travelling dress, and
they went away.
He had been quite ready to fulfil his engagement
with Elizabeth, rash and ill-considered as in his secret
soul he had already begun to think it; but the whole
matter of the wedding had bored him, and he was glad
to be done with it. He had not enough of faith or
spiritual insight to have the words of the marriage service impress him with their solemnity, or even touch
him by their beauty. It was simply a necessary evil,
with which he was thankful to be done. He was rejoiced that Elizabeth did not cry. It was like her good
sense, he thought. But, indeed; she had not lovedc
any of the Fordyces enough to melt into tears over
them. The hills, as lonely as herself were the fiiends
to whom her heart was knit the most closely: and as
she stood at the old window for a few silent moments,
looking out towards them, over her eyes there "began
to move something which felt like tears." But she
turned away resolutely. She was bidding them and
her past good-by. nVho knew what heights of joy,
what depths of woe, her soul would touch before she
should see those hills again?
Their long car ride was a strange bridal journey.
During those monotonous hours, Elizabeth had plenty
of leisure to think of what she had done. Now and
then she stole a look at her companion's handsome, inscrutable face, as he bent over the newspapers with
which he had provided himself at the second station.
It did not cross her mind that he was an uncommonly




HER MANA CLE.                 47
inattentive bridegroom.  She knew very little of the
world's usages. She had never been accustomed to be
watched and tended, and she did not expect very much
in that way even from him; but she would have liked
him to talk to her a little, to satisfy her doubts of herself, if such satisfaction were possible. She was suffering, as she rode along, from a singular oppression, - a
dread, lest she should not be elegant enough to please
him, - should shame him by her ignorance of the ways
of that world in which he moved.
She struggled with these doubts and fears in silence,
for it was not her nature to make much ado about her
feelings. She had always borne whatever she had to
bear without words. A woman more exacting, more
accustomed to be an object of interest, would have
demanded Le Roy's attention, told him her thoughts,
constrained him to soothe or reassure her. It is possible that this course would have suited him  better,
though he did not understand himself well enough to
think so. At least, it would have given him an interest
of some kind in the affair, and an occupation. As it
was, he began to feel himself ennuied. IHe would have
liked to think it a respectable proceeding to take himself off to the smoking-car, and enjoy a cigar or two in
peace.  Since this would not quite do, he began to
watch Elizabeth covertly over the edge of his paper.
She was always handsomest when she talked. Now
her face was colorless and motionless, and it lacked that
perfect classical regularity which makes repose statuesque. The excitement of capture was all over. His




48         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
"wild thing, shy thing," had been curiously tame and
submissive ever since she had worn his ring on her
finger. He felt in his heart that he might be tempted
by too much submission to become a tyrant, and he
wondered if the instinct of serfdom belonged to Elizabeth. He was destined to find out some day.
He asked himself, in a vague discontent, to what end
he had hastened their marriage. Why could they not
have remained engaged for a few years? Then he remembered that he had felt impelled to hurry matters
because Elizabeth had had it in her mind to go out governessing, and plumed himself anew on the right he had
earned to her gratitude, by having saved her from this
career. At length, out of very shame, he roused himself from this train of thought, and pointed out to his
wife some familiar object. They were nearing New
York.
Elizabeth had understood from Mrs. Henry Fordyce,
that Mir. Le Roy had a handsome establishment, but
she was hardly prepared for the quiet elegance of the
house on Madison Square to which he took her. A
housekeeper, stately in black silk, received them; and
Le Roy, bidding his wife welcome home, with more of
tenderness than he had shown her at any time during
the journey, told her that Mrs. Murray had managed
his household for years in a way that could hardly be
improved; therefore, there would be nothing for the
new queen to busy herself about but her own pleasure,
-the prime minister behind the throne would talke all
trouble off her hands.




IHEYR MANACLE.                49
Whether or not she liked this arrangement, Elizabeth submitted to it silently. Mrs. Murray led her upstairs to her own room,- a spacious chamber, - from
which opened on one side an elegant sitting-room, on the
other, Mr. Le Roy's dressing-room. Strangely enough,
a passage from the Bible came into her mind at that
moment, - "All these things will I give thee if thou
wilt fall down and worship me."
Just then, in a rush of enthusiastic emotion, she
thought it would be only too easy for her to worship
her elegant, handsome husband, from whom all her good
gifts came. She felt a new thrill of tender thankfulness
for the love which had elected her to share the half of
this man's kingdom, which brought to her eyes some
silent tears. If she had married him with any thing
short of the entire consecration of her whole being, she
had erred from pure ignorance of her own nature. But
if either this man or this woman had loved with that
unqualified surrender of self, which is so entire and so
holy, that it is little less than religion, and which is so
mighty that, felt on one side only, it has before now
made of marriage a saving ordinance, I should not have
had my story to tell.
8                 D




50         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
CHAPTER V.
AFTER FIVE YEARS.
FIVE years had gone by,- years which the locusts
had eaten, as they say in Provence, -- aimless, profitless
years, which yet had brought Elizabeth from eighteen
to twenty-three, and wrought, I was about to say, some
subtile changes in her character. But I correct myself.
I think all our possibilities are latent in us from our
birth. Most of us are many-sided, and circumstance,
like the turn of a wheel, brings uppermost now one side
of us, now another. Elizabeth Le Roy fancied that she
was not what Elizabeth Fordyce had been, but then
Elizabeth Fordyce had not known herself.
Of these five years she had kept no record. Elizabeth was not the kind of woman who keeps a diary.
She could not ease her pain by spreading it over reams
of paper; or by self-pity solace herself into a sort of
luxury of woe, practically almost as desirable as happiness. The long, slow years had eaten into her life, but
she had made no sign. Some scenes were seared upon
her soul, - some words burned into her heart so deeply
that she thought not even the river of Death could
wash them away; but neither the world nor even her
own household knew her as any thing but a prosperous,
elegant, haughty, silent woman. Only Elliott Le Roy
knew that the Queen Bess he found in Lenox had been




AFTER FIVE YEARS.                 51
neither haughty nor silent. Did he ever think with a
pang of regret of the vanished girlish sweetness?
She came downstairs, on the fifth anniversary of her
marriage, with her toilette carefilly made, as usual.
Her soft, heavy black silk trailed after her soundlessly
as she walked. Dainty laces made a white mist at
throat and wrists; her jewels were pearls, quaintly set.
She had a singular charm for the eye, though she was
not, never had been, a beauty, as her husband had once
told her. It was the only outbreak of coarse sincerity
in which he had ever indulged, - the only time vulgar
truth had come, strong and passionate, to his elegant
lips. They had been married scarcely two years then;
and Elizabeth had not yet lost her faith in his love.
From the first he had left her a great deal to herself,
and she had almost always borne his absence patiently;
but this one time it entered her mind to remonstrate.
He was going away on a pleasure trip, and she begged
him either to stay at home, or to take her with him, with
an exacting earnestness to which she had never accustomed him, and which some brutal instinct, rising to
the surface and overpowering his suave polish of mailner, impelled him to put down at once.
"It is certainly not my fault, 1Mrs. Le Roy, if you are
poorly entertained," he said, coolly. "You have at
your disposal your time and my money. As my wife,
society is open to you."
"But I am not your wife for the sake of society," she
had persisted.'"For what did you marry me, if you
did not care to have me with you, - if our lives were to
be apart?'"




52         SOMiE WOMEN'S HEARTS.
All that was demonic in Le Roy's nature, and that
was no little, looked for a moment out of his eyes in
contemptuous silence, then burst from his lips. "By
Heaven, what cdid I? What summer day's madness
was it which made me fetter myself to a woman not
rich, or distinguished, or even handsome?"
She thought, for an instant, that she should fall helpless at his feet; then pride brought the color back to
cheek and lips.
"' So you did not love me? " she asked, slowly.
C' Did I? - I have forgotten."
The words stung her with their contempt, till cheeks
and lips grew white again; not with faintness this time,
but with a white heat of passion.
"I'  told you once," she said, speaking each word with
slow distinctness, " that for a man to marry a woman
without loving her, was a crime which I, for one, would
never forgive, on earth or in Heaven."
Le Roy looked at her, and feared the spirit he had
roused. He would have given a good deal to unsay
his own words. As it was, he could only eat them.
I-He spoke more hurriedly than was his wont.
"Elizabeth, we are behaving like two children. If I
had not loved you, why on earth should I have chosen
you? If I loved you once, is it likely to be entirely
over in two years?  Don't exasperate me into saying
things which will cause ill-blood between us. You take
the surest way to wear my love out when you are exacting, and make me feel my chains. Remember how
free a life I had led before I knew you."




AFTER FIVE YEARS.                53
And she, proud woman that she was, feeling herself
altogether his, too reserved and too self-respecting to
turn anywhere else for comfort, altogether helpless in
her dependence upon him, suffered him to seal a hollow
truce upon her lips; but after that day she never again
urged him to stay at home.
Since then she had been three years his wife, — just
as entirely his, subject to his pleasure, bound to hold
up his honor, as if they had loved each other with
that love which makes marriage a sacrament.  She
almost hated herself when she thought of it. And now
it was the ffth anniversary of those mistaken nuptials.
The last three years had gone by her like a long and
evil dream. That one outbreak on her husband's part
had never been followed by any other. He had treated
her with all outward courtesy; but he was like the
French chevalier who killed more men in duels than
any other beaz sabreur of his time, and who always
smiled as he slew.  No chronicle, had she kept never
so many, could have recorded the times when she felt
the merciless pressure of the iron hand under the velvet
glove, - when his keen scorn struck home to her
heart; his merciless politeness froze her; his forgetfulness, which seemed born of contempt, goaded her to
madness.
Sometimes she had prayed to die, with a passion
which it seemed should have opened Heaven; but not
even Death wanted her.
After a long time, suffering seemed to have deadened
her nature. Le Roy came and went, and she scarcely




54         SOME WOMEN'S HEAR TS.
knew it. Sometimes he talked to her, but his words
were vague to her as dreams, —polite, inquiring,
sneering, it mattered not, -they made no impression.
She ceased to shrink, even on the rare occasions when
his lips touched her mouth, or he took her, his property,
into his arms with some sudden sense of that loveliness of hers, which the slow years had brought to
something paler, purer, and more striking than of old.
Nothing made any difference to her, - nothing seemed
worth while.
She woke up this afternoon, —because it was her
wedding-day, perhaps, - and wondered what this long
and entire absence of emotion had meant. Was she
dying, or slowly going mad. Better death itself than
this hopeless apathy.
She went back upstairs, and opened a wardrobe in
an unused chamber. Her wedding-dress hung there.
She looked at the shimmering white robes and frosty
frills of lace, until they carried her back to her old
self, and the feelings and emotions of the old time.
Something in her nature seemed to break up, as the
streams do when the winter frosts are over. She felt
tears gathering in her eyes, those eyes which had been
dry so long, and she wiped them away with a thrill of
thanksgiving. Then she shut the door, and turned its
key on the ghostly, gleaming bridal fineries, and went
downstairs again, and sat in the lonely grandeur of
her drawing-room, at a window opening upon the
street.
How many weary hours she had sat there during




AFTER FIVE YEARS.                55
these slow-paced years which had gone by her. She
had watched funerals there, and weddings; beggars
and republican princes. That window had shown her
strange sights. Startling contrasts were to be seen
from it, even now; but she did not stop to marvel
at them.  It seemed natural that there should be
changes in the world, — only for her there was no
change, and that was stranger than all.
She began to ask herself what it meant. For what
reason was she here, always here, —here where she
did not want to be, and where no one wanted her, -
fiar away from all the landmarks Fate would have
seemed in early days to have set for her, and yet held
here by the iron clutch of Fate itself?  All sorts of
chances and changes happened in the world, - deaths
and births, fortunes made and lost, unexpected discoveries, hidden things brought to light, - but for her
nothing save the same dead level, the life she hated,
with not even a breath of wind across the desert
sands.
Then suddenly as if another than herself had asked
it, the question came to her, - why did she stay here?
Why not go on to the next oasis? Somewhere over a
cool fountain the palm-trees rustled, the water of life
waited for her lips. Was she imbecile?  HIad she no
courage?  Why had she sat still so long, and let the
years go by her, never once trying to take destiny into
her own hands, -growing  old, and hopeless, and
despairing, but never struggling to help herself?  Did
God make her a coward, or only a woman, - or were




56         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
the words synonymes?  Did-she not deserve all she
suffered? Why had she married Elliott Le Roy in the
first place? But, looking back, she saw that she
could not justly blame herself for that. Her eyes had
not been opened to what love might be by any feeling
deeper than she experienced for him. She remembered
what a knight, without fear and without reproach, he
had seemed to her when she first met him, - a Saul
among his fellows. She had neither understood her
own heart then, nor had any standard by which to
measure him.
Is it not true that women are marrying as unwisely
every day?  Some find out their mistake, and are still
indifferent; because to them life is in the abundance
of the things a man possesses. Will such women's
heaven, I wonders ever be more than meat, and drink,
and raiment?
Others, in these mismated ranks, never understand
themselves. They find life a tread-mill round; but they
do not guess that it holds any deeper joy or subtler
woe than themselves have tasted.
But she did know, -this poor Elizabeth. She had
found out.  She understood herself but dimly, even
yet; still she knew that there was something in her
crying out for ever with a cry that would not be
silenced, - an inner self, dying slowly, for want of
room to breathe. She wondered again why she had
stayed so long.
She had no child to look at her with its father's
pitiless blue eyes, whose possible meanings she knew so




AFTER FI'VE YEARS.               57
well, now. If she had had one, she could have borne
on for that, and drawn strength from the thought that
she was suffering for another's sake, not her own. B]ut
now she suffered for no other. Le Roy did not want
her; or, if he did, wanted her only because of his
own pride; and surely he, who had been in all things
so utterly self-seeking, deserved nothing at her hands.
Her own self-respect she would preserve. Her own
honor should be unstained; but she was not held in
the old grooves by any fiction of honor or duty toward
him. He had put those to flight long ago. Why,
then, did she sit on there idle, with the great gay
world of chances and changes outside, and grow old
and hopeless, losing all the years that should be young
and glad, doomed to a thirst which no fountain was
given her to quench?
She might have asked herself as well, if she had
been wiser, what she could possibly gain by going
away?  To go away from her keeper would not free
her from her bondage. She could only drag her chain
with her. Morally and legally, the fetter would be
upon her still; and would the simple gain of not seeing
one man's face compensate her for all she must give
up, - her position of worldly ease and high repute, -
the luxuries of which long use had made necessities,
-all the good things of this world which belonged to
her as Mrs. Le Roy? But she was inconsequent by
nature, as women almost always are. Roused at last
from the torpor which had so long held her motionless
and silent as death, with no throb of feeling beyond
8*




58,SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
a vague, sad wonder at herself, she now began to long
passionately to get away. But where should she find
any door of escape?  Did God, who sent an angel to
open Peter's prison-house, keep in His Heaven any
messenger of deliverance for her?
She heard the street-door open to the master of the
house, and she sat still and waited for him. The emotions of the afternoon had left their impress on her
face. Perhaps she had never in her life been so handsome.  Her eyes sparkled feverishly.  Her cheeks
glowed. Her lips were vivid crimson. Her husband
came in, and his observant look rested upon her. He
bowed to her with an air of gallantry which seemed to
her so hollow, that her very soul rose in rebellion
against it.  He said, as he bent before her, —" I
congratulate myself, Mrs. Le Roy, on having your
face in my drawing-room.  It has blossomed anew
to-day."
" Do you know what day it is? " she asked, coldly.
"Let me see,- fifth, sixth, seventh of November, is
it not?"
"It is the fifth anniversary of our marriage."
"And in honor of that your roses have bloomed?
I congratulate myself that you have retained through
five years of matrimony so much sentiment for me."
" Sentiment for you! "
She got up and stood before him, a slight shape,
with her soft lengths of black silk falling around her;
her gleaming eyes, her cheeks, where burned the roses
he had praised. Her voice was low, but awfully dis



AFTFER FIVE YEARS.              59
tinct. IHer words dropped into the silence like stones
into a well.
"I will tell you just how much sentiment I have for
you, Elliott Le Roy. I hate you. You took me, a
warm-hearted, honest girl, ready to love you. But
you did not want my love. You have chilled me, till
now my heart is ice, too. I only want one thing in
this world, and that is to get away from you."
" Take care, Elizabeth."
She looked straight into his eyes, and saw a red
gleam kindle them. His face was livid. His lips were
set. But she only laughed a bitter laugh.
"No, I will not take care. I have taken care long
enough; and lived in mortal fear of your cold, sneering
words, and your pitiless eyes. I don't want to stay
with you. Why should I stay?"
Le Roy smiled,- a smile which was not good to
see.
"I will tell you why, but take a seat first, if you
please. We are not upon the stage, and we can talk
more at our ease in a less dramatic position."
She obeyed the inclination of his hand, and sat down.
He went on, quietly, - " I will tell you why you should
stay; because it is my pleasure. I do not choose to
have my domestic matters in the mouth of every man
about town. It is my will that you remain here, and I
think you will not be mad enough to go away. If you
left me without other justification than you could bring,
do you think there is any capacity in which scrupulous
people would receive you into their houses?  There




630        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
would be no one thing which you could do to support
yourself. You could take your choice between starving and going back to Lenox. Perhaps your uncle
would welcome you cheerfully, if he found you had
forsaken your own home.  Of that you can judge; you
know  him, probably, better than I do.  I should
scarcely fancy, however, that to go back among your
old fiiends, under such altered circumstances, would
quite suit you. About that you can consider, however.
In the mean time, if you please, we will go to dinner.
It has been waiting ten minutes already, and you had
best understand fully that our affairs shall not be talked
about in our kitchen."
He offered her his arm, and she took it, girding
fiercely at herself. Why had she not courage to refuse
to keep up this sham? Why was she still meekly
obeying the man she hated?
Le Roy talked in his lightest and most sparkling vein
while dinner was served. Jones - oh, the sagacity of
our domestic critics — remarked downstairs, between
the courses, that he guessed something had gone wrong
with the master to-day, he was so extra smiling and
smooth.
Elizabeth constrained herself to make answers when
they were necessary; but she went on, meanwhile, with
her own thoughts. Clearly, her husband would never
help her to break from her bonds, and what could she
do of herself?  She had said once, that when she was
old or tired of life she should want to go to Lenox and
die there. But she was not ready to go there now, and




AN OPENING DOOR.                 61
face those familiar eyes. She felt herself strong and
full of life, in spite of her despair; and she thought
death might be too long in coming.
After all, was she not utterly helpless? She would
have shown herself wiser to have gone on in silence, in
the old, passive way. Now, of course, Le Roy would
never forget or forgive what she had told him. Still,
what matter? What could he do to make her life any
more hopeless or barren than it had been so long? That
night, when she had said her prayers, -the old, simple,
familiar prayers of her childhood, - she added to them
another, —"0 God, thou who didst send the angel
to Peter, open for me a door, — I pray thee, for thy
mercy's sake, open for me also a door!"
She forgot, entirely, to say, "' Thy will, not mine, be
done."  She was like some passionate child crying for
the moon. If the moon should fall at his entreaty, the
child's destruction would be sure and swift; but still
the Father holds the heavens in their places, and rules
the lives of men.
CHAPTER VI.
AN  O PENING D O O R.
THREE weeks went by without a single allusion having been made to the passionate words Elizabeth had
spoken. Whether her husband believed them, under



62          SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
stood them in their full significance, or regarded them as
a momentary outbreak, born of "just the least little
touch of spleen," she could not guess. He had ever since
treated her with his customary smooth politeness. It
had been seldom always that he gave her any thing
positive to complain of, but she had thought sometimes
that Torquemada himself never invented tortures keener
or subtler than hers.
Le Roy had once questioned within himself whether
the instinct of serfdom belonged to Elizabeth. If this
instinct provides that the serf shall love his chains,
assuredly she had none of it; for though she wore hers
in silence, every day they galled her more and more, and
her spirit grew more and more bitter and impatient.
"Was there really a God in Heaven?" she asked
herself sometimes, "who cared for His creatures? Had
He not rather framed some pitiless laws under which
He had set His universe in motion, and then, sitting
serene and far-off in His Heaven, undisturbed by any
groans or sighs, left them to crush every offender against
them to powder? " If she had only had a little faith;
but for her, in those days, neither the sun shone by
day, or the stars by night. Her heavens were as dark
as her earth.
One forenoon Le Roy came in, and found her sitting
idle and listless, as usual.
"I am off to-day," he said, "with a party of gentlemen for Havana."
"And I?" she asked, lifting her eyes to his face.
" You will of course remain in your own house. You




AN OPENING DOOR.                 63
will find that every necessary arrangement has been
made for your comfort. You need not be troubled
with any cares concerning money.  Mrs. Murray is
competent for all indoor details. Jones will supply any
outside wants. You will find your credit excellent at
all the places where you are accustomed to trade; and
you need have no anxiety about any thing."
Elizabeth understood him fully. She saw that she
was not to be trusted with money, lest she might use it
to baffle her keeper's will. She spoke the thought
which came uppermost.
"You might as well send me to a private mad-house
at once."
He smiled, his cool, cynical smile.
" Oh, no, I do not think that will be necessary. Such
things have been done, when women have shown themselves incapable of understanding their own interests.
In such a case a husband, of course, would not hesitate; but you, I think, will be wiser. You have speculated a good deal about social questions. You used,
I remember, to have quite fine-spun theories of life."
Poor theories, she thought, -where had they brought
her?
She sat silent, and watched her husband as he moved
round the room, selecting a few things he wished to
take, and restoring others to their places. She began
to feel a sort of curiosity about their parting, thinking
of herself in a vague, questioning way, as if she were
a third person. Would that man kiss this waiting,
watchful woman when he bade her good-by, she won



64         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
dered. It was not that she wanted the kiss, or even
shrank from it. She felt a wholly impersonal curiosity,
such as I suppose every one of us may have felt about
ourselves, in moments when emotion has grown torpid
and observation is wide-awake. It was not his habit
to make affectionate farewells; but then he had never
gone on a sea voyage before; and she believed there
was some tradition about connubial kisses before long
partings. But, no; when he was quite ready he only
said, with that irritating, condescending politeness,
which always nearly maddened her, -- "Good-by, 3/Mrs.
Le Roy. You must manage to amuse yourself. I hope
you will not be dull during my absence."
And then he was gone.
Elizabeth sat still where he left her. Her face was
like marble, but her soul was in arms. lie could wander where he likedl,- he need not even go through the
idle ceremony of consulting her. His own pleasure was
his only law. For her there was no freedom of choice,
no change of place such as she would welcome, even
though it were only change of pain. She, this rich
man's wife, had not a paltry hundred dollars at her
command. Here she was, shut in by these brick walls,
held fast by Fate; and outside, still outside, was the
world, as much beyond her reach, with its great and
strange delights of chance and change, its bewildering
excitements for heart and brain, as it had been when
she lived among the lonely, lovely Lenox hills.
Just here I want to protest against being supposed
to endorse the course of my poor Elizabeth. I tell you




AN OPENING DOOR,                65
the story of a living, breathing, suffering woman; but
because I show her to you as she was, you have no
right to conclude that I show her to you as I think she
ought to have been. Unquestionably she would have
been nobler had she striven to conquer her fate, instead
of sitting and longing vainly for means to flee from it.
Many, many faults she had. She was rash, undisciplined, wanting in faith as in patience; and yet, just
such as she was, I loved her very deeply, and would
rather pity than blame.
For a week after her husband went away, she sat
alone, and brooded in a kind of passionate despair over
the circumstances which environed her, at feud alike
with Fate and with Providence. Then there came to
her a letter with the Lenox post-mark. This was a
rare event, for during her married life she had seldom
heard from Lenox. She had not cared so-much for any
of the Fordyces, that it had cost her any special pain
to let them drift out of her life. If she had been very
happy, she might possibly, after the manner of women,
have liked to summon them as witnesses of her felicity.
As it was, she had acquiesced willingly enough in her
husband's opinion, that "it would just be a bore to
have them  there; country relations always wanted
showing round, and it was the most tedious thing in
life; " and therefore none of her cousins had ever visited her. She had always sent them gifts at Christmas
time; and upon the announcement of Kate's marriage
to a well-to-do young Berkshireman, a handsome silver
set had gone to her, in the names of Mlr. and IMrs. Le




66         SOME WOMEN'S IHEARTS.
Roy. But this letter from Lenox was not in the chirography of either of the "' three Graces."
Elizabeth broke the seal, and first of all there fluttered into her lap a piece of newspaper. She took it
up, and read the announcement of her uncle's death;
and after it a long obituary, setting forth his excellencies as husband, father, man of business, member of
society at large.
"Poor old uncle," Elizabeth said, with a sad smile,
"he has departed this life with all the honors."
Then she took up her letter again. It was in two
sheets. The first, which enclosed the other, was from
a lawyer, whose name she recognized, but who was not
her uncle's customary legal adviser. She remembered
him as a man whose integrity stood in very high repute
in Lenox.
His letter informed her that three weeks ago the late
Mr. Fordyce had called upon him, and entrusted to his
care eight thousand dollars, with the understanding that
as soon as convenient, after his decease, it should be forwarded to herself in the form of a draft on some good
New York bank. At that time Mr. Fordyce had shown
no signs of illness, but, notwithstanding his apparently
good health, had seemed to be impressed with a conviction that he had not long to live; and, for some
domestic reasons, into the nature of which he did not
enter, had wished to have this money conveyed to Mlrs.
Le Roy in such a manner that it need not come to the
knowledge of even his own family. Doubtless the enclosed letter from her uncle, of the contents of which he




AN OPENING DOOR.                67
himself was entirely ignorant, would make the whole
matter clear to her. In a day or two after this interview, Mr. Fordyce had been seized with the sudden
illness which terminated his life; and as soon as practicable afterwards, arrangements had been made for carrying out his instructions with regard to the money.
Mrs. Le Roy would find the draft enclosed. The late:Mr. Fordyce had provided for all the details; and Mr.
Mills had only to request of Mrs. Le Roy an acknowledgment of the safe receipt of his letter and its enclosures.
With curious emotion Elizabeth took up the draft
and looked at it,- a draft in due form for eight thousand dollars, payable to her order. Was there, after all,
a God in Heaven, whose ears were not deaf to the cry
of a weak woman's woe, -- who heard prayers and answered them?  Her uncle must have gone to Lawyer
Mills about this matter just after those wild entreaties
of hers, that the God of Peter would open to her also
a door. And now her door was opening; for she never
doubted for one single instant what use she should
make of this money.
She broke open the dead man's letter next in order,
and this was what it said:"aMY NIECE ELIZABETH,- I believe myself to be
about to die. I cannot tell why this belief has taken
hold of me, but I am sure that I am not long for this
world. And, before I go out of it, I have an act of
restitution to perform. When your father, my dead




68         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
and gone brother James, died, if you had received
your due, you would have had six thousand dollars.
But the business was embarrassed at the time, and I
thought that to put so much money out of my hands
just then would ruin me. I took the responsibility,
therefore, of deciding not to do it. I managed, by
means that were not strictly legitimate, to keep the
whole in my own possession. I did not mean ill by
you, either. Your memory will bear me witness that I
dealt by you in every way as by my own children; nor
do I think the interest of your six thousand dollars, in
whatever way invested, could possibly have taken care
of you so well as I did. Still, to have it to use in my
business at that critical time, was worth much more
than the cost of your maintenance to me. So, as I look
at matters, you owe me no thanks for your upbringing,
and I owe you no farther compensation for the use of
your money during those years which you passed in
my house. For the five years since then, I owe you
interest; and I have added to your six thousand dollars
two thousand more, to reimburse you for your loss during that time.
"If my life should be prolonged for many weeks, I
shall make arrangements for quietly putting you in possession of this sum; but I do not think it will be prolonged. I am acting upon a profound conviction that
my cdays in this world are almost numbered. I had
rather that this matter should not come to your knowledge till after I am gone. As I have not defrauded
you of a single dollar, but on the other hand have, as I




AN OPENING DOOR.                 69
conscientiously believe, done more for you with your
money than you could have obtained for it in any other
way, I think I have a right to request you to keep the
whole thing a secret. The most careful investigation of
my affairs will not reveal the fact of any subtraction from
my property. This fund is one which, ever since your
marriage, I have been saving, gradually and secretly,
for this very purpose. There is no need to toss my
name to the geese of Berkshire; or even to make
known to my wife and children that I had done something which, it may be, their notions of right would lead
them to condemn. I acted according to my own lights;
and I repeat, Elizabeth, I have not wronged you by so
much as a dollar. If your husband must know this
matter, at least let it go no farther. When you read
these lines, I shall be standing, it may be, at your father's side; and for the reason that I was his brother, if
for no other, I believe that you will deal gently with
my memory.                Your Uncle
" ISAAC.)"
Elizabeth's seldom falling tears wet the last words of
this letter.
"Poor old Uncle Isaac," she said aloud; ", you builded
better than you knew. You have opened my door, and
it is little to ask that not a soul on earth shall ever
know your secret."




70         SOME WOMEN'S HIEARTS.
CHAPTER VII.
OUT OF THE CAGE.
ELIZABETH had no conflict of ideas at this time,
For her this eight thousand dollars had but one use, —'flight firom her fate; one meaning, - freedom. She
felt as if Heaven itself had dropped this unexpected
bounty into her lap. This was what she had been
praying for. At last, in this great world of chances
and changes, something had happened even to her.
Now she could break her chains, elude her keeper.
The eleventh day of December, she stood on the
deck of a steamer, outward bound for Havre. All her
arrangements had been completed with a tact and
secrecy and worldly wisdom which surprised herself.
Not even Mrs. Murray's vigilance or Jones's curiosity
had suspected her. Her outfit, the deep mourning of
a widow, had been made at a University Place dressmaker's, whom she had never patronized before. She
took off her diamond ring, and laid it in her jewelcasket. She locked drawers and wardrobes, and put
the keys in an envelope, which she sealed and directed
to her husband, leaving it in his desk. She left with
it no word of farewell. She was utterly indifferent as
to what he thought. She believed that he had no
heart to be wounded. She credited him with no unselfish anxiety for her safety. As for his pride, he




OUT OF THE CAGE.                  71
must nurse and solace that as he could. She felt free
of him when once that great, glittering diamond eye
was' off her finger. She would take nothing of his,
nothing except the plain gold wecldcling-ring, which
was to corroborate her widow's weeds.' Even the
simple walking-dress which she wore to University
Place, when she went to put on her mourning, was
purchased with her own money. She left the house on
foot, as if to take an ordinary walk; and that night
dinner waited for her in vain at Madison Square, and
she ate hers between blue water and blue sky.
Her name was registered in the list of passengers as
Mrs. E. Nugent. As Nugent was both the name of her
mother and her own middle name, she felt that she had
a certain right to this designation, and was not exactly
sailing under false colors.
The passage occupied thirteen days, and during that
time she had ample leisure to arrange her plans for
the future. The interest of her small fortune would
be but a meagre support, she knew, even in Paris,
where she had heard that the expenses of living were
much less than in New York. Still, if a pittance, it
was at least something fixed and certain, and she could
live on it, if compelled by necessity. In the eager joy
with which in those days she contemplated her freedom, she thought no life apart from  her husband,
whatever its privations, could be so comfortless or
so barren that she would not infinitely prefer it to the
fate she had left behind her. Still she believed herself
to have resources. She had some knowledge of French,




72         SOME WOMEN'S BEAR TS.
- the imperfect knowledge a studious girl can acquire
fiom such teachers as a country place affords.  Her
accent was bad, she knew; her grammar at fault; her
ignorance conspicuous in every sentence she tried to
frame. But these things would mend daily. Aleantime,
her French could not be much worse than the English
of most of the language-masters whom she had been in
the habit of seeing; and she thought her inaccuracies
and inelegancies need not prevent her from seeking
and probably finding employment as an English teacher
in Paris. She had begun to acquire confidence in her
own executive ability, which had stood her in such
good stead in the last few days.
She withdrew  herself during the voyage, almost
entirely, from the rest of the passengers, as her deep
mourning gave her an excellent excuse for doing; but
more than one had noticed with an interest kinder
than mere curiosity the young, delicate-looking woman,
with her sad, sweet face, who knew no one, and whom
no one knew.
1"' We shall see Havre to-morrow," the captain said,
going up to her, as she sat on deck looking over the
railing into the lapsing waters, alone as usual.
Captain Ellis was a man in his fifties, — such a man
as the sea makes of material good in the first place, -
cool-brained, quick-witted, clear-headed, large of heart,
strong of muscle; above all, with no shams about
him; entirely true, and entirely in earnest.
From the commencement of the voyage, Elizabeth's
face had interested him, and her loneliness appealed to




OUT OF THEY CAGE.                 73
his sympathy. She might have been a daughter of
his own, as far as years went; and this man, who was
only the father of sons, felt for her a curious tenderness,
though they had scarcely exchanged a dozen sentences.
He could not bear to let her slip away from him like
the waves in the wake of his vessel, and leave no
mark. At least he must know whether she was going
to a safe harbor.
I have spoken before of the singular charm of Elizabeth's voice. Captain Ellis felt it in the few words
which answered him.  Nothing in her manner, however, invited him to prolong the conversation; still,
secure of his own good intentions, he determined to
seem  curious and officious in her eyes, rather than
miss any possible chance of serving her. He stood
beside her silently for a few moments, then he asked,
apropos of nothing, as it appeared, - "Did you ever
fancy that gray hairs might be an advantage, Mrs.
Nugent? "
She gave, at the sound of the name by which she
had been so seldom called, a slight start which did not
escape his notice; but her voice was very quiet, as she
said, — "I suppose every one longs for them, or for
what they signify, who is tired of life. Any sign that
one is nearing the end must be welcome."
" But I am not tired of life, Mrs. Nugent, or in any
present hurry to get to any better place than -Iavre.
I have found life a good thing. MIy days have been
good days, and I am in no haste to end them. I like
the salt, free wind, the wide sea, the watching sky;
4




74         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
and I will hold on to life while I may, always ready,
please God, to die bravely when I must. Still I find
an advantage in gray hairs, notwithstanding. But for
them, and the fact that I am quite old enough to
be your father, I should not venture to ask you, as
I am going to, whether I can be of any assistance to
you after you leave the ship. I suppose you will go on
to Paris; and if you have no friends to meet you at
Havre, perhaps there will be some way in which I can
serve you."
Elizabeth looked up to him, a sudden rush of tears
swimming in her dark eyes, her old, eager impulsiveness glowing on her changeful face.
" 3 No one will meet me anywhere. I am all alone in
the world, - running away from my destiny; but it
seems to me God must have brought me so far, and
perhaps He will help me on."
For a few moments Captain Ellis did not speak.
Then he said very gravely and very tenderly, -"  Tell
me as much or as little as you like. But let me help
you if I can. I have a wife at home, who is as good a
woman as ever God made; and I had one daughter,
who died before she had spoken a word except my
name.  If she had lived, she might have been about
your age, now. I think I would not have let her take
her life in her hand, as you have done; but I would
have blessed any man who showed her kindness. For
her sake, and her mother's sake, I would like to be
kind to you."
" My father and my mother are in Heaven," Elizabeth




OUT OF THE CAGE.                 75
said, in a low voice, " and I had no one who cared for me
very much. I cannot tell you my story; but I have
done nothing which would have been unworthy of
your daughter had she grown up to womanhood.
If you will believe me, and help me, without knowing
any more, I will indeed be thankful, for I am fiiendless.
No soul in France has ever heard of me; but I think
I shall do very well there, if I can manage the first
steps. I have money enough to keep myself from
absolute want, and my plan is to add to my income by
teaching English."
Captain Ellis considered for a few moments before he
said, -" I was trying to think whether I could get
away from the ship fbr twenty-four hours, and I do not
see how it can be done. But I will put you in the cars
for Paris, and give you a letter to the American consul
there. He happens to be an old friend of mine; but,
even if he were not, you, as his countrywoman, would
have a claim upon his care. I shall have to trust the
business of getting you properly located to him."'
Elizabeth had had the consulate in her mind before
as the ark of refuge for an American citizen; but the
captain's letter would make matters much easier for
her, and she thanked him warmly. She had scarcely
realized how lonely she was until she was taught it by
the contrasting comfort she felt in the friendly interest
of this stranger.
As she sat in the cars, in the early morning of the
next day but one, whirling on toward Paris, she began,
for the first time since she started on her long journey,




76          SOME WOMEN'S HIEARTS.
to tremble ill view of the untried life, the new, strange
land. She had Captain Ellis's letter in her pocket, and
he had given minute directions for her guidance; and
yet it came over her, with a sense of awful desolation,
that she was going into the midst of the world's Babel,
the great, tumultuous city of which she had heard so
much, all alone.  In that seething, surging sea of
human life, who was there to care if her little bark
went down?
She pressed her face close against the car-window,
and looked out over the strange, unknown land, up to the
constant, always known sky, - God's Heaven, arching
over all. She had cried out to Him before, in the bitterness of her despair, half doubtful whether lie would
hear or heed her; but she had never learned to draw
nigh to Him as to a loving Father. It was strange that
just at this hour, with the unaccustomed scenes of this
new country before her, the murmurs of the alhnost unknown tongue buzzing in her ears, the faces whose
aspect was so unfamiliar about her, she first began to
have a near and sweet sense of the Friend who might
be closer than all, - so that out of the very unrest of
time and place, her soul drew nigh to the rest which is
everlasting. It is not for any seer or psychologist of us
all to explain the mental or spiritual experiences of
another soul. Such analysis is beyond our weak vision;
but the truth remains, by whatever means wrought,
that for the first time in Elizabeth's life she felt herself
ready to say, not as an idle form of words, but out of
the depths of her heart, -'Thy will be done."




OUT OF THE CAGE.                 77
What that will was she did not know; or guess how
widely she might have strayed from the path it had
marked out for her. She was yet to learn her lesson
of life through bitter sorrows; but she felt now that,
however long or lonely the way she trod, she should
never again experience the awful solitariness of a soul
without God in the world.
She grew interested at last in the scenes through
which she was passing, — the low, yet pleasant fields,
where old women with blue umbrellas watched their
cows, or shepherds with their dogs guarded the flocks;
the odd little stone huts, scarcely six feet high, where
the Norman peasants burrowed, with houses of substantial elegance interspersed now and then; forests, with
their trees set out in rows; quaint costumes; picturesque churches; pretty railway stations, - every thing
had for her the charm of novelty, the glamour which
invests the unknown.
As she neared Paris, her heart began to beat suffocatingly; but she found the provident care of Captain
Ellis had extended farther than she knew. A  civil
man, wearing the badge of a guard, came forward, and
saved her all trouble with her luggage; and almost before she knew it she was in a ftacre, driving toward the
consulate, in the Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin.
The consul received her with a courtesy, which became friendliness as soon as he had read Captain Ellis's
letter.
"I think I know the very thing that will suit you,"
he said, "if it is not already taken up. A firiend of




78         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
mine, an American artist, left, three days ago, some
quiet rooms, in a quiet old house on the Rue Jacob.
He boarded with a French family, a man and his wife,
who occupy the third floor, and who let him, at a very
reasonable rate, a bedroom  and a little sitting-room.
If you could get it, it would be just the place to cast
anchor in at first, -when you know Paris better, you
can make a change if you choose? "''"I shall be thankful enough to cast anchor in any
safe harbor, and stay there," Elizabeth said, gratefully.
"G Then I will send a clerk with you at once. If unfortunately the rooms are engaged, and you will drive
back here, we will see what else can be done. In addition to my interest in serving one of my countrywomen,
any friend of Captain Ellis has a peculiar claim upon
mee."
Fortunately the rooms cMz troisieme in the house in the
Rue Jacob were not engaged, - most fortunately, Elizabeth said to herself, for she fell in love with the quaint
old house at once; and her delight was intensified when
she looked out of the windows of the little third-story
back sitting-room, which was to be her own. In the
rear of the house was a delicious old garden, shutting
in a quarter of an acre of ground, in the very heart of
the city. Over the high walls ivy ran luxuriantly, - a
summer-house was in the centre, and flower-beds and
shrubbery promised pleasantly for the spring.
She left the clerk, a voluble Frenchman, to make her
bargain for her, and the matter was settled in five minutes. Her luggage was brought upstairs, and MIadame




THE DOCTOR DOWNSTAIRS.               79
Nugent was at home in her two little rooms, with their
brilliant cleanliness, their smoothly waxed floors, and
inefficient little fires far within the deep jambs, sending
frightened jets of flame up the chimneys. Her delight
in it all was as fresh as a child's. She liked the odd
furniture, - the bits of rug in front of bed, and easychair, and sofa, the inevitable clock and pair of candlesticks on the chimney-piece, the heavy chintz curtains
about her little bed.
It was her first unalloyed taste of pleasant novelty,
poor girl, and she had left no one whom she loved behind, - no one to mourn after, no one to be sorry for
her. Her eyes grew bright as she looked around her,
and a fresh glow came to her cheeks. At last she was
out in the world for which she had longed. And she
guessed so little what lay before her, - as little as we
all divine of our to-morrows, God help us.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE DOCTOR DOWNSTAIRS.
"AND madame has no friends in Paris?"
6"Not one, good Madame Ponsard, unless you will let
me call you by that name."
The flexible, tender, pathetic voice found its way to
Madame Ponsard's heart, and a tear in her eye answered




80         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
it before her words,-" I think maclame may take that
for granted.'
" I think I may, -for you have been very kind to me."
Elizabeth had just come home from giving an English
lesson. She had five pupils already, though she had
been in Paris scarcely amonth. Madame Ponsard had
procured them for her; and though they were bourgeois, they paid very well, and she considered herself
in quite comfortable circumstances.
She felt a sense of freedom, of expansion, which exhilarated her like wine. She changed her habits with
her mood. She was no longer studious. The books
which had been at once the solace and the occupation
of her past life, were left with that past behind her.
She spent her leisure hours in wandering round the old
Faubourg St. Germain, in the midst of which was the
hRue Jacob; and taking in all the strange sights and
sounds which everywhere met eye and ear.
Sometimes she went to Notre Dame, and idled an
hour away pleasantly looking at the wonderful stone
carvings on the exterior of the church, wondering
whether the carver, fashioning here a saint, and hard
by a devil leading some doomed band to endless woe,
here a bird and there an evil beast, had builded with
some pious purpose of making every thing that hath
breath.praise the Lord; or whether he had laughed a
wicked laugh as he cut the incongruous shapes.
She developed, too, quite a love for harmless gossip.
She liked to hear Madamle Ponsard's voluble chatter
about Monsieur Grey, the artist, who used to occupy




THE -DOCTOR DOWNSTAIRS.               81
her rooms; the charming widow on the first floor; the
American doctor, whose apartment was just underneath
them, and who used to come upstairs so often to see
the artist, his compatriot, - such a clever man, madame said. Why, he had given her a tisane once for
herself, and her throat had never been sore since.
It is possible that Elizabeth wanted to hear sorme of
these often-told stories over again on this particular afternoon, late in January, when she took her work and went
into madame's little sitting-room. But somehow the
talk drifted first to her own affairs. There was a space
of silence after Madame Ponsard had asked whether
Elizabeth had any friends in Paris,- a space of silence
which the French woman broke rather hesitatingly.
" And, -I beg pardon, but madame's face is so
young, and her mourning so fresh, -I suppose Monsieur Nugent cannot have been long dead?"
"I lost my husband the week before I started for
Paris," Elizabeth replied, in a tone which made her voluble companion feel that no more questions were to be
asked. She bent over her sewing again, while Elizabeth looked idly down the street; for madame's sittingroom was on the front. At last she said, with a little
color in her cheeks, -' I met a new face this afternoon
as I came up the stairs."
"What sort of face?" madame inquired, with eager
interest.
"A very good face, I should think. A man with
kind-looking gray eyes, brown hair, and strong, resolute
features, - not handsome, and not young."
4*                  F




82          SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
Madame laughed, and patted softly together her
pudgy little hands. "Good! good! That is the doctor downstairs.  I know him from what you say. But
he is not old,- not forty yet. Madame Nugent is so
young, that what seems youth to me is like old age to
her. Oh, but Dr. Erskine is not ill-looking, either."
"'No," Elizabeth answered, musingly.  "I said he
was not handsome; but I think he is better than that.
It is a face one can trust. How happens it I have
never seen him before?"
" Some of the time he was away. For the rest, his
hours for going out and coming in have been different
from yours. But I am glad you like his looks. He is
your countryman, and if you should be ill, that would
be one grand comfort."
46 For what is he here?"
"To study in the hospitals. Monsieur Grey said he
was a great doctor in his own country; but he wanted
to see some practice here; you know our surgeons are
the most skilful in the world. It was last fall he came,
and he said he might stay a year."
Elizabeth was ready to laugh at herself for the absurd
interest and curiosity she experienced about this strangel', whom she had just met on the stairs; but then, in
apology for her weakness, she thought how few human
interests she had. And, after all, the face was that of
a countryman. She began to think that there might be
more in that tie than she had quite realized.
After this day she met Dr. Erskine frequently. Of
course it is not to be supposed that he changed his




THE DOCTOR DOWNSTAIRS.              83
hours of going and coming. A grave doctor of almost
forty could not be suspected of watching from his window for the passing along the street of a slight, swift
shape in black, and then of snatching hat and gloves,
just for the sake of meeting on the stairs a white,
young face, framed in by a widow's cap, and making to
this, hiis neighbor, a silent bow. But somehow these
interviews happened so often that this doctor, with
whom she had never exchanged a word, but yet who
was her countryman, grew to seem more closely her
friend than any one else she had met in Paris. Some
sure instinct told her that he was a man to be trusted
all in all. How happy his wife must be, if he had one,
- or his mother and sisters, - for she could not quite
fancy him a man to have left a wife behind him.
Before February was over, an intuition told her that
the American doctor, with his good, reliable face, might
be destined to be more of a blessing to her than she
had as yet fancied.
She had been married so long, with never a child to
lay its bright head on her bosom, that she had ceased
to think of this among the possibilities. And now,
gradually, but surely, the knowledge came to her that
before midsummer her baby, hers, would be numbered
among the world's little children. At first she trembled with emotion, -half bliss, half a fear too exquisite
for pain. Then another thought smote her like a blow.
She had said in her passionate pride, that she would
bring away nothing belonging to Elliott Le Roy. And
now this child who was tq come wQooil  be as much his




84          SOME WOMEN'S HIEARTS.
as hers. Had she, then, sinned in coming away? Had
she taken firom  him  something which might have
changed his life, wrought out his salvation, - something, at any rate, which it was his right to have?
Must she go back? Was it her duty?
Then, with the ready- sophistry which comes so
easily to us all in the cause of our dearest wishes, she
persuaded herself that he would have given the child
no welcome, - that, if he knew all, he would very
likely be thankful to her for taking it out of his way,
-that, at any rate, it was hers, as it never could
be his, and she was ready to pay the price for its
possession. Now, indeed, she would have something to
love,- something to be her very own, and fill heart
and arms both full. Surely God knew just how much
loneliness and solitude of soul she could bear, and had
tempered His winds to her uses.
No more wanderings now round the old Faubourg,
or in the galleries looking at carven stone or painted
virgins. She had told her secret to Madame Ponsard;
and the two women had bought, with real feminine
delight, a store of lace and cambric and fine linen.
Elizabeth kept on with her English lessons; for she
was more ambitious than ever to make money, and
add to her provision for the fuiture. But all the time
she was at home she was sewing away at the dainty
little garments mothers have fashioned between tears
and smiles since ever the world be(gan.
She thought she was at last happy; but it would
have seemed to a looker on the saddest thing in life to




THE DOCTOR DOWNSTAIRS.             85
see her bending over her task in those deep mourning
robes of hers; so young, so solitary, and yet so full of
womanly hope and courage.
One April day, Madame Ponsard paid a secret visit
to Dr. Erskine, and told him privately all which she
herself: knew of her boarder's history.
" Of course,") she said, "' you will be the one to attend
her when her trial comes; and I thought it might be
better if you should see her now and then beforehand,
and get to seem not quite a stranger to her. I will
open the way by being sick to-night or to-morrow,
and, indeed, I am troubled by a fearful indigestion."
LMadame drew out a long sigh, and Dr. Erskine
smiled as he looked at her black, bead-like eyes, and
her fat, rosy, unromantically healthy face.
"I will come the moment you send for me," he said.
"So, Madame Nugent started for Paris the week after
she lost her husband? "
" Yes. She told me that much, one day. It was in
answer to some question of mine; and there was
something in her manner that made me think it would
be just as well not to ask her any thing more, - though,
indeed, as monsieur knows, I am the least curious of
women."
Dr. Erskine looked smilingly after the good-natured
little gossip as she trotted away. Then he turned
back into his room and shut the door.
" At last! " he said to himself; and then he laughed,
as a third person might, at grave, thirty-eight-years-old
Dr. John Erskine being as eager as a boy about a new
acquaintance.




86          SOME WOMEN'S IIEARTS.
"No wonder. The truth is, I have so few things here
to think of," he said, apologizing to himself as Elizabeth
had done before. Then he sat down at his window
and looked out. It was about time for his neighbor to
return from giving her English lessons.
That evening the bonne from the floor above knocked
at his door. Madame Ponsard was very ill, - had sent
for him, - would he come quickly?
He put a little case of bottles in his pocket, and,
assuming an expression of grave interest, hurried upstairs. Madame Ponsard was lying on a horse-hair
sofa, and Madame Nugent was bending over her anxiously, with fan and sal volatile. A humorous twinkle
in Madame Ponsard's eye, as she began the woful tale
of her sufferings, nearly upset Dr. Erskine's composure; but he maintained his gravity with a struggle,
and at once mixed and administered a portion of medicine, -not very hard to take, as madame's satisfied
expression sufficiently indicated, - and then sat down
to await its effects.
They were almost immediate. In fifteen minutes
madame sat up, declaring that she felt as well as ever,
and that Dr. Erskine was a man the most remarkable
she had ever seen. Then she introduced him in due
form to Madame Nugent; and he lingered a half hour
longer to express his delight at meeting a countrywoman, and to pave the way for future visits.
After that he spent an hour, as often as once a week,
in Madame Ponsard's sitting-room, and Elizabeth was
usually present. She tasted a pleasure in these inter



THE D)OCTOR DOWNSTAIRS.              87
views, which she did not attempt to analyze. For the
first time in her life she was brought into close
relations with a man whose intellect satisfied her, at
the same time that she could entirely respect his moral
qualities. He had two distinguishing traits, as was
before very long made clear to her, - a will sovereign
over himself as over others, and a tenderness which
took into its shelter every living thing which was more
helpless or more desolate than he, and which, she
thought, must hold and cherish whatever was his very
own with a devotion exceeding the love of woman.
Perhaps you are reading these lines without half
comprehending how noble and how dangerous a man
Dr. John Erskine was. Count over the men whom you
know, and tell me how many you find who have
inflexible wills, without being grasping, selfish, firm
for themselves rather than for others, - or how many
who are delicately sensitive and tender, and yet have
strength to stand up grandly, and are not blown about
by every wind. When you have counted this beadroll of saints, you will know better whether I have
given John Erskine rare praise when I have said that
his will was as firm as his heart was tender. I called
him not only noble, but dangerous; for he was such a
man, it seems to me, as a woman like Elizabeth, who
had been wounded so cruelly by the absence of the
very qualities which he so largely possessed could
hardly know intimately with safety to her own peace
of mind. Just now, however, it appeared that she
wore proof of mail, her whole heart was so full of




88          SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
yearning tenderness for the little being, her very own,
whom the summer was to lay in her arms. It is possible that, after all, the chief danger may have been for
Dr. Erskine.
CHAPTERi IX.
WHILE THE MUSIC PLAYED.
IT was the very last of June, when, for hours and
days, death stood waiting in Elizabeth's little room;
and Dr. Erskine fought with him, and at length won
the victory. But for his wonderful skill, and still more
wonderful care, as Elizabeth knew afterwards, neither
she nor her child would ever have lived through those
dark hours. For days both their lives seemed to hang
on a very frail thread; but the poor young mother was
delirious all the time, slipping from one wild dream into
another; and when at length she woke to consciousness, the danger was past, and her week-old baby lay
on the bed beside her.
She looked at the exquisite child as if that, too, were
a dream. Then she put out her hand and touched the
pink, soft flesh, and drew it back again, satisfied. The
little morsel had rings of dusky, silken hair like her
own, and' faint, shadowy eyelashes resting on its cheeks.
How eagerly she watched it, only mothers know. She
and it were all alone. She scarcely dared to breathe,
lest she should break the slumber which wrapped it like




WHILE TEE MUSIC PLAYED.               89
a spell. She lay there in a kind of ecstasy till it awoke,
— not with a cry, but with a soft rustle, a stretching
out of the little arms here and there, a low murmur,
then wide opening eyes. Elizabeth looked into those
eyes eagerly. They were the darkest of gray.
Thank God," she said, under her breath. "The child
is stamped mine, not his. It will not be like him in a
single feature."
It uttered, just then, a little, twittering cry, in which
she fancied she heard the music of the spheres. The
faint sound brought in Madame Ponsard. Her eyes
filled with tears when she saw Elizabeth's face of quiet
content, and realized that the crisis was past, and the
reign of hope had begun. But she only said with true
French tact, going up to the bedside, --  So madame
concluded to wake up and look at her little daughter?
I hope madame is satisfied with the prettiest baby in
Paris? 
"fMy little daughter, - my little daughter."  Elizabeth said the words over to herself. A girl with her
eyes, her nature.  God save her from her fate! She
would need to have a great many prayers said for her,
this little one.
Two weeks more went by before Elizabeth could sit
up, - and two weeks after that before she could go out
into the beautiful summer, and gather the flowers of
which the wide, rambling, old-fashioned garden, far
down underneath her windows, was full. During all
this time Dr. Erskine came daily, and brought in the
sunshine with him, - sunshine blossoming in roses and




90          SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
jasmine, or globed in luscious fruits. And Elizabeth
was happy, for the first time in her life, with an untold,
indescribable happiness. She thought it was all because
of the baby fingers with their waxen touches, the tender lips which drained her sorrow dry.
The baby, — whom she had named Marian Nugent,
after her mother, but whom every one called "6 mig~nonne," or "6chrie," or "little angel, - was indeed
queen of the old house in the Rue Jacob. Madame
Ponsard adored the little one. Childless through all
her life herself, the instinct of motherhood, so powerful
with women, came now to the surface, and overflowed
in devotion to this child, born under her roof, and half
her own, therefore, as she reasoned. Monsieur Ponsard
draik less absinthe, and gave up a good many games
of baccarat, to look wonderingly at this new importation from Heaven, this last and most touching of miracles. The gay widow on the first floor, even, came up
to lay her offerings on the universal shrine. And as for
the doctor, it became a customary thing not only for
him to spend half his leisure time indoors, wherever the
white-robed wonder might be found, but to take it
down with him, and out into the garden, in his great,
strong, tender arms.
Elizabeth's eyes and heart kindled over the new sight
of a man so masterful and yet so gentle. When she
got well enough, she used to follow down to the old
garden, and sit there, and look after him and her baby,
as they went to and fro among the flowers. Sometimes
the little one would go to sleep, and then Dr. Erskine




WHILE THE MUSIC PLAYED.              91
would bring her and lay her in her mother's arms, and
stay and watch them both, and talk of" life, death, and
the vast forever;" or Elizabeth would tell him stories
of her old life in Lenox, -never, by any chance, of her
sad married years, - making pictures for him of each old
scene, till hills and trees and arching sky grew familiar
to his thought as to her own. Then, when the afternoon began to grow chill, he would hurry them both
in again, —these two, whom he liked still to call his
patients.
So peacefully and blessedly August and September
went by. Elizabeth never stopped to think what gave
to this wine of life she was quaffing its so keen zest.
Sometimes, when she loved her baby most, and was
happiest in all its untold sweetness, an accusing prick of
conscience would bring the child's father to her mind, -
not as lover or husband of her own, nob even as the
cool, cynical Mephistopheles of her life, but purely in
his aspect of the child's father, who had been defrauded
by her act of all these delights which made her own
heart so rich. But she tried to think that she had acted
for the best, and that Heaven itself, in giving her the
means of deliverance, had endorsed her course. Nor did
these conscience pricks come often to sting their pain
through her pleasure. For the most part she was entirely, overflowingly happy, as she had never been
before, without thought or care for yesterday or tomorrow.
With October, the winds blowing down fiom the
North Sea grew chiller; and it was only now and then




92          SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
that there was a day bright enough to take little Marian
into the garden. But still Dr. Erskine continued his
daily visits. Elizabeth declared that she was jealous,
because the baby stretched out her hands to go to him,
before she had ever accorded her a similar token of
preference. It was a very good-natured jealousy which
she felt, however; and somehow it gave a wonderful
brightness to her fcee.
One day the doctor insisted that she should go with
him for a ramble in the gardens of the Tuileries. Little Marian would do excellently with Madame Ponsard,
he said; and Madame Nugent herself was certainly
suffering for a breath of fresh air.
"6 He has a right to command you," Madame Ponsard
remarked while the question was pending. "But for
him neither you nor the child would be alive to-day."
So Elizabeth tied on her bonnet and went, - the first
walk she had ever taken with Dr. Erskine.
They were very silent, as they wandered round the
grand old gardens which Le N6tre laid out in the seventeenth century, -Le Nqtre, whose dust long ago, let
us hope, blossomed in roses. They went on till they
came to Coustou's Venus, and sat down on the old stone
bench near at hand, to look at that vision of sculptured
grace. Then, at last, Dr. Erskine said, -"The time
is nearly come at which I purposed to return to
America."
Elizabeth felt a curious sensation of chill, though the
October sun was shining. Just then the band began to
play some slow, sad music. The time came afterwards




WHILE THE MUSIC PLAYED.              93
when, standing face to face with death, as she thought,
she seemed to see again those stately gardens, to look
at Coustou's statue, and to hear the slow, sad music
play, and Dr. Erskine's voice telling her it was almost
time for them to part. It was the first time she had
realized that he and she and Madame Ponsard, and the
baby they all loved, were not to go on eternally, just
as they had been going on for the swift, short two
months which lay behind her. She drew a sharp
breath, but she did not speak.
And the band played; and the October sun shone, and
the prophetic wind blew from tile north through all the
trees, and after a while Dr. Erskine spoke again.
"I have no right, I know, to ask the question, but if
you feel towards me enough like a friend to give me
your confidence, will you tell me just this one thing, —
was your marriage a happy one? 
4" No.))
She could not have spoken another word. She wondered how that one had got itself said through the
chill that was stiffening her lips and turning her heart
to stone.
After a little space, Dr. Erskine's voice came to her,
low, clear, and yet, as it seemed, from far away, -" If
you had said yes, I should not have told you what I am
going to tell you now. I love you very dearly. I am
thirty-eight years old, and I never loved a woman before. I should not have dared to say this to you if I
had thought there was nothing but a grave between
you and a man whom. you had loved. But, if you have




94         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
never been made happy, let me make you happy. I
can. I will. Do you believe me?"
Did she believe him?  Oh, God, did she not believe
him?  Had her punishment overtaken her? - for now
she felt that in fleeing from Fate she had failed to
evade Responsibility, or escape Retribution. She made
a strong effort, and forced her lips to articulate the
words which almost refused to come.
"I must not hear another word. I have no right."
"No right?"
"No, for my husband is not dead. I am still the
wife of Marian's father."
She was frightened at the look his face took on,such a look as she had never seen a man's face wear
before. She made haste to tell him her story, - briefly
as she could, but not sparing herself, or withholding
any thing of the truth. And meantime the children
wandered round with their bonnes, fashionable ladies
passed with their cavaliers,- the autumn sun shone,
the autumn wind blew, and the slow, sad music played.
When all was told, she looked timidly up into his
face. Heavens! how sweet hers was! the dark eyes
full of passionate appeal, the scarlet lips trembling.
He was almost mad enough to kiss those lips then and
there, —to tell her there was no law on earth so
potent as that law of the soul which gave them to
each other. Into the turbulence of his mood her low,
pleading voice stole, —" Dr. Erskine, do you blame me
so very much? I was young, and I thought I cared
for him at first. Afterwards I know I ought to have




WHILE THE MUSIC PLA YED.             95
been more patient; and I did very wrong to come
away. But my punishment has overtaken me."
"Yours!"  How his eyes kindled over her. "Is it
a punishment to you? Do you care? "
"Do you think I could give you pain, —you who
saved my life, and baby's, - and not care? "'" But for yourself, I mean. Elizabeth, have you any
heart?"
The swift color flushing the poor, pale face answered
him better than her low words, — " For myself I have
no rig7At to care. I deserve any suffering that may
come; but you are blameless."
"'Tell me one thing, — just one. If you were fiee,
what then?  Do you think I could have made you
happy?"
"You are cruel. I will not think. God help me,
I dare not."
The last words were so low, his strained ears could
scarcely catch them. Just then Satan was tempting
him sorely. He had not needed to be taken into any
high mountain to see what for him would have outweighed all the kingdoms of this world, and the glory
of them. He had never yet compromised with his conscience; but he was trying to do it now.
" Why should she not be held free, in this new
world, from the old ties?" the Tempter was whispering. " You saved her life. Have you then no claim on
it? Could you not make yourself a law to her soul?
Does she not love you enough to obey you? You love
her, -you would make her happy. That other nan.




96         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
never loved her. God never joined those two together
— why should they not be put asunder?  Are they
not more utterly asunder already than even Death
could ever make.two who loved?"
Hte listened to these subtle whispers, coming gradually to believe in them, till the music ceased to play, its
hour being over; till bonnes and children began to go
away, and then he got up and gave Madame Nugent
his arm.
As they walked, he said to her, — Do you mean
ever to go back to the old ties? "
"Never! " she answered, upon her first impulse.
"Then,-  old things having passed away, - why
should not all things become new?  Elizabeth, you
think I saved your life. Give it for ever into my keeping. You know how I will care for you and the child.
I think I have a right to you. Oh, my darling, my
darling, come and lay your destiny in my hands."
She turned on him eyes dark with unutterable
woe. In her voice there was the faintest quiver of
reproach.
"It is not your best self which is speaking, Dr.
Erskine," she said, mournfully. "I think you care for
me too much to tempt me, if you realized what you
were saying. I will never do any thing to make myself
unworthy to be Marian's mother; and, however we may
reason about the matter, the simple truth remains.
I am that man's wife, and no sophistry can make it
right for me to hear words of love from any other."
She had uttered these sentences with an effort which




WtHILE THE MUSIC PLA  ED.            97
made her faint; but there was in them no faltering of
purpose. After they were spoken, the two walked
home in silence.
The next morning, a note was given to Elizabeth,
which contained only these words: —-'6You were right, and I was wrong. I would not
tempt you to be other than you are, - the purest as the
fairest woman, in my eyes, whom God ever made.
I am running away, because I have not just now the
strength to stay here. You will not see me again for two
weeks. When I come back, I will be able to meet you
as I ought, and to prove myself worthy to be your
friend.                        JOHN ERSKINE."
Elizabeth was weak or womanly enough to press
this note to her lips, in a sudden passion of love
and pain. Then she caught up her baby, and kissed
its soft, unconscious cheeks, talking her heart out to it,
as mothers do, - as she could not have done to any
one else on earth.
6" Well, baby, dear, we must learn to do without him.
He will go away across the great, wide sea; and we
must be all the world to each other, you and I, - what
an empty world, when he is gone out of it."
But either the sudden passion of her kisses frightened the child, or the sadness of her voice saddened it,
— it burst into one of its infrequent fits of sobbing;
and Elizabeth, taught unselfishness by motherhood, as
women are, had to put aside her own pain, and comfort
her little one.
5                  G




98        1SOME WOMEN'S HEAIBTS.
CHAPTER X.
DUST AND  ASHESo
DID the tender lips which Heaven had sent Elizabeth
to "6 drain her sorrow dry," draw from her the passionate despair, the torturing unrest, of her mood at this
time? I have sometimes thought so.
While she was happy, the little one had grown and
flourished, - been a radiant incarnation of joy and delight. Now, in these days when it seemed to the mother
as if all God's billows were passing over her, the child
began to droop. She was never like herself again after
Dr. Erskine went away. At first Madame Ponsard
said, laughingly, that the little angel missed the doctor.
But after a few days neither she nor any one else
laughed when they spoke of the baby.
From  morning till night Elizabeth held the little
creature in her arms, watching the dark, questioning
eyes, fondling the thin, transparent fingers, kissing the
flushed yet wasting cheeks.
1" Oh, if Dr. Erskine would but come back!" was all
the time the burden of her longing. He had saved that
little life once,- surely it must be, she thought, that
he could save it again. For herself no matter. She
knew now how easy it would have been to love him, -
how dangerously near she had come to being willing
to give up earth and HIeaven for his sake, — and she




DUST AND ASHES.                 99
thought that the blight which had fallen upon her
child was the swift and sudden retribution for this sin
of her soul. Oh, nmust this little innocent life pay the
penalty for her?  If only the child could be saved,
she would go away with it somewhere, and never see
Dr. Erskine again, - never even think of him, if she
could help it.
Sometimes, in the midst of all this, her conscience
asked her whether the sin for which she was suffering
might not lie fiurther back still. Had she not committed it when she fled away secretly from the home
where God's Providence had set her feet, -the man to
whom she had promised to cleave till death parted
them? Well, she would do her best to atone now.
If only her baby could be spared, she would go back
and humble herself at her husband's feet. He should
have his child, if he would, -he should pass sentence
on her, and she would abide by it, - only let the baby
live.
It was the old Romish notion of buying Heaven
by sacrifice; and yet how naturally it comes to all of
us in moments of anguish. Let but this cup pass from
us, and we will drink any other, - only let it pass.
He was divine who, even in that first moment when
agony beyond human conception forced from His lips
this cry, added to it, - "Not my will, but thine be
done."  When this grace comes to mortals, it is the
rainbow after the storm is spent.
Little Marian had been sick a week, when, one
morning, Madame Ponsard looked at her more gra;ely




100         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
than usual. "We must call a doctor," she said. "It
will not do, to let this go on. Little CMe'ie is wasting
away."
Elizabeth lifted her heavy, swollen eyes. "Is there
no way to send for Dr. Erskine? I do not think any
one else would help her."
Madame went down to the concierge herself, in her
eagerness, and  came back presently  with  slower
steps.
"Hie left no word. where he was going. He said he
should be gone two weeks, and his letters must be kept
for him. I think we ought not to wait."
"Send, then, for whomever you please. I believe
that no one else will do her any good; still we can try.
But you must make the strange doctor understand
plainly, in the first place, that he must give up the
case to Dr. Erskine, whenever he comes."
And then, as madame went out of the room, she
burst into a low, heart-broken wail, - " He won't come,
he won't come. God means my little one to die. And
I have deserved it all."
Half an hour afterwards, a chatty French doctor sat
watching Elizabeth's baby. He was heartily sorry for
the poor young mother, and was kind to her, after his
own lights. But he thought words would cheer her;
whereas they went nigh to drive her mad. At last
some cord snappel, and her weak nerves or her weak
patience gave way.
"I cannot bear talking," she said, with a petulance
w*hich held in it something touching. "Please only tell




DUST AND ASHES.                101
ne what you think of her, - whether she will live, -
and leave us alone."
Good Dr. Bouffon was not disturbed. He hoped he
could make allowance for ladies' nerves, he told Madame Ponsard afterwards. He answered Elizabeth with
a calmness which she found intensely exasperating.
" It is impossible to say, dear madame, - quite impossible. She can never have been strong."
" Oh, she has been the healthiest little creature,"
Madame Ponsard interposed.
Dr. BouiFon bowed.
"Exactly, but health is not always strength. As I
said, she could never have been strong. I have written
the prescription which I think the case needs. For the
result we must wait."
Then he bowed himself out. Madame Ponsard followed him, and Elizabeth sat holding her child alone.
Any other observer might not have considered its
illness quite unaccountable. A first tooth was swelling
its gums. A second summer had set in for a few days,
burning October with the pitiless suns of July. There
was a languor in the air which oppressed stronger constitutions. But Elizabeth associated the occult malady
which was sapping the foundations of her darling's life
with none of these things. To her it seemed a direct
judgment from Heaven, —the execution of the sentence eternal justice had pronounced upon her. She
lost sight of the beatific vision, which had once blessed
her soul; of a Father, loving even while He chastened;
and with something of a heathen's spirit, she set about




102        SOME WOMEN'S IHEARTS.
offering her propitiatory sacrifice to offended Jove. She
put out of her arms her baby, asleep now, and wrote to
Elliott Le Roy these words: —
"Your child was born the 28th of June. I did not
know of this which was to come when I left the shelter
of your roof, or I should not have gone. The little one
is very ill; and, feeling that she may not live, I think
it right to give you the opportunity of seeing her, if you
wish to, before she dies. Come, if you choose, to No.
50, Rue Jacob, and you will find her.
" ELIZABETI LE Roy."'
Then, when Madame Ponsard came back, she told
her story, and the contents of the letter which she
wished posted. Madame was surprised and a little
startled, but received the disclosure with the composure
and tact of a French woman, and began calling her
boarder Madame Le Roy as fluently as she had hitherto
called her Madame Nugent.
Now, Elizabeth thought, she had given up her own
will, - made the greatest sacrifice, in her power. Now,
perhaps, destiny would relent. But the days passed
on, and brought with them no healing. The intense
heat went by. It was clear, beautiful October weather,
but still the child drooped, and daily the tiny hands
grew more waxen, and the blue veins showed more
clearly through the transparent temples.
On the afternoon of the fourteenth day, Dr. Erskine
walked into the room where Elizabeth sat, as usual,
holding her child. She lifted her languid eyes, but she




DUST AND ASHES.                103
did not speak. Not even a thrill of hope stirred her
pulses. She felt in her soul that his coming was too
late. He stood beside her, silent as herself; looking
down at the child. Then he knelt, and counted its
pulse-beats.
" Mladame told me she was ill," he said, "6 but I did
not expect to see her like this. I shall never forgive
myself that I was not here to help you nurse her."
"It might have done no good," Elizabeth answered,
so drearily that it went to his heart. "I think God
meant her to die. It is my punishment. I have been
altogether wrong. But now I have done my best to
atone. A week ago I sent for hin, - Marian's father.
He will be here in less than three weeks if he cares to
see her. Do you think we can keep her alive so long?"
She did not look at Dr. Erskine, or she would have
seen a tense white line round his lips, which would have
told her how he was suffering. He waited a moment
till he could speak calmly. Then he answered her.
" We will try. I dare not promise you that she will
get well. I think she is wasting away. She has your
highly wrought temperament, and I could have told
you that she never was strong."
"So Dr. Bouffon said, but I did not believe him.
She has been so lovely."
c" Yes, and it was partly her very frailness that made
her so fair. But now you must give her up to me, and
take some rest. Go down into the garden, and get the
fresh air. Has there been no one to tell you how much
her well-being depended upon your health?"




104        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
She gave the child to him  obediently. For days
Madame Ponsard had pleaded in vain to be allowed to
hold her, and Elizabeth had clung to her obstinately;
but it seemed another thing to trust her to Dr. Erskine.
Two weeks more went on, during which they watched
together over that ebbing life. They seldom spoke to
each other through this time; but now and then, out
of the anguish of Elizabeth's tortured heart, would be
wrung some cry which she would have suppressed before any witness but him.
"If she could but have lived," she would say sometimes, "to speak to me, to call me mother just once, I
think I could bear it better."
Once, in the bitterness of her despair, she cried, -
66 Oh, if she were not quite so pure! If she had only
lived to be soiled ever so little by human sin, I might
hope to see her again, -but now she will go to the
highest heaven, and I can never find her in all eternity."
To this Dr. Erskine made answer, or through him
some holier voice spoke, -" I think the highest heaven
is for those who have struggled and conquered, sinned
and repented, rather than for those who have been
spared alike all struggle and all pain. But I do not
believe whole eternities can separate a mother from her
child."
There came a morning at last when the baby's eyes,
did not open. Dr. Erskine felt the heart throb faintly
under his fingers, but he knew it was beating its last.




DUST AND ASHES.                105
He trembled for Elizabeth, and dared not tell her. She
anticipated him.
"]Doctor," she said, -and her voice was so passionless that it might almost have belonged to a disembodied spirit,  "I know that my darling is dying."
He bowed his head mutely. Her very calmness
awed him.
"Is there any thing you can do to ease her?"
"' Nothing. I do not think she suffers."
"Then will you please to go away? She is mine,nobody's but mine, in her life and in her death, and I
want her quite to myself at the last."
Sorrowfully enough he left her.
Elizabeth held her child closely, but gently. She
thought in that hour that she had never loved any thing
else, - never in this world should love any thing again.
She wanted to cry, but her eyes were dry and burning,
and not a tear fell on the little upturned face, changing
so fast to marble. She bent over, and whispered something in the baby's ear, - a wild, passionate prayer that
it would remember her, and know her again in the infinite spaces. A look seemed to answer her, - a radiant,
loving look, which she thought must be born of the near
heaven. She pressed her lips in a last despairing agony
of love to the little face, from which already, as she
kissed it, the soul had fled. Her white wonder had
gone home. This which lay upon her hungry heart
was stone.
An hour afterward Dr. Erskine went in, and saw the
motionless mother holding to her breast the motionless
5*




106        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
child; and his first thought was that they had both died
together.
But when he went up to take the child from her
arms, Elizabeth clung to it with a passionate clasp.
With infinite gentleness he entreated her to go out into
the cool, reviving air, and leave for awhile her dead
darling to the ministrations of Madame Ponsard. She
obeyed him, in a patient, passive way, as if because to
obey was less trouble than to resist; and he made her
go down into the old summer-house. She sat there in
utter silence, for an hour, conscious, as it seemed, of
nothing which surrounded her, least of all of the tender
pity in his watching face.
At last Madame Ponsard came down, and made a
sign to him, and he got up and spoke to Elizabeth.
"Come, now," he said, "you may go back to the
baby."
Her face lightened a little, and she got up and followed him.
The dead little queen of the Rue Jacob lay on her
own tiny bed, made all fresh and sweet for her reception. She was robed in her richest garments, heavy
with lace and embroidery, and in her hand was clasped a
half-opened white rose-bud, as pure and pale as herself.
Elizabeth looked at her, and then turned to Madame
Ponsard and Dr. Erskine, with such entreaty in her
face, as brought the tears to both their eyes.
"Indeed,"' she said, "I am not ungrateful, but I shall
have her such a little, little while. Mayn't I stay with
her all alone? "




DUST AND ASHES.                107
And so they both went out.
Once or twice, during the day, Madame Ponsard
carried her something to eat or drink, and she took it
with a sort of weary and patient submission, which
was inexpressibly pitiful. Save for these brief interruptions, she sat all day quite alone with her dead.
At night Madame Ponsard went to her with a question. It was grievous to Madame's kind heart to see
this silent anguish, which neither words or tears relieved, and which was so foreign to her own nature.
She thought, if once the baby could be buried out of
sight, Madame Le Roy would be able to cry, and by
and by to grow cheerful once more. So she went to
ask whether she should make arrangements for the
funeral to-morrow or the day after.
The question roused Elizabeth.
"Not to-morrow," she answered, "and not the day
after. I have sent for her father to see her. I will
wait, and give him time. Let me keep her as long as
I can. She was all I had."
So through the night, as through the day, she kept
her solitary vigil.
The next morning Dr. Erskine came to her. There
were the traces on his face of a conflict with himself,
but his words to Elizabeth were few.
o "I am going into Brittany for a few weeks. I think
it is best."'
cI think it is," she answered, drearily.
"Good-by, Elizabeth."
"Good-by."




108        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
The hand she laid for an instant in his was cold as
death. No pulse quickened at his clasp,,and she turned
from him, as if even so few words had wearied her, to
look again at the still face, the little dark-lashed eyes
that would never open, the frozen lips that her kisses
could never warm.
Dr. Erskine turned, and looked also, for a few silent
moments, at the dead little queen he had loved so well,
and served so faithfully. Then he stooped down, and
pressed his lips to the tiny, stirless face, and was
gone.
Elizabeth scarcely knew it when he went out of the
room. For the time her passion of woe had absorbed
every other emotion, save the one grim thought which
would not be absorbed, - that Le Roy might be almost
there,- that she was waiting for her Judge.
And so for two days more she sat there, - her arms
empty, her heart faint with its hunger, her future so
near that she seemed to feel an icy blast of its air.
CHAPTER XI.
A GATE OF FLAME AND A GATE OF FLOOD.
TOWARD noon of the third day after the baby died,
Miadame Ponsard came to Elizabeth, and asked her to
go for a moment into her sitting-room. With a shiver
running through every limb, Elizabeth got up and




GATE OF FLAME AND GATE OF FLOOD. 109
crossed the hall. She found herself face to face with
Elliott Le Roy. She waited for him to speak.
The soulless gallantry which had stung her so often
was gone in this crisis, from his manner; replaced,
indeed, by a half-brutal hardness, which yet hurt her
less than his mocking courtesy would have done.
"I came to see my child," he said.
It never entered Elizabeth's mind to spare him any
shock, - she had always thought of him as without the
capacity for feeling one. So she silently led the way
to her own room, and pointed to the bed.
He looked for an instant at the little bit of pulseless
marble lying there, with the white rose of peace in the
sculptured fingers. Then she saw him grow white to
the lips, and heard his cry, full of an awful passion of
longing, -
a "Dead! dead! Oh, God! my little child!"
She understood then, that even this heart of stone
held the instinct of fatherhood. He could have loved
his child.
She stole away noiselessly.
Whether he wept or cursed she never knew. When
he came out, half an hour afterward, he was his hard,
cold, mocking self again.
He asked a few questions regarding the time and
manner of the baby's death; then went away to make
the arrangements for its burial, which he communicated
to Elizabeth in a brief note.
She did not see him again till he came next day to
go with her to Pere la Chaise. They took the casket




110        SO-ME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
which held the little lIMarian with themselves, in the
carriage which headed the short funeral cortege. They
two, —alone at last with each other and the dead.
But during all the drive neither of them spoke. Elizabeth was calm. It seemed to her that a mortal chill
had hushed all the unrest and passion of her nature,that she should never cry again, or smile, or care for
any thing which went on around her.
But just at the last, when they were lowering her
darling into the grave, when she heard the English
minister say, solemnly, -"Earth to earth, dust to
dust, ashes to ashes," she felt all this impassive coldness
break up suddenly, and heedless of every thing but the
little lump of clay, which she could never, never see
again, she sank down beside the grave, and sobbed till
she could sob no longer, and they lifted her up and put
her into the second carriage of the small procession,
where Madame Ponsard received her in her kind
arms, and supported her all the way home, comforting
and soothing her as only one kind woman can soothe
and comfort another.
Le Roy went back in his own carriage, vis-a-vis with
Monsieur Ponsard, who had left his wife to make
room for Elizabeth, —went back, as he had come, in
grim silence.
The next morning he came early to the old house
in the Rue Jacob, and went into Elizabeth's sittingroom. He spoke to her with quiet decision.
" You will have to pack to-day; for we must leave at
six this evening for Havre. A steamer sails to-morrow,
and I have telegraphed to secure our places."




GATE OF FLAME AND GATE OF FLOOD. 111
Elizabeth looked at him in blank wonder.
" Am I going back with you? " she asked.
" It appears to me to be the only thing for you to do,
Mrs. Le Roy. Remember our marriage has not been
dissolved. It binds us still, though its sole fruit is dust
and ashes."
Elizabeth had made up her mind, beforehand, to
submit herself to his judgment. She had found that
for her freedom was not safety, even though she prayed
every night not to be led into temptation. But now
that the crisis had come, the struggle to submit was
harder than she had expected. Every pulse was in
mutiny. Still she offered no resistance; except that
once she asked him if it would not embarrass him to
take her back among his friends.' "Not in the least," he answered, coolly. "Not one
of them suspects that your absence was without my
knowledge and consent; or supposes me ignorant of
any of your movements."
The man's cool mastery over circumstances astonished Elizabeth into knother question.
" What did you tell them? "
"That an excellent opportunity presented itself during my absence for you to travel with some friends of
your own, and as your health was not good, I had
written to you to accept it."
" But the servants?"
"* Thanks to your silence, they knew nothing, and I
thinkl they would scarcely have cared to retail their
conjectures at the expense of my displeasure."




112        SOME WOMEN'IS HEARTS.
"But you did not know that you could ever find me,"
she said at last, amazed at his audacity.
Le Roy smiled the cold, glittering, cynical smile she
remembered so well. An evil gleam of triumph shot
from his pitiless eyes.
" I traced Madame Nugent without difficulty as soon
as I returned from Cuba.  I should have come for
you, in any case, when I thought it time for you to
return."
She had called this man the Mephistopheles of her
life before; but never with such good reason as now,
when he stood in front of her, smiling his mocking smile,
exulting scornfully in his easy triumph. He had said
once that he should hold on to her like fate, - and now
she knew that she had never yet been entirely out of
his power. Why should she engage in any vain struggle against his will?
From the very beginning of their homeward journey,
destiny seemed to oppose itself to them, bringing to its
aid all the perversity of inanimate things. A railroad
accident, not serious, but most annoying, made their
journey to Havre fifteen hours long, instead of six, so
that when they reached their destination, towards noon
on the fifteenth, the American steamer had been gone
three hours.
Le Roy took Elizabeth to a hotel, where a freshcolored maid, wearing a high Norman cap, brought
her coffee, and went out himself to reconnoitre. He
came in, half an hour afterwards, with his morning
paper in his hand.




GATE OF FLAME AND GATE OF FLOOD. 113
" There will be no other steamer from here till the
first of next month," he said.
" Are we to wait here, or go back to Paris? " Elizabeth asked, feeling like a foot-ball which he and destiny were knocking back and forth between them, and
waiting passively for the next push.'" Neither. My first thought was to go to Liverpool,
and take the first Cunarder from there; but I see by a
telegraphic despatch in the lessengyer, that a steamer
which left Hamburg last evening will stop at Southampton. We can sail for there to-night, after a day's
rest here, and catch this German steamer for New
York. Does this plan meet your approval, Mrs. Le
Roy?"
"1 All plans are alike to me," Elizabeth answered,
wearily. " If we are going to take the German steamer,
may I telegraph to Madame Ponsard? She made me
promise to send her word of my arrival here if I could.
She thought we were going in the Fulton; and she will
want to look out for news of us."
"'Gratify your sentimental friend, by all means," Le
Roy said, with a little sneer. "Write your dispatch,
and I will see that it is sent."
Elizabeth wrote:" We were too late for the Fulton, and are going to
Southampton to take the German steamer from Hamburg. Good-by."
She did not know why she said good-by over again
by telegraph, - she certainly did not believe in pre.
n1




114         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
sentiments, but some subtle foreboding of evil was assailing her, for which she did not try to account.
The next day, at Southampton, they went on board
the German steamer, which set sail at quite a late hour
in the afternoon. A heavy mist settled down with the
twilight,' and it was considered advisable to anchor the
vessel between the Isle of Wight and the main-land.
Early next morning they weighed anchor again, and in
the process one of the crew lost his life. Owing to
some mismanagement, the, anchor ran out, whirling the
capstan round with terrific force, and hurling the men
in all directions. One was thrown overboard, and was
supposed to have been instantly killed, as he never rose
to the surface. This accident cast a gloom over the
officers and crew, which any one familiar with the
superstitions of the sea would readily understand.'" He's gone down below to tell'em we're all comin'9,
one white-lipped sailor said to another; and the shadow
fell upon them all. They were silent and depressed for
days, though every thing seemed to promise a prosperous voyage.
Once at sea, and the confusion and excitement of
embarkation over, Elizabeth settled into a strange, sad
calm. Her presentiment of evil, though she had not
forgotten it, ceased in  any degree to  absorb her
thoughts. Every day, and all the day, she sat motionless and silent on the deck, looking into the troubled
sea, or equally motionless and silent in her state-room.
But everywhere she looked, into yeasty waves, or empty
air, she saw  one face only, —her child's. MIadlame




GATE OF FLAME AND GATE OF FLOOD. 115
Ponsard, and the rest of them at the Rue Jacob; even
Dr. Erskine himself came sometimes into the picture of
which this face was the centre, but only as accessories
to it. They seemed blank of human significance to her
as the angles of a wall.
Of only one thing besides that face was she intensely
conscious, and that was of Le Roy, — that he, her
keeper, was breathing the same air with her, was carrying her home. How mad she had been ever to think
that she could escape him. She wondered if through
all eternity he would be beside her, and she should see
for ever that face of pitiless power and mocking scorn.
But it was very seldom that he came near her; and
when they had been eight days at sea they had hardly
spoken as many words to each other, beyond those
demanded in the presence of others by the ordinary
small courtesies of life.
On the afternoon of the ninth clay, Elizabeth had
come out of the state-room, and was standing quite by
herself, looking into the surging autumn sea, but seeing
only the one small face which for her filled sea and sky.
After a while she heard a wild and awful shriek, —
the cry of fire, - horrible anywhere, but most unearthly
and hideous in its horror far out at sea, when the flames
are burning the one plank betwixt you and death.
By whom the cry was started, no one knew, but
hundreds of voices took it up, and swelled it to a yell
of madness and despair. A dense volume of smoke
burst from the steerage, and then the flames broke
through the lights, and leaped and crackled along the
deck.




116         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
That first shriek had roused Elizabeth to sometiing
which was scarcely terror, — awful expectation, rather.
Her foreboding was realized. Death was at last waiting
for her. She had tasted the apple of life and found it
bitter. What next?
She did not join in the wailing which went up to the
unheeding sky. She no longer seemed to see the face
of her little child. It had vanished like a vision. She
looked down still into the sea, but she saw something
else. Face to face with death, she seemed strangely
enough to be living over again an hour of most intense
and thrilling life. An October afternoon came back to
her so vividly, that she seemed not to be standing on a
burning ship, betwixt pitiless sky and pitiless sea; but
sitting in a fair French garden, near Coustou's Venus,
while the autumn sun shone, and the autumn wind blew,
and the slow, sad music played, and through it all she
heard Dr. Erskine's voice saying things which she had
no right to hear. It was all so sweet, and sad, and
wrong, - and now death was waiting for her.
How much had she sinned, she wondered. Was she
past hoping for Heaven?  God knew all, -temptation
and sin and struggle, - God knew. Through all her
turmoil and unrest, that thought filled her soul with a
great calm. Simply as a child she said her prayer.
"Oh, God! oh, Father! suffer not my soul to perish!
Take me home by flame or flood, as Thou wilt, but take
me home!"
Meantime, a wild panic, of which she was altogether
unconscious, had swept through the ship. From the




GATE OF FLAME AND GATE OF FLOOD. 117
very beginning of the voyage, when the sailor's life was
lost at the weighing of the anchor, a secret terror had
ruled the hearts of officers and crew. Now, with the
first alarm, all presence of mind forsook them. The man
at the wheel left his post, and the vessel being head to
the wind, the flames swept back over her with awful
rapidity. The captain was among the first to lose his
self-command. Mad with panic terror, he attempted,
forsaking all, to lower himself into a boat, and missing
his foothold, was swept away. Then the wildest confusion began to reign. Boats were lowered, and some
of them swamped in the very act of lowering. Those
rushed into them who could, while others jumped into
the sea, to escape the swift, hot pursuit of the flames.
At last Le Roy came to Elizabeth. He had been
calm and clear-sighted through it all, waiting his opportunity. Now, as he thought, he saw it. A boat only
partly filled, lay under the davits, on one side.
"Come," he said, pulling her along with him, swiftly.
He took a cloak from his own shoulders, and wrapped
it round her, then lowered her from the vessel, and she
was in the boat almost before she knew it. She looked
back for him. He had stood aside for two more
women. The officer in charge of the boat shouted,"Keep off! We are full! another man would swamp
ns! " and at a sign from him, the men caught up their
oars.
Just as, in defiance of the officer's warning shout, Le
Roy was swinging himself down, the boat rocked away,
and he touched the waves instead.




1J.18       SOME WOMEN'S.HEARTS.
In an instant Elizabeth saw that white, satirical face,
which seemed to mock even at death, looking up at
her, with an awful light upon it, from the surging, firelit sea.
"6 Oh, save him! save him! for the love of God! " she
cried, penetrated at last with the very passion and madness of terror, for that other life, not for her own. But
no one noticed her cry. The rowers pulled away rapidly, and Elliott Le Roy went down, - as the captain
had gone down before, —as hundreds of souls went
down that awful day.
The engineers had been smothered at their posts
among the first, so the steamer was going on all this
time, at a rate of eight or ten knots an hour, as if she
were trying to escape from the flames of her own burning.
She was an awful beacon, —a great, towering holocaust. The boat which held Elizabeth, pulled with all
the might of its rowers in her wake. It was their best
chance for a rescue; for she was a signal-fire of distress
the like of which has seldom been kindled.
Still Elizabeth was calm and silent, but with all her
faculties fully alive, —ready to live or die, as God
willed, —anxious only, whether in life or death, to be
in His keeping.
She should be glad, she felt, through all eternity, that
Le Roy's last act toward her had been one of unselfish
kindness. If she had any thing to forgive, she could
forgive it all for the sake of that one moment. She
had not loved him, nor he her; but, now that he was




GATE OF FLAME AND GATE OF FLOOD. 119
dead, she remembered how she had idealized him once,
and began to look at him again in the old light, —to
remember his power and exalt his strength, and see
him master of circumstance, yielding only to destiny.
So the doomed steamer went on, grander spectacle
in her death than she had ever been in her life; and
the boat, with its dozen souls, pulled after her; till, just
as night was settling down, the little company, faint
with thirst and spent with rowing, saw a ship under
fiull sail approaching the burning vessel, and rowed
toward her with a strength renewed by hope. In an
hour they got within hailing distance, and before the
night had quite closed round them she had taken them
on board.
The ship proved to be a French barque, taking a
cargo firom Newfoundland to the Isle of Bourbon.
During the night sixty souls were received on board
of her. Elizabeth looked anxiously at every one, to see
if, by some Providence, the sea might not have given
up its prey, but all were strangers. She thought then
that she would have laid down her own sad life with
unutterable content, but to see again in safety one
face which had looked its last at her from the yeasty
sea.
But Elliott Le Roy had gone down, with all the rest
whom that day, by those gates of Flame and of Flood,
Death led into the Land of the Hereafter.




120         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
CHAPTER  XII.
FACE TO FACE.
No trace remained next morning of the fated steamer.
The sky was as coolly blue as if no fierce flames had
ever kindled a great funeral pyre below it. The sea
was tranquil. The day was still. The officers of the
PFrench barque, seeing that they had done all they could,
set sail for Fayal, intending to leave there the rescued
passengers. But before that day was over they fell in
with another barque, bound for Halifax, to which as
many as could be accommodated were transferred, and
among them Elizabeth.
So it came about that before Christmas her wanderings were over, and she went back again, a widow, indeed., and utterly free now, into that house from which
she had fled to secure her freedom.
The excitement through which she had passed had
roused her effectually from the apathy which had succeeded to the death of her little child, and which, otherwise, might not improbably have found its termination
in insanity.  She was in full possession of all her
powers, —a sad woman, the colors of whose life had
faded, but a woman who was mistress of herself.
She communicated to Mrs. Murray Le Roy's death,
and the manner of it, leaving her to inform the rest of
the household. Then she sent for her husband's man




FACE TO FACEo                121
of business, desiring him to close up by spring, if he
could, all the business details for which her presence
would be desirable, as she wished to leave New York
at the earliest possible moment.
The time had come to her now, she thought, when
indeed she was done with life, and ready to go back to
Lenox, and wait for death under those skies. She felt
no desire to see any of the old faces; but her memories
of the lonely, lovely hills appealed to her irresistibly.
She thought she had tasted all the keen delights or
sharp pangs which this life held for her; and now she
longed only for rest. She wrote to Lawyer Mills, requesting him to secure for her a residence as near to
her old home as possible; and learned, in reply, that
the old home itself would be for sale in the spring.
The youngest of the " three Graces," her cousin Emmie,
would be married in February, and the widowed mother
wished to give up housekeeping, and reside alternately
with her daughters. So she began to look forward
with homesick longing to the sheltered nook which the
hills shut in, where she meant to pass the evening of her
days, - this woman who fancied herself so old at twentyfive, that Hope and she had parted company for ever.
Sometimes, during those months, her thoughts went
back to the old house in the Rue Jacob. Madame Ponsard would read of the destruction of the ill-fated steamer
in which she had sailed, and believe her to be dead.
That was best. She felt no inclination to write, and
undeceive her. It was better to be dead to that old
life, - dead as her youth was, and her heart within her.
6




122        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
Madame would be sorry, but she would grow gay again
presently; though, to be sure, she would never forget
her or the baby. Elizabeth knew if she should go back
to Paris, after ten years had gone, she would find immortelles on little Ce'rie's grave, which madame would
have hung there with pious care, - madame, who, childless herself, had loved that baby face so well. Still
madame would be hearty, and healthy, and merry, and
French.
And Dr. Erskine, - but she always stopped there,
and told herself that she had no right to think of him
at all. Of course, he would outgrow the old past,
which had been only pain at its happiest, and love and
woo some more fortunate woman; and that was best,
too.
She was content; but, oh, the difference between
that content which is born of resignation, and that
other which is the paradise-flower of hope.
And so the winter wore away, and the spring, - and,
at last feeling herself with her share of her husband's
fortune, quite too rich for her modest needs, Elizabeth
went back to Lenox, and took possession of the old
home, the purchase of which Lawyer Mills had in the
mean time arranged for her.
She entered its doors, as it chanced, on the last day
of May, the seventh anniversary of that day on which
she had first met Elliott Le Roy. "' Only seven years!'"
she said to herself, as this memory came back to her, -
only seven years, and in them she had weighed the
world, love, life, in her balances, and found them all




FACE TO FACE.                 123
wanting. She had come back at the nightfall, bringing
no sheaves with her.
The summer came to her there, in the old home,
— the brilliant New England summer, with its long,
blue days, its flush of roses and flow of streams; the
autumn, with its ripe fruits, and prophetic winds, and
the haze upon all its hills; the long, white winter, keen
and cold as death; and then the spring came again, and
the summer.
This space had been for Elizabeth a time of healing.
Its quiet had fallen upon her soul like a benediction.
She had lived almost in solitude. The old friends who
called on her could find no fault with the gentle courtesy with which she welcomed them; but she made her
deep mourning an excuse for not returning their visits,
and they did not feel free to repeat them. For the most
part she was alone with Nature; and I think the dear
old mother seldom fails to comfort the tired children
who lean close upon her breast.
Insensibly, gradually, almost imperceptibly, Elizabeth grew towards peace; until, when the second summer came, she had begun to feel that her days were
good days, -that there was a positive, pure joy in
being alive, —alive where one could feel the sunshine,
and hear the birds, and gather the roses. There were
some keener delights in life, for which her hour was
passed; but, just as they were, her days were not barren of enjoyment.
She thought a great deal about her little child; but
now her thoughts of it were among her sweetest conso



124         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
lations. At one time she had longed to send over the
sea for the little casket under the sods of Pere la
Chaise, and bury it anew, where she could go often
and stand above it in the long and pleasant grass. But
as her health of mind and body began to be restored,
she ceased to wish for this. She thought less of the bit
of marble she had buried, with the white rose of peace
frozen in its sculptured fingers, and more of the immortal little one, — alive, and free, and still her own, —
still near her, perhaps; for she remembered and believed what Dr. Erskine had said, that whole eternities
could not separate a mother from her child.
She thought, too, very often of Dr. Erskine, — for
now she believed herself able to think of him unselfishly and abstractly. I told you, long ago, that this
Elizabeth of mine did not understand herself; and all
the experiences through which she had passed had still
left her on the very threshold of self-knowledge. She
thought, - because she never expected to see John
Erskine again, or hear any words from his lips, and, so
expecting, yet found that skies were blue, and birdsongs sweet, and summer days pleasant, and life had
not lost all its savor, —that the old past in which she
had felt so much for him was as dead as a dead day.
She honestly believed herself capable of seeing him
again without an extra heart-beat, - and I rather think
she would have liked to try the experiment.
He, meantime, was daring to love her, because he
believed that she was dead. He knew of the destruction
of the ill-starred German steamer, and the loss of almost




FACE TO FACE.                125
all her passengers. The short list of the saved had
never niet his eye; and he thought that Le Roy and
Elizabeth had gone up together, through flame and
flood, to stand at God's bar of judgment, for the final
solving of the sad problem of their lives.
How far Elizabeth had been wrong, he did not know
or question. He only knew that, whether her faults
were great or small, she was for him the one woman in
the wide universe of souls; and to that knowledge he
trusted, as to a sure pledge, that he should find her
again in some life, some world. So that all the living
women on the earth, with all their smiles, their cheeks
of tempting bloom, their lips ripe for kisses, were less
to him than the memory of one sweet, sad face, with
dark eyes which had never answered his pleading, and
lips which he had never kissed.
He had staid in Paris for a year, after he returned
from Brittany and found that Elizabeth had left with
her husband, and the ship in which they sailed had gone
down. He had not the courage, at first, to go back,
and take up the burden of American work-a-day life;
so he lingered on, in the French capital, until his mood
changed, and he began to long for work as a means for
his own healing. Then he went home; and through
the winter and spring found himself fill of business. A
friend — the old Boston physician, with whom he had
studied his profession — took advantage of his return
to visit Europe himself, leaving his practice in Dr.
Erskine's hands. So the Doctor was both busy and
prosperous.




126         SOME WOMEN'S HEYARTS.
When the summer came, however, he was comparatively at leisure. Almost all of Dr. Gordon's patients
went away to sea-side or mountains; and Dr. Erskine
found himself able to take a few days of vacation for his
own pleasure. He used them to make a pilgrimage.
Ever since his return, he had been longing to go to
Lenox. His fancy was haunted by the pleasant pictures
Elizabeth had made of it in the summer afternoons
when she sat in the old garden of the Rue Jacob, her
sleeping child upon her knees, while he watched and
listened, — thinking then that she would be his, some
day.
Now, it seemed to him that, if souls could come back
to earth, hers would walk among those hills she had
loved so well. He almost fancied he should see her, a
radiant ghost, - a slight, swift shape, with pale, fair
face, and luminous eyes, and hair of silken dusk, —the
Elizabeth he had loved and lost.  So he went to
Lenox.
He left the cars at the railroad station in the village,
and then walked across the fields by himself. He would
not ask his way. He thought he could find the old
Fordyce place, and know it from Elizabeth's descriptions. Presently the roomy old house rose before him,
— the tall trees in front making a leafy darkness, the
grassy pathway leading up friom the gate to the fiont
doorstone. He was sure that he had found the spot.
Just so had Elizabeth described it. Just so, many a
time, had it risen before his fancy, and he had pictured
her, a gentle, serious child, going about under those




FACGE TO FACE.                127
trees; or, a thoughtful, pensive girl, sitting under them
with her book.
The sun had just set. He turned to look at the
clouds that kindled the west, and to wonder where,
beyond them, she was,-his love.
Somehow the thought of'her death had never much
dwelt with him. He had never lingered morbidly over
her possible sufferings. By flood or flame the agony had
been short, doubtless; and he knew her well enough to
believe the release had been welcome. He had loved,
instead, to think of her as gone home, -translated into
the sure refuge of God's peace,- her little one again
in her arms, perhaps, as she sat among the heavenly
gardens, where the very flowers of Eden made sweet
the celestial air. Thinking of her thus to-night, as he
had so often done before, the vision became very real to
him, and he was scarcely surprised to see it taking form
before him, as he turned back again to look at the old
house.
Down towards the gate a shape was coming, like one
he usea to know, walking dreamily, and lifting its rapt
face towards the sunset sky.  Hle hardly dared to
breathe as he drew near and watched this miracle of
resurrection. Scarcely knowing what he did, he spoke
at last one word, -" Elizabeth."
The uplifted eyes came back to earth. The dreamy
footsteps paused. A heavenly smile curved the lips.
A soft blush rose to the rounded cheeks. Do ghosts
then blush and smile?  He went forward, trembling
with strange ecstasy, and they were face to face.




128        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
HIe touched the extended hand. The soft and slender
fingers which trembled in his own were flesh and blood
surely. The red lips, " dear and dewy," the eyes shy
and sweet, - this was no ghost, no vision.
"I thought you were dead," he said.
"And I thought I should never see you again till we
were both immortal, " she answered.
Then there was a silence, which John Erskine broke
at last; though his voice was hoarse with some secret
struggle, as he asked, — "Were you both saved, - you
and he?"
"He was taken and I was left," she said, slowly.
"God knows why. My husband saved my life. He
lowered me into the boat, and lost his own chance. We
had both been wrong in our lives; but he was noble in
his death."
" And you have been free all this time, — alive and
free?  Why did you never let me know? Did you
never once think that your life belonged to me now?"
"I dared not think so. You know what I believed.
I thought my darling was taken from my arms because
I sinned, in those days, in caring for you too much; and
it seemed to me God would be best pleased by my living out my life alone."
"And you meant to offer Him your own sad, solitary
future, and mine, as a sacrifice of expiation? Oh, Elizabeth!"
"I meant only to offer Him mine. I thought you
would be happy with some one else."
John Erskine's face kindled with a grand light.




FACE TO FA CE.                129
"Child," he said, "I should have waited for you, -
no matter through how many lives or worlds, - sure
through them  all that you would be mine at the
last."
Then, for a moment more, he looked at her, in all
her shadowy loveliness, and after that look some gust
of emotion swayed him from his calm. His words were
strong with a passion whose power startled her.
"Did you forget that our Father in Heaven pities
us, as a Father pities his children? Ite wants to
see us happy, believe it. You are mine, -my wife.
Flame and flood spared you, because you were for me.
Do you think I will give you up now?"
He took her into his arms, shy and startled, trembling
like a girl of sixteen before her lover. Her very agitation calmed him, and he let her go before he had even
kissed her lips.
"You shall come to me of your own free will, or not
at all," he said, gently. "I called you mine, -are you
mine, Elizabeth?"
Through the dusk which had gathered round them,
she felt rather than saw his ardent, longing look. The
moon, a pale crescent, was already high in the heavens,
and one star glittered beside it. A late bird, going
home, dropped a note full of hope and joy into the
heart of the fragrant, dewy night. Half unconsciously
she noted moon, and star, and bird-song, and the tender
fragrance of the summer dusk. Had every thing believed and rejoiced in the Father's love except her
heart, - and now had her hour come? Was her life at
6*                 I




130        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
its flood-tide? She went through the shadows to Dr.
Erskine, close into the arms that once more shut her
in, —not passionately now, but gently, thankfully,
with a clasp that claimed, and accepted, and would
never again let her go.




BRAINSo
cc -NES'M!")
TI turned with a start. I was quite alone, as I
thought, and the fine treble of that odd little voice
strucklstrangely upon my ear. I had been saying that
I was tired of life, or some such repining speech, which
I never allowed myself except in solitude, and this
object at my knee answered me, "Yes'm!" I looked
at her in amazement. She was a little morsel, scarcely
so tall as a well-grown child of seven, but with a
grave, mature, preternaturally wise face, which might
have belonged to any age fiom fifteen to twenty-five.
Was she goblin or mortal?
"Who are you?" I asked.
c' My name is Susan Mory, ma'am, but they mostly
call me'Brains.' They say I've an old head to be on
such young shoulders." And she laughed, a small,
fine, queer laugh, as uncanny in sound as her voice.
I was hardly yet convinced that she was human.'" How old are you? "
"Twelve, ma'am, last birthday."
"And what do you want,' Brains'? How came you
here?"
"'I want to do your errands, ma'am. I heard you




132         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
needed some one; and your door wasn't quite shut,
so I came in. Excuse the freedom."  And here she
bobbed me a droll little courtesy, quite in keeping with
her voice, and her laugh, and the quaint correctness
and propriety of her conversation. It was true I
wanted an errand-girl; but what could this odd morsel
of humanity do?
"What wages did you expect? " I asked, more fiom
curiosity to see what estimate she put upon her services than with any serious intention of employing her.
s: I heard you had been paying three dollars a week,
and the girl boarded herself. I think I could earn as
much."
"But she was a large girl," I said, in surprise. " She
swept and dusted my room, carried home all my work,
and shopped for linings and trimmings."
"Yes'm.'  She spoke with all acquiescent air, as if
she thought the work I had mentioned was not at all
too much for her. She seemed so ready and cheery
that I couldn't bear to refuse her.
"Can you sweep?" I asked.
" If you'll try me, ma'am, I think my work will please
you. If not, you know  it's only to send me away
again."
There was no room to dispute her assertion. I began
to like the quaint, neat little creature, with her earnest,
unchildlike face. I would question her a little more, I
thought.
"Have you a home? " I asked. "Do you live with
your parents? "




BRAINS.                  133
"' With my mother. There are three' of us, - mother,
and I, and' Body,' - I mean my sister Jane; she grew
so fast, and was so careless and thouglhtless, that
father always used to call her' Body,' and me' Brains.'
When the war broke out he went for a private soldier,
but he was shot the second summer. We have eight
dollars a month, *you know, - mother's pension, —
but that won't quite make us comfortable, and mother's
delicate; and so I thought if I could do your errands,
maa'am."
So she, too, had lost by the war, —she in one way
and I in another. The thought made my heart warm
to her yet more.
"You may come to-morrow morning," I said. A" Come
at half-past six, and ask the porter for the key of
No. 10. You will find a broom in that closet behind
the door, and you can get the room swept and dusted
before the girls come to work."
"Yes'm."
Another droll little courtesy, and she was gone.
Then I went back to my thoughts again. They were a
little less melancholy and self-compassionate, however,
for the diversion. Yet I had lost so much. Before the
war began my father had been one of the wealthy
merchants of New York. He did a large wholesale
business, mostly with the South,. and when the crisis
came it ruined him utterly. In the summer of 1861
we went to a little place in the country which belonged
to my mother, and there he died. I think it was his
trouble which brought on the long, slow fever from




134        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
which he never rallied.  Then, in that fall after
his death, I had to decide upon my future. We had
scarcely a hundred dollars in the world besides the
little place which sheltered us, but which insured us
only a roof over our heads. My mother was a delicate
woman, accustomed ever since her marriage to be
petted and waited on and tended. She was utterly
broken down by her grief at the loss of my father. I
must think for both and work for both.
I, too, had been accustomed to luxury, and never
trained to any thing useful. I had received a fine-lady
sort of education. I could play and sing, - with taste
rather than with science. I danced well; I drew a
little; I read French; I could manage Italian enough
for a song; but what one thing did I know well enough
to teach it? Not one. And even if I had, there were
fifty applicants for every vacant situation in the department of instruction.  Clearly I must do something
besides teaching. I could not sew fast enough to earn
much in that way. What was I good for? My self.
esteem went rapidly down to zero, when suddenly a
new idea took possession of me. I had one endowment
which I might make available as capital, - taste in
dress. I use the words in their highest sense. I not
only knew what was pretty when I saw it,- I knew
what would be pretty before I saw it. I had original
ideas. In the days when I had been a leader of fashion
in my own set, my dresses and my trimmings had
never been servile imitations of French models. I had
always invented something for myself, often for my




BRAINS.                  135
friends. Schneider had said that my taste would be a
fortune to any mlantua-maker. It should be a fortune,
then, to me.
I matured my plan and then communicated it to my
mother. As I had foreseen, it vexed her sorely at first.
But when I set matters before her in their true light,
and she saw it afforded our only chance of comfort and
independence, she began to look on the idea more
favorably. She made only one stipulation, - that I
should not attempt to carry out my undertaking in
New York. To this I was quite ready to accede.
The supercilious patronage of all my former friends
would have been a burden quite too heavy to be borne.
I should feel more comfortable, even if I made less
money, to begin elsewhere. My scheme was quite an
ambitious one. I ignored the proverbs about small
beginnings, little acorns, and so on. I meant to storm
success at the outset. I let the house which we were
occupying for a year, and arranged to leave my mother
with the new tenants until I was ready to come for her.
Then I went to Boston.
I found vacant rooms in a building on Summer
Street, in which nearly all the upstairs apartments
were used by milliners and dress-makers. I had no
references, but I engaged to pay my rent monthly in
advance; and having paid the first month I arranged
my rooms, and put my sign -" Miss MACGREGOR"on my door, and downstairs at the lower entrance. I
had hired a dress-maker to go on with me from New
York, - one who had been in the habit of going out by




136        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
the day, and had often sewed for me on common
dresses. She could fit exceedingly well, but she would
have been utterly wanting in the comprehensive ability
necessary to carry on a business, and she made no pretensions to taste about trimming. She was quite satisfied to be hands, and let me be head, and would be
contented with her weekly wages.  In one of my
rooms was a wardrobe bedstead which she and I were
to occupy together till I could send for my mother.
These arrangements made, I sent to the Transcrijpt
an advertisement setting forth the claims to patronage of Miss Macgregor from New York.
The evening the notice appeared I sat with it alone
in my own room, — where, until it was time to retire,
Miss Granger never intruded. The die-was cast, and
now I must go forward. For the first time a sort of
passionate regret, a wild misgiving, took possession
of me, and I cried bitterly. It seemed to me I had
given up every thing I valued in life. If my social
position, my New York acquaintances, had been all, I
could have borne it without complaining; but I had
resigned much more. Two years before I had experienced a new phase of emotion. Not to be romantic,
or put too fine a point upon the matter, I had fallen
heartily, and, I thought then, irrevocably, in love. I
felt sure, too, that Horace Weir had loved me. There
had been no engagement between us, but when he
went away in the spring of 1860 to study for three
years in the hospitals of Paris, - he was to be a
physician, —I think we had both felt sure of each




BRAINS.                  137
other's hearts, and looked forward to a future together
almost as confidently as if we had been betrothed.
I felt that in giving up all my old associations and
entering upon this new life I was giving him up also.
If we had been engaged, I had faith enough in him to
feel sure that he would have been changed by no
change of fortune. But, as it was, I had not the
shadow of a claim on him. We had never corresponded, and when he came back he would not know
where to find me. I should drop out of his life.
I will confess that I suffered keenly at this prospect.
I would have clung to him if I could. For his sake I
would have clung, if I could, to position and old associations. But the simple fact was that I could not. If
I had been willing to starve genteelly myself, I was
not willing that my mother should; and there was no
resource but to go to work. Just then I took up a
Bible lying near me, with some vague idea of finding
in it comnfort or direction, and, curiously enough, my
eyes fell upon this passage:"And the Lord said unto Moses, Speak unto the
children of Israel that they go forward."
I was just in the state of mind to receive these words
as a special direction, - a sort of omen. I took them
as meant for an indication that I had chosen the right
path and must walk on in it. So I tried to be brave,
- to cease to think of Horace Weir, —to suppress
every repining thought, every longing for the old days
of ease and luxury, and to content myself with the
present. I trusted that I should succeed. I felt sure




138         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
I should, if I cofuld but once make a beginning. I
would let the old life go, and commence this new one'bravely.  I had used on my sign my middle name,
5i/acgregor only. I trusted that if any old friends ever
chanced to read my advertisement they would not
associate Miss Macgregor, dress-maker, with Helen
Macgregor Bryce, their friend of the old time. Perhaps this was a weakness; at any rate it harmed no
one, and Macgregor was a more imposing name than
Bryce would have been. To be imposing, to be elegant, to become the fashion, was my only hope. I
had sold two diamond rings of considerable value for
money enough to start me fairly; but if, in the two
months to come, I could not secure a paying run of
custom, I should have lost my last chance.
The very next morning a magnificent-looking dame
walked into my room, stately after the manner of
Boston, with a certain severe majesty appropriate to
the hub of the universe. She was followed by two
pretty young ladies. I had made a distinguished toilet
that morning, and for stateliness it would go hard if I
could not match her. She bowed loftily. I bowed
loftily in response, and. offered chairs.
"Miss Macgregor, I suppose."
Bow the second on my part.
o "I saw your advertisement last evening, and came to
talk with you about some dresses. Lubec has disappointed me so many times, that if I could find some
one equally good who would be punctual, it would be a
satisfaction to make a change."




BRAINzS.                  139
Bow the third.
"Are you very busy, Miss Macgregor?"
"Not at all so. To-day is the first day I have been
open, and you are my first caller."
Then  followed a whispered  consultation  of the
mamma with the tallest young lady. I knew they
were debating whether it would be safe to trust a
stranger whose work they had never seen, whose first
patrons they were. I waited in apparent unconcern,
watching the customers go in and out of the store
opposite.
" You are sure," the lady began, again turning back
to me, "that you would have no difficulty in fitting us
for the first time? "
"I apprehend none, madam."
"4And for trimmings, - what fashion-books do you
use? "
*" None. I have them all, but I invent my own
styles for the most part."
Upon that the youngest daughter spoke in a pleasant,
lady-like voice, -
"That will be nice, mamma. We shall not be copies
of every one else."
"It would be better," the elder lady remarked, "if
we could try some more common dresses first, but
there seems to be no time. Could you get two light
silks done for a wedding reception day after to-morrow? 7"
" Certainly, since, as I said, you have the fortune to
come first."




140         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
"6 Then will you fit my daughters this morning?"
A t once."
I led the way into the other room, where Miss
Granger sat waiting.
"White linen linings, Miss Granger," I said, with
an air of command; ",and please pin them on immediately."
Madam started at this with a gesture of alarm.
" Do you not fit them  on yourself?" she asked.
"Even Lubec always did that."
"By no means. There is no surer way to spoil one's
power of adapting a dress to the figure. I stand at a
little distance, and see that an artistic effect is preserved."
By this time Miss Granger was pinning on the lining
over the slight girlish form of the elder daughter. She
could fit well, and they must have perceived it. I
gave a few hints and directions, and the work was
accomplished.
4 "Will you leave the trimming entirely to me?" I
asked, as the mamma shook the lustrous, pearl-colored
silk out of its folds, "or have you a choice? "
"Leave it to her," I heard the younger daughter
whisper, - 6"I know by her own looks she has good
taste."
So it was settled that I should make the dresses as I
chose. No sooner had they left than I began my task.
I had only two seamstresses engaged besides Miss
Granger; but we all worked. A few other customers
came in, and I put them off until these two dresses




BRAINS.                  141
should be finished. When done, they were to be sent
to Mrs. John Sturgis, Beacon Street; and I felt that if
they gave satisfaction I should have made as good a
beginning as I desired. I trimmed them so differently
that, though the silk was the same, the dresses were
totally unlike, and yet equal in elegance. I sent them
home the afternoon before the reception, and Miss
Granger was kind enough to go with them and try
them on, though that was not at all in her province.
She came back and reported elegant fits and perfect
satisfaction.
The next morning Mrs. Sturgis came for my bill.
It was a matter on which I had bestowed some
thought. I had questioned whether it would be the
best policy to conciliate custom by the moderation of
my charges, or to convey a sense of my own importance by their extravagance. One of my girls had
formerly worked for Madame Lubec, who had stood at
the head hitherto of Boston fashion. After a consultation with her, I had made out my bill, charging perhaps
two or three dollars on a dress more than Lubec would
have done.
Mrs. Sturgis ran over the items.
" You are a little higher in your rates than is customary here," she said; "but I suppose we must be
willing to pay something for your taste. My daughters'
dresses were the loveliest in the room. Can you make
them some more next week? They want some walking-dresses, and I a dinner-dress."
"Not next week, I am sorry to say. I am more busy




142         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
than when you came first. I think I might promise for
the week after next."
I had decidedly made a hit. After that customers
came fast enough; and a good many of them spoke of
the dresses Aggie Sturgis and her sister had worn at the
wedding. I was able, in two months from that beginning, to bring on my mother, and to take for her a
third room, - a small one which happened about that
time to fall vacant, - so that she could be as retired as
she wished. I completed this arrangement early in the
winter of 1861, and for the two years between that
time and the first appearance of little "Brains" in nmy
establishment, I had been prospering beyond my hopes.
But I was not happy. Success brought, indeed, a certain kind of satisfaction; but I missed sorely the carefree life of the old days, the liberty to follow my own
tastes and ways, and I did miss Horace Weir. I
had heard of him incidentally. He had come home
from France, and was now practising his profession in
New  York.  I would have given much to know
whether he had thought of me, inquired after me, tried
to trace me out. Vain enough it must have been if he
had. I had given no clue to my present residence to a
single old friend. Every one of them, to the best of
my belief, had lost sight of me. I was wedded to a life
very different from any of my early dreams. I had been
successful, it is true, beyond my expectations. I was
saving money. I could make my mother comfortable.
I had little to do with the laborious details of my
business. My task was to invent graceful fashions, -




BRAINS.                   143
to suit colors to fair faces, — to make charming toilets
for girls living just such lives as I used to live once.
God forgive me if sometimes I almost hated them,if now and then a mad rebellious impulse seized me,
and I cursed fate in my heart, forgetting that fate was
but another name for Providence.
I had been in one of these murmuring moods when
little Susan Mory interrupted my meditations with her
fine, small voice. After she went away I relapsed into
it only partially, and roused myself with determination
at last, and went to my mother, to amuse her with an
account of my droll little visitor. After all, mother had
much more to bear than I. She had not even the diversion of business. She must sit through the long,
slow days, remembering the past and all its good gifts
and false promises, - stung by its contrast with the
empty-handed present. How much more she had lost,
too. What was the sentimental regret of a young girl
over a love that had never even been declared, to a wife's
sorrow and longing for the household tenderness which'had been hers for a quarter of a century? As I opened
her door I reproached myself for all my repinings.
I was glad to perceive that she was really interested
about "'Brains."  She wanted to see her on the morrow, and began planning about garments we could give
her to make over for herself and her sister.
The next morning, curious to see whether my small
handmaiden had arrived, I put on my dressing-gown a
little before seven, and looked into the work-room. I
opened the door so quietly that she did not hear it.




144         SOME WOMEN'S hIEARTS.
She had swept the room carefully, and now she stood
in a chair dusting the window frames. It was very
amusing to see her grave, womanly patience and care,
and her queer expedients to accomplish the tasks for
which she was too absurdly short. As she turned round
I said, -
" Good-morning,' Brains.'"
She dropped instantly from her chair, and made me
her droll little courtesy.
"Yes'm," she said, cheerfully, "I'm come. I've been
trying to make it as clean here as usual."  And she
glanced at me interrogatively with her bright, thoughtful eyes, that looked so large and wistful in her queer,
little, old-young face.
" Yes," I said, "you have made it very nice; I think
you will please me."
When her morning work was done I took her in to
see my mother, and her verdict was decidedly in the
little one's favor. "She'll be the best errand-girl you
ever had,"' she said to me after s" Brains " had gone back
to, the work-room.
Time went on, and proved her right. Through all
the winter she was the most faithful of little maidens.
Never did pieces go astray, or bundles fail to reach their
destinations; and she developed a remarkable capacity
for matching dresses with buttons and braid, and similar trifles. I grew really attached to her, and would
not have exchanged her for any other messenger of
twice her years.
Early in Marfch she took a severe cold, and began to




BRAINS.                   145
cough. I tried to make her stay at home until she was
better, and let some one else take her place; but she
insisted on coming. She knew just my ways, she said,
and she was sure it didn't hurt her. She was going to
get better of her cold as soon as there were some warm
days. Still I was not just comfortable about her. I
did not like the sound of that constant cough, —the
color on her cheeks was too bright, - she was growing,
too, into such a mere little shadow.
One morning when I entered the work-room I missed
her. Some one else had been sweeping and putting
away things, but it was not in the accustomed order.
"' Brains' didn't come. I'm afraid she's worse," liss
Granger said. They had all fallen into the habit of
calling her "G Brains," - the name seemed so appropriate,
— there was so much thought, and care, and womanliness in such a little body.
Half an hour later there was a timid knock on the
door, and in came a girl whom I had never seen before.
I recognized her at once for the ten-years-old sister of
my little errand-girl, - recognized her, as one often
does, by some mysterious family likeness, which seemed
to vanish when I looked at her more steadily. This
one was a real, actual child,-large of her age, with
full, rosy cheeks, and eyes round as beads. She came
straight up to me, and delivered her message with the
air of one who had been taught it carefully.
1" Sister Susy is sick, and can't come. She is sorry,
and hopes it won't put you to much inconvenience."
7                 i




146         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
It was just like "'Braiins,"-the polite, careful nmessage.
"G And you are' Body'? " I asked.
"Yes, ma'am," - and she looked as if she longed to
ask how I had learned her home name, - "Yes, ma'am;
I am Jane, and they call me  Body.' "
"Is Susy very sick?"
"G Pretty bad, I guess, ma'am. She can't sit up, and
she coughs most all the time, and mother sent me after
a doctor this morning."
I asked where they lived, and she mentioned a numbet on Pleasant Street.
6"Well," I said, "tell Susy not to worry. I shall get
along nicely, and I will come to see her as soon as I can
make time, - to-night, if not before."
"6 Yes, ma'am."
She went away then. She had a lazy sort of voice,
and spoke lingeringly, - quite unlike the quick, characteristic utterance of little " Brains." How well I remembered that first clay, and the brisk " Yes'm"  that broke
in upon my musings.
It was late in the afternoon before I could make time
to go to Pleasant Street. I found the Morys living in
the third story of a comfortable-looking house. I went
first into a room which seemed to serve as a kitchen
and sitting-room.  IMrs. Mory, a tired-looking woman
who had been pretty once, was stirring something in a
saucepan over the fire. She turned to greet me, and
invited me to go into the next room, where Susy was.
It was a small bedroom, but every thing was neat and




BRAINS.                   147
clean. There lay poor little "Brains,"' with a bright flush
burning on her cheeks, her eyes glittering, and her poor
little body shaken by a paroxysm of coughing. As soon
as she could speak she put out her hand.
"Thank you, Miss Macgregor; it was very kind of
you to come. I didn't mean to give up this way, and
disappoint you. And I suppose you will have to get
some one else. I thought first that perhaps' Body' could
do my work for a week or two, until I got better; but
I don't suppose she'd answer."
"No, I fear she wouldn't; and besides, while you are
ill, your mother will need her at home. But I'll keep
the place for you. I shall have to get some one else, to
be sure, but I'll get them with the understanding that
you are to come back just as soon as you are able, and
they must be ready to give up to you at any time."
"Oh, how good, how good you are!" the poor little
morsel cried, with kindling eyes. "I was so afraid I
should lose my place that it was worse than the sickness.9
Her gratitude touched me profoundly, for it seemed
to me, even then, that she would never get any better;
and it was so hard to think of that poor little patient
life going out so early, quenched in its dawn.
It brought on her cough to talk, so I did not stay
with her long.  On the way out I said to her
mother, -
"Do not be troubled by any fear of want. I shall
pay Susy her wages just the same as if she were well.
I can well afford it, for I am prospering in my business,




148         SOME WOMEN'S HIEARTS.
and if she wants any thing that you cannot get her,
you must let me know."
As I went out of the house I caught a faint red glowv
of the March sunset, shooting up high enough to show
a glimpse of its splendor even to the dwellers in brick
walls. Would little "Brains' see many more days decline?  I longed to take her away into the country,
and give her, before she died, one glimpse of widestretching fields, of sunsets, and sunrisings. But it was
too late. She was not well enough to be moved, and
if she should never get any better she would see a light
before long such as no sun ever kindled, breathe airs of
healing, smell flowers that grow not on any earthly soil.
Her "country" would be brighter than any of her
dreams, -- the land that lies "very far off."
The next day I went to see her again. I had not
thought of going so soon, but a spell seemed to draw
me. It was reward enough to see her poor little face
brighten, and her eyes grow eager with welcome when
I went in. But she was no better. She never would
be, I thought. I asked her mother what the doctor
said, and she answered me, with a burst of sobbing,"I don't think he has much hope of her. He says
her lungs are very much inflamed. He thinks it might
have been better if she had staid at home when she first
got her cold, but I couldn't keep her. She was such
an ambitious child. Oh, ma'am, if God takes her, how
shall I bear it?  Since her father left me, little as she
is, she's been what I depended on."
I could well understand it. The girl had one of




BRAINS.                   149
those natures on which weaker ones rest instinctively.
She was thoroughly reliable, with a courage, a patient
hope, a quiet strength, utterly out of proportion to her
tiny frame. I could not say any thing to console her
poor mother, for I knew too well what she was losing,
and it seems so idle to talk about heavenly consolations
to ears deaf with misery. The soul is so seldom ready
to accept them until after the blow has fallen, and God
himself speaks to the stricken one through the darkness
of desolation. I could only say, —
"' We need not quite give up hope yet, and we ought
to think of her now, - of making her as comfortable as
we can."
Then I went out again into the March twilight.
Every night after that found me at Pleasant Street,
I could not stay away. Besides all my interest in her,
an unaccountable impression took possession of me that
she was in some wise associated with my own fate. I
was going, so it seemed to me, straight toward my destiny, -a destiny in some dim, undreamed-of way connected with " Brains" and her little room.
I have said that from the first I had not much hope
of her.  My hope lessened every day.  She would
never come back to the place I had engaged another to
fill till she got well. I should never watch again her
tidy little ways, or be amused at her quaint womanliness. I had not thought it was in me to care for her
so much, but my heart grew heavy as I saw her fading
away. She suffered terribly with her racking cough, and
the constant wearing pain in her side and chest; but




150         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
she did not lose her bright cheerfulness. For a long
time, too, she continued to make light of her illness
and tell me that in a little while she should be back
doing my errands as of old.
The first time she said any thing else was one April
night. I went to her a little later than usual, and
found the doctor with her. I had never seen him
before, this Dr. John Sargent. His name seemed somehow strangely familiar, though I could not recall at
the moment where I had heard it. HIe was bending
over poor little " Brains " when I went in, but he raised
his head and met my eyes with his own, so kind, so
pitiful, so serious, that I felt drawn toward him  at
once. The child put out her hand.
f "You'll have to keep her, Miss Macgregor," she said,
with a sad smile.
I did not think at first who she meant, and I asked
helr.
" The girl that took my place, you know. I've been
asking Dr. Sargent, and he doesn't think I'll ever be
able to go back any more."
She was so calm that for very shame I tried to be
calm also, but the tears would come, and I went out
into the next room without speaking. Soon Dr. Sargent joined me.
"It is very sad," he said.  I'  have seldom been so
much interested in a case. Such a bright, patient little
thing as she is, and so wonderfully womanly. She
asked me herself, to-night, if there was any hope, and
I had to tell her. You see how she bears it."




BRAINS.                   151
After he had gone I went back to little Susy. I had
brought her a bunch of violets, which I saw in a shopwindow  as I came along, and her very pleasure in
them made my heart ache. How she loved all beautiful
things. IH-ow much she was capable of enjoying, and
how little she had had to enjoy in this world, poor
child. And now she was going.
T think she guessed my thought, for she touched my
hand with a tinid, caressing motion, and said, very
softly, -
"There will be brighter flowers there, Miss Macgregor.'It hath not entered into the heart of man to
conceive,' you know. It is well for me; only it will be
so hard for mother and Jane. But their Father will
take care of them. You know what it says about the
widow and the fatherless."
How unconsciously she reproved my lack of faith.
I bent over her, and pressed my lips to the little cheek
where the hectic burned. How  many times I had
doubted God, and what faith she had. She seemed to
infuise into my soul new strength. As I went through
the other room to go home I found Mrs. Mory crying
very softly, so as not to disturb her sick child, in a
quiet, dreary way, inexpressibly pitiful. Poor "Body"
was kneeling with her face buried in her mother's lap,
fairly shaken by the violence of her suppressed sobbing.
I only said, as I went by,"Don't grieve /her by weeping.  She has been
telling me that God will take care of you."
When I reached home I sat down and tried to think




152        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
what I had known before about Dr. Sargent. It carried
me back to Horace ~Weir.  John Sargent was his
friend, I remembered, - a classmate, and the fidcus
Ackctes of his early manhood. Did they occupy such
a relation still, I wondered. Would I be mentioned
between them.? But no, Dr. Sargent knew of me
only as Miss Macgregor, the fashionable dress-maker
for whom little " Brains " had worked. He would never
associate me with Helen Bryce, even if Weir had once
made that name familiar to him. What was there
to arouse such tumult of hope and memory in my
heart? I remembered little Susy, and the world where
she was going, and tried to grow calm.
For a fortnight after that she failed fast. Of course I
went to see her every day, and it carried me strangely
near to the eternal world whither her footsteps tended.
You cannot think what a change it seemed to come
back to the thoroughly earthly atmosphere of my
fashionable establishment, -to see the bright-hued
silks, and laces white and dainty as hoar-frost, —to
hear the perpetual talk about what was stylish and
what was becoming, and be complimented about my
invention, my charming taste. It was like turning
back to earth from the gate of Heaven.
At length there came a day — it was toward the
last of April - when I went earlier than usual to see
little "';Brains."  She had been so weak the day before
that I felt anxious. I carried her the first May flowers
I had seen. The little creature had a sort of passionate
fondness for flowers not unusual in such an organiza



BRAINS.                   153
tion. She loved and cherished them as if they were
of her own kindred.
When I went in I saw Dr. Sargent was in the room,
and with him, his back toward the door, another gentleman. The doctor heard my footsteps, and came out.
"' A friend of mine is there," he said; "Dr. Weir,
from  New York. HIe came on to visit me, and I
brought him to see the child. There is no hope, of
course; but he might think of something to relieve her
that I did not."
I felt my face turning crimson under his searching
glance. But neither he nor I made any comment. As
soon as I felt sufficiently mistress of myself I went
into the room. Calmness stole like balm over my
spirit as I crossed its threshold. I felt as if I were in
the presence of waiting' angels. I met Horace Weir's
eyes, but I scarcely knew it as I went up to Susy, and
saw the strange, seraphic light which made her little
wan face seem as the face of an angel. I gave her the
flowers, and she took them and my hand together into
her clinging hold.
"Dear, kind Miss Macgregor," she said, fondly; " you
won't have to bring me any more flowers. I am going
where they blow all the time. What should I have
done without you? How thankful I am that I went to
your shop."
"But if you hadn't come there, perhaps you would
have lived," I said, as well as I could for the sobs which
were choking me. She thought a moment, then she
shook her head.
7*




154         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
"No, I should not have outlived God's time; and
you have made me so much happier. If I can pray for
any thing after I die, I shall ask l-irn, when I get to
His feet, to bless you for evermore. Can you stay with
me a little while?"
I took off my shawl and bonnet, and sat down at her
bedside. Dr. Sargent came up to bid her good-night.
"I must go now," he said; "but I will come very
early in the morning. Will you stay a while, Weir, in
case any thing should be wanted?'"
": Certainly," answered a voice, every tone of which I
knew well.
Little " Brains" looked up with such a bright smile, -
"How  kind every one is," she said. "How kind
you've always been, Dr. Sargent.  Good-by."
Moved by some sudden impulse of tenderness, Dr.
Sargent bent over and kissed the little wistful face of
the child he had tended so long and patiently. Next
time he sees her it will be after he too has gone over
the river. He will not be sorry then that he "did
it unto one of the least of these," Christ's little ones.
Weir sat down in the outer room. I stayed by Susy.
1Ier mother came in and out restlessly, with white face,
and eyes full of anguish and longing. " Body" had cried
herself into a state of exhaustion, and she sat on the
floor, her head in a chair, sleeping heavily. Shall I
ever forget the glimpse I had that night into the heart
of that dying child? Holding that little hand, looking
into those eyes so full of meaning, and so soon to close
for ever, I drew nearer than I ever had before to the




BRAINS.                   155
mysteries of death and of life. It was midnight, I
think, when a sudden light illumined all her face, and,
as if in answer to a call we did not hear, she said, -
"I am ready."
Her mother clung to her in a passion of tears and
prayers. Her sister, wide awake now, was sobbing at
her side. She kissed them both fondly.
"God loves you," she said.
Then she looked at me with wistful eyes. I bent
down and kissed her, my tears falling fast on her white
face.
1" God loves you, too," she said; and then a moment
after, she spoke again, as if that voice we could not
hear were once more calling, -
" All ready."
Then she turned her face, with that last smile on it,
to the wall, and went home.
An hour afterward she lay, as we had robed her, in
white garments, with shut eyes, and a look so calm and
sweet upon her face you would have thought her sleeping. I had to go then. I knew my mother was
waiting for me anxiously.
"May God comfort you," I said, going up to Mrs.
Mory to bid her good-night. She did not turn her
eyes away from the dead face on the pillows.
"Yes," she answered dreamily, "she said God loved
As I went down the stairs Weir followed me. When
we were in the street he drew my hand through his
arm, and spoke to me for the first time.




156        SOME WOME.N'S HEARTS.
"Helen, that dead child has given us to each other.
But for her should I ever have found you? Sargent
knew how vain all my inquiries for you, since I came
back, had been. He had seen a photograph of you
which I carried —perhaps you have forgotten itacross the sea with me. He felt pretty sure that he
recognized you from it the first time he saw you; and
he knew, besides, that Macgregor was your middle
name. So last week he wrote to me, and I came on to
find you out."
We buried poor little "Brains," two days after that,
in the cemetery at Forest Hlills, under the shadow of a
great rock. You will see her tombstone if you go
there, - a little white cross, on which there is no word
save A SusY."
We left her there on the last day of April, under a
sunshine bright as June. We put white flowers round
the little white face, and into the hands that would
never be tired any more. And on the sod piled above
her grave we left sweet blossoms to lie there and give
forth their sweetness, and then die as she had died.
It was not long after that before I gave up my
business to a successor and married Dr. Weir.  We
have enjoyed since then a happiness that sometimes
seems to me too blessed to last. But we try to sanctify
it by making ourselves ministers of God's bounty to
HIis children. What we do for Mrs. Maory and Jane is
no charity, for we consider them a bequest from lit.
tle "'Brains," at whose bedside we found each other
anew.




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.
"We all are changed. God judges for us best.
God help us do our duty, and not shrink,
And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest."
I  SAT alone in the room whence my mother, my sole
remaining earthly friend, had been that day borne
forth to her burial. It was a large, comfortable apartment, up two flights of stairs, in a New York boardinghouse. The bed was shut up in a wardrobe; a few
engravings which we had brought there with us hung
upon the wall; a canary in the window sang all day to a
red rose and a white rose blooming below him; in the
centre of the room was a table flanked by two easychairs, in one of which I was listlessly swaying to and
fio, - in the other she had been wont to sit; but alas,
she could never sit there again, save in the fancy, by
means of which I seemed to see her slight, wasted
figure, her pure, patient face, in the accustomed seat.
A bright fire burned in the grate, and, lit up by its
glow, the room looked quite like a parlor. I had congratulated myself on this six months before when I
engaged it, and rejoiced that it would not seem to my
mother entirely devoid of the comforts to which she
had been accustomed in her old home. She was gone




158        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
now, and I sat there alone, a homeless, friendless, I had
almost said hopeless orphan, not quite eighteen.
Outside it was a wild October night. The rain fell
heavily, and upon the long, lamenting blast seemed
borne the wail of lonesome spirits, seeking rest and
finding none. I shuddered as I heard the rain-drops
plash upon the pavement, for only the cold sod was
between her and the pitiless storm. Does not every
one who has lost dear friends feel it harder to leave
them under a relentless sky, a sobbing blast, a driving
rain, than if moon-beam and star-beam shone on the
new-made grave like the visible promise of a Father's
love?
It would have been a luxury to abandon myself to
my sorrow; to walk, in thought, through the beloved
and memory-haunted past, and gather up every word
that had fallen, like scattered pearls unheeded at the
time, from the clear lips which Death had frozen into
eternal silence. But even in that hour which should
have been consecrated to love and sorrow, the Future
confronted me. Stern and unsparing she looked into
my eyes and bade me talk with her. "Wait a little,
only a little," I cried out, trembling before her; but
the storm was not more pitiless than she.
In March, after a long illness, my father had died.
He left us poor. He had been a literary man, diligent,
studious, and illy paid. Perhaps the delicacy of his
fancies, the subtlety of his thoughts, failed to appeal to
the comprehension of those on whom he depended for
his fortune. We, at least, - his wife and his daughter,




TWELVE YEARS OF MiY LIFE.             159
-believed his writings above the times and the market;
but we may have been too partial judges. At all events,
the pecuniary rewards of his efforts were never abundant, and we were in no danger of being led into temptation by superfluity of riches.
-Ie had the refined and exacting tastes peculiar to
such sensitive organizations, and we lived, though entirely aloof from  society and the world, much more
expensively than the bare law of necessity demanded.
His last hours were saddened by the knowledge that he
was leaving us lonely and destitute; but he did not feel
this so keenly as it would have been his nature to feel
it, because God, who tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb, mercifully sent upon him that sort of lethargy,
that prostration of the reasoning faculties, which so
often follows their too constant and severe exercise.
Sometimes a terrible dread of the future for us two
helpless women would rack his heart, but, as a whole,
he possessed the most thorough and childlike faith in
the Almighty and Eternal Father which I have ever
seen. His very last words, as he held our hands in his,
and sought our faces with his loving, longing eyes,
were,"The widow's God, — a Father to the fatherless,
the Bible says so. Trust, my darlings, trust."
And he lapsed into death peacefully, as one might
drowse away into sleep, with a smile upon his lips born
of that serene trust in God. It was there still when
we buried him, - we shall know him by it in the resurrection.




160        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
It is not needfuil that I should say how we twowife and daughter - had worshipped him; how we had
reverenced his genius, found rest in his strong heart,
and loved back his love. When we had left him in the
village church-yard and returned to our desolate home,
we felt that for us the sun of life had set for ever.
Stars might indeed arise and make our night holy; but
no matter how bright the stars shine, when the sun is
gone neither bird nor blossom has ever forgot that it
was night still, or been deluded into song or bloom.
Perhaps it was well that the stern necessities of life
were upon us. The inevitable fact that we must do
something gave tone and stimulus to our lives. By the
expenses of my father's illness and burial, and the
mourning habiliments which we had purchased, our
little hoard in the bank was more than half exhausted.
There remained to us now not quite three hundred dollars, besides the small sum likely to accrue from the sale
of our simple household furniture. The lease of the
cottage which we occupied would expire on the first of
April, and in the two weeks intervening we must settle
upon some plan for the future.
It seemed to me that my mother could never endure
to remain in Woodstock.  To keep house where we
had been living was simply impossible. We had nc
means of paying the rent; besides, we could no lo('ge
afford a servant, and neither of us had ever been us 4
to household labor. As for boarding there, I could se%,
no way of obtaining any employment for our support;
and even if I could, I thought it would kill my mother




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.            161
to live on where he had died,- where they had passed
so many happy years. In this extremity my thoughts
turned to New York. We had occasionally passed a
winter there with my father, and I knew more about it
than about any other city. It seemed probable that
there would be something in that vast industrial hive
which my hands could do; besides, - and this reason
had great weight with me,-I should there be able to
procure for my mother the best of medical advice. I had
already begun to see in her the same symptoms which
heralded my father's decay; and a terrible fear haunted
me, which I strove in vain to banish, that she had not
watched over him  so long and so lovingly without
inhaling from his lips the breath of the Destroyer.
So I went to New York. I engaged there the room
I have described, and returned to Woodstock to superintend the dissolution of our household, and the sale of
our possessions. I retained the engravings which my
father had collected from time to time, and his small
but well-chosen library. For things like these there
was no sale at Woodstock; besides, they were endeared
to us by too many memories to be parted with willingly.
In two weeks we were domesticated in our new place
of abode. At first the entire change, the removal from
all early associations, seemed to do my mother good. I
made strenuous efforts to find an occupation that I
could pursue at home. I did not think of teaching, for
I feared I had neither the patience nor the tact to be
successful in that employment; besides, I possessed no
K




162        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
accomplishments, technically so called. My education
had been chiefly imparted by my father, and. was not
only desultory, but of a very unusual kind for a girl.
I knew some Greek and a good deal of Latin, was
thoroughly familiar with English literature, and a more
than tolerable mathematician; but these are not what
most parents wish to have chiefly taught to their daughters, and they stood me in poor stead of showier
knowledge.
I succeeded, after a time, in procuring some embroidery to do. I worked upon it early and late, and
managed to earn about half enough to pay our expenses.
I soon, however, discontinued this attempt. As the
warm weather came on, my mother began to fail rapicdly, and the physician whom I called to attend her
took me aside and told me there was no hope. Hle said
her constitution was thoroughly broken, - that consumption had already seized upon her, and in an organization like hers its progress could not be slow. She
could not live longer than till the falling of the leaves,
perhaps not so long. In the mean time all that could
be done was to keep her as quiet and as happy as
possible.
When I went again into our room she saw the trouble
upon my face, -she, who from childhood had been able
to read my every thought. A person older and more
discreet than I might have evaded her inquiries, - I
could not. I had never kept even a momentary secret
from her. I threw myself on my knees beside her and
sobbed out all that the doctor had said. Her lips




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.            163
moved.  I knew she was murmuring an inaudible
prayer.  Then she bent over me and folded me in
her arms.
6" Oh, darling, darling, how can I be sorry that I am
going to hin? And yet, if it were God's pleasure, I
would gladly stay with you, my poor, helpless girl. Do
not weep at our Father's will, Gertrude. It becomes
His children to submit to it, - no, not to submit, - to
receive it thankfully; for we know that beyond all our
asking or thinking He is good."
From that day I gave up all employment for the one
duty of waiting on my mother. I nursed her; I read
to her; I talked to her; I guarded her from every pang
which love could ward off. I knew we had money
enough to last us while she would be spared to me;
farther than that I did not think or question.
That summer, with all its pain and sorrow, was a
blessed one. I went down with her into the night, but
looking up out of its darkness I caught glimpses of the
eternal morning, fairer than any morning of earth which
was to break for her there. From afar its glory shone
even on me. I almost saw the waving of the heavenly
trees, the gleam of the heavenly waters, - almost heard
the eternal new song which the hundred and forty and
four thousand are singing for ever before the throne of
God.
Late in October she left me. Was it death, or was
it translation?
During the three days in which her dead body lay in
the room which her living presence had consecrated I




164        S OME WOMEN N'S HEAR TS.
sat beside it in a sort of trance. I shed not a tear.
I think I scarcely experienced, a pang of anguish. All
selfish sorrow was subdued by a strange feeling of
nearness to the infinite world, —a profound sense
of the glory and majesty of that change which we call
Death.
But this state of exaltation passed entirely away
from me, leaving me hopeless and almost helpless,
like a child alone in a boundless desert, when I had left
her in a grave at Greenwood and come back to the
room where I could no longer see the glory of the
strong angel's presence, but only remember the darkness of the shadow of his wing.
Now I would fain have sat down and indulged in
the luxury of grief. But, as I said, the Future was
stern and inexorable. She rose up and would have
speech with me. Long enough, she said, had I forgotten
the cares of this world. How much had I left now in
that purse which had never been the purse of Fortunatus, —how much between me and starvation?
This last word goaded me into listening. I took out
my purse and counted its contents.  When the expenses attending my mother's funeral had been paid I
should have but twelve dollars in the world, and, at
the end of the week, half that would be due to my
landlady. What should I do? I was slow at my
needle, and, save in fancy work, little accustomed to use
it. I had already tried the experiment of embroidery,
and I knew I could not depend on it. I might teach
young children, but then I had no means of obtaining




TWELVE YEARS OF iMY LIFE.            165
such a situation, and my necessities were immediate.
I took up an evening paper, and ran over the column
of wants. I could see only one opening-at all adapted
to my needs. A well-known fancy goods dealer advertised for a saleswoman, - the salary, at first, to be five
dollars a week.
Of course this occupation would be most unsuited to
my previous habits of life, and uncongenial to my
taste, but I could not afford to be too particular. Any
thing was better than the horrors of destitution. On
the surn thus offered I could live.  I had clothes
enough to last me for some time. At my father's death
both my mother and myself had been supplied with
mourning garments, not only plentiful, but even rich
and handsome, - we deemed this but a suitable respect
to his memory. In this regard, therefore, I was provided for. The situation as saleswoman seemed, if I
could obtain it, to promise well. I believe I scarcely
thought of the improbability that I should succeed in
my application, with no experience and no references.
I satisfied myself with the resolve to make the attempt
on the coming morning, and then I shut out of my
thoughts all future worldly troubles, and abandoned
myself to the present reality of my loss.
Oh, with what homesick longing my heart cried out
for the mother whom I had so loved. God grant
that few who read these pages may be able to realize
the intensity of my despair. I was alone in all the
world. Not one human being lived to whom my life
was precious, or to whom my death could bring sorrow.




166         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
I forgot the glory of the heavenly morniig, the angels,
and the new song. I only remembered that over my
last friend blew the unquiet winds and fell the lonesome rain of this wild October night, and neither God
nor man said any "Peace, be still!" to the tempest
of my glief.
Brave and bright, after that night of storm, rose
the October sun. It shone as gladly as if there had
been no trouble in all the world. It will shine so on
your grave and mine; for Nature has for her lost
children no Rachel-voice of lamentation. The brave,
joyful morning seemed a mockery to my grief. I
dressed myself carefully in my deep mourning garments, and strove to look as well as I could, for the
impression I should make was all I had to depend upon.
The aspect which confronted me, as I tied on my bonnet before the mirror, was neither plain nor actually
handsome.  Dark  and  abundant hair was brushed
away from a pale face, youthful in outline, but worn
not a little with grief and watching. The eyes were
like my father's, large and dark, brown rather than
black, - the features were regular, and the mouth, my
mother used to say, both proud and loving. ]My figure
was tall; slender, without being thin. I had not much
vanity, but a year ago I had cherished dearly whatever
charms I might chance to possess for my father's sake,
who, like all persons of a poetical organization, placed
a high value on loveliness of person. I remembered
this as I stood there, and thought, with an added sense




TWELYVE YEARS OF MfY LIFE.             167
of desolation, that no one cared for my looks now, - 1
had no one left for whose sake I need strive to be
pretty.
And yet, despite my burden of sorrow, as I walked
rapidly through the streets which led to Broadway, a
hope or a wish stirred in my heart which was perhaps
akin to desperation, - a longing to live in this world,
only to live; no nmatter what troubles were in store for
me: to live till I should be old, -to see my game of
life played out, - to meet all that had been written for
me in the book of Fate. It seemed to me then that
I could accept joy or pain with equal fortitude, as only
the accidents incident to being, laying them  up as
memories at which, in the long Hereafter, I could look
back and smile. I consoled myself as did AEneas his
old Trojans, -
" -- forsan et haec olini meminisse juvabit."
By the time I had reached my destination, however,
a little of my courage had deserted me. I went into
the store and asked for Mr. Emerson. I was shown at
once into a small counting-room, and a gentleman rose
to meet me with an air of polite attention.  With a
rapid glance I searched his face. His expression was
kind, and his conntenance by no means destitute of
refinement. In his eyes a look of habitual friendliness
and real warmth of heart disputed the territory with
the sagacious twinkle of the shrewd man of business.
Now that I had reached the Rubicon, I felt a strange
hesitation about crossing it.




168         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
"Mr. Emerson, I believe? " I said, half falteringly.
"The same, Miss --?)
"Hamilton," I replied, answering his intonation of
inquiry.  "I have called, sir, in reference to your
advertisement for a saleswoman."
"For whom did you wish the situation?"
"For myself."
A thousand exclamation points and notes of interrogation twinkled in his eyes. I suppose neither my
attire nor my manner had prepared him for such a disclosure. He looked at me a moment; then he said,
still very politely, —
"For yourself?  Have you ever served in such a
capacity?''
"Never, sir."
" Have you any references?'
"No, sir, none."'
I seemed to see a dismissal hovering upon his lips
and waiting for utterance. My last hope for food and
shelter was slipping away from me. I grew desperate.
Before he had time to speak I interrupted him. In
quiet, restrained tones, in few and simple words, I told
him all my story. I did not dwell upon my grief; perhaps for that very reason he understood and sympathized with it the more. God bless his noble heart.
He did not doubt for a moment the truth of my narration. When I remember him and all his kindness, I
rejoice that human nature, even when seared by the
cares and disappointments of the world and of business,
is not so bad as it has been pain-ted. When I had




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.             169
finished my story, I saw that his eyes were misty. He
reached forward and shook my hand.
"Young lady," he said, "I have a daughter at home
just about your age. Heaven save her from sorrow
like yours, and Heaven send her a friend if such sorrow should come upon her. This situation is not good
enough for you, - you should have one very different,
-but, if you choose to take it until something better
offers, you can come on Monday."
I tried to express my thanks, —to tell him that
I hoped to prove worthy of his trust and kindness;
but he interrupted me, -'Good-morning now; you are weary and excited.
If you will give me your address I will send my wife to
see you to-morrow."
He glanced at the card which I handed to him, and
as I was going out he said,"6  ould you not wish, Miss Hamilton, to change
your boarding-place for one nearer the store?"
"I should, and it would be necessary for me to seek
one less expensive."
" Very well.  Mrs. Emerson shall manage that.
Good-morning."
I went home with my heart lightened of one heavy
care; but perhaps my sense of desolation was all the
more bitter when there was no other emotion to contend with it in my thoughts. I will not linger upon
my own feelings.  I have dwelt on them too much
already.
The next day Mrs. Emerson called. She was a kind,
8




170        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
friendly woman, - a worthy helpmeet for her husband.
She took me with her to see about a new boardingplace.: In a by-street, not very far from iMr. Emerson's
store, a widow, poor but worthy, occupied part of a
respectable house, and supported  herself by plain
sewing. She would be glad, iMrs. Emerson said, to eke
out her scanty income by receiving a pleasant boarder.
We went to see this Mrs. Gray, and I was much pleased
with her quiet, civil manners and the neatness of her
humble home. It seemed to me, in prospect, like a
haven of rest. Before I left I had engaged to reside
with her for the winter. That week I effected the
removal of all my possessions.  There was space in
IMvrs. Gray's sitting-room  for the bookcase containing
my father's library, and she seemed to take real pleasure in helping me to ornament the walls with the engravings I had brought. When we sat down to our
toast and tea the apartment already wore quite a look
of home.
I said I would dwell no more on my own feelings. I
must also pass lightly over the outward trials of that
period of my life. And yet, for the next two weeks,
they were by no means trifling. Besides the one great
loss, which deadened the force of all after-blows, I had
to give up so much. I was living far more humbly than
I had ever lived before. Every superfluous luxury, of
which habit had made almost a necessity, was abandoned. LMrs. Gray, good, kind woman though she was,
had no interest in my favorite pursuits, no sympathy
with my tastes. Often had she been absent I should




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.              171
have felt less alone. Added to this were the trials
incident to learning a new business. My occupation
was even more painful and disagreeable than I had
supposed. My life had been hitherto very quiet and
retired. Though not diffident, I had an instinctive
shrinking from  contact with strangers. EHowever, I
struggled with my distaste for putting myself forward.
I conscientiously strove to sell all the goods I could;
and I had the satisfaction of knowing that, even in a
business point of view, Mr. Emerson was satisfied with
the result of his experiment.
One day, when I had been there a few weeks, a
gentleman came into the store, and advanced to the
counter where I was standing. I scarcely know why
he should have attracted as he did my particular attention. It certainly was not because of any especial
graces or charms of person.  lie had a lofty presence,
a fine, commanding form; but it was not until long
afterward that I learned to see any beauty in the stern
lineaments of his face. The time came when I recognized the nobility of his expression, the power and
firmness indicated by his features, and discovered into
what gentle tenderness those calm eyes and stern lips
could soften. But I saw none of these things then.
I think what interested me was a certain desperate
and hopeless sorrow, of which I detected the traces
in his face. Those who themselves have suffered are
quicker to perceive and respond to the sufferings of
others. Ie made some trifling purchase, and went
outl; but, for the first time since I had entered the




172         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
shop, I was roused from  my selfish sorrow into a
genuine interest and curiosity about another person. I
speculated a long time that night, sitting silently before
Mrs. Gray's fire with a book between my fingers, as to
what trouble could so have left its mark and seal of hopelessness upon his countenance; and he a man, allowed
by the world's creed to go where he pleased, to choose
for himself fiiends and amusements. I was a woman,
- desolate, bereaved of every friend whose love had
made my life rich and desirable; yet surely my face
had never worn, in the darkest hours, the impress of
such absolute despair.
It was not many days before I saw him again, and
after that he came quite frequently to the store. He
always seemed to prefer making his purchases at my
counter; and my interest in him  strengthened with
every time I saw him. He-I treated me with as delicate
a courtesy as he could have shown to an equal in
society; and this formed such a pleasant contrast to
the haughty arrogance of some of my customers, and
the rude familiarity of others, that I began to mark the
days on which he came with a white stone.
At length a week passed without my seeing him. I
should have blushed to acknowledge, even to myself,
how much difference this made to me, - how often I
thought of him, and how many conjectures I wasted as
to whether I would ever see him again. Do not infer
from this that I was at all what story-books call "in
love" with him. I can safely assert that my heart
had not, at that time, approached even the verge of




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.            173
that dangerous precipice. But it was pleasant to encounter now and then, amidst the stagnation of my
life, some one whose face roused me from my apathy,
stimulating not only my curiosity but my sympathy;
the courtesy of whose manners recalled to me the
agreeable associations of earlier days.
At length I went home one evening and found a
gentleman in Mrs. Gray's little sitting-room. The circumstance, so unusual in itself, surprised me; how
much more when I -perceived that her visitor was none
other than the absentee concerning whom I had wasted
so many thoughts.
In accordance with her primitive ideas of courtesy,
Mrs. Gray introduced us by name to each other; and
then she added, —
"tMr. Lincoln has come, Gertrude dear, to get me
to do some plain sewing for him; though how in the
world he happened to hear that I did such work I'm
sure I don't see."
Mr. Lincoln took no notice of the question so gently
insinuated. He addressed a few courteous and agreeable remarks to me, in which he did not allude to the
circumstance of his ever having seen me before, and
then he took his departure. When he had reached the
door, as if struck by a sudden recollection, he turned
back," By the way, Mrs. Gray, I forgot to bring you my
pattern. I will leave it with you to-morrow evening."
After he went out my landlady became voluble at
once. It was such a piece of good luck that he should




d( L$ i   b'iV   WUIIVIN'S AN HEALiSP.
have heard of her. He would pay her so much more
than she could get at the shops. He was so polite, too,
and so nice-looking.
She was turning over the linen as she talked with
busy fingers, making calculations which I was too much
absorbed to notice. I had taken, involuntarily, so much
interest in this Andrew Lincoln, without even knowing
his name, and now Fate had so strangely brought us
together again. Should I ever be better acquainted
with him, - ever be able to solve the mystery written
on his face? Time would tell.
He presently, after this, became quite a familiar visitor. At first it had not struck me as at all singular
that he had heard of Mrs. Gray as a neat and reliable
seamstress; but when a second dozen of shirts succeeded the first, and these in turn were followed by
other garments of various descriptions, whose construction seemed to require his particular explanations and
directions, I began to think, with Mrs. Gray, that 6'he
must be going a missionarying to some heathenish
place where nobody knew how to sew," or, - the
thought would haunt me, so I may as well confess it
here, - that he found pleasure in coming to my boarding-place, and was determined to make a pretext for
continuing his visits as long as possible.
After a while, however, he seemed to ignore any
necessity for excuses, and, by the time Mrs. Gray had
finished his sewing he had fallen into the habit of
coming to see us quite regularly. He was lonely, he
said, at his hotel, and it was so pleasant to come where




T'WELVE YEARS OF lifY LIFE.           175
he could feel at home; only, if he was intrusive or in
the way, we must give himll a hint.
In an early stage of our acquaintance he hadc drawn
from me, in the most delicate nmanner, the history of my
past life. I hardly know how I was beguiled out of
my reserve, - chiefly, perhaps, by his appreciation of
my favorite books, and his warmly expressed admiration of the engravings which had been my fither's
pride.  I was in some sort obliged to explain how
treasures so at variance with my present mode of life
came into my possession.
We had not been long acquainted, when, finding that
I, as well as MIrs. Gray, was always at my needle when
at home, he proposed to occupy the evenings he spent
with us in reading aloud. I soon suspected him of a
flesign in this manner to test my mental resources and
study my character. He had a marvellous way of
drawing out my opinions on various topics connected
with art and literature, and then he would bring forward his own, -worth more than mine by as much as
thorough knowledge and mental discipline are more
valuable than mere taste and feeling.
As our acquaintance progressed, I hadc gradually
almost ceased to  speculate concerning the sorrow
whose profound and passionate impress had awakened
my first interest in him. Indeed, I think that the sign
and seal of despair had been uplifted from his face.
Looking back, I believe that the hours he spent with
me did him good and not evil, - that he was a happier
and surely not a worse nan for my influence.




176         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
Was it strange that my life once more put on the
colors of hope, - that flavor and tone and richness
came back to it? I no longer repined at the disagreeableness of my daily task. Without my own knowledge
or volition my feet had wandered to the very border of
Love's ideal realm, and already every thing had begun
to look brighter than its wont, through the soft haze
of that enchanted atmosphere. The spell which was
woven round my life was more perfect than the devices
of the old magicians. I had no room for discontent, -
no longing for the talking bird, the singing tree, or the
golden water; or, perhaps, I had found them all. I do
not mean that I had admitted, as yet, even to my own
consciousness, that my heart had gone out from me, as
Noah's dove from the window of the ark, and, like
that, would return no more. For the nonce, judgmnent
and reason slumbered. Soon, however, came the moment which roused them again from their repose.
A neighbor's child was sick, and Mrs. Gray went to
take care of it through the night. I was to remain at
home and alone. She had regretted this as she went
out.
G"If Mr. Lincoln would only come," she remarked;
"but it is not his evening.'
My heart echoed her wish. "If Mr. Lincoln only
woulcd come," I thought, as I trimmed my lamp, and
drew my chair up to the little round table with an intention of reading. Books were before me which had
charmed many an hour in other days; but somehow I
did not care to read. I sat for half an hour looking




TWELVE  YEARS OF MY LIFE.            177
listlessly into the fire; seeing there castles with shining
turrets, flame-colored autumn woods, burning bushes
bright as the vision of Moses. Remember I was but a
girl, - barely eighteen.
At length I heard a familiar tap upon the door, and
sprang to open it. Mr. Lincoln had come.
"6 Alone? " he said, as he entered and glanced around
the room.
I explained the cause of Mrs. Gray's absence. A
look not so much of gladness as of relief crossed his
face. He sat down with an air of resolve and deliberation.
"It is fortunate that I came. I have been wanting
to see you alone for a long time, and I intended tonight to have arranged such a meeting, but Fate or
Providence seems to have managed it for me. I must
tell you the whole truth, Gertrude, — a truth neither
pleasant to tell nor to hear. You must know just how
I am situated, and then you shall decide whether I can
see you any more."
As he spoke the room seemed to grow very cold and
dark. Struggling with the gloom, my eyes could only
see his face, and on it sat more than the old despair. I
felt a shuddering presentiment.  The trouble which
was coming nigh me seemed already to chill me with
its icy touch. I folded my hands and nerved myself to
listen.
I cannot repeat the story which he told me in his
own words. It was briefly this:He had married, when quite young, a woman whom
8*                 L




178         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
he thought he truly loved; by whom he believed himself beloved in return. She was beautiful; a brunette,
full of fire and pride; wayward, exacting-, and capricious. For a time her beauty had enslaved him, her
petulant humors held him  in thrall. After a while,
however, her exactions became wearisome.  He was
tired of playing the lover, - coaxing and submitting by
turns. He felt it was time that the quiet happiness of
a peaceful union should succeed to the fantasies of a
year-long honey-moon.  At this she rebelled.  He
found that her temper, as well as her beauty, was of
the torrid zone. A calm existence did not suit her.
She cared little for the pleasures of the intellect, little
for the quiet peace of domestic life, - she would have
worship or war. He made this discovery just before
the birth of his first child, - his little boy. This event
had reawakelned all his tenderness for the mother as
well as the infant.
Katherine was very beautiful in her illness, and
toward her child she seemed to develop a patient love
which was a new phase of her character. No sooner
had she regained her usual health, however, than the
customary miserable scenes of violence and contention
commenced again. It might have been his fault even
more than hers. I-e had been carried captive by her
beauty, and had striven eagerly to obtain her hand,
never pausing to consider whether her nature was
really fitted to make him happy, and when she was his
wife he had, like so imany men, expected to find in
her traits of character which she never had possessed.




TWELVE  YEARS OF MY LIFE.             179
In short, they had both mistaken for love a thoughtless youthful passion, which had presently consumed
itself.
For three years after his boy's birth things had gone
on thus, - there had been tempests of wrath fierce as
a tropic storm, long-continued estrangements, and now
and then an interlude of reconciliation, a gust of fondness. By this time his little girl was born, and after
that there were no more glimpses, ever so brief, of
sunshine.
For his children's sake he strove, for still another
year, to remain under the same roof with her, but
a time came when this was no longer possible. Mutual
recriminations had again and again goaded them almost
to madness, until both became convinced that the only
relief must be in separation. They parted in anger,
without one word on either side, of relenting or forgiveness. Four years had passed since that day, but he
had not once seen the faces of wife or children.
When he had proceeded thus far in his narration he
paused, and sat for a few moments looking into the
fire. I would fain have broken the silence with at least
a sentence of sympathy, to let him know that I understood him, - that I had not listened to him unmoved,
-but I could not speak then. The time would come,
no doubt, when I could forget my own anguish in my
sympathy for his; but I believe the first impulse of
every human soul, - at least every woman's, - in any
hour of deathly agony, is selfish. With the poisoned
arrow  yet rankling in my own heart, how could I




180         SOM E WOMEN IS HEARTS.
calmly strive to soothe in his a wound which had
already begun to cicatrize?
At length he spoke again.'1I do not hate Katherine.  God knows, Gertrude,
that I pity her as fervently as I do myself. Nay, more;
for she is a woman, and to a woman it is doubly terrible
to know that she must live for ever with her heart's
warmest longings repressed and stifled. But for me
she might have married some one else, whom she could
have made happy; with whom  she could have been
happy herself.  Now  her life must be like mine, -
desolate."
S he lhas her children," I found voice to say.
"Yes, the children!"  His face kindled.  "They
must be a great comfort now. Andrew is eight, and
his little sister three years younger. You don't know,
Gertrude, how I have longed to see those children. I
dream  about them nights. I hear their baby Words,
and feel the clinging hold of their little fingers, and
then I wake to remember that perchance they do not
even know tha! their father lives to pray for them.
But, Gertrude, their love would not be enough to fill
up all the voids in my life. I have felt this more than
ever since I knew you, and more than ever have I[
pitied Katherine in her lonely, blighted youth.
" You know now that I have no light to talk to you
of love; still, this once, I beseech you to hear all that
is in my heart. When I first saw you I had little faith
in love or woman. I should have rejected, as a simple
absurdity, the idea that either could move me; and




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.            181
yet, by some unconscious magnetism, you attracted me
at once. When I went out of the store I found myself
recalling your pale, sorrowful face; your slight figure
in its deep mourning robes; the grace and delicacy of
your manners. I wondered by what strange chance you
had been placed in that position, so unsuited, as I at
once saw it was, to your tastes and your previous habits.
My curiosity, —let rue call it by some better name,
- my sympathy was fully aroused. I went again and
again to the store. At length I resolved to know you
better. I followed you home one night, and then set
myself to learn all the particulars concerning your place
of abode. I found that your landlady was a seamstress,
and that made my course clear.
a" All this time, Gertrude, I had no thought of loving
you. I had no right. To a man of honor his vows are
as sacred in the untold wretchedness of an uncongenial
marriage as if happiness had made it impossible to
have a wandering wish. I believed myself incapable
of breaking mine, even in thought. There was no
reasonable ground on which the law could give me
fireedom. The release which is granted to crime is
denied to misery. Even were it otherwise, I shoul:l
not have sought it. I had always a horror of divorce,
and not for worlds would I have entailed its disgraceful
publicity upon my children. Freedom could come to
me but in one way, and God knows, even when I
have been tempted almost beyond my strength, I have
never been mad enough or wicked enough to wish for
that. Therefore I regarded myself as beyond all dan



182        SOME WVOMEN'S HER TS.
ger of falling in love. Indeed, in your case the idea of
love did not cross my mind. You had interested me,
and I had so few interests in life that I determined to
follow this one out, - to ascertain the cause of your
uncongenial situation, - if possible, to aid you.
"When I had visited here for a while I found I could
not stay away. Your society had become a necessity to
me. I- I believed you my friend merely, but I discovered
that friendship was very sweet. At last the knowledge
forcedl itself home that I loved you with all the strength
of my nature. This love had stolen upon me so gradually, and now seemed so much a part of my life, that
I could scarcely chide myself. Had this been all, Gertrude, I think you would never have heard the history
I have told you.  I would have schooled myself to
taste calmly the dangerous delight of your presence;
and when this was no longer possible, you should have
seen me no more. But in the same hour that the conviction of my love for you was brought home to my
soul, I discovered also that I had it in my power to win
your heart. I had a strange feeling as if; in the native
country of souls, yours and mine had grown together.
I believed I had power to sunmmon my other self to my
side. Nay, I thought that, unconsciously to yourself,
you did love me now. Forgive me, Gertrude, I know
that I am speaking to you as man does not often speak
to woman, but in this hour there is. no room for disguise or conceallent. I read your heart as I had read
my own. Then I knew my duty. I must tell you
all, that you might understand how hopeless was my




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.             183
future, — that you might conquer your coming agony
before it was too mighty for you. I believe some
men would have been tempted to keep silence, and
strive still to win your love- but, thank God, I was
left open to no such temptation. ]More than I prized
yourself I prized the stainless purity of your heart and
life; dearer to me even than my love was my unsullied
integrity, by which only could I call myself your peer.
I have told you all. 1Do you forgive me that I took for
granted your love for me? "
I could not speak, but I reached across the table
which stood between us and laid my hand in his. Then
for a while we were both silent.  -Ie spoke first:"Gertrude, I shall never talk of these things again.
I have shown you this once all that is in my heart. In
return I have a right to make but one request. I have
wealth; let me use some of it for you. I cannot bear
to see you toiling day by day for your daily bread.
While I have enough and to spare, you shall not, must
not, wear out your young life in this drudgery. If
you were my sister you would let me help you. Am I
not as near to you as a brother?  Does not my love
give me as much right as brothers claim? Do not be
angry, Gertrude. I hardly know  bow to utter my
petition so as not to wound you. I beg only for this.
Let nme make a home for you among congenial people;
let me surround you with the common comforts of
life; let me feel that you are at least above and beyond
the necessity of toil. Then I will submit to any thing
else. If you prefer, I will never see you; or, if you




184         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
will let me visit you sometimes, I will ask only for
your friendship, —the sympathy you would give to
suffering anywhere."
He paused, but I read an appeal in his face fuller of
earnestness even than his words. I never for one
moment doubted his honor or his heart. I knew that
he respected me as deeply as he loved me, - that his
care for me would be tender as that of a brother for a
sister. But I was my father's daughter. I had my
own pride to satisfy also. I could not accept a pecuniary obligation even from him. Still I didl not wish to
answer him then. I had my arrangements to make, —
my fultnre to settle. I would tell him in a week, I
said, —not now. I was too tired, - too much exhausted. Would he leave me, and not come again for
one week, - then he should know. He must give me
time to think.
He obeyed me. HIe only held my hand for a momrient, and then he went.
"Good-by, and God be with you," I said, as he
stepped out into the moonlight. He did not know
that in my healt I meant that farewell to be the last
utterance of my lips to him, until we should meet
again where victor souls learn the triumphal anthem of
the angels.
I went back into the room where I had met this last
and bitterest sorrow of my life. Soon my plan for the
future was shadowed forth in my mind. Then I had a
right to think over all that Andrew Lincoln had said.
I reverenced him unspeakably. Little as I knew of




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.             185
human nature, I realized - I had read " Jane Eyre " -
the ease with which he might have deceived me. I
knew he loved me with a love as true and tender as
pen of the romancers had ever portrayed.  How I
blessed him that it had been no selfish passion, - that
his love for truth and right had been mightier. And
yet, -answer me, heart of every woman who shall read
this tale, - was my trial light?  Because of his very
goodness, because I could reverence his image in my
soul, and look up to it as almost without taint or flaw
of human imperfection, was it not all the harder to
know that between us swept the tide of circumstance,
— remorseless as death, pitiless as destiny?
And yet, in the midst of my desolation, it was something to feel that he could have loved me, -that had
Fate given us to each other I might have made him
happy, — might have been his happy wife.
I sat there until the first ray of the morning stole
through the windows, I looked at the almost empty
grate. Castles with shining turrets, flame-colored tints
of autumn woods, burning bushes, all had vanished into
the cold gray ashes, signifying desolation. Was it a type
of what that night had done for my heart and life?
I walked toward the store that morning with a
heavy heart. Once more I must fold my tent and go
on alone into the desert. For a little time I had lingered beside an oasis of peace. I had tasted pleasure.
It had proved a cheat, a mirage, it is true. No matter,
it had gladdened my eyes while it lasted. Now I must




186         SOME  WOMEN'S HEARTS.
give up all, —the home I had male for nmyself, the
friends who had been kilnd to me, the work by which I
had earned my bread. I must go, - where? In that
mnoment, clear as if my guardian angel had stooped to
whisper them in my ear, came to me my father's last
words:
"The widow's God,"- a Father to the fatherless,trust, my darlings, trust."
Had the invisible, strong arm ever failed me? [Need
I doubt it now? I walked on with renewed courage.
When I reachedc the store I sought an interview
with MlIr. Emerson. I told him that I had imperative
need of change; that there were reasons why I was
unwilling to remain any longer in New York; and I inquired if he could help me with advice or suggestions.
He told me, in reply, that he had felt from the first I
ought not to be in my present situation. He knew the
constant contact with strangers was repugnIant to my
taste; that I was capable of doing something better.
Still he had honored me for submitting so cheerfully to
necessity; for doing so well what I had undertaken
to do. Ever since I had been there he had been on the
lookout for some different employment, by which I
could maintain myself more agreeably, but as yet he
had found nothing very desirable. Yet, if I was so
anxious for an immediate change; there was something,
- an advertisement he had seen in the evening paper,
- a governess wanted for two small children, in Eastern Virginia. It did not seem to promise much, yet I
might like it better than the store.




TWVEL VE YEARS OF MY LIFE-.           187
I thanked him eagerly. I do not often weep, but the
tears choked my voice. It was not gratitude, though
his kindness touched me deeply; but I was leaving so
much, -so much that he could never know.
That morning a letter was dispatched to the address
indicated in the advertisement, giving, as I afterward
discovered, as much of my history as Mr. Emerson
himself knew: praising me far beyond my deserts, and
stating that, if my services were accepted, I would be
ready to commence my duties immediately.
Five days of my week of trial had already passed
before an answer was received to that letter. In the
mean time I had trembled lest I might not, after all,
be able to get away, - lest   might be obliged to see
3Ir. Lincoln again, though I was convinced such an
interview could only be productive of additional pain.
At length my suspense was ended.  Mr. Emerson's
recommendation was accepted, and he was requested to
inform the young lady that a carriage would await her
at the  ~  station on the afternoon of the twentyseventh of April. The letter had been delayed one
day in its transit, and I should just be able, by starting
the next morning, to reach my destination at the appointed time.
That night, with Mrs. Gray's assistance, I made all
my preparations. I did not confide my plans for the
future even to her. I told her enough of the circumstances in which I was placed to convince her that, for
th.e present, it was better she should not know. I had
previously secured from  Mr. Emerson a promise of




188         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
secrecy. He was to be deaf and dumb to all inquiries,
should any be addressed to him.
It was late in the night when I sat down alone before
the sitting-room fire, and prepared to write a letter to
Andrew Lincoln, which Mrs. Gray was to give him at
his next visit. This was the hardest task of all, and
yet in writing to him for the first and last time there
was a troubled joy. I confessed to him that even as he
had loved me so had I loved him, - loving better only
God and the right. At the same time I bade him an
eternal farewell. With a love in our hearts which it
would be deadly sin not to conquer, I showed him that
it would be worse than madness for us to meet. There
was no safety but in parting for ever. I told him how
impossible it was that I should accept from him any
pecuniary assistance, and assured him that I was going
to be so circumstanced as not to need it. Then I bade
him  good-by, thanking God that when he read the
words he would never know the pang they had cost
me. I suppressed the cry of anguish which would fain,
through that dumb sheet, have made itself heard. If
my tears fell, I took good care that they did not drop
upon the paper. I signed my name firmly, and directed
it on the outside to Andrew Lincoln, and then -
It was a lovely afternoon when I stepped from the
cars at my place of destination. The Virginian spring,
earlier than ours, had already clothed the earth with
verdure. I could hear birds singing in the near woods,
and the air was full of a sweet, subtile odor, betokening




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.             189
that it had lingered above beds of violets and the pale
anemone.  Just after the train stopped a handsome
carriage drew up before the little de6pt, and an old
gentleman, with silver hair and a kind benevolent face,
alighted.
"Miss Hamilton, I conclude," he said, cordially extending his hand. "M y name is Wentworth."
His appearance impressed me very pleasantly, yet it
surprised me. I had pictured the Richard Wentworth,
whose name had been signed to the letter received by
Mr. Emerson, as a young mail, the father of the children
in whose behalf my services were required.  They
must be his grandchildren, orphans, perhaps, and
already I felt my heart yearning over them, - I knew
what it was to be an orphan.
g' Here are your pupils," said Mr. Wentworth, as he
handed me into the carriage. "Andrew, Bella, this is
Miss Hamilton."
The little girl was shy. She retreated to the farthest
corner, and hid her curly head behind her grandfather's
arm. The boy, however, gave me his hand, with a
frank, boyish welcome. As he lifted his blue eyes to
my face a thrill struck to my heart. They looked to me
like Andrew Lincoln's own.
"What nonsense!" I said to myself.  "Has that
name Andrew such a hold on your imagination that
you cannot hear a child called by it without indulging
yourself in fancies of an impossible likeness? "
The drive to Hazelwood was a short and pleasant
one. I was not in a mood for enjoyment, and yet I




190         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
was conscious of an involuntary sense of admiration at
the sight of my future home. It was a gentleman's
mansion of the olden time, large, hospitable-looking,
and somewhat quaint, with its old-fashioned gables,
and the piazza surrounding it on all sides. Mr.'Wentworth alighted, handed me from the carriage, and led
me into the house with ceremonious politeness. He
threw open the drawing-room door, and begged me to
be seated while he found his daughter.
"Mamma is in'the arbor, - I see her dress," I heard
one of the children say, and the three went out of
sight.
"They are not orphans, then, after all," I said, as I
threw myself back upon the sofa. I dared not trust myself to think. Night was coming, loneliness and silence.
Till then I remanded my thoughts; I bade my heart be
still. I took up, with some hope of distracting mly attention, a book which was lying beside me on the sofa.
On its fly-leaf was written, " To my wife, Katherine
Lincoln,"' with a date nine years before. I knew that
handwriting. The book, then, had been Andrew Lincoln's gift to his wife during their year of honeymoon. The leaf had been partly torn out, as if in
some moment of' passion, and then spared by a tender
afterthought.  There were traces of tears upon the
page. Her tears,- perhaps after all she loved him.
If she did, God help and comfort her. Thank Heaven,
my heart could breathe an honest prayer for her, even
then.
My destiny had led me here, - here of all places,



TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.              191
under the same roof with Mr. Lincoln's wife; to be the
teacher of his children.  The room  seemed dizzily
whirling  round and round.  Chairs, tables, mirrors
assumed fantastic shapes, and blended together like the
colors in a kaleidoscope. I knew the symptoms, but I
would not faint, — I was determined not to lose my
self-command. I sat bolt upright and fanned myself
vigorously. Presently the mist cleared from my brain.
I was thankful for the lady's delay, which gave me a few
moments to reason with myself.
Providence had brought me here, —I ought not to
leave, now. Indeed I bad nowhere else to go. There
could be no place where I was more safe fi-om the danger of meeting him. This path had been opened to
me, and my feet should walk on in it without faltering.
Shall I confess that there was one gleam  of troubled
joy in the prospect? I could love hin and serve him
innocently, in loving and serving his children. It was
not strange that the boy -- his son - had looked at
me with his father's eyes. It was not strange that I
took him  into my heart from that moment. I had
made up my mind concerning tile future, and fuilly
regained my self-command, when a servant opened the
door, and saidcl:"Mrs. Lincoln is coming, ma'am. She will be with
you at once."
She had scarcely ceased speaking when her mistress
caime into the room.
I rose to meet her, - face to face I stood with Andrew Lincoln's wife.  Physically, she was the most




192         SOIMEl  WOMElN'S HEARTS.
choice and perfect specimen of beautiful womanhood
I had ever seen. To this day I think I have never met
her peer. The picture she made as she stood there will
never fade from my memory.  The crimson curtains
fell apart at the western window, and the golden sunset rays lit up her dark hair into warm chestnut tints.
Full, queenly figure, clad all in white, as suited the
balmy April day, - bright cheeks, and lips of the reddest bloom, - eyes full of slumberous fire, - little
hands, glittering with gems, - she charmed me like a
figure from an Oriental romance.
Her husband had told me she was proud, but she
never could have been haughty. There was a certain
childlike impulsiveness in her manner still, - she would
carry it with her all her life.
She took my hand and looked searchingly into my
face for a moment.
"I am sure I shall like you," - she said the words
with a warm, satisfied smile. "Let us be real friends,
3Miss Hamilton."
"We will."  I answered her quietly, but in the
silence of my soul I recorded the words as a vow.
God knows I have kept it. I was her true fiiend from
that hour.
Days wore on, and something which was not quite
happiness, yet bore a strange resemblance to it, stole
into my heart. I loved Andrew Lincoln's children as I
shall never love children again, and I loved Katherine
his wife. Her character must have changed much in
the solitary years since her husband left her. She was




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.             193
not exacting now, - certainly not selfish. I have never
seen a mother more tender or devoted, especially to
Andrew, whose resemblance, in both face and manner,
to his father, daily appeared to me more striking. Was
this likeness the secret of the tears I so often saw in
her eyes when she kissed him?
She had appeared to like me from the first. She
sought my society, and seemed to wish me to consider
myself not her children's governess merely, but her
firiend and her equal. One day, with a gush of passionate weeping, she told me her story. It was much the
same which I had listened to before from Andrew Lincoln's lips, only she blamed herself more than he had
blamed her. It was all her fault, she said. She had
been a spoiled child, turbulent, and exacting, and she
had played with his love until she had lost it.
"And did you love him all the while?" I asked.
I did not think so then, but I am sure now that my
real love for him never wavered. For a long time,
though, I thought that I actually hated him. My
fierce temper was in the ascendant. He provoked me,
and I suppose I was half mad. I told him more than
once that all I would ask in the world would be to have
him go away from me out of my sight, and never torment me again with his presence."
" And he only took you at your word?"
She smiled bitterly. "O Ony/ that; but he had not
been gone long before I knew that he had taken with
him all I cared for in life. I am a desolate, heartbroken woman, Gertrude.  I have my children, it is
9*                 M




194        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
true; his children and mine. It is that, I believe,
which has kept me alive; but I would give every thing
on earth to feel the forgiving pressure of his lips, to
hear him say, as he used to,'Katherine, I love you.'
Oh, if you only knew him you could tell better what I
have lost, and what bitter right I have to mourn."
If I only knew him! Alas, alas, did I not know him
too well for my own heart's peace? He was indeed all
she had pictured him, - but what was that to me? He
was hers only. He ought to be hers. She was worthy
of him, too. I commanded myself perfectly. No one
could have suspected that I was more than Katherine
Lincoln's sympathizing friend, —no one dreamed that
I had ever heard of her husband before. I asked, in
quiet tones, -
"'But why, if you think the chief fault was youi's,
have you not- written to him to come back?  Was it
not your duty to make the first advances, if yours had
been the first blame? Do you say that you love him
and are yet too proud for this, Mrs. Lincoln? 
She shook her head sadly.
"1It is not pride, Gertrude. Pride with me died a
violent death, long ago, but I love my husband. What
comfort would his presence be when I knew that his
heart had shut me out? And yet I think sometimes,
that he might love me now better than he used. I have
tried so hard since he went away to grow up to his
standard, -to be all that he admired in women. It
has been the law of my life. Vain words. Men never
tread the same path twice, do they? I was hateful to




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.             195
him when he went away. He might come back, if I
sent for him, out of duty or pity, but if he loved me he
would wait no summons."
There was truth in her words, and yet I felt that
they must, in some way, be brought together. What
capacities for blessing were in both their natures. Her
love for him, despite all, was so true and so steadfast.
He would love her if he were to see her now, - he
could not help it. I longed to do something to bring
about their reconciliation,- but how?  There was
nothing for it but to fold my hands and wait. Had I
ceased to love him myself? Why torture me with this
question? I strove then to put self and selfish feelings
out of sight. I was trying to follow Christ, though it
were but afar off. Should I shrink because the way
was hard? From the time I came to Hazelwood I had
never thought of Andrew Lincoln without thinking at
the same time of Katherine, his true and loving wife.
For a whole year we lived on peacefully together, -
Katherine, her children, and I.  I had learned to love
her as if she were my sister. I shared, I believe, all
her thoughts, and I knew she was each day growing
into purer and more perfect womanhood, - more and
more worthy of being a good man's honored and cherished wife, - as she ought to be, as I trusted in God
she would be soon.  She was singularly gentle and
winning now, but as sad as she was tender. We used
to talk often of her husband; but when I prophesied
that he would come back some day and make her
happy, she used to say that I did not know him, -I




196        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
could not dream how utterly he had ceased to love her.
She should never see him on earth. Perhaps it would
be permitted her to go to his side, and ask his forgiveness in heaven.
It was in April that little Andrew fell sick. We
sent for a physician, but before he came I was well
satisfied what we had to dread. "Scarlet fever," he
whispered, as he bent over the bedside, thus confirming our worst fears. When he went out of the room
my eyes met Katherine's. I understood her expression,
and answered the question it implied.
"Yes, you must write to him. There can be no
doubt about your course now. You say he loved his
children dearly. How could you answer for it to him
or to yourself if Andrew should die, and he not be here
to see him? Think if you had been away from your
child five years and could not even give him one
poor, parting kiss before he was snatched from you for
ever [ I
" But Andrew may not die; oh, it will kill me if he
should."
"GAnd yet he may, - in any case, you have your
duty to do." I spoke with decision and severity; I
could not allow myself to falter. They must be reunited now if ever.
She went to a writing-desk which stood in the corner
of the room and wrote for a few moments rapidly.
Then she came and put the sheet into my hand.
"; Read it, Gertrude. Have I done rightly?"




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.            197
"My DEAR HUSBAND, - Andrew, our little boy, is
very ill. The doctor calls it scarlet fever. I thought
that you would wish to see him. Your presence would
be the greatest comfort.  Your faithful wife,
"KATHERINE LINCOLN."
This was the note,  Could it fail to touch that
strong, true heart of his?
I had little time for speculations, or Katherine Lincoln for hopes. Andrew grew worse rapidly, until the
question was no longer whether he would recover, but
how many hours he could live. Neither of us left him
for a moment except occasionally, when one or the
other would steal away, to whisper a few words of
comfort to poor little Bella, who was kept in a distant
wing of the house in order to be removed from the
danger of infection. But we could not go out of the
room without those restless, preternaturally bright
eyes missing us in a moment, and then the little, weak
voice would wail, -" Mamma, Gerty, don't leave Andy,
please."  So we watched over him constantly together,
neither sleeping, eating, nor weeping.
It was the afternoon of the fourth day since Mrs.
Lincoln had dispatched her letter. A  change had
passed over Andrew's face sudden and fearful. We
knew too surely what it portended. He was dying.
In a few moments his soul would go forth, and leave
the fair little body lying upon the pillows still and
tenantless. Katherine's eyes met mine, with a look of
stony, immovable wtetchedness in them  that fairly
chilled me.




198         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
" To think," she said, " that he will not be here, —
that he can never see poor little Andrew again alive.
Gertrude, this is my work."
I knew the step which came, at that very instant, so
hurriedly across the hall. So did she, for she clasped
her hands tightly upon her breast, as if to hold her
heart fiom breaking. She looked as white as a marble
statue, and as fair. I could see that, even in the
midst of my sickening anguish over the boy whom I
loved as if he were my own. I do not think Andrew
Lincoln looked at her as he crossed the threshold. I
think he saw nothing but the little wan, death-stricken
face upon the pillows. He sprang to the bedside and
knelt down with a groan of despair; he had recognized
the impress on the pallid brow.
Do dying eyes see more clearly than living ones?
Andrew was nine years old now; he had been only
four when he saw his father last, and yet his face
lighted up with a sudden, glad glow of recognition.' Papa, papa! — he piped the words in his clear boyish treble, as joyously as I had ever heard him speak.
He stretched up his arms, and his father caught him to
the bosom that, for five years, had longed so vainly for
the touch of that little head. "P6 apa, papa! " and the
face and eyes brightened with a radiance as of dawning,
- the pale, quivering lips sought the father's lips bending to meet them,- a shiver ran along the slender
limbs, andl then the golden head dropped backward.
Andrew Lincoln's boy was dead.
Katherine saw it, and the energies so long taxed




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.             199
gave way at last. She fell at her husband's feet in a
death-like swoon. Hite kissed the white, still -face ere he
lifted her. "Poor Katherine  " I heard hhin murmur.
Was there a quiver of love in his tones, or was it only
pity?
"H' ad we not better take her into the next room?
She ought not to be here when she comes to herself," I
said, forgeting at the moment how strangely my voice
would fall upon his ears. I had been standing in
the shade of the bed-curtains, and he had not seen me
before.
" You, Gertrude?"  The words, with their accent of
questioning surprise, came as if involuntarily from his
lips, and then neither of us spoke again while we
carried his wife into the next room, and busied ourselves in restoring her. I only waited until she opened
her eyes and, putting back the hair from her white face,
sat up and looked at her husband, before I went away
firom them. I did not stop to think; I knew it would
not be wise or safe. I went at once to Mr. Wentworth,
who was with Bella, to tell him of Andrew's death, and
Mr. Lincoln's arrival. I had occupation for a while in
soothing the little girl. Then with my own hands
I made ready my boy - mine by the love I bore him
-for the grave. I brushed the soft, curling hair round
the still face, restored now to more than the beauty of
life, and frozen into the last and sweetest smile of all.
When I had arranged all things, I went again to his
parents. They were sitting near together upon the
sot, ancl Katherine was repeating, in a voice broken




200         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
with sobs, all the details of those last sad days. Even
then, she thought of me with her usual tender consider.
ation. When I went into the room she said:"This is Miss Hamilton, who has been to me the
dearest and truest of friends. We can never thank her
enough for all she has done for Andrew. He loved
her scarcely less than he loved his mother."
How strange it seemed to have him speak to me in
such words, constrained yet grateful, as a husband
would naturally use to his wife's friend, who had been
kind to his dead child. He had uttered such different
ones when we met last. I was weak, I know, but I
could not command myself sufficiently to answer him.
I only said:"I have dressed our darling now. I thought you
would wish to see him."
They rose and went together into the still room
where lay their dead. I staid alone. Even my love
and my grief gave me no claim on that consecrated
hour.
Andrew had died on Thursday. On Saturday afternoon he was to be buried. I had passed Friday in
my own room, keeping Bella with me most of the time.
The poor child was almost frantic at the loss of her
brother, and it was well for me to have some one
besides myself to think of and to comfort. I believe
Mrs. Lincoln passed that long, dreary day, for the most
part, alone. 3Much of the time I could hear her husband's restless steps pacing along the piazza, and once
I knew he went away for a solitary walk.




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.             201
It was Saturday morning. Andrew had been put
into his little casket, and I had just gathered a basketful of white and sweet-scented flowers to strew about
him. I stole noiselessly into the room where he lay.
I thought no one else was there; but when I had gone
up to the coffin I saw, in the dim light, Andrew Lincoln
sitting motionless at its head. He looked up, and our
eyes met.
" God has taken him, Gertrude; I am written desolate."
There was such a wild pathos in his tones. They
went to my soul. How I longed to comfort him.
"Not desolate," I cried, "surely not desolate. Bella
is left you, and your wife,"- and then I went on, carried quite out of myself, half forgetful of even the
presence of the dead, in my passionate longing, at
whatever cost, to reunite those two and make them
both happy.
"You wonder, doubtless, at my presence here, in
your home; but I came ignorantly.  I thought the
best answer to what you said to me the last evening
we passed together was to go quite away from you,
before there should be any thing in our acquaintance
which it would be painful to remember. This situation
presented itself; I obtained it through Mr. Emerson,
and came here, never dreaming —it was MIr. Wentworth who advertised - that the children I was to
teach were yours. I had not been here a month before
I loved your wife as I think I should love a sister.
She was so true, so earnest, so unselfish. At length
9*




202        SOME WOMEN'IS HEARTS.
she told me her story, the same I had heard from you,
only she blamed herself as you had never blamed her.
All the fault was hers, she said. You were every
thing that was noble. I knew how true her sorrow
had been by the change it had wrought in her. There
was nothing left in her character of pride or petulance.
She was a sweet and gentle woman, the tenderest
and most patient of mothers, the fondest and truest
of wives; and therein lay the wretchedness that was
breaking her heart. She dared not seek to recall you,
for she believed that your love for her was utterly
dead. She had no hope left in life. When Andrew
was taken sick she sent to you because it was her duty,
but she wrote, I knew, with more of fear than of hope.
She loves you, Mr. Lincoln, as no words of mine can
ever tell you. Thank God that in taking your boy
to be an angel in heaven HIe has restored your wife to
bless all the years of your life on earth."
He did not answer me. For an instant he took my
hand in a grateful pressure. There were tears in his
eyes, — through their mist I could not look into his
soul. He left me and went out of the room. I knewhe had gone to her. Their sorrow could not be all
bitterness when it restored them to each other. But I,
- where was my fountain of consolation? Death had
taken the bright, noble boy I loved so well, and had
given me nothing. I had a right to weep as I stood
beside the dead and pressed my hot, throbbing forehead to the little cold hand. He had gone from me to
a land where there would be no sin in loving.




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.             203
Two weeks had passed since little Andrewv's funeral,
and from my seat under the pines I could see through
the distant greenery the gleam of the white marble
cross on which his name was graven.  I sat there,
where the shadows danced about me as the sunlight
glanced fitfully through the boughs, looking listlessly
at the beautiful landscape, and thinking mournfully
about my life. Again had I come to one of its milestones. Again, yet again, must I take up my pilgrim's
staff and go onward, into what strange scenes, amidst
what perils, who could tell? Others, I thought, had
fiiends, and love, and homre, - sweet rest, safe shelter.
Why had Fate dealt so hardly with me?  I was not
wont to repine, to be thankless and discontented; but
this once I had consented to taste the cup of self-commiseration. I found its waters bitter.
"' Gertrude," — it was Mr. Lincoln's voice. Screened
by the trees, I had not seen him coming till he stood
before me.
"I have been looking for you," he said. "I want
you to promise to remain with us. Katherine says you
talk of going away. I have told her the whole story
of our acquaintance. She knows how dear you became
to me once, how dear you will always be to me. She
loves you, too, as one woman seldom loves another, and
it is her prayer as well as mine that you will always
live with us and be our sister. Do not refuse," - his
eyes searched my face anxiously, -" we cannot give
you up. You shall be in all things as if you had been
born Katherine's sister or mine. I will not ask for




204        SOME WOMEN'S iEARTS.
your answer now, lest you deny me. Perhaps my wife
may be better able to persuade you."
IHe stood there beside me for a few moments after he
had done speaking, but beyond a mere expression of
my thanks I made him no reply, and presently he went
away. Then I sat and thought for a long time. Here
was all offered to me for which I had been pining,with the want of which I had upbraided my fate.
Love, - for I knew they would cherish me tenderly,
both of them, Katherine as well as her husband, --
friends, and a home, — a safe shelter, firom which I
need go out no more until I should exchange it for the
home and the peace which are eternal.  Should I
accept all this? Was it not too pleasant to be safe?
Was not its very sweetness dangerous?  Could I
answer for my own heart? Was I sure that I could
live for years under the same roof with Andrew Lincoln and never think of hours whose perilous happiness
duty bade me forget for ever? Be might be safe.
Katherine was beautiful, and she loved hin; but where
was the fine-linked armor with which to shield my
woman's heart?
No, I would not stay. They and I should be better
apart. Our paths led far away from each other. They
might wander wherever the flowers smiled or the birds
beguiled them. I must go out into the world to do my
work, to earn the bread I should eat. But the prospect
which had looked so gloomy to me an hour before
seemed changed, Things from which there is no
escape always confront us with a sterner mien. Now




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.             205
that a choice had been offered me, and I knew that
ease and leisure might be mine for the taking, I could
accept work thankfully, recognizing its ministry as best
for my soul's needs. I cheerfully made up my mind,
and then I went into the house.
Mrs. Lincoln met me in the hall. She put her arm
round me, and kissed me with a deeper tenderness in
her manner than I had ever felt before.
"You are going to be our sister, Gertrude?"
"Gladly; I am most thankful to owe to friendship
the tie which birth denied me."
"And we will be so happy, all of us together."
"But I cannot stay here. I will be your sister
always, — your faithful, loving friend while life lasts;
but it would not make me happiest to live here.
I must be  independent, even of those I most
value."
This was my firm resolution, and I kept to it. In
vain were all their entreaties, and at length they desisted from them. Perhaps Katherine's womanly intuitions interpreted my heart as no man, not even the
best man, could do. When she found that I was not
to be moved, that 1 would not go their way, she bestirred herself to help me go my own. I owe to her
the situation in which I am passing the midsummer of
my life. I am a teacher in a girl's school. Young,
bright faces are around me, - young hearts gladden me
with their love. I have no hopes or dreams of any
other future in this world, and, perhaps, for this reason
I do my duty the better.




206         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
It is ten years since little Andrew died, and Bella —
now a young lady of sixteen —is the dearest of my
pupils. Three years ago she came to me to be educated.
"6I bring her to you because we can express how
deeply we trust and honor you in no stronger manner
than by giving you our only child to train. Make her
like yourself, and we shall be satisfied."
These were her father's words when he put her hand
in mine, and since then she has been my chief comfort.
She was too young to remember the one sad episode in
her parent's lives. I heard her just now discussing
with two of her friends, as such young things will, love
and marriage. I heard her say, —
-"You are wrong, Fanny, if you think people always
cease to care much about each other after a little while.
My father and mother have been married twenty years,
and you cannot find me two in their honey-moon who
love each other more fondly or are happier."
She is right.  Andrew Lincoln and his wife are
happy, with that full blessedness which only love can
give. I think of them daily, and rejoice in their joy.
For myself, -if one's path lies always in the shadow,
one will never die from a stroke of the sun, -I am
content.
For this long ten years I have never been to Hazelwood. Its master and mistress come to see me every
summer, and I know it grieves them that I postpone so
long the visit I am always promising. I shall go some
day. I want to see how the roses have grown about




TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.            207
the grave where little Andrew has slept so long. I
shall press my lips to that white cross which gleams
above him, and offer on that spot my prayer of thanksgiving for life and all the blessings of life.




LITTLE GIBRALTAR.
IT was a lonely place. Every day, and all the day, as
it seemed, the wind blew steadily from east to west,
for the boughs of all the trees were bent for ever
toward the sunset. On three sides the sea brokg sullenly against the rocks of the small promontory, and
went back again, repulsed and discomfited. The house
and grounds which occupied the whole of this sea-girt
nook formed an estate which was called Little Gibraltar.
The name was not inappropriate. Thousands of years,
doubtless, had the waves stormed those gray rocks,thousands of years had the rocks stood firm and thrown
them back again into the sea. One could imagine the
assault going on for ever, -the repulse eternal.
Ten years ago it was that I saw the place first. I
had a friend at school who won such foothold in my
affections as no girl had ever won before. We were
not intimate, as school-girls reckon intimacy. We had
no secrets to tell, or, if we had, we told none. We
made no rash vows by starlight and moonlight, but we
liked to be together, and we had tastes and fancies in
common. I have always loved beautiful women, and
this Elinor O'Connor was "beautiful exceedingly."




LITTLE GIBRALTAR.                209
It was not until I had known her a long time that I
learned any thing of her history. When I did, I ascertained that her father was an Irish gentleman of considerable wealth, who had fled to this country years
before with his bride, the daughter of a noble family,
whom he had stolen, not against her will, from a convent. Leoline was the young wife's fanciful name.
She had died five years after the birth of her first
child, Elinor, taking with her to the world of spirits an
hour-old baby.  My friend could just remember her
mother, and she told me that her manners were so winning and her beauty of so rare a type that the life-long
effect of her loss upon the husband, who idolized her,
was by no means unaccountable.
Soon after her death he had purchased Little Gibraltar, and having arranged the grounds and built the
house after a certain fantastic plan of his own, had
retired there with his young daughter, an efficient
housekeeper, who also acted as a sort of nurse or
superintendent to little Elinor, and a corps of good
servants, who had ever since retained their situations.
Elinor's description of her home had abundantly
excited my interest and stimulated my curiosity, and
I accepted with extreme satisfaction her invitation to
pass the long summer vacation - our last before graduating -at Little Gibraltar. At first I hesitated, lest
my intrusion should be unwelcome to the master of this
strange domain; but when I was assured that his
consent had been solicited and obtained before the
N




210         SOME WOMEN'S IIEARTS.
invitation was extended, I set aside my scruples and
anticipated only pleasure.
The last week in June school closed. A staid serving-man came for Elinor, and took all the trouble of
our baggage and bundles. We had a five hours' car
ride, and then we got out at a little country station.
John, the serving-man aforesaid, went to a stable across
the road, and came back with a sort of family coach
drawn by two powerfiul black horses. We got inside,
and he mounted the box, and off we drove. It was
three miles, I should think; but long before we reached
our journey's end we could see Little Gibraltar gleaming stately on its rocky height, with the sea climbing
for ever at its base. Elinor pointed to it, as she said,
with more eagerness than she had been speaking before,"Home, Aria!"
"C s it home? " I remember I asked her. "It looks
to me like an enchanted castle of Mrs. Radcliffe's times.
It is strange, and in a weird sort of way, very beautiful;
but it does not seem homelike."
"Perhaps it isn't, as most people reckon homelike;
but it's all the home I have ever known since I was
old enough to remember. I don't know where it was
that I lived with my mother. It is singular that I
should recall so clearly as I do her wonderful beauty
and wayward grace.  There is one thing I ought to tell
you, Aria. My father, sane enough about every thing
else, believes that he sees her now, - that sometimes
she comes and calls him, and he goes out and keeps




LITTLE GIBBAL TAR.               211
tryst with her. I know not whether it is madness, or a
clearer vision than has been given to others."
Elinor's face had kindled as she spoke, and there was
such a strange, far-seeing look in her eyes that I should
not have been surprised if she had told me that she,
too, had this clearer vision which could pierce through
the veil of mysteries.
W~e were near the place by this time, for John drove
rapidly. The house was a rambling, castle-like building," With its battlements high in the hush of the air,
And the turrets thereon,"
built of some pure white stone, which glittered in the
sunset. A long flight of winding steps led from the
entrance hall to the carriage road below, and at the foot
of these steps stood, ready to welcome us, Reginald
O'Connor, his hat lifted, his whole manner full of
courtly grace. Unconsciously I had formed an idea
of him.  I had fancied him  a sad, silent, elderly
mourner, bowed and wasted by grief, indifferent to
all the small observances of life. I saw, instead, the
handsomest man, the stateliest gentleman I have ever
met.
He was not yet quite forty, and he scarcely looked
ten years older than Elinor. He had dark eyes, penetrating, yet with a curious, dreamy, speculative look in
them. His heavy, black hair was brushed back friom
his high, thoughtful brow, -a brow a little too narrow,
a little wanting in the indications of combative force




212         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
and strength, without which a man may be good, and
gifted, and graceful, but never great. I had been interesting myself in Spurzheim and Lavater, so I analyzed
his head and face, while he stood waiting, before the
carriage stopped. I discovered that his was the temperament of a poet, - that he had ideality, veneration,
and a wonderful power of personal magnetism, —that
he could enjoy and suffer keenly, but that he lacked
fortitude, and perseverance, and hope, —that there
was a certain weakness in his character which was consistent with the highest physical courage, but which
made him helpless before that mysterious something
which, for want of a better name, we call Destiny. He
could never, therefore, rise above a great sorrow. If I
had not made this analysis then I should never have
made it afterward, for there was something about him,
as I found presently, a certain nameless charm, which
defied criticism.
As the carriage stopped Elinor jumped from it into
his arms. He gave her a quick kiss, and then extended
his hand to me.
"This is so kind of you, Miss Germond,"' he said, as
he helped me out. 6You are a pioneer, too, — the first
lady who has ever visited at Little Gibraltar. You had
need of good courage."
"It did not require a great deal of courage to bring
me with Elinor."
He looked at me inquisitively, as if he wondered how
genuine my words were. Then he smiled.
"I believe you and she do honestly love each other,




LITTLE GIBRALTAR.               21 3
in spite of all the sneers about girls' friendships. I can
answer for Elinor. I have heard, for two years, of
nothing but Aria, until I have learned the sweet name
by heart."
He had given me his arm, and was leading me up the
stairs. Elinor was running on before us, gayer than I
had almost ever seen her. She looked back, nodded
laughingly, and said, -
"That's right, papa. Vouch to Aria for my devotion."
In a moment we stood in the entrance hall, - a lofty
apartment lighted by a dome, and in the midst of which
a circular staircase wound upward. It was paved with
tessellated marble, and hung with pictures which, as I
learned afterward, Col. O'Connor had himself painted.
On one side a door was thrown open into a conservatory full of choice flowers, beyond which was a spacious
library. On the other side another door opened into a
large and lofty drawing-room. Into this latter apartment
my host led me, having paused by the way to introduce
me to Mrs. Walker, - the housekeeper, to whom I have
before referred, - who continued to matronize and
superintend the establishment. Elinor lingered a little
to talk to her, and the Colonel and I walked into the
drawing-room alone. Opposite the door an immense
pier-glass filled the space between two great windows,
and as we stepped in we saw ourselves reflected in it;
I still leaning on his arm, and he bending toward me
with his air of courtly deference. A sudden and curious presentiment thrilled me like a suggestion from




214        SOME WOOMEN'S ITEARTS.
some one unseen, - a presentiment which told me that
in some mysterious way my fate and his were linked.
And at the same time I heard a whisper, distinct yet
low, as if it came from far, -" BEWARE."
I seemed, in some way, to know that this whisper was
not meant for me, but for my companion. I felt sure
that he heard it also, for he released my hand which he
had been holding upon his arm, and offered me a chair.
I saw that his face was pale, and his lips had a nervous
quiver. Then Elinor came in, with Mrs. Walker, and
a sober, middle-aged lady's maid, ready to show me to
my room; and her father told us that dinner would be
served in half an hour. I thought he was glad to have
us go upstairs.
My room opened out of Elinor's, and looked, like
hers, toward the unquiet, shimmering sea. I refused
the maid's assistance, and when my door was shut sat
down a moment to look out of my window and think.
The waters had a curious phosphorescent glow and
glitter.  They seemed mysterious and infinite as the
fathomless sky which bent above them, -mysterious as
destiny, infinite as immortality. What puppets we
human beings are for Fate to play with, I thought, -
beneath the dignity of actors, -not knowing even our
own parts, or whether it were tragedy or comedy in
which we should be called to perform, - whether the
play were in five acts or in one.
My vacation was to be two months long. I felt as
if I were going to live more in that time than I had in
my whole life before.




LITTLE GIBRALTAR.               215
I opened my trunk. 3My drama must begin, like
many another, with dressing and dining. I had never
been able to decide whether I was handsome or not,though I knew my style was unique. It was certainly
not that which those unfledged youth who haunt the
steps and dog the walks of boarding-school misses
most delight in; for I had never received a compliment
in my life, unless the look in Col. O'Connor's eyes this
afternoon had been one.
I had a low brow, round which the dark hair drooped
heavily, a clear, dark skin, and the coloring in all
respects of a brunette, except that my eyes were blue
as turquoise, - a bright, light blue. This contradiction
between my eyes and the rest of my face made ine
striking, peculiar: I must try my power before I could
tell whether or not it made me pleasing.
I put on a black dress, which suited me, for it
drooped in heavy, rich folds about my figure, which
was full and tall. Soft, old lace was at my wrists, and
was fastened at my throat by a brooch made of an
Egyptian scarabseus, and which glittered like an evil
eye at my throat. Then I was ready, and had ten
minutes uore, while I was waiting for Elinor, in which
to wonder as to the meaning of the strange whisper
I had heard. She came for me at last, and we went
downstairs.
The drawing-room was lighted now, and I noticed,
as I had not before, the extreme richness and elegance
of all its appointments. One would have thought that
in furnishing it the master of Little Gibraltar had been




216        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
arranging for gay feasts and grand festivals, instead of
fitting himself up a refuge in which to hide away his
sorro w.
One recognized everywhere traces of that exacting
ideality which would not be satisfied with less than
perfection. At the farther end of the room folding
doors were thrown open into a dining-room, where a
table glittered with plate and crystal. Col. O'Connor
met us at the door, and, giving me his arm again, took
me in to dinner, Elinor following. The dinner was
conducted with ceremonious stateliness, and, watching
the high-bred courtesy of my host's manner, I understood in what school his daughter had acquired that
grace and repose which had been at once the envy and
the despair of Madame Miniver's young ladies.
Just here I begin to feel that I have undertaken a
hopeless task. I have succeeded, possibly, in conveying to you the impression of a home, fantastic but
superb, — of my stately host, and the fliend whom I
loved so well. So far words have served me; but now
they begin to seem vague and pointless.  They will
not render the subtile shades of that midsummer experience. I cannot tell you the strange spell which drew
me toward Reginald O'Connor. Fascination does not
at all express it, —it was at once finer and stronger.
Sympathy, magnetism, psychological attraction, -
choose your own term. I only know that I felt, in
my very soul, that I had met the one man in the universe whose power over me was positive as fate.
I did not deceive myself about him in the least.




LITTLE GIBRALTAR.               217
I knew he was not wiser, or grander, or nobler than
other men, -not wise or grand, perhaps, in any high
sense at all. But, just such as he was, I felt as if I
would rather have been loved by him, and die, than be
the living darling of any other man. All the time, too,
there was the sense of entire hopelessness,- the belief
that he had loved as he would never love again, —
that Leoline dead was more to him than the whole
living world. We passed all the days together, —we
three, — riding, driving, rowing; and, after a while,
I sitting for my portrait, and Col. O'Connor painting it.
It was after one of these sittings that Elinor said to
me, -
"Aria, I think my father is beginning to love you.
I have never seen him as he is now before. If he were
not too old for you, - if you couldc care for him, - I
think it might be to him like the elixir of life. To
me, you know what it would be to have you with me
always."
" You deceive yourself," I answered, with forced
composure. "You have told me the effect which your
mother's loss had on him, and how his whole life since
has been full of nothing but her memory. He will
never love again."
She looked at me curiously. I knew that my face
was turning crimson under her gaze. She sprang up
and kissed me with impulsive fondness.
"'My darling," she cried, "I believe that you could
love him! With you the mistress of Little Gibraltar
what a different thing life would be to me."
10




218        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
She went out without giving me time to answer her;
but after that she left me more alone with her father.
He painted on at my portrait, and grew absorbed in
his task. HIe was never satisfied, - he said my face
changed with every change of my moods. He made
me give him sitting after sitting. To-day he deepened
the eyes, to-morrow he altered a wave in the hair, or
changed a curve of the lashes. I began to believe that
I was beautiful, as I saw myself glowing, a radiant
vision upon his canvas. One day he threw down his
brush. It was the week before we were to go back to
Madame Miniver. He cried, with a sort of suppressed
passion, -
"c It does not suit me, Aria; it never will. You must
give me yourself Aria, child, darling " —
He stopped as suddenly as if an unseen hand, cold
with the chill of the grave had been laid upon his
lips. His face turned white.
" Forgive me," he said, " I must go."
He went from the room. I remembered what Elinor
had told me, —that sometimes his dead wife called
him, and he went out to keep with her a ghostly tryst.
I believed that he had gone now in obedience to some
such summons. I sat on where he left me. I did not
dare to think what I was doing.  I had a vague
feeling, which I would not suffer to crystallize into a
thought, that there was a rivalry between me and his
dead bride for his love. Had not I a right to win? I
remembered what Elinor had said. I believed that he
would be better and happier with a warm, living love,




LITTLE GIBRALTAR.               219
in place of this haunting, ghostly memory. But I knew
not which would triumph; I could only wait. At last
I heard the door open, and he came to me softly in the
gathering twilight.
"Aria," he said, "I love you. It is Heaven's own
truth, and I have a right to tell it to you. But I am
not free to ask you to be my wife, - I do not know
that I ever shall be. I promised Elinor's mother, when
she was dying, that I would never marry again. I am
bound by my vow unless she releases me from it. I
thought then, Heaven knows, that it would be easy
enough to keep. I loved her so well that I fancied
there was no danger of my loving any one else. I
should least of all have feared loving you,- you, yet
in your girlhood, and my daugghter's friend. But it was
curious the charm you had for me fiom the very first.
As we stood in the drawing-room that first night a
whisper came to me, which I knew was Leoline's
warning,  Beware!' To-day, when I began to speak
to you, I heard her voice again,- a succlen, imperious
call, which I could not resist. I went out and saw her,
as I always see her, walking to and fro upon the
balcony, with her baby, a little white snow-flake, in
her arms. Aria, I begged her, as I would beg for my
life, to release me from that vow. She could have
answered me, - she has spoken to me often enough, -
but she only looked at me, with eyes full of reproachful
pain, and her lips uttered no word."
I remembered the whisper which I too had heard,
that first night, and wondered that I had not also




220        SOME WOMEN'S REARTS.
heard to-day the voice which summoned him. Perhaps
that first warning had been meant for me as well as
him; but I had not heeded it. A ghostly, numbing
terror began to creep over me. I sat still and did not
answer him.
"For Heaven's sake, Aria, speak to me one word,"
he said, coming close to me. "Am I a man or a monster? I loved Leoline. She had a right to my constancy; and yet, God knows, I love you. Oh, why did
you come here? "
" I Was going next week, - I will go to-morrow."
The words seemed to drop from  my lips against
my will. They sounded cold and hard. I felt as if
life and sense were failing me. In a moment Col.
O'Connor was kneeling beside me.'",Don't look at me so, Aria. You are turning to
stone before my eyes. Don't hate me, —it is enough
that I must hate and scorn myself, - that I, who
thought my honor stainless, must live to know that I
have broken at least the spirit of my vow. And yet,
am I to blame? I could not help loving you. But
I am old and sad, - I could never have won a young,
fresh heart like yours."
The misery in his voice touched me indescribably.
It was like the turning of a weapon in a wound. It
tortured me into a sense of keen life, and gave me
power to speak.
"I don't blame you," I said. "It was fate. But I
could have loved you. It was a vain dream. Let us
forget it and live."




LITTLE GIBRALTAR.               221
" No, I am ready to curse fate and die."
He looked into my eyes.
"Aria, this is bitterness beyond what a man can
bear,- to feel my happiness so near, and yet so out of
reach, - to love you, to feel that I could win your love,
and yet to renounce you."
He bent forward and drew me with firm hands close
to him. I felt his lips on mine for one moment, - fond,
quivering, thrilling to the centre of my being, Then
he released me.
"There, Aria, that is all. Forgive me if' you can.
You will not hate me, I know. You shall not go back
until the time comes; but you need not see me again
after to-night. We should never have met, or we
should have met in some other sphere. Well, child, it
is possible to bear most things. Come, we cannot
escape life. We must go to dinner."
At the table a strange gayety seemed to possess him.
He ate nothing, but he covered his lack of appetite and
mine with quip and badinage and brilliant turns of
thought.
After dinner he went into the library to look over the
evening mail, and presently sent for Elinor.
She was with him a few moments and then came back.
She looked me in the eyes like an inquisitor as she said 
" Papa has received a letter which will take him away
from home to-morrow morning; we shall probably have
to leave without seeing him again."
I expressed my regrets courteously, but I made no
sign, nor did she ask me any questions.




222         SOME WOMEN'S HEEARTS.
We went back to school. What a mockery it seemed
to me, with girlhood lying as far behind me as infancy.
My thoughts ran tumultuously in one channel. I cared
for none of the old delights or ambitions. I could not
study. I had learned a lesson which swallowed up all
others, as did Aaron's rod the rods of the Egyptians.
In the midst of the term an epoch came which gave
me independence, - my twenty-first birthday. I was
three years older than Elinor, — late in finishing my
studies, as, on account of my extreme delicacy in childhood, I had been late in commencing them. I was an
orphan, and at twenty-one I became mistress of myself
and my fortune. I should have left Madame Miniver's,
but I had no tie anywhere so strong as the one which
bound me to Elinor, and I staid on for her sake.
Early in December she came to my room with a letter in her hand.
" Aria," she said, "I am summoned home. My father
is failing mysteriously. He wants me with him, and he
says,'Tell Aria that, for her own sake, I must not ask
her to come, though her presence would be the greatest
comfort.' "
WVhat to me was "my own sake " in comparison with
his comfort?  What if I suffered a pang or two more?
The worst suffering of all would be to know afterward
that he had missed me. I went with Elinor.
We got there in time to see the last of him whom
we both loved so well. We watched beside him night
and day for three days, and then, in the wild winter
midnight, "he heard the angels call."




LITTLE GIBRAL TAR.              223
lie had been speaking calmly enough about his
plans.
"I have given Little Gibraltar to Aria," he said to
Elinor, as she bent over him. " You will be rich
enough without it, and you would not care to live
here. It will have a deeper worth, a different significance for her."
Then he sent her from the room, on some pretext,
and talked to me.
"It is all a mystery," he said, "' strange as sad. Can
a man love two women? I loved her. Heaven knows
it, and my long, solitary years since her death have
borne witness to it. And yet, if it be not love for you
that is wasting my life away, what is it? We shall
understand it all in the next world, I think.
"She has come to me often since last summer. She
waits for me always on the balcony outside, and I
know she is there by the tune with which she hushes
the baby on her breast, - always the same tune, - one
she used to sing to me in other days. I go out when I
hear it, and meet the sad upbraiding of her eyes. But
she has never spoken to me since that day. I have
pleaded a hundred times for release from my vow, but
her lips will never open. I wonder if she will turn from
me with horror in her eyes in the world of spirits; or
whether, for her baby's father, there will be pity and
forgiveness?  Wrong or right, I could not help loving
you; it was my fate."
I could not answer him, but I bent and pressed my
lips to his mouth. Now, with him floating away from




224        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
me on the unknown sea, I felt no scruples. But at the
moment my lips touched his I heard, as distinctly as I
ever heard any sound in my life, a strain of wild, sweet
music, — a tune I had never heard before. His eye
kindled with recognition as he caught the sound, and
he tried to rise. I turned to listen to Elinor, who was
opening the door.
"Aria, the tide is going out," she said.
I looked back to the bed, and answered her,"He has gone out with it."
And we heard the music, both of us, fainter, lower,
farther and farther away, until its sweetness died on the
waiting air.
Believe my story or doubt it, -it does not matter.
I have told. it because some force outside of myself
seemed to constrain me. I have never loved again, -
it does not seem to me that I ever shall. You see inme
in the winter as the world sees me, gay and careless;
but I go every summer to Little Gibraltar and dream
over again the old, passionate, troubled dream. Elinor
comes, too, sometimes, with her husband and her
children; but I like best to be alone with the dead
days in that nook haunted by memory, where rise the
fantastic turrets toward which the sea climbs eternally,
where the white walls glitter, and the wind blows all
the day, and every day, from the east toward the setting sun.




HOUSEHOLD GODS.
T would be hard to imagine any young, strong,
healthy woman more apparently helpless than was
Marian Eyre after her father's death. She looked her
affairs in the face the day after his funeral, and confessed to herself this fact.
Her mother had been dead so long that she could
scarcely remember her; and during all the years since
she had lived with her father, and been educated by
him, both living and educating going on in the desultory, inconsequent, fragmentary manner in which a
man who was half saint and half Bohemian and wholly
dreamer, would be likely to conduct them. As to
morals, St. Anthony himself was no purer than Reginald Eyre. His Bohemianism. was only the outgrowth
of his restlessness. It suited him to breakfast to-day
with the dawning, and climb an Alp before sunset; to
lie in bed to-morrow till noon, and sup coffee as
lazily as a Turk in his Oriental-looking dressinggown.
He liked to winter one year in Rome, another in
Florence, and a third in Venice, web-footed, melan10'*                o




226        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
choly, and princely. Paris he did not much affect.
Life there was too bustling, too melodramatic. The
French recklessness and lctisser-fcire were of quite another kind from his own, and therefore did not suit him.
But half over Europe he and Marian had wandered together. She had learned languages from hearing them
spoken; and art-history from studying among galleries
and ruins. This wandering, beauty-worshipping life
suited her, and made of her what she was, -just
Marian.
I would I could make you see the face of clear,
healthy paleness; the eyes which had caught the color
of so many skies and moods, and never seemed twice
the same; the sensitive, proud mouth; the head set
like Diana's, and as small and stately. She was her
ifther's idol as well as his companion, - the fair embodiment for him of womanhood. He always saw, through
her eyes, her mother's soul; and he had never loved
any woman but those two.
He had inherited quite a little fortune; but after his
wife died, and his wandering habits began to grow on
him, he turned it all into an annuity, because its ordinary interest would not keep him and Marian in the
roaming way that had grown to seem to him the only
life he could endure. In every thing else his moral
standard was of the highest; so I will wait until I find
a flawless soul, which has won by virtue of its own
spotlessness a right to question, before I try to reconcile for him his idleness with his conscience. In truth,
I do not think the matter had ever troubled him. He




.HOUSEHOLD GODS,              227
believed himself to be educating Marian, and so doing
his duty in his day and generation; and perhaps he
was. If he had sold salt and potatoes at home, and
increased his banking account, would he have done
more, or better?  I am not casuist enough for such
questions.
His annuity, of course, was to end with his life; but
he had sufficient forethought for Marian to deny himself many a lovely bit of wood-carving, many a choice
old missal, many an antique, for which his soul longed,
in order to insure that lifb heavily, and pay each year
therefor a large percentage from his annuity, so that
when they two could roam together among the wonders of art and of nature no longer she would not want
the means for making her life beautiful without him.
At last they had come home to New York.
Though they were far more familiar with half a dozen
foreign towns, they always called New York home,
because there Marian's mother had died, and in an old
down-town church-yard her dust lay blossoming into
roses and pansies when the summer suns shone on her
grave. They had always had a theory that they were
coming back there to settle, when Marian's education
was completed. Now she was twenty-three; but Mr.
Eyre saw that his mission as educator might still be
prolonged with advantage to her and ever fresh delight
to himself; so he compromised with the old theory by
coming home for this one winter, intending to go back
in the spring.
They had plenty of cousins in New York, on whom




228         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
they had no especial claim; but these Eyres and
Livingstones and Brevoorts received them with much
eagerness. They liked to see Marian at their parties.
There was something unique and distinguished-looking
about both her face and her toilets. The soft-falling
Italian silks she wore, and the antique ornaments, suited
her calm, proud face and her manner of graceful repose.
But from none of these people could Reginald Eyre or
his daughter have been willing to receive, or felt free
to ask, any thing beyond this courtesy, which, after all,
claimed more than it conferred.
They had rooms at the St. Denis,- these two, —
and had unpacked for their adornment whole trunks
and boxes of treasures, - choice carvings in wood and
ivory, illuminated missals, old line engravings by dead
masters, cameos, coins, bronzes, and a few pictures,
brightening the gray New York of mid-winter with
glimpses of Italian heavens.
Here, in the midst of this gay season, -in which,
however, despite the gayety, Reginald Eyre was secretly homesick and restless, — he had been taken
suddenly very ill. A few moments' delay in the drawing ap of their carriage, after they came out of the
heated air of a large party, was the only discernible
cause of an attack of pneumonia so severe that it
terminated his life in a week, in spite of the best
medical skill and the tenderest nursing.
He died, as he had lived, like a dreamer: no thought
of neglected opportunities or neglected work troubled
his last hours. He spoke to Marian, in'the few inter



HOUSEHOLD  GODS.               229
vals his sharp pain allowed him, very tenderly; but he
gave her none of the traditional death-bed counsels and
exhortations.
"I think God has loved us, my darling," he said
once. " I have missed nothing in life but your mother,
and I shall find her now."
Marian was lifted out of herself by the calm expectation of his mood. She did not shed any tears over
him, or utter any moans. Time enough for that in the
long hours afterward. He saw her to the last, as he
had loved to see her, with her fair, unstained face, her
true, hopeful eyes. The last words he said to her, an
hour before he died, were only,"6 We have been good comrades, Marian. You will
miss me in the old places, but not for long. Nothing is
long that has its sure end. It seems but yesterday
since I kissed your mother's lips when she was dying."
Just at the last the pains of death shook him cruelly.
HIe could not speak, and his only good-by to Marian
was the clinging hold of his fingers upon her hand,
which did not relax until those fingers stiffened and
grew cold.
The morning after his funeral Marian looked listlessly into the paper.  She had done every thing
listlessly  in the three days since her father died.
Sometimes she thought her soul had gone out of her,
and only her body remained, ruled by dull instinct
and old habit. She unfolded the paper, and looked it
over with no interest about what it might chance to
contain, but simply because it was her morning wont.




230         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
On the second page an item  caught her eye, and
roused her. The office in which hei father's life was
insured had failed, gone utterly to ruin. She understood her situation perfectly. She knew how resolute
he had been in making this provision for her; how
entirely it was her sole dependence. Her very first
thought was one of profound thankfulness that he had
been spared this blow; that he had died without anxiety
for her. The next was the question which has confronted so many other helpless women with its blind
terror, - the problem society would find it well worth
its while to aid them in solving, — what should she do?
She loved music passionately, but she had never
learned its theories; poetry, but she had never written
it; pictures, but she could not paint them; sculpture, but she had never thought of modelling. Of
course teaching came to her mind for a moment, as it
presents itself to most women similarly circumstanced,
but it seemed clear to her that she had no vocation
for it, and there was no one thing she could have
taught well enough to satisfy her conscience. Besides,
the world was full of teachers already, to whom the
calling belonged by right of possession.  She would
have shrunk, in any case, from entering their already
overcrowded ranks. But what could she do?
She looked around her and reckoned up her worldly
possessions. A few hundred dollars remained of their
last quarter's funds. Besides, she had two rooms full of
carvings and pictures and bronzes, - a sort of museum
of art. They had been selected, she knew, with taste




HOUSEHOLD  GODS.               231
which could not be challenged. They were rare, all
of them, - some of them very valuable. If well sold,
they ought to bring her a good deal; but she had
heard how ruinously such things were often sacrificed
at auction. The commissions a regular dealer would
require for disposing of them  would be large, and
that method of effecting their sale would be slow.
At this moment an inspiration visited her. What if
she should take a room  and dispose of them herself?
She understood art well enough to be sure that she
could arrange them so as to show to the best advantage. She would need the countenance and assistance
of one experienced saleswoman; and while she was
thus engaged in turning into available funds her own
sole inheritance, she would be getting a little knowledge of trade, and might perhaps be able to find
employment afterward in some picture store or art
gallery. At any rate, there appeared this one step to
take, this one beginning to be made, in answer to her
problem, and doubtless the rest of its solution would
come afterward.
In this emergency she needed a friend, and she ran
over the list of her acquaintances, as she had previously
that of her possessions. She could not apply to any of
her hosts of more or less far removed cousins. Evres
and Livingstones and Brevoorts, one and all, held themselves grandly above all trade of lesser degree than
sending out ships to fetch home silks and velvets.
Especially would they hold a woman's hand so soiled
by it that no floods could make it clean. Her father's




232        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
friends had been for the most part men as impractical
as himself. But there was just one of them, a man of
different type, to whom in this emergency her thoughts
turned. So she sat down and wrote a note to Mr.
Nathaniel Upjohn, and that evening he answered it in
person.
He was a man of thirty-five, with no air of trying to
be younger than that, no attempt to catch at the youth
slipping for ever away from him; but yet a man whom
you would never associate with coming age; who
seemed strong and resolute enough to stand still here
in middle life for ever. He had made his own large
fortune by his own hard work; and yet he was not
merely a worker. lHe liked whatever was best and
worthiest in art and in literature, and these tastes had
brought him acquainted with Marian's father.
I am telling too simple a story to require any disguises. I am quite willing you should understand that
this middle-aged, busy, practical man was very much
in love with Marian Eyre. In knowing so much, however, you are wiser than she was, for she had not even
suspected it. He had come to see them only occasionally, and then his conversations had been chiefly with
her father, though his eyes seldom lost sight of Marian.
He had not meant to let her know what he felt for her
at present, if ever. He thought himself removed from
her by some subtile barriers which nothing in her manner had encouraged in him the slightest expectation of
surmounting. But when her note came to him, when
he understood by it that she would allow him-him of




HOUSEHOLD  GODS.               233
all others- to go to her in this time of her great
sorrow, a wild, sweet hope sprang to life in his heart,
which, however, almost her first words dispelled.
She came into the room in her deep mourning garments, a pale, sad creature, from whose face all the
brightness seemed gone, but who had never been so
lovely in his eyes at her brightest and her best. She
gave him her hand, but there was no response in it to
his tender clasp. She looked at him, but she did not
seem to see him.
She began at once upon the business on which she
had desired his opinion, and told him her wishes in a
few direct sentences, as if she had arranged beforehand
what she would say, and was afraid to trust herself to
utter an unnecessary word. In five minutes he understood her position.
"-That I should do something," she said, in conclusion, " you perceive to be a simple necessity. That
I should do this very thing for a beginning, appears to
me clearly for the best; and I sent for you because I
knew no one else so capable of giving me good, sound,
practical advice. I must have a suitable salesroom,
and a proper clerk or assistant, and I suppose there are
some means which I ought to take to bring myself, or
rather my possessions, to the knowledge of the public.
Can you put me in the way of all this?"
"If necessary, I suppose I can; but it seems to me
there must be something else for you to do. I do not
want to see the treasures my old friend collected with
such loving patience scattered to the four winds."




234        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
"That will probably be no more hard for you than
for me," Marian said, with a petulance for which she
condclemned herself the next moment. "Forgive me,
but I have thought it over on all sides. It seems to
me it is the only thing I call do; and we shall not
make it any easier by lingering over it. You perceive
that I could not even afford to hire a room in which to
keep my possessions, therefore I must part with them.
Will you help me? "
Some words came to his lips then which he had not
meant to speak. He said them hurriedly.
" I wish, Marian, that you would let me help you to
some purpose. I did not mean to tell you, for you
have given me no encouragement, but I love you
deeply and dearly; and if you could love me, and let
your future be my care, you would be spared all this,
which it is misery to me to see you suffer."
c'I am no Circassian girl," Marian said proudly;
"'have you had any reason to think I could be
bought?"
Her face was kindled now, - aflame with pride and
spirit. ITer cheeks glowed, her wide eyes held scornful
meaning.
"Did I try to buy you?" he asked, with a gentleness
which disarmed her pride. "~ I said if you could love
me. Love is no matter of bargain and sale; but I
believe I have realized from the first how vain my hope
was. I will try to help you, in your own way, since
you cannot let me help you in mine. I must have
a little time, however, to think how it can best be




HOUSEHOLD GODS.                235
done. So, if you please, I will go away now, and either
come or write to you to-morrow evening."
" I do not deserve that you should be so kind," she
said, very humbly, as he got up to go. " I know that
you have done me great honor; but you can hardly
understand how determined I am to help myself. The
life I look forward to has for me no especial terrors,
while to marry a man because I was destitute and he
pitied me would be in my eyes a crime."
"1 It would be no less than that in mine. If you had
loved me, you would not have misunderstood me. If I
had not loved you first, I should not have dared to pity
you. But I had no right to trouble you with my
dreams. Will you forgive me, and let me be your
friend? "
"If you will honor me so far. Perhaps you will be
my only one; but that I shall not mind."
Then Mr. Nathaniel Upjohn went away, and Marian
was left. as she had chosen to be, alone; but her heart
was very lonely and desolate indeed, as she sat there
among her relics.
The next day she waited anxiously for news from ~Mr.
Upjohn. The afternoon post brought her two letters.
The first one, bearing Mrs. Gordon Livingstone's scarlet
and gilt monogram, she threw aside, and broke open
the other, directed in a strong, compact, business hand,
which she felt sure was that of her father's friend.
It contained a proposition, the result, as AIr. Upjohn
wrote, of earnest deliberation upon her matters. He
saw, with her, that the articles of virtuz in her posses



236        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
sion must be sold, though he was more and more convinced that she herself was not the one to sell them;
while he entirely agreed with her as to the disadvantages which would attend intrusting the matter to a
regular fine-arts dealer. But, in a building of his own,
on Broadway, were two vacant rooms. Of the larger
he proposed to make a storeroom, for the reception of
the articles en nmasse, while the other was to be tastefully arranged as a salesroom, the things in it to be few
in number, in order that they might be advantageously
placed, while from time to time, as articles were sold,
the vacancies could be filled from the other room. He
had in his employ, moreover, and could well spare in her
service, precisely the right person for a salesman, while
he himself would undertake the necessary steps for
bringing the sale to the knowledge of the public; which
last matter, he thought, should be managed in a very
quiet manner, as the patronage of half a dozen art
connoisseurs was worth more than that of a hundred
promiscuous buyers. As for the expenses of this arrangement, of course they would be paid from the proceeds; he would not even venture to offer his rooms
rent free, but Miss Eyre might depend on being charged
only the exact cost which was incurred, and would be
saved from all extortion in the way of commissions.
I-e made bold not only to hope, but to urge, that this
plan which he had proposed might be resolved upon,
since it seemed to him the only one by which she could
at once fitly and advantageously accomplish her purpose.




.HOUSEHOLD  GODS.               237
The letter was somewhat of a surprise to Marian, —
it was at once so cool and so kind, so simple and so
business-like. Who would think that last night this
man had been laying his heart at her feet? If there
had been the least touch of love-making in his communication, however, it is very certain that she would have
rejected his proposition. As it was, she began at once
to consider it favorably. It is possible that all the time
she had secretly shrunk from putting herself before the
public in this unaccustomed way; at any rate she was
not at all sorry to be relieved from it, and to feel that
her interests were to be so thoroughly well represented
without her aid.
Having reached this conclusion, she opened Mrs. Gordon Livingstone's scented epistle. It was the letter of
a female diplomat. It began with condolences on the
death of Marian's father, and passed to sympathy in the
loss of Marian's fortune. But for this latter knowledge,
she said, she would not have ventured to intrude, even
by letter, upon her kinswoman in these first days of her
grief. As it was, she wrote at once, because she felt
impelled to open heart and home to her as a mother.
Would Marian come?
Then followed some rose-colored sentences about admiration and appreciation, the pleasure she should expect from her young relative's society; and then came
the true gist of the letter. She understood so well
dear 3Marian's pride and sensitiveness that she had determined to bait her proposition with an opportunity
for her cousin to make herself useful. Her children




238         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
were provided with a good governess and competent
masters; but if Marian would oversee their practicing a
little, and talk French with them enough to impart to
them her own perfect accent, she could relieve herself
twice over from any unnecessary sense of obligation,
and feel that she made Mrs. Livingstone very greatly
her debtor.
A little smile of amusement crossed Marian's face.
She was not wanting in shrewdness, and though it had
not before occurred to her at what a premium such acquirements as her own in music and languages might
be held, even unaccompanied by the gift or the inclination to teach regularly, she perceived it clearly now,
through the flowery eloquence of Mrs. Livingstone's
periods. This benign kinswoman of hers was not one
to proffer benefits without having first made certain of
her uidc pro gquo; so, as after all the proposition suited
her, she felt no hesitation about availing herself of it.
She wrote a letter of acceptance, graceful and ladylike; grateful, too, but frosted with a little reserve and
dignity. As her rooms were engaged up to the end of
the month she preferred to remain in them until then.
This would give her time to superintend the removal
of her effects, and to make her preparations.
By the same mail she sent her reply to Mr. Upjohn,
cordially thanking him, and putting her business matters unreservedly into his hands.
During the fortnight which followed she bore herself
most bravely. All her father's cherished treasures —
all the lovely pictures, and bronzes, and vases, and




HOUSEHOLD GODS.                 239
terra-cottas which they had collected with such pleasure and pride during their happy, wandering years together —were packed under her supervision, loaded
into commonplace vans, and carried off before her
eyes; and if she shed a tear over them, only Heaven
and silence knew it.
During this process of removal she saw Mr. Upjohn
frequently, and always in the aspect of her father's
friend, -a middle-aged man, kind, quiet, thoughtful,
and somewhat formal. At times she almost believed
that she had only dreamed that this man once asked
her to be his wife. The contradiction between those
few strange moments when he had startled her with his
love, and these cool, well-balanced interviews since,
puzzled her for a time, until she gave the puzzle utip,
only too thankful to find in Mr. Upjohn what he was,
-— her one true, strong, faithful friend, in this time when
she needed friends so much.
At length the whole thing was over. The last household god was gone, - not even a pensive Psyche or a
winged Hope was left to bear her company. She had
thanked Mr. UTpjohn, and given him her new address,
where she asked him to call and report progress; settled
all her bills, and still she had half an hour before the
time appointed for Mrs. Livingstone's carriage to come
for her. She had meant to avoid this, and had lingered
over her closing tasks that she might not have time to
think. But still a space remained, and silence and
memory confronted her, and would have their will of
her.




240         SOME WOEN'S IIEARTS.
It was a sharp wrench to go out of these rooms
which she had shared with her dead, - where she had
heard his last words, and kissed the cold lips when
they could speak no more. She made no outcry, —
why should she? Who was there to care for her
mourning, or to comfort her? But perchance her own
true dead, "from the house of the pale-faced images,"
heard the wail which only her soul uttered, and by
some celestial mystery, of us uncomprehended, brought
her comfort.
When the carriage came at last, that fair, calm face
of hers bore no trace of conflict. She went quietly
down the stairs, her long, soft, mourning robes trailing
after her, and was greeted cordially by Mrs. Livingstone, who sat in the coupe'. So her new life began.
If Mrs. Livingstone was prepared for any effusion of
grief on Marian's part, and sympathy on her own, she'Was certainly disappointed. Miss Eyre was not one to
wear her sorrow upon her sleeve, or shed her tears in
company. She was quiet and graceful and dignified as
ever. The most expansive of women could have found
no excuse for falling upon her neck and weeping over
her. So they made talk about indifferent matters, as
people do in society, and by the time they had reached
Murray Hill their further attitude toward each other
was mutually well understood.
With infinite tact Marian slipped into her place in the
household. She never failed to perform conscientiously
the duties which could justly be expected from her;
but also she never put herself for a moment in the po



HIOUSEHOLD GODS.                241
sition of'protegee. Mrs. Livingstone understood clearly
that she was securing for her growing daughters advantages in certain directions such as she could procure for
them in no other way, but she also knew perfectly well
that Miss Eyre would remain under her roof no longer
than the position was made agreeable to her.
Agreeable in a certain way it was at present, — as
much so, at any rate, as any home among unloving
strangers could be made to this proud, tender girl, who
had known nothing but love all her life, for whom the
heart of her dead had been always so true and so warm.
Her grief never came to her lips in words, or overflowed
her eyelids, but there were times when the orphaned
heart rent the very heavens with cries which no human
ear heard, and reached out into the infinite spaces as if
by the very force of its desire it could wrench back
from them the dear old love.
Soon Lent began, — the cessation of parties and.
operas, at which Marian, in her deep mourning garments, had not assisted, and the inauguration of quiet,
small dinners and high teas. At these lesser gatherings
Miss Eyre was present; and the admiration of more
than one man made Mrs. Livingstone fear lest she might
possibly lose her fair inmate unfortunately soon; until,
seeing the cold sweetness with which all advances and
attentions were alike received, this fear gave place to a
new one.
Tom Livingstone was the darling of his mother's
heart, and the pride of her eyes; and Tom Livingstone
was coming home in June. The only son among a
11                  P




242        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
household of girls, he had been made a sort of demigod in the home circle, and had borne his honors loftily,
after the manner of men, There were good things about
him certainly, though he was not the hero into which
his feminine worshippers had exalted him. He was
handsome, in that young, haughty, unchecked manhood
of his. He had no vices. Culture had made the most
of a mind naturally shrewd and sensible rather than
highly intellectual. Travel had developed his taste and
stimulated his imagination, until really there was a
good deal of charm about Tom Livingstone.
-His mother remembered with a little secret dismay
that June was near at hand, and that he had met the
Eyres in Florence two years ago, and written home
some very extravagant letters about Marian. What
would be the result when he came back and found this
c "rare, pale maiden " domesticated under his own roof?
She gave this girl, whom she had seen letting brilliant
opportunities slip by her so coolly, credit for disinterestedness. If she smiled on Tom it would be because
she loved him; but what girl could help loving Tom if
he tried to make her? What if he should try? What
could be done or said? Miss Eyre was a gentlewoman,
- as well born and bred as any Livingstone of them
all, —his cousin by too many removes, moreover, to
have the ghost of an objection conjured out of the
relationship.
She knew by experience that Tom was ill to drive;
and she knew also that he must marry money, or make
a vast social descent from the family scale of living.




HOUSEHOLD GODS.                 243
Gordon Livingtone's million, divided into eight or
nine portions, could not make any of his heirs rich,
as Mrs. Livingstone was accustomed to reckon riches.
Tom must mate money with money, or come down in
the world grievously. She perceived that she had
done a very indiscreet thing in setting a snare for his
feet with this pretty, portionless temptation; but she
did not so clearly see her way out of the position, so she
waited for the future with what patience she could, and
a daily prayer that Miss Eyre's heart might be touched
by some one else before the conquering hero came.
l Marian herself, meantime, went on with her life
patiently but wearily, and quite unconscious of these
speculations about her. This living without the ceaseless tenderness which had been her daily food so long
begat a hunger of the heart so intense that it seemed
to her sometimes as if it could not be borne; but she
was never once tempted by it to feed on the husks of a
love for which her own heart held no response, which
attracted her only by what it promised, though of such
opportunities she had more than one. But her loneliness wrought into her manner something gentler and
more appealing than she was aware.
Mr. lUpjohn felt this change on the occasions when
he called to render an account of his stewardship,
though he did not gather from it any hope. He never
thought of trying to persuade her to revoke his sentence, which he had so well understood to be final. Possibly a bolder and more self-confident man might have
caught a hint from her mood, and stormed her heart




244        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
into his power; but perhaps Mr. Upjohn might not,
after all, have cared to hold what he had been forced
to win by storm. It was, however, certain that she
was strongly drawn toward him in these interviews,
though by no attempts of his own. He was so true,
where all else seemed hollow; so earnest, where all
others seemed formal; so devoted to her interests, that
she felt at last that the man whom  she had begun
by regarding simply as her father's friend had become
now her own personal property, - only her friend, it
is true, but at the same time her only friend.
He had certainly met with excellent success in her
service. Week after week substantial sums of money
were transferred to her banking account, as one rare
and costly article of her father's collection after another
was disposed of at a just and generous valuation.
What means he took to bring about these sales, or
who purchased the articles, she never inquired. Having once given the matter into his hands, she cared to
hear no particulars, and she never once went to the
salesrooms. Having once gone through the parting with
these household gods of hers, she did not care to renew
the pain.
In June the family went to their summer home on
the North River; and soon after this Tom  came.
There were a good many fine traits in his character.
He was direct, straightforward, honorable, and in earnest, though he was no flower of knighthood, no
miracle of constancy. If he loved a woman, and his
love were returned, it was in him to love long and




HOUSEITOLD GODS.               245
well; but he would never waste much time in despair
for the fair woman who was not fair for him. Neither
himself nor his kindred, however, had suspected this
healthy, elastic, recuperative power of his healthy,
elastic nature. He was just a hearty, generous, wellcultured American gentleman, - as fine a type, too,
when thorough-bred, as one is likely to find, — cleareyed, quick-witted, and courteous.
He was about Marian's age, familiar with her
best-loved haunts in the Old World, and an old acquaintance in the days when she had been happiest. It
was very natural that his coming should give her pleasure, and she showed it in the frankest, most unreserved
way. Talking with him, she felt herself more at home
than she- had been before since her father's death.
She brightened into her own softly radiant self, —a fascinating creature, with her pure, proud face, her red,
smiling lips, her dusky, drooping hair, and the eyes
which changed with every thought, took a new color
with every mood.
The young hero in Panama hat and Magenta necktie lowered his colors before her. She had swayed his
fancy curiously in their few meetings in the old days,
and he had never forgotten her. But now her graver
sweetness stole into his heart, and he was ready to offer
her the half of his kingdom.
She had been so used in her father's time to cordial
friendship and free companionship with men, - friendship touched often with chivalry, but never warming
into love, — that she went on, unconsciously enough, in




246        SOMXE WOMEN'S HEARTS.
this path along which young Livingstone was gallantly
leading her. They rode and drove together, or passed
long summer twilights hanging in a boat'twixt crimson
sky and crimson river, and Marian had not enough of
ordinary young-ladyhood about her to guess where it
all was tending.
Quite unintentionally, it was Mrs. Livingstone who
opened her eyes. Going one day past the door of
that lady's morning-room she heard the words: —
" It is true that Marian is all which you say, but it
is equally true that you cannot afford the luxury of
marrying her."
She hurried on instantly, with glowing cheeks. It
was all plain now. She had been blind. Tom loved.
her, and had been trying to let her see it, and taking
encouragement from her frank, free manner, while she
had never once guessed his meaning. She smiled a
little over Mrs. Livingstone's notions of poverty. To
say nothing of the hundred thousand likely to come by
and by, Tom had fifty thousand of his own, now; and
on an income less than that would yield what happy
years of pleasant wandering she and her father had
known. If she loved him, certainly his mother's opposition, based solely on the question of finances,
would not deter her from marrying him, or feeling that
he had a right to please himself. The question became
at once whether she might, could, would, or should
love him, —a potential of which the indicative was
hard to determine. She really did not know, herselfi
If you, my reader, are so clear-headed, so subtile in




HOUSEHOLD GODS.                247
your intuitions, that you could never be in doubt
about such a matter for a moment, turn compassionately this leaf which reveals to you Marian in her
indecision, her poverty of self-knowledge; but, for my
part, I think most girls who have never had an accepted
lover, or been accustomed to speculate about love and
marriage, would have an epoch of similar uncertainty
at the instant when a most agreeable, eligible, and
altogether unexceptionable friend should stand before
them suddenly transformed into an expectant suitor.
That night the whole story of Tom's hopes and
fears came out. He took courage, perhaps, from a new
shyness in Marian's manner. At any rate, he told her
how dear she was and always must be, and then waited
for her answer.
" I am portionless," she said, gravely. 6" If there were
no question about any thing else, I think your family
would not approve the marriage for that reason."' "They would get over that," he protested, eagerly.
"They all think you are perfection. They only fear
that I am too good-for-nothing a fellow to help myself,
and not well enough off to make you comfortable.
But I could do any thing, with you for my inspiration;
and in this one greatest thing of my life I must please
myself. If you can love me, Marian, nothing else is
wanting."
She looked at him, —his handsome, eager face so
full of longing tenderness for her, so lonely, so sorely
needing it, —young, strong, fond, ready to do and
dare for her sake. Surely she must love him, - surely




248         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
this thrill at her heart was love.  But - was it?
Marian was romantic; that is to say, she had high
ideals. Love to her meant a grand, heroic something,
which would be strong and steadfast through life, and
outlast death. Would all her skies be dark, she asked
herself, her days empty, if the shining of Tom Livingstone's eyes were quenched? Was he so much to her
that without him the rest of life would be barren?
Her heart uttered no affirmative, and yet she had been
accustomed to think that this and nothing less than
this was love. The "Yes" which had almost sprung
to her lips shrank back again, and she said, instead,
very humbly: -
"' I dare not answer you, for I do not know myself.
It seems to me that in marriage there is no half-way.
One must be ineffably happy or ineffably miserable. I
would not trust myself to be any man's wife unless
I was sure, beyond a question, that I loved him with
all my being. I cannot tell whether I could ever love
you like that, for I never thought of you, until to-day,
as other than my pleasantest of fiiends."
He ventured on no prayers or protestations, for the
quiet solemnity of her mood awed him. The matter
which she looked at with such serious eyes took on
new sacredness for him. He dared not be responsible
for this woman's happiness, unless indeed she could
love him  so entirely that there would be no doubt
about his making it. So he told her, gravely and
gently, that he would wait for her to understand herself; and though, whatever her decision might be, he




HOUSEHOLD  GODS.               249
must always. love her, he would never blame her
or accuse her of having held out to him any false
hopes.
Then they sat silent in the evening stillness. He
had hoped to have that graceful head of heris upon his
shoulder, to kiss the serious, smiling lips of his promised wife, to be happy in her sweet and fiankly given
love. Instead, he sat a little apart from her side, with
a distance which seemed like the sweep of eternity
between their souls. Would he ever come more near? 
In the weeks that followed Marian grew thin with
anxiety. She meant to do right, at whatever cost;
but it was so hard to know what right was, to evolve
certainty from the chaos of her emotions. There was
so much to incline her heart toward him in his handsome, graceful, courageous youth, in his ardent yet
reverent devotion to herself. Sometimes she thought
she could ask no more; but slowly a conviction
grew on her that in him  was not the strength on
which she longed to lean. She might be his inspiration, as he said, —he never could be hers.  She
must look at him with level eyes, and it was in her
nature to long to look up. The daughter of Reginald
Eyre, "Puritan Bohemian," was not likely to have
any religious cant about her; but she had strong
spiritual needs. A steadfast sense of personal responsibility to a personal God underlaid her life and made
it solemn. Tom Livingstone was worthy of a better
love than hers, she was ready to grant; but, when she
began to think of seeking her rest and shelter in him for




250         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
ever, she discovered that that gallant, generous heart
of his lacked something without which she could never
be satisfied.
At last she told him so, with that sad tenderness a
good woman always feels for the man who has loved her
in vain.
True to his promise, he accepted her decision, and
held her blameless. He only said once, with despair in
his eyes:"If you could but have loved me, 0 Marian!"
And she answered, in a low voice, which seemed to
him sadder than any wail:" Oh, if I could i Don't you see how desolate I am?"
If the family had known any thing of this probation
and its results they never alluded to it before Marian;
but MIrs. Livingstone's manner was most cordially gracious just after this final decision; though she made only
feeble attempts to combat Miss Eyre's resolution to go
back to New York early in Septemnber and go into
lodgings. iMarian offered no explanations, — she was
not addicted to them, - she merely announced that she
felt it desirable to make different arrangements for the
next winter, and must go early to town in order to
perfect them.
Then she wrote to Mr. Upjohn. Somehow in every
difficulty it seemed very natural to turn to him, — he
was so strong and so self-reliant, so eminently to be relied
upon. She felt no hesitation about asking him to secure
her suitable apartments,- a little parlor and sleepingroom in some quiet and not too expensive boarding-house.




HOUSEHOLD GODS.                251
He had managed her business matters so admirably that
she had quite a little provision for the future, and could
afford herself a space of leisure in which to map out
that future to her liking. She had somewhat changed
her ideas about teaching. She thought now that she
could without difficulty make up from among her acquaintances a class of young ladies who had finished
school, but who would be glad to read the modern languages under her tuition; and she much preferred the
independence this course offered to a longer residence
beneath the Livingstone roof-tree.  Tom  alone was
urgent that she should remain under his mother's protection. ITle was going abroad again at once; and he
should be so much more happy and at ease if he left
her, as he found her, there. Mrs. Livingstone seconded
him courteously; but I think Marian's presence was
somewhat embarrassing to her at this juncture. However that may have been, her courtesy and her son's
entreaties were alike met with polite but firm decision.
Early in September Marian removed to her Fourteenth
Street apartments; and the next week Tom Livingstone's name was registered among the passengers of the
"Arago."
Miss Eyre felt a strong, sweet delight in her self-sovereignty as she went into her pleasant parlor and looked
around her. In one corner stood a Psyche, which
surely she remembered; in another a winged Hope, by
some disciple of Canova. One picture, a face of Saint
Catherine, with eyes full of courage and of faith, lips
strong for prayer and tender for praise, - hung over




252         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
her mantle, on which flowers bloomed in crystal vases.
It was like coming home to come back to these old, beloved objects; but she did not understand their being
in her possession. She felt sure that IMr. Upjohn would
come to inquire after her comfort, and she waited for
an explanation from him impatiently. When at last he
came, and her question followed her greeting, he only
smiled and said:"I thought it would not be good for you to have too
much money. The rest had sold so readily that I ventured to keep these for your own pleasure."
He was repaid for all his trouble by her bright, cordial thanks. Somehow they had grown singularly good
friends since the night when he gave up all hope of
their ever being more than friends. She felt very near
to him, very comfortable with him, this evening, as
she told him over all her plans, profiting by his clear
sagacity, made hopeful by his hopefulness for her,
catching the contagion of his strength. She looked
at the rugged manliness of his face, and found something noble in it, which she wondered that she had
failed to discover before. She was not quite desolate,
surely, since she had this one friend, who had loved
her father, whom her father had loved, and who, she
felt now, would be her friend for all time.
She had no difficulty in arranging her class upon
satisfactory terms. She laughed cheerfully with Mr.
Upjohn, who came to see her as often as once a week,
about being an independent, self-supporting woman;
and she found an interest in her regular task, which




HOUSEHOLD  GODS.                 253
really made life brighter and better worth living for
her.
Sometimes, as the winter passed on and she saw more
and more of Mr. Upjohn, finding in him always the
same cordial, earnest, but unlover-like friend, she began
to wonder whether he had really ever loved her at all,
or only been moved by sympathy in her distress on
that one night which she so well remembered. Did
he remember it as well, unconscious as he always
seemed?  She began to long to know. She recalled
his words:"6 If I had not loved you first I should not have dared
to pity you;" and, knowing that he was truth itself,
she felt that he must have cared for her then, though
his strong manliness had helped him to overcome it so
utterly now.
She believed honestly that she did not regret the lost
opportunity, but every week she saw more clearly how
much he was to her, even as a friend, which Tom Livingstone never could have been. Was it that, after
all, the world's workers must ever be nobler than the
world's idlers; or that a larger outlook on life had
given him a wider horizon; or that in his nature, as
God made it, there was capacity for nobler issues than
in the other's? She could not tell. She had only a
subtile consciousness that, let her soul take wings as it
might, in no height of her aspiring could she ever soar
beyond his capacity to stand beside her.
She was still too shy in her confessions to herself, or
perhaps too wanting in self-knowledge, to fully divine




254        SOME, WOMEN'S HEARTS.
how different her answer would be likely to be now, if
he were to ask the old question over again; and he, on
his part, understood himself so well, and was habitually so sure of his own emotions, that it never occurred
to him to doubt whether Marian was equally self-poised,
- whether her 1" no " once spoken must needs be " no "
for all time. He was not at all likely, therefore, to give
her an opportunity to change her mind. But just here
an accidental turn of a conversation, a lucky chance, —
I speak after the usual fashion, but I believe in a heavenly and special Providence, - occurred to set them
both right.
He came in one evening, and found her warming her
slender fingers by the fire blaze. She looked so lovely,
so homelike, so entirely gentle and womanly, that,
despite the seal he had long ago set upon his wishes,
his heart went out toward her in a great wave of love
and longing. But he only spoke to her with the calm
friendliness of his usual manner.
" I am cold," she said. " I have just been to Murray
Hill to make a call of congratulation. The second Miss
Livingstone is soon to be married to Colonel George
Seabright."
"" Seabright! Why, he is as old as I am, and Maud
Livingstone is very young, is she not?"
"Nineteen last autumn; but what is that if she loves
him, and I think she does."
" But do you think it no sacrifice when a woman loves
and marries a man older than herself?"
"I think no marriage is a sacrifice when a woman
loves.")




HOUSEHOLD  GODS.                255
Some glint in her eyes inspired him. He looked into
her face.
"I think you felt differently once," he said, slowly.
"I was not very well worth loving in those days. I
neither understood myself nor anyone else."
"But you do understand yourself now, and I do not
think you hlave changed your mind."
"If I have not, I presume yotu have," she said,
archly.
Both her hands were in his in a moment. Pride,
passion, power, all looked together from his eyes, and
then were succeeded by and lost in a strong, pure tenderness.
"You will," - that was the first impulse, - "I mean,
will you, iarian, will you give up your class at the
end of this quarter?"
"'For what?" the bright archness lingered in her
tone, but her pale cheeks flushed with the dawning of
a new day, and her eyes were too shy to meet those
which sought them.
"To be my wife."
Was it the same Marian Eyre whom he had wooed
in vain before whose hands staid in his now so willingly,
whose lips he kissed with the glad audacity of a happy
lover?
"The patient are the strong," a tender ballad says;
but certainly in this instance the strong was not the
patient. Perhaps Mr. Upjohn thought that a man who
had waited thirty-six years for his happiness had waited
long enough. At any rate, he hurried Marian with her




256         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
preparations until he had shortened his probation to
the briefest possible space. There was a little talk
about a bridal journey, but that she put aside.
" I would rather go home," she said, honestly.
"You know I never had any home, never in all my
life"
So, not at all reluctant at the change of programme,
he lusied himself in making home ready for her.
She had been used to relying on him so long, in
matters of business, that for him to assume all responsibility seemed natural and proper; and it never occurred to her to wonder that in these arrangements of
his he neither consulted her taste nor asked any assistance from her. She went on quietly with her own
preparations, more simple, indeed, than they would
have been once, but not without a certain distinguished
elegance, lacking which Marian would not have been
herself.
At last, one afternoon, they were quietly married in
church, and drove away together to their home in a
pleasant up-town street.
WVhen she stepped into the hall, with her husband's
welcome spoken low and tender in her ear, Marian
began to recognize some old acquaintances,- certain
bronze knights in armor whom she saw first, years ago,
in the shop of a noted Roman fabricant; a cuckoo
clock on a bracket of Geneva wood-carving; an antique
table with a curious vase upon it.
Watching her face, Mr. Upjohn led her through the
house. Here a soft-eyed pictule hung; there a shape




HOUSEHOLD GODS.                257
in marble gleamed; yonder a well-known group in terra
cotta told its old story. In her. own room, her Hope
and her Psyche and her soft-eyed Saint Catherine kept
watch and ward. They had been removed while she
was at church to the place appointed for them. Everywhere was some beloved relic of the old days, - not one
of her treasures missing.
" You bought them all?" she asked, at last.
"Yes, dear; with no thought or hope, then, of this
happy, happy day, —but because, even then, I loved
you too well to see any thing you had helped to select,
or care for, pass into the hands of strangers."
"You know I cannot thank you," she began, but
just there she broke down utterly, a very woman in
her happiness, and wept such tears as all true women
who have loved happily can understand. Round her
were all her household gods, and she had found, at last,
her rest and her home.




THE  JUDGE'S WIFE.
Gc AW HOSE house is that behind the elms?" asked
a stranger, one summer morning in 18-, of
Israel King, landlord of the only inn the good town
of Essex could boast. Strangers frequently made this
inquiry, for the house in question was by far the
most noticeable in the little village. The situation, on
the top of a gentle hill, was in itself fine. Noble old
trees, stately enough to have been the pride of some
English park, surrounded it, and between their foliage
you could catch tempting glimpses of a large, hospitable-looking stone mansion.
6 "Yes, that is a hansum  house. You are not the
fust one, by a good many, to ask who it belongs to,"
commenced the landlord in his circumlocutory fashion,
rubbing his hands and sitting down as who might, if he
was urged, a tale unfold. "I calkerlate it's about as
hansum a house as you'll find in a country village anywhere, and Judge Elliott, the man who owns it and
lives in it, is a fine man, —a master fine man, 2I call
him, though there's been some hard talk about him, but
that's neither here nor there;" and Israel shut his




THE JUDGE'S WIFE.              259
lips together as one not to be induced to tell any thing
more, - at least not without urging.
By this time, however, the stranger's curiosity was
really aroused; besides, he had a lonely morning to
pass before he could attend to the business which had
brought him to Essex, and what could while away the
hours more agreeably than to listen to a story, - a
veritable New-England romance? So he fell in with
the landlord's humor, and urged the worthy publican
to his heart's content. -,?
"'Waal," commenced the narrator, ":I dunno as I
mind tellin' ye, seein' yer a stranger here, an' it can't
do no hurt, ef it don't do no good. It's nigh onto
fifteen year ago; let me see, —yes,'twas seventeen
year ago last spring, - how time does fly, don't it? -
when Jacob Elliott, he wan't judge then, come to
Essex and hung out his shingle. He was a master
smart young lawyer, an Englishman born, and he'd
larnt most of his law in England. Anyhow, he'd got
admitted to this county bar some way, and he'd practised a year over in Simsbury afore he come here. I
never see any young man come up as he did.'Twant
long afore he was on one side or t'other of about
every hard case that was tried in Har'ford county, and
the side he was on most gen'ally come off ahead.
WVhen he'd been here seven year they chose him Judge
of the County Court.
" But I'm gittin' afore my story. He hadn't been
here long when he got acquainted with'Lizabeth
Mills. I dunno as you'd a called her hansum, —most




260         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
o' folks didn't, but somehow I liked the looks of her
better'n any girl in Essex, and I guess'Squire Elliott
was pooty much o' my opinion.
"She wan't small, —ruther above middle size, I
guess you might call her neither slim nor stout. She
had kind of a stately form, and my good woman used
to say she made her think of our horse-chestnut tree,
— not a bit too large for her height, and not a bit
too tall for her size, but shaped just as true as a die,
and kind o' lofty lookin', as if small things couldn't git
nigh her. She's kind o' poetical, Miss King is, and she
allus thought a master sight of'Lizabeth Mills. So did
everybody, for that matter. All the old folks was greatly
took up with her, she was so perlite and respectful and
willin' to talk with'em. The young girls all liked
her. She was so neat and so smart,- she knew how
to twist a ribbon or tie a bow better'n the best of'em,
and she was allus ready to help other folks. Besides,
she never interfered with their sweethearts.  The little
children, -it did beat all how they took to her. She
allus had some nice story to tell'em, and she made'em
rag-babies, and did a heap o' things for'em the other
girls was too fall of beaux and finery ever to think o'
doin'. When she went amongst the little ones they
was allus all over her to once, and she never seemed a
bit put out by'em. Her face would kind o' kindle up
when she see how they loved her, and my good woman
said the smiles she would give'em it did her heart good
to see.' She ought to be married and have some of her
own, she loves'ena so well,' says Miss King. I was




THE JUDGE'S WIFE.               261
pooty much of the same opinion, but we used to think
it was main doubtful whether she ever got married;
the young men was all afraid of her. Truth to tell,
they was the only human critters who was oneasy in
her company. Old folks and young folks, children and
grandparents, all felt free and easy with her, but the
young men hung off. Girls that wan't good enough to
tie up her shoe-strings got courted and married, but
she got along to twenty-three, and I don't believe any
chap had ever so much as walked home with her from
meetin' or singin' school, exceptin' her own brother
William.
"1Her father — everybody called him'Squire Mills,
he'd been Justice of the Peace nigh onto twenty year
- was one of our fust men. He owned the best farm
in Essex, and folks kind o' looked up to him. They
lived in hansummer style than most on us,'specially
arter'Lizabeth grew up. She had a mighty sight o'
taste, that girl had. Their parlor used to look, of a
summer day, like a little garden, with pinks and roses
put all round in cheney saucers and little glass dishes.
He hadn't but them two children,'Squire Mills hadn't,
and they did think a main sight of one'nother.'Lizabeth was jest two years the oldest, but William was
taller than she was, and they was allus together.
"But you'll think I'm  steerin' a good ways from
my story. Truth is, I ain't so young as I used to be,
and my thoughts have got slow'long with my steps,
and like jest about as well as my feet do to stop among
the old places and rest. Never mind, it all has some



262        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
thing mnore or less, to do with Jacob Elliott. lie come
to Essex when'Lizabeth was jest about twenty-three,
and I calkerlate he wan't fur from thirty. As I was
sayin','twan't long afore he got acquainted with'Squire
Mills' folks, and he and'Lizabeth seemed to take to
each other from the fust. He was over there most every
night on one excuse or another; and they read together, and talked, and walked about under the trees;
but somehow I didn't think the courtin' seemed to git
along very —fast. The young man grew thin and pale,
and somethin' seemed to worry him mightily. You
had to speak to him twice afore he'd hear you, and
everybody noticed how absent-minded he was. Most
o' folks laid it to his bein''fiaid of'Lizabeth; she had
carried sech a high head to all the young men. But
my good woman sees about as fur into a millstone as
anybody, and, says she to me, 
"' Israel, you may depend'tain't no sech a thing.
He understands'Lizabeth too well to feel'fraid of her.
He's got somethin' to trouble him that we don't know
nothin' about. Maybe he feels too poor to be married.'
" The time come afterwards that we understood those
symptoms better, but my good woman was right when
she said he had somethin' to trouble him that nobody
knew on.
"Waal, things went on in that fashion fur some time,
and one night - it was a summer night, and dark as a
pocket - I was outside of the house, sittin' down to git
cooled off under the horse-chestnut tree, in front there
by the road, and I see'Squire Elliott come out o''Squire




THE JUD GE S WIFE.              263
Mills' gate, - that is'Squire Mills' house, the third one
from here, on the other side of the road. I could see
him in spite o' the dark, - I'd been out so long my eyes
had got used to it. I dunno as I told ye he took his
meals at our house, but he lodged in his office, just beyond here. As he come along by where I was sittin',
I heard him say to himself, he spoke kind o' firm like,
as if he'd made up his mind,"'Well, I shall taste happiness now. Dear girl.
God knows I would die before any harm should come
to her, but I cannot tell her my secret. She would
never see the matter as I do.'
A6 rter his office door bad shut, I went into the house
and told Miss King what I'd heerd. My good woman
never was no gossip.
"4 Waal, Israel,' says she, when I'd told her,'keep it
all to yourself. If'Squire Elliott don't choose to tell
his secrets, don't you go and let on that he's got'em.
He knows his own business best, and he'll do about the
right thing, I guess. He's a good man; he shows it in
his face.'
"Waal, I took Miss King's advice. I didn't say
any thing, and the next day we heerd that'Squire Elliott
and'Lizabeth Mills had promised to have one another,
and would be married that fall. From that day'Squire
Elliott seemed to have put off his trouble, whatever it
was. He had a quick hearin' and a kind word for
everybody, and his face -he was a master hansum
man —seemed all kindled up with hope.
"Where his stone house stands now was a good,




264        SOME WOMEN'S REEARTS.
roomy two-story wooden one then, andc'Squire Mills
owned the place. It was ruther old-fashioned, to be
sure, but it had been a good house in its day, and all
the trees and every thing o' that sort was jest as hansum then as they are now. Jacob Elliott wan't wuth
a great deal, but old'Squire Mills give a deed o' the
place to'Lizabeth, and fitted it up a little, and that fall
they was married and went to livin' in it.
"You never see a happier couple. For the next five
years I don't believe they knew what trouble meant,
only I reckon'Lizabeth would have liked some children,
and they never had none. Babies came thick as hops to
folks that had nothin' to take care on'em with and didn't
want' em, and'Squire Elliott's practice grew bigger, and
he made more and more money every year, and there
was only they two to use it. Maybe'twas my notion
that'Lizabeth wanted any more. At any rate, they
was all bound up in each other, and they seemed happy
as the day is long.
"At last the'Squire concluded to build, and they
went home one summer, and staid to old'Squire Mills'.
In the mean time the old house was tore dowh, and
that big stone one put up in its place, and in the fall
they went to housekeepin' again. There didn't seem to
be any human comfort wantin' to'em then. That winter'Lizabeth jined the church. She allus had seemed as
good as a saint to me, but Miss King said, after this her
face was like the face of an angel, and her voice was so
tender and full of love to everybody that it most made
the tears come in your eyes to hear it.




THE JUDGE'S WIFE.               265
"The next year they chose him Judge, and now
Judge Elliott was quite a great man among us. They
looked up to him more than ever, and folks that hadn't
seen any beauty in'Lizabeth Mills' face begun to think
her a'mazin' fine-lookin' woman, now her husband was
Judge, and she wore silks and satins stiff enough, as
Miss King said, to stand alone. Most folks would'a
been set up, in her place, but she hadn't half so high
and mighty an air to anybody now as she used to put on
to the young men when she was'Lizabeth Mills. She
was a true Christian, if there's one on earth, I b'lieve,
and she did all the good she could to everybody. It
seems main hard that heavy trouble should come to any
one so good as she was, but the Scripter says that the
Lord chastens those He loves, and maybe, though we
couldn't see it, her heart was sot too much on this
world.
"The next summer arter the one Jacob Elliott was
chosen Judge there came a stranger to my house, —
I've kept tavern here for twenty-five year, summer and
winter. He was a gentleman, I saw that the minit I
put my eye on him. He looked somethin' like Judge
Elliott, I couldn't help thinkin'. He was younger, and
his featers wan't much like the Judge's, only there was
a kind of a look, - what you might call a family likeness. He told me if he found it pleasant here, he might
stop several days, and he should like to git acquainted
with some of the people in the village. He was an
Englishman, he said, travellin' in America for pleasure,
and he thought the best way of judging of a country
12




266         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
was to know somethin' about its inhabitants. Then,
says he, kind o' careless like, as you asked me this
mornin', 
"' Who lives in that hansum  stone house behind
the ellls?'
"I told him it was Judge Elliott, and that he was an
Englishman. He seemed mightily interested at once,
and I went on and told him all I knew about the Judge,
so fur; jest as I've told it to you, only I didn't speak o'
the words I'd heerd him say the night arter he got engaged to'Lizabeth Mills.
"When I'd got through, says he, —'Thank you, Mr.
King,'- he was a mighty perlite, smooth-spoken man,
-' I have been very much interested in your story.
Would you feel free to take me over to Judge Elliott's,
and introduce me? I should like to make his acquaintance very much.'
"' Free,' says I,' bless your heart, anybody feels free
to go and see Judge Elliott, - there isn't a kinder or
more hospitable nman anywhere.'
" With that I went into the house and brushed up a
little. Then I clapped on my hat and started off. It
wanted jest about two hours of dinner time. It happened that the Judge himself came to the door.
"'How do you do, neighbor King?' says he, in his
pleasant, friendly way, and then his eyes fell upon the
stranger gentleman. I could have sworn that he turned
as white as a sheet to his very lips, but the next second
I doubted my own eyes, for his smile was so composed
and pleasant, and his manner so natural that it didn't




THE JUD GES WIFE.              267
seem as if any thing could have stirred him up enough
to make him turn pale a minit afore.
"'Perhaps,' thinks 1,'it was only in my eyes, and
perhaps it might have been a suddin paiu come over
him.'
"So I took no notice. Says I, -
"'Judge Elliott, this is Mr. Robert Armstrong, an
English gentleman, who would like to git acquainted
with you.'
"He shook hands heartily with the stranger, -he
was allus a master cordial man, - and then he invited
us in. The time passed quickly, and, fust we knew, it
was dinner time. We had sot talkin' two hours. To
be sure I hadn't talked much, I reckoned it warn't my
place; no more had Mr. Armstrong, fur that matter;
he'd seemed satisfied to sit an' hear the Judge talk and
look at him, and sure enough I'd never seen Judge Elliott more sociable, and he allus was a mighty good
talker. When I see it was dinner time I made a move
to go, but the Judge wouldn't hear to no sech thing.
We must both stay and take dinner with him, he said.
Fust I thought I'd go home and leave Mr. Armstrong,
but arter a good deal o' pressin' I agreed to stay too.
" Jest then Miss Elliott come into the room. You've
no idee how grand and kind o' splendid she looked in
that hansum parlor. It seemed jest made for her to
live in. She had on a silk gown, sort of a dove color,
and it trailed along behind her on the carpet when she
walked. She had more hair than any other woman I
ever see, and it was braided that day, and wound round




268         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
her head somethin' like pictures you've seen of queens.
She couldn't a looked more like a queen ef she'd been
born one, — so stately as she was, with her silk dress,
her pale face, and her dark eyes, with pride and kindness both in their looks. I tell you I was a little set
up to have the Englishman see in a Hal'ford County
Connecticut girl a woman they'd a' been proud of in
Queen Vie's court. I see he was struck all of a heap
with her, to once. He talked with her very quiet and
respectful, and she was sociable and yet dignified to him,
and real friendly to the old tavern-keeper she'd known
ever sence she was knee-high.
" It didn't want very keen eyes to see that the Judge
was prouder o' her than of house and lands; and every
now and then, in the midst of her talk, she would look
at her husband, with eyes runnin' over full of love. I
tell you, stranger, it ain't every man that gits looked at
like that in his journey through this world. I could
see'Armstrong noticed her looks and understood'em
as well as I did.
"Waal, pooty soon we had dinner, and a nice one it
was, too; and when it was over, the Judge invited us to
walk out into the grounds. Miss Elliott, she stayed in
the house, and arter a little I got kind o' strayed away
from'em. I hadn't any idee of their having any privacy to talk, but I thought they might get better acquainted without me than with me.
"There's a double walk round back o' the Judge's
house. Three rows of pine-trees are plantedl thick together, in kind of semicircular fashion; a middle row




THE JUDGE'S WIFE.               269
and two outside ones. Between the middle row and
each outside one is a walk where you can never hear a
footstep, the dead pine leaves cover the ground so soft
and thick. Somehow the shade looked invitin', and
arter a little I went into one of these walks. It was
the outside one, furthest from the house, and pooty soon
I heard Judge Elliott's voice, and knew't they were in
the other one.
"Bimeby I looked through, between the trees. I
knew the green was so thick they warn't likely to see
me, and I thought I'd jest give'emn a good look, as they
walked slowly along, and see ef it had all been my imagination about Mfr. Armstrong's lookin' so much like
the Judge. They were pacin' under the pines, and the
Judge made some remark and seemed waitin' for an
answer. Just that minit MIr. Armstrong —he was a
little ahead - turned round suddenly and stood full in
front of Judge Elliott.
"'My brother,' he cried out, with sort of a tender
yearnin' in his voice,' my own dear brother Alfred,'I was lookin' at the Judge and I saw that same strange
look pass a second time over his face, turnin' it white
to the lips. But, as afore, it went away in a minit, and
he gave Mr. Armstrong kind of a puzzled, surprised
smile.
"'Do not deny me, you cannot,' the stranger went
on, his voice gatherin'. up passion and energy.'You
are my brother, my own elder brother Alfed. Did
you think I would believe you were dead? Did you
think I would never find you? I loved you too well,




270        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
my heart clung to you as to my life. I felt in my
heart that the world still held you. I have hoped and
waited all these years, and at last it came about in the
very strangest way. I happened to see a few numbers
of the Noreth American -Review, and there were  some
articles in them which I knew were yours. There was
no name to them, but I could not be mistaken. They
advocated some of your favorite old theories; they had
exactly your cast of mind, your very turns of expression. I thought no labor too much by which I might
hope to find my brother; so with only this clue I crossed
the ocean. I came to Boston and learned the name
and address of the author of those papers, and then I
came here to find you. The landlord strengthened my
conviction by telling me you were an Englishm1an, and
had not been in this country more than nine or ten
years. And now I have seen your well-known smile;
heard your well-known voice; felt the touch of your
hand. Do you think you could deceive me now? Oh,
Alf, Alf, you will not try to shut me out of your
heart?'
"At that moment he made a movement as if he
would throw himself on his brother's neck, and Judge
Elliott drew back real quiet and dignified. Armstrong
had forced me into believin' him by his earnestness, but
I must say I was staggered by the Judge's cool, calim
manner. I couldn't believe any brother could put it
on arter listenin' to sech words. I begun to think the
stranger must be on a wrong track.
"'I am more than puzzled by what you say,' an



THE  JUDGE'S WIFE.               271
swered the Judge, in his grave, perlite way.'BIy
name is not Alfred Armstrong, but Jacob Elliott. I
am an Englishman, it is true, but I think if you will
look at me again you will convince yourself that we
have never met before.'
"'Oh, Alf, Alf,' cried the stranger again,' this is too
cruel. I cannot bear it. I will not. To have hoped
for this meeting for ten long years and then be cast off
like this. I know that woman I saw in the house
would be an excuse for a good deal, but I swear to you
I will not interfere with your happiness. I will not ask
you to take your first wife back. I will not betray you
to a soul on earth; only call me brother; only let me
into your heart,' and he made as if lie would have
thrown himself at Judge Elliott's feet, and still the
Judge drew back and answered calmly, and yet sort o'
cuttingly, -
"' I should be sorry, my dear sir, to suspect you of
being a monomaniac, but I am at a loss to account for
your vagaries in any other manner. The only wife I
ever had is M)'rs. Elliott, the lady I had the honor of
presenting to you. I have no brother, and never had,
and if you persist further in this strange talk I shall be
obliged to bring our interview to a close.'
6" I declare, sir, I wish you could a' heard how that
Armstrong cdid beg. I can't tell it over, rightly, so I
won't try, but it acterly squeezed the tears out o' my
eyes, and I ain't one o' the cryin' kind. He couldn't
a begged harder fiur his life. He kep tellin' over all
sorts of boy capers that he said they had cut up to



272        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
gether, -he talked about his mother, and how  she
told'em to love one'nother when she was dying; and
he promised to go away satisfied if the Judge would
only call him brother once, and let him go off thinkin'
they two loved one'nother as they used to.
"But'twan't no use. The Judge didn't flinch a
hair. He wan't apparently no more moved than a
stone. He kep jest as perlite and smilin' as ever,
until at last he seemed to git tired o' listenin', and then
he put a stop to the talk ruther sternly, and turned to
walk away. I never shall forgit how Armstrong's face
looked that minit. Somethin' like pride seemed riz up in
him at last, and he cried out in a firm, strong voice,"' Alfred Armstrong, I will trouble you no more, —
I will never trouble you again.. Cast me off and deny
me, if you will, - forget your dead mother and your
poor old living father, and scorn every tie of blood!
Go on in sin, yes, sizn, and the time will come when
my face shall haunt you; when you won't die easy
without my forgiveness, which you must ask for before
you have it.'
"The Judge never made no answer. There was a
mighty strange look on his face as he walked away, as
if he had fixed all his features jest so, so't they
shouldn't tell no story.  I was puzzled, you may
depend. I didn't know what to make of any on't.
When you heerd Armstrong speak you couldn't help
believin' him, and then again I thought he must be
mistaken,'cause I didn't think any nateral born brother
could a' stood it out agin them words as the Judge




THE JU  GE'S WIFE.             273
had. And then I see some things that didn't look
quite reasonable to that view o' the case, so I had to
give it up. I was mighty shamed o' listenin', I confess to you, but I hadn't had no notion o' doin' on't in
the fust place, and I dunno but most men would a'
done the same thing if they had stood in my place,
arter they'd heerd the beginnin' on't. Anyhow, I went
out o' the other end o' the pine walk, and dodged
about among the trees, and went into the parlor, and
I don't think Judge Elliott ever mistrusted, from that
day to this, that I heerd him.
" It wan't more'n ten minutes afore he and Mr. Armstrong come in together, as perlite and civil as possible,
but I didn't think there seemed quite as much friendliness betwixt'em as there had afore dinner. Mr. Armstrong apologized for keepin' me waitin', and pooty
soon we started for home. You may b'lieve'twan't
long afore I'd told Miss King all about it.
"' That's one o' the prime comforts o' havin' a good
wife. When you want to tell somethin' so you can't
keep it in no longer, you can go to her, and it's jest as
safe as it was afore. She didn't know what to make
on't no more'n I did, but she charged me to keep it all
to myself, and I may say I didn't need no caution on
that pint, for Judge Elliott wan't a man a body'd like
to git sot agin him, and indeed I liked him and his
wife both, too much to want to make'em any trouble.
Ef there was any thing at all to Armstrong's story, wife
and I concluded that the Judge had had a wife in
England and been divorced from her, and was afraid
12*                a




274         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
to have it come out for fear'Lizabeth wouldn't live
with him; knowin' how strict she was about them
matters. Ef that was the case, Miss King said there
was some excuse for his not ownin' his brother, for we
all knew that he sot his life by'Lizabeth. But we were
fur enough from guessing the truth. We wan't much
surprised when Mr. Armstrong paid his bill and left
the next mornin'. We kep all these things to ourselves, and I may safely say that's more'n some people
would a done; maybe more'n I should a done ef I
hadn't had my good woman to help me.
" Arter this time it seemed to me that I could see a
little difference in the Judge. I reckon no one else
noticed it, but I could see that he was more silent, and
when he wan't talkin' there was a look in his face as if
some heavy trouble had settled down on his heart.
I guess he was more'n ever soft and tender to'Lizabeth.
Folks said, laughingly, that he seemed to be afraid he
should lose her if she was out of his sight a minit;
and, true enough, when he was to home they wan't
never long separated.
"It went on three months, and then,'long the fust
of October, the Judge was suddenly took down with
brain fever. I'spose all these things had been a
harassin' him till he couldn't keep'em under no longer.
From  the fust day he was took down he was jest as
crazy as a loon. Miss King allus was a master hand
at nussin', and she thought so much o''Lizabeth that
she went right over there and told'em she'd stay by,
pretty much o' the time till the wust was over. After




TlE JUDGE'S WIFE.               275
she'd been there twenty-four hours, she come home to
see to things a little, and she told me it was enough to
break a body's heart to hear how the Judge went on.
Sometimes he'd start up and say, real firm, -' My
name is not Alfred Armstrong. I am Jacob Elliott.'
Then sometimes he'd cry out, so pitiful, to his brother
to come back, — that he never meant to send him of,
- he did love him, and allus had. Often and often he'd
say, as humble as a little child,-' Won't you forgive
me, brother Robert? You told the truth, I can't die
easy without it, - oh, Rob!'
"Other times he'd shout out to him to be gone, --
that'Lizabeth was his wife, the only wife he ever did
have, or would have, -nobody should take her away.
Then again he'd put on a smilin', perlite face that was
wuss than any on't to see, and he'd say, -
" I I never saw you before, no, sir, never. Excuse me,
but you are entirely mistaken.'
" I'spose Miss King understood these things a good
deal better'n'Lizabeth did, but, of course, she couldn't
explain nothin'. He kep goin on so, day arter day.
" Gen'ally I used to see my good woman once a day,
and she told me it did beat all how'Lizabeth bore it.
She was jest as white as a sheet, Miss King said, but
she kep over him night and day, and never seemed a
bit tired nor sleepy. Wife had a sofy in one corner o'
the room, where she used to lie down and sleep nights,
for she was determined not to leave'Lizabeth, and,
spite o' restin' a good deal, she was pretty well tuckered out; but she said'Lizabeth didn't seem to know




276         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
what tired meant. Miss Mills,'Lizabeth's mother, was
old and feeble now, so't she couldn't be there, and wife
tried to be a mother to the poor, troubled critter as
well as she could.'Lizabeth was one o' them kind
that don't love easy, but when they do love it's deep.
Miss King said if the Judge died she thought they'd
both go together.
1" One mornin', when he'd been sick a little more'n
a week, I got up early and went out door. It was
jest about the finest mornin' I ever see. The sun was
comin' up red and round, and the trees was green as
ever in some places, and in others they looked as if
they'd jest been sot afire. I don't pertend to think
much o' sech things, but somehow, that mornin' took
right hold of me, and made me feel soft-hearted, but
maybe I shouldn't remember it so well ef it hadn't been
for what came arterwards.
"6 Jest then I see Miss King a comin', and I went to
meet her. Somehow I was'mazin' glad to see her.
There hadn't been a soul to stop to the house sence the
Judge was sick, and there hadn't been no partikler need
of her in a business pint o' view, but somehow things
allus look lonesome to home when a woman ain't about.
"( When I come up to her, though, I see pretty soon
that somethin' more'n common had happened. At fust
thought I didn't know but the Judge was dead, and I
asked her.
"6No,' says she,'but I dunno but he'd better be
afore all comes out that's got to.''"She wouldn't say no more till we'd got into the




THE JUD GE'S WIFE.             277
house and sot down together, all alone. Then she told
me how, the night before, as she lay on the sofy in the
corner, and Miss Elliott sot by the Judge's bed, he
woke up, and she could see in a minit that he was
rational again. She said she'd been talkin' with Miss
Elliott the minit afore, and as long as she knew of
her bein' there she thought no harm  o' lyin' still,
though perhaps she'd ought to have got up and gone
out. The Judge was dreadful weak, but he managed
to put out his hand and touch his wife's. In a minit
she was bendin' over him and kissin' him as if he'd been
a baby. Says he, -
"I'You do love me,'Lizabeth. All this time when
you thought I didn't know any thing I've felt that you
was hoverin' round me and taking care o' me.'
"As he said that, Miss King said the tears gushed
right out, and his wife kind o' soothed him, and then,
pooty soon, he broke out again. He said he couldn't
keep his secret no longer. It had well nigh killed him,
or made him crazy for life, keepin' it so long. Then he
went on and told her how, when he was a young man,
not much more'n a boy, he'd been married in England.
He didn't love the woman, nor she didn't love him, but
she was rich, and somehow his folks and hernm fixed it
up between'em, and he didn't make no objections.
He'd never been in love then, and sech things was more
common there than they are here. So he lived with the
woman a number o' year, and, from not carin' any thing
about her in the fust place, he got to most hatin' her.
" She didn't suit him no way, and he began to feel




278        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
as ef all his futur was spilt by marryin' her. But
he was too reasonable to lay it all to her. I guess
he blamed himself the most. Well, arter a while, he
found out, pooty nigh for certain, that she hadn't been
true to him. He said he s'posed he might a got positive proof of it ef he'd a tried, and ef he'd known what
was comin' arter, he would a tried. But as it was, he
didn't think he should ever want to marry again, and
he pitied her, and felt like bein' merciful to her. He
thought it wan't her fault, marryin' as she did, - that,
maybe, ef he'd a loved her, and been tender and lovin'
to her, she'd a' kep strait. So he concluded to leave her
her good name, and all the money he had married her
for, and go off in sech a way that folks would think he
had killed himself, and she could marry the man she
liked ef she wanted to.
"i It was pooty hard to leave his old father, and harder
still to leave his younger brother, who had allus been
nearer to him than any thing else in the world, ever
sence his mother died, but he was pooty nigh desperate,
and when he'd made up his mind he didn't flinch. He
come to America, and took a new name. He had
studied law in England, and he went into'Squire
Holmes' office over to Simsbury, —he'd happened to
git acquainted with the'Squire in Boston, where he
landed, —and pooty soon got admitted to the bar.
He'd no thought of ever marryin' at that time, but
when he come here and see'Lizabeth Mills, he found
out what love was.
"'Twould e'en a most melted a stone, my good




THE  JUDGE'S WIFE.             279
woman said, to hear him tell how he loved her, and
what a fight he had in his own mind afore he could
make out what to do. He thought some, fust, of going
back to England and tryin' for a divorce, but he s'posed
they'd all gin him up for dead there; he didn't know
as he could get one, and he knew that'Lizabeth was
dead sot agin'em.
"Finally, he concluded that, whatever Alfred Armstrong had done, Jacob Elliott had never been married,
and he didn't think there was one chance in a thousand
that anybody'd ever know them two names meant one
person. Take it all in all, he felt perfectly safe in gettin'
married agin; and arter he'd once made up his mind
his conscience never troubled him. He persuaded himself that he was doin' right. I've allus noticed it was
pooty easy to do that when a man's whole heart was
sot on any thing. His life had been as happy as any
human bein's need to be till arter his brother come.'
"He told her all that story, - how his heart had
yearned over his brother, but he had loved her so much
better he couldn't run the shadder of a risk of havin'
to give her up, and so he had sent his brother off. But
Robert's voice had sounded ever sence in his ear,- he
couldn't silence it. Robert's last words had stuck by
him. Livin' in sin, —he couldn't get that out o' his
mind, and he had brooded over it until the fever came.
He had never meant to tell her, but he couldn't go anywhere else for comfort, and he couldn't keep it in no
longer. All the way throu!gh, Miss King said'Lizabeth
had listened without sayin' a word, but she could see




280         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
by the lamp-light that her face looked as ef it was
turnin' into stone, and when he got so fur a cry come
out of her lips, not loud, but a sort of gasp like, as if
her heart was breakin', and says she, —
"'Thank God that I've no children to bear this with
me.' Wife said she couldn't help thinkin' then how
often we see that God is blessin' us instead of cursin'
us in keepin' back the very things we hanker arter the
most. When'Lizabeth had gin that one cry she
bowed her head down on the bed, kind o' helpless like.
With that, Miss King said, the Judge seemed as strong
as a lion. He caught her in his arms and kissed her
cheeks and her eyes and her white lips. He told her
she was his wife, —his only wife; the only one he had
ever loved or would ever own,, and, now she knew all,
they would be so happy together. Surely she couldn't
think, for one moment, that first marriage was binding
before God, - nobody could.  A woman he had never
loved, who had never loved him. Besides, he was Alfred Armstrong no longer. He was another man now,
and she was his wife, his own true wife, and no power
on earth had any right to separate them. Then, when
she didn't say any thing, he began callin' on her to forgive him, and tellin' her if she didn't, he should die
there afore her eyes. At last this roused her, and she
kissed him once.
"'Oh, Jacob,' says she,'forgive you! I forgive you
as I hope to be forgiven. How you have loved me.'
1" By this time he was all exhausted, and she soothed
him and made him go to sleep. I s'pose, in his weak



THIE JUDGE'S WIFE.               281
ness, he thought'twould be all right now, -she had
forgiven him, and so they should live right along, jest
as they did afore; but, ef he did, he didn't know'Lizabeth. Arter he had got well to sleep she left him and
come along to where wife was lyin'. Miss King said it
seemed as ef she'd grown ten years older in that one
night. Says she,"' You heard it all?' Wife told her she did hear it,
and that she pitied her as ef she was her own child.
There was some pride left in her, gentle as she was.
I s'pose she didn't like to be pitied, and she cut Miiss
King short by askin' her'not to mention what she had
heard, for her sake, till the Judge got better. Then it
must all come out, but till then she'd be thankful to
have it kept secret. Of course wife promised, and she
didn't consider that she broke it by tellin' me, fur we
never had no privacies from one'nother. Neither of
us said a single word to any outsider, but I tell you
our hearts ached in them  days for'Lizabeth. Miss
King was over there pooty much o' the time till the
Judge got better, and, as fur as she knew on, the subject was never mentioned again betwixt him and Miss
Elliott. But all this time, she said,'Lizabeth was jest
the tenderest nuss. She built him up as nobody else
would a' had the patience to, and at last, when he had
got comfortable, she went out of the house one Noveniber mornin', and over to her father's; and, pooty
soon, we see old'Squire Mills hobblin' along arter the
doctor.
" She had borne up as long as she could, and now




252         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
she was took down with a fever herself; and for some
six weeks we half hoped, half feared she would never
get up again. I say half hoped she wouldn't, fur it
didn't look as ef there could be any more comfort fur
her in this life. We all knew how she loved the Judge,
and we knew, jest as well as we knew her, that she'd
never live with him any more.
"When he heard she was sick he was nigh upon
crazy. Jest as soon as he could, he used to crawl over
to'Squire Mills' and sit beside her. Even her best
fr!iends, now it had all come out, hadn't the heart to
reproach him. It was clear to everybody that he'd sot
a great deal more by her than he did by his life, and he
wan't no more the same man that he was six months
ago than two persons. Trouble and sickness had broke
him down as twenty years o' common life couldn't have
begun to.
"It was Christmas before'Lizabeth begun to set up.
Everybody called her'Miss Elliott' jest as they used
to, and I s'pose'twould a' come hard to her to give up
the name she had been called by through all the happiest years of her life. When she was toler'ble well and
strong she asked to see the Judge alone, one day. It
was the first time she ever had seen himr alone a minit,
sence she went out of his house. They had a long talk.
Nobody knew what they said, but I s'pose she made
him understand that they must never be notbin' more'n
common friends to each other again. When it was
over she went upstairs to her roomn, and wan't seen
again that day by anybody, and the Judge come out




THE JUDGE'S WIFE.              283
and walked slowly along to his own house, where he
must live alone all the rest of his life, and his face
looked a'most as if he was struck with death.
" Arter that he didn't go there no more for some time,
-rthen he got to goin' again, maybe once a week, and
she would sit in the room with her old, feeble mother
and talk with him fur an hour together. But I should
a thought'twould a been about as bad as not seein' one'nother at all. All this time she was urgin' it upon him
to go to England and make it up with his brother.
Besides, she told him it was his duty to find out whether
he hadh't been mistaken about his wife, and, if he had
been, to live with her again, if she wanted to live with
him.  I couldn't see no duty o' that sort about it,
but'Lizabeth had got it into her head, and she could
allus make him do jest about what she thought was
right.
"So the next spring he sailed for England, and it
was nigh upon fall afore he got back again. He had
found his father alive, and he and his brother had made
it all up. As for his wife, the man that he thought she
was in love with had been dead a number o' year, and
he heard a good character of her everywhere, so't maybe he'd been mistaken in what he thought about her in
the fust place. But she told him she never had loved
him no more'n lie had her, and that, so furl from havin'
any desire to live with him, nothin' short o' force would
ever make her do it. So he come back, as he went,
alone.
"He went to see'Lizabeth the fust thing, and she




284         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
was well pleased that he had done his duty, but she
knew her'n, and she could never be nothin' more than
friendly to him again. I don't rightly understand the
law o' the case, but he couldn't git a divorce from his
English wife, though she might a got one from him ef
she'd chosen, but she didn't.
"I forgot to say that as soon as the matter had come
out he had resigned his office, but folks call him Judge
Elliott still, and I s'pose they allus will. He's had
chances enough to practise, for'most all that knew his
story pitied him more'n they blamed him, but he
hain't done much business sence.'Twan't long afore
his father died, and he got some consider'ble money from
England. He paid'Squire Mills more'n what the old
place where he built his house was wuth, and I s'pose
he'll allus live there."
" How  long is it since?" asked the stranger, as
honest Israel King concluded the narrative to which he
had been an absorbed listener.
"Waal, I should think a matter o' nine year. Let's see.
Seven year arter he fust came here he was chose Judge,
and the next year this affair come out, and he's been
here in all seventeen year this spring."
"And he has lived here nine years, only a few steps
from the woman he loved so well; who had thought
herself, for seven years, his true and lawful wife, and
neither of them are dead or mad?"
Honest Israel smiled, a shrewd yet sorrowful smile.
"No, they wan't weak by natur, either of'em.
Plenty of women that didn't love half so deep as




THE JUDGE'S WIFE.              285'Lizabeth would have broke their hearts and died, but
hers broke and she lives. It's somethin' like Moses
smitin' the rock for the water to gush out, my good
woman says, for her life has been a constant stream of
kindness and good deeds ever sence. She don't shet
herself up in any selfish sorrow, but I guess she goes to
the best place for comfort, arter all. She does jest what
God tells her. She's kinder than ever to the old folks,
and I guess she's nigh about the best idee the children
have got of an angel. She sees the Judge pretty often.
He goes there every now and then and spends an evening with her and the old folks. Anybody'd s'pose that
would be a sorrowful kind of comfort, but it seems to
do him good; and every now and then they meet when
she's on some of her walks, and he talks with her a
little while, and then goes back into his hansurn house
alone. I should s'pose it must be a pretty hard tussle
for him to live right along where she used to live with
him, but Miss King thinks it's the very reason he want's
to live there. She thinks he can kind o' fancy, sometimes, that'Lizabeth's sittin' in the old places, and hear
her voice when it's all still and quiet round him."
The landlord paused, and his guest was silent also.
Both were lingering in pensive thought over sorrows
not their own. At length the old man touched the
stranger's arm.
" There she comes now," he said, almost in a whisper. "You can go out and walk kind o' careless along
the road, and you'll get a good sight at her."
The stranger's interest was too much absorbed for




286         SOME WOMEN'S HIEARTS.
him to pause and consider the questionable delicacy of
this course. He went out of the yard, and sauntered
along the street. He saw a woman of forty, more
beautiful, to him, than any younger face he had ever
seen. She looked, as Israel King had said, a grand
woman, strong in body and soul. Her face was still,
and pale, and fair. Round the lofty forehead was
braided hair as dark and luxuriant as ever. Under it
shone large, clear eyes, full of a glory and a light not
of this world. HIeaven's own peace sat on her features, and smiled in the mouth, sweet as a child's,
but firm as a martyr's. She wore a quiet, gray dress,
which suited her as well as the silks and satins of
earlier days ever could have done.  Her step was
lofty, her port worthy of an empress.
"Fit for earth or fit for Heaven," he murmured involuntarily as he looked on her, - "fit for one because
fit for the other.". He could see that "' the tranquil God,
who tranquillizes all things," had sent calm upon her
life.
As she walked by Judge Elliott's stately house, he
saw a man go out and speak to her, - a man, to whose
life calmness, unless it be the calmness of despair, was
yet to come; a man, old beyond his forty-eight years,
sorrowful, downcast, lonely. He saw this man's face
brighten as she talked with him, and, finally, he saw
her gather from  the hedge a rose full of dew and
fragrance, and give it to him, and then-go calmly on her
way, leaving some of the glory of her presence behind
her.




THE JUD GE'S WIFE.             287
He went slowly back to the inn.
"That was Judge Elliott," said the landlord, meeting
him as he approached. "Poor things! Poor things!
I s'pose it'll be all squared up and come out right up
there," and he lifted his old, weather-beaten face to the
calm blue of the summer morning sky. Did he see,
through and beyond the azure, a glimpse of shining
turrets, the gold and pearl and amethyst of the city
not made with hands?
It is just ten years since my friend, to whom the
Connecticut innkeeper related this strange story, recounted it to me. It interested me deeply at the time,
and it was many months before I ceased to think of it.
It was obscured, at length, by the interests of my own
life, and passed out of my heart as such tales will,
when we have never seen the faces or heard the voices
of the people. Perhaps it would never have come back
to me, but for a strange chance, or Providence. Looking over, in an idle hour, the deaths and marriages in a
file of English papers, sent me by a friend, my eyes fell
on this:"Died, at Birmingham,  Susan Armstrong, wife or
widow of Alfred Armstrong."
With feelings stronger than an idle whim I marked
this item, and sent it to the address of the man whom,
in this " ower true tale," I have chosen to call Jacob
Elliott, but who was known by another name to the
denizens of Hartford County. Perhaps he already was
aware of his first wife's decease, and had wooed and




288        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
wedded again the Elizabeth of his love; or, perhaps, one
or both of them may have gone long ago to the land
where, we are told, is neither marrying nor giving in
marriage, but where, I love to think, those who love
truly here will love on for ever. I know not. Heaven
is higher than earth, and nothing is left to blind chance.
Those two were God's care, for they were His children.
Pray for them, all kind souls!




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
E were two girls together, Margaret and I.
Our mother was dead, and now that we were
through school, -we kept house for our father, and were
under very little restraint of any kind.  Margaret,
our friends said, was her mother's child, I my father's.
I had, in fact, inherited all that I was front him.
Strong, muscular organization; black eyes and straight
black hair; olive skin; firm, yet pleasure-loving lips;
haughty forehead; fiery, yet easily soothed temper;
warm  affections, - these were his, and he had given
them all to me, his oldest daughter.
Neither of us could remember our mother, but a portrait of her, taken just before her marriage, would have
answered equally well for Margaret. She died at the
birth of this her youngest child, passing from earth
gently and sweetly, like a flower which exhales its soul
in perfume. I have been told that my father's agony
was terrible. Grief with him was as the storms in tropic
climates; it swept every thing before it with a resistless flood, to which neither reason nor religion could
for the time oppose any barrier. For weeks he could
not bear to look at the infant thus left him. When at
13                  s




290         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
length the calm succeeded to the tempest, and he
heard, in the quiet, the still, small voice from heaven,
he learned resignation, and turned for comfort to the
ties which yet bound him  to life. The little, white
thing, lying upon pillows in the nursery or nestling
to a stranger's bosom, looked up to him with the eyes
of his early love. He named her Margaret then, because it means pearl, and no other name seemed so
fitting for the frail, fair babe. Besides, he had given
for her all he had, and to him, therefore, she was indeed
a pearl of great price.
My sister was fair.  She looked like the women
whom the early painters chose for models when they
painted angels.  She had hair of tawny gold, -you
saw such if ever you paid your respects to Page's
Venus. Her eyes were, in color, like the sky where its
blue is'deep and cloudless, and a light shone in their
depths tender and tranquil as a star. Moreover, she
had small and delicate features, a mouth to which
smiles came not too often, but like returning children
to their home, - you have seen faces where the smiles
were aliens, and you felt as if they required a safeconduct, — a skin transparent and faultlessly smooth;
a shape tall, slender, and graceful, and you have Margaret, as charming a blonde as the most ardent admirer
of that type of beauty could desire. She was firm,
too; those fair women always are. Her character had
plenty of tone and fibre. It is we brunettes who are
easily moved and governed, after all. I could outstormu
twenty like Margaret.  While she sat calm and quiet




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.  291
and apparently submissive, I could raise a tempest and
put the whole house in commotion. But I always
ended by doing precisely as she wished. We passionate souls always yield, if only we find people firm
enough to remain unmoved by us, quietly persistent
in their own will.
I think it was because Margaret and I were so different that we were friends in the true sense of the word.
I suppose sisters always love each other. There is
duty, natural affection, and all that; you know what, if
you've read Mrs. Ellis.  But they are not usually
friends. Ripening on the same vine, they are as like
as two peas. There is no charm of novelty. Their
society cloys each other like sweet wine. In our case
the wine was spicy and pungent. We could never
thoroughly analyze its taste, and returned each time to
the draught with new zest and new curiosity.
You know something about us now, and I will proceed to tell you what we did.
It was early in the month of June, and a leap-year.
We were living very quietly out of town.  Every
afternoon at five o'clock papa drove out, his business
being over at that hour, and often brought with him
some mercantile fiiencl to dine and go back in the evening, or, if he were not a family man, to occupy a spare
chamber and drive into town with him in the morning.
Margaret and I never saw much of these visitors beyond making ourselves agreeable to themn at dinner.
We voted them old fogies, and never imagined any
possibilities of entertainment fromn their society. We




i292        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
saw very few young people either. We had so many
sources of amusement at home and in each other that
we did not trouble ourselves about beaux and parties,
and were enjoying a pleasant season as grown-up
daughters at home, which is very rare, now that girls
are permitted to step from the school-room to the ballroom, to waste their first bloom in the dissipations of
fashionable life.
We loved fun dearly, both of us, and that June we
determined to seek it in a new and not exactly legitimate channel. The most frequent of papa's guests was
a Mr. Thorndike, - Ignatius Thorndike. He was a
man some years younger than our father, but we
thought he could not be much less than forty. We
were respectively seventeen and nineteen at that time,
and forty seems fearfully old to girls in their teens.
We had never thought much about Mr. Thorndike,he was the gravest of all those grave merchants,but we knew that he was unmarried. We had heard
that he was too poor to marry when he was young,
and, now that he had been successful in business, even
beyond his hopes, he did not dare to seek a wife,
because he had lost all faith in his own ability to
please, and feared lest he should be accepted for the
luxuries it was in his power to bestow.
To this grave merchant we resolved to send a letter,
making the freedom  of leap-year our excuse, and so
wording it that it might prove the commencement of a
correspondence which we thought would be vastly
entertaining. I hardly know which of us first suggested




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.  293
the idea, but we were both quite carried away with it.
The composition of this precious document was our
joint work. I have retained a copy of it, which I have
by me to-day. It reads thus:"1 MR. THORNDIKE, - I have hesitated long before
writing you this note. I should not venture to do so
now were it not that I am emboldened by the license
accorded to leap-year. To a different man I would not
write it for worlds, but I am sure your character is of
too high a tone for you to pursue a correspondence
merely for amusement or adventure. If you think I
am indelicate in addressing you at all, —if you do not
desire my friendship, you will let the matter drop here,
- you will never reply to me, or bestow a second
thought on one who will, in that case, strive to think
no more of you. But should you really value the
regard of a girl who is fearless enough thus to disobey
the recognized laws of society; honest enough to show
you her heart as it is; good enough, at least, to feel
your goodness in her inmost soul, - then you will
write. Then, perhaps, we shall know each other better,
and the friendship thus unconventionally' begun may
brighten both our lives. Remember I trust to your
honor not to answer this letter if you disapprove of my
course in sending it, - if by so doing I have forfeited
your respect. Should you reply, let it be within three
days, and address,
" GRATIA LIVERMORE,
I"_Boston P. 0."




294         SOJME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
It fell to Margaret's lot to copy the epistle, as she
wrote far more neatly than I. In fact, she was my
superior in every thing requiring patience or grace.
We sent the missive, and, for three successive days
after its probable reception, we despatched a messenger
into town to inquire for letters for Miss Livermore.
None came, however, and we at length concluded that
our attempt at fun had proved an ignominious failure.
All that delicate flattery had be-en wasted.  Most
likely Mr. Thorndike despised his unknown correspondent too thoroughly even to be amused by her.
We were vexed, both of us. We called him a fussy,
cross-grained old bachelor, and said, even to each other,
that we didn't care; but we did care, we were mortified
and disappointed. That afternoon, when papa came
out to dinner, we noticed as he drove up the avenue
that he was not alone. We were both of us watching
from our window, but Margaret was the first to recognize the visitor.
"That odious Mr. Thorndike!" she cried. "Well,
thank fortune, Laura, he never would think of suspecting either of uas. Scorn to reply to that letter
though he may, I'll wager he'd give at least one bright
eagle to know who wrote it."
We both of us dressed ourselves as tastefully as
we could. Mr. Thorndike's well-known avoidance of
women made us resolve that he should at least think
his friend's daughters not ill-looking.
Margaret's dress was a pale rose-color, just the shade
of the spring peach blossoms. It lent its own soft




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.  295
flush to her cheeks. A spray of wisteria was in her
golden braids, and her arms, with the hair bracelets on
them, shone fair through her thin sleeves.
I was in white. It toned me down better than any
thing else. In fact, I looked well in it. I twisted a few
roses in my hair, and put a bunch of them at my waist.
Great hoops of barbaric gold were in my ears, and
bracelets of the same were upon my arms. I liked
Margaret's looks, and she liked mine. We were too
dissimilar to have any petty jealousies.
When we went into the drawing-room Mr. Thorndike rose.
"Good afternoon, Miss Otis; good afternoon, Miss
Margaret," he said, as he placed chairs for us. He
added a pleasant remark about being so frequent a
guest, and then returned, apparently quite forgetful of
us, to his conversation with papa.
We left them at the dinner-table at the earliest possible moment, and went out of doors. The grounds
around our mansion were well kept and spacious. Papa
liked breathing room, and did not choose to be overlooked by his neighbors.
We sought a nook which we both loved, where a
dusky clump of pines crowned a hill. In the centre
was a rustic seat, resting on which we could look out
between the tree-boles toward the west. The air was
full of the rich, balsamic odor of the pines. Under our
feet the fallen leaves were piled so soft and thick
you could not hear a footstep. The winds among the
boughs talked together all day overhead, and our




296         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
hearts interpreted them; and now, looking afar over
other hills, we saw the crimson glory of the sunset. We
both, for different reasons, liked to watch it. I, because
it seemed to belong to me. I could fancy myself in
harmony with those gorgeous colorings, those fantastic
clouds. The phantom shapes hurried on without rest
were like my thoughts; changeful as my moods; wayward as my life. Margaret liked them by the law of
contrast. She was self-centred and all rest,- a still
noon, or a midnight lit by a full moon. She enjoyed
vivid colors, hurrying storms, sudden changes, —they
deepened the sense of her own calm. Silent, with the
dreamy speculativeness of untried girls, our hearts were
questioning the future which seemed hiding itself behind the clouds and the sunset.
" I think it is a ship. Do you see the spars and the
trim masts?"
We both looked up, and there beside us stood M~r.
Thorndike. We had not heard his step on the soft
pine leaves. He stood there, looking, as he always
looked, calm and grave and strong,- much such a
nature as Margaret's, only deepened by masculine elements. There was enthusiasm in his eyes, softened by
half-poetic melancholy. They were fixed, not on us,
but steadily on the sunset. Perhaps the light in them
was a reflection from that crimson distance. He went
on speaking, as much to himself, apparently, as to us.
"Yes, it is a ship, surely. See, it is sailing on a
flame-colored river, and the port whither it tends no
man knoweth. Life is like it.




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.  297
"'Our beginnings, as our endings,
Rest with the life-sender.'
We were not, we are, and we shall be. I always liked
pictures in the sunset, as in the embers. The cloudpictures are best though, for they are on a grander
scale. There is more room for fancy to fill up."
I stole a glance at Margaret. His discourse, so unpractical, so far removed from business, was as much a
surprise to her as to me. But it was in harmony with
her thoughts; while at first I did not like it, because it
seemed incongruous with the man.
" I never heard that castles in Spain were merchantable property," I said, with perhaps a latent irony in my
tones. Mr. Thorndike looked at me, and the poetic
enthusiasm  in his gray eyes was replaced by the
shrewd analytic expression which betokened the keen
man of business.
"1 Very true, Miss Otis. You think, and justly, that
castle-building is a curious pastime for one who has
been the architect of any thing so rugged and real as
his own fortune. You are right. It was certainly
quite a different subject upon which I designed to
speak to you. In advance, I must implore you both
to forgive my plainness of speech. I am a business
man, little used to ladies' society, and accustomed to
say my say in the fewest and most simple words. I
received a letter three days ago signed' Gratia Livermore.'"
Margaret was pale, with a look like marble in her
face. I felt my own cheeks turn crimson. Angry




298        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
tears rushed to my eyes, but I forced them back. I
beat the ground nervously with my foot. It is a trick
I have, when I need great self-control and yet my
impatience must find some outlet. "Well?" I said,
inquiringly.
" Well," he calmly proceeded, "I knew the handwriting. I have often seen Miss Margaret's delicate
chirography in her father's possession.  I recognized
it, and I recognized you in the composition, Miss
Otis."
"And so you despise us, and have come to tell us
so?"  I spoke defiantly, and looked into his face with
eyes which strove to scorn his displeasure.
" No, Miss Otis; a moment's consideration would
convince you that if I despised you I should surely not
have taken the trouble to speak to you about this matter. I believe I am just, —just and honest; but I do
not pretend to be a man of disinterested benevolence.
Your father is my best friend, and among my few
female acquaintances none stand so high as his daughters in my regard. I was therefore the more pained
that you should have written this letter. I was not
influenced by personal feeling. I quite passed over the
light esteem in which you must have held me to think
my vanity so susceptible, so easily touched. I thought
only of yourselves.  Had you had a mother this
would never have happened; or, if it had, I should
have found it hard to forgive you. But I always held
that the best man in the world is not fit to have the
sole charge of daughters. He is away from them too




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 299
much; he does not understand their tastes or their
temperaments. When I read that letter how I pitied
you, because you had been left motherless. Perhaps I
should have taken no notice of it, had I not thought
my friendship for your father imposed upon me a duty
toward his daughters. It was but a girlish freak, and
its repetition was scarcely to be assumed as a probability. Still I wanted to say to you that no young
girl can be too careful how she trusts her handwriting
in the keeping of any man. In good society an anonymous letter is considered almost a crime; and as to
letters under a lady's own name, perhaps I am conservative, but it is my opinion that, except upon business
matters, they should never be written to any gentleman
save a near relative or a betrothed husband. I have
no right to say all this, but I have spoken as a
brother would, to you. who have no brother. Am I
forgiven? "
Margaret went up to him and offered him her hand.
Her aspect was pale still, but no longer like marble in
its repose. Her lips quivered. Her soul shone transfiguringly through her face, and kindled her eyes into
tenderness, which her rising tears served to heighten.
Iter voice was full of feeling.
"' Not forgiven, sir, there is no need of that; but you
have shown yourself our true friend, and we thank
you, — I and my sister. Do not fear that we shall
fail to profit by your kindness."
He held her hand a moment, then he placed in it
our silly letter and turned away.




300        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
I caught the sheet from her, tore it into fragments,
and scattered them to the winds.' What would I give," I cried, " that we had never
written it. To have disgraced ourselves so in Mr.
Thorndike's estimation, -it is too bad. I shall never
bear to see him again; shall you, Margaret?"
"Certainly: I shall see him with far more pleasure
than before; for I know now what a true man he is.
I did not think one met such out of books. I can
almost forgive myself for having written the letter,
because it has shown me such a noble page of human
nature."
That evening, despite our mortification, was a very
pleasant one. Mr. Thorndike had never before taken
such pains to make himself agreeable.  We found
hitherto unsuspected delight in his conversation. He
had thought much and read to good purpose. He had
lived his forty years with open and observing eyes.
Music was proposed after a while. I " performed 
well, - so said my teachers and the few critics who had
heard me. I played difficult music; grand, stately
symphonies from  Mozart and Beethoven; and Mr.
Thorndike listened -he could not have deceived me
— with the soul of a genuine music-lover. Margaret
succeeded me, and she sang a few ballads, - simple
Scottish lays, solemn and tender with love and death,
-accompanying herself with low, sweet chords, which
one might imagine the wordless melody of an accordant spirit.
"Margaret's music is best," said papa, wiping the




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.  301
tears from his eyes when she concluded, and I knew
she bad been singing some of our mother's oldfashioned songs, calling back the romance and melody
of his youth.  Mlr. Thorndike said nothing, but I
thought I discerned a treacherous mistiness in his eyes;
and when she was through he closed the piano, as if,
having heard those ballads, he wished to hear nothing
more. Presently he retired.
During that summer we learned to know our new
friend well, and we both liked him. We had respect
for his opinions, and even for his prejudices. We
revered the unswerving integrity of his life, and we
found more pleasure in his society than we had ever
found in any man's before. True, we did not know
many with whom to compare him. We were not yet
"out," and young men were seldom  among papa's
visitors. Perhaps it was well for us, before we went
into general society, to become so well acquainted with
a strong, true man like Ignatius Thorndike. After
that it would be hard to impose upon us counterfeit
coin in liea of sterling gold.
I think he took all the more pleasure in our acquaintance. because his life had heretofore been too
much occupied with business for him to cultivate friendships among women. He was certainly very attentive
to us. After dinner we used to leave papa to his nap
and the evening papers, and wander o, we three, into
the woods and dells which lay not far from our home.
None of us knew enough of artificial enjoyments to spoil
our zest for the simple pleasures of our quiet life. We




302        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
rejoiced, like happy children, over a rare flower, a curious
leaf, or a pretty stone. We talked about every thing,politics, religion, poetry, fashion, business, and finally we
got one day to talking of love. Mr. Thorndike had no
patience with flirtations. He spoke of them in terms
of unmeasured severity. He also inveighed bitterly
against the selfishness of many marriages. He could
not understand, he said, how a man could ever venture
to ask a woman not half so old as himself to marry
him. Only the strongest love, he held, could make
marriage safe or happy, and certainly strong love on
the wife's side, where there was such disparity of
age, was too rare to be reckoned among the probabilities.'" And you think it is wrong to marry without a love
as romantic as the love of novels?" asked Margaret.
"I think, Miss Margaret, that Hawthorne has written
a great many strong and true words, but nothing truer
then when he said,' Let men tremble to win the hand
of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost
passion of her heart; else it may be their miserable
fortune, when some mightier touch than their own may
have awakened all her sensibilities, to be reproached
even for the calm content, the marble image of happiness,
which they will have imposed upon her as the warm
reality.' There are women whom we know instinctively
to be above all mercenary motives in marriage; but
perhaps such, from their very tenderness and purity,
would be the most easily persuaded to believe that to
be love which was only its cold counterfeit. And when




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.   303
such a wife awoke fiom her delusion to the knowledge
of all that might have been and was not, I should pity
her husband, if a true man, even more than herself;
inasmuch as I believe it would be easier to bear through
life the burden of an unsatisfied hope than for a generous husband to feel that he had snatched the possibility
of happiness from the woman of his choice, — that he
had condemned the best part of her nature to perpetual
solitude. I allude now to cases where a man's only
fault is want of consideration, selfish haste, neglecting
to make himself certain of his absolute empire over the
heart before he accepts the hand. Those other cases,
where the sacrifice of a heart for wealth and a name is
deliberately made and accepted, are beneath even the
discussion of high-minded men and women."
Margaret had listened silently while he had spoken;
now she drew her shawl around her and shivered.'"It is chilly," she said. " I feel the damp. Let us
go in."
At the time this struck me as singular, for Margaret
was rarely cold. I used often to envy her insensibility
to the cold of winter or heat of summer; her temperament so calm, or so perfectly balanced, that the weather
had no hold on her. For myself, I liked nothing but
sunshine. Few days were too warm for me; but I
suffered from cold like an East Indian, - grew aguish
in the slightest draught, and believed devoutly in furnaces and hot air. But I was not even chilly, now.
However, we obeyed Margaret's motion, and the subject
of love and marriage was not afterward renewed be



304        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
tween us three. It was clear enough, from what Mr.
Thorndike had said, that he would never seek to marry
a young girl; and even had we been, which we were
not, match-seeking young ladies, it was warning enough
to us to think of him only as the friend he had proved
himself.
His attentions during that pleasant summer were
pretty equally divided between us; if any thing, the
larger proportion fell to my share. We did not go into
town very early that year. We could not bear to
return to brick walls and paved streets while Nature
was holding her high festival of harvest time. Oh,
those glorious October days! Grain waving on the
hill-tops; grapes purpling on the vines; fruit blushing
on the boughs; fire-tinted leaves rustling slowly downward; prismatic haze floating over all. If you never
were in the country in October, you have missed something you can hardly afford to forego.
It was November before we were settled in our house
in town, —a pleasant house, large and commodious,
looking upon the Common, where the waving of the
tree-boughs, and the Frog Pond, with its blue water
and fleets of juvenile ships, do their pleasant best toward a little fiction of country life, -a sort of vignette.
A maiden sister of my father was sent for, and promoted over our heads to the post of housekeeper. This
was in deference to the proprieties, for we were to receive company this winter, and go into society, and
needed a chaperon.
At first Mr. Thorndike came to see us friequently;




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.  305
but as soon as we had collected round us a gay circle of
acquaintances he began quietly to withdraw himself
fi-om our intimacy. Out of town, where there had been
no fear of his attentions interfering with any one else,
he had given us most of his leisure; but now he evi.
dently thought the young men who surrounded us must
needs be more agreeable. That this was not the case I
could have answered, - for myself, at least. I missed
him sadly. Compared with him, the young men of our
circle - youths well-born and well-bred, who had never
known the slightest necessity for exertion - seemed
sadly vapid and uninteresting. I began to suspect
myself of quite as much regard for him as any prudent
damsel would care to bestow on one who, by his own
showing, was not a marrying man.
If Margaret missed our old friend as much as I did
she made no sign. Reserved, self-contained, and cold
as she really was, to all but the few, she was so sweet,
and gentle, and courteous in society that she was very
popular, —far more so than I, who carried my heart
upon my sleeve. It was not long before the attentions
of one, at least, of her admirers began to seem serious
to me, an interested looker-on.
He was a young divine, of the poetico-romantic
school, who was just then making quite a sensation.
He was handsome; graceful in manners as in person;
with one of those eclectic natures of which saith the
proverb, "All's fish that comes to that net."  Milton,
Shakspeare, godly George Herbert, gentle Elia, Festus
Bailey, Carlyle, Dickens, —who was there, ancient or
T




306        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
modern, serious or profane, poet or essayist, who had
not contributed to enrich his sermons?
" Words, dears," said papa, when we had coaxed him
to go and hear Mr. Staunton; "a great many very fine
words; but where is the soul? I'm too old-fashioned
to judge, perhaps, but I confess I like the old greybeards who were young when I was; who learned their
theology from the Bible; and who utter their own
thoughts in their own simple phrase, a great deal
better."
Upon this Margaret defended the young minister
warmly, and when I said to her, after we were alone,
that I had no idea she was so much interested in Mr.
Staunton, she colored, and, with more of temper than I
had almost ever seen in her, answered that I had no
right to infer any special interest on her part, but she
did like to see every one dealt with fairly.
At all events, there was presently no doubt of Mr.
Staunton's estimation of her. He showed it by many
unequivocal demonstrations, and yet not in any way
which made it possible for Margaret to repulse him, or
obliged her, on the other hand, to encourage him. His
attentions were such as friend might show to friend,
but accompanied by looks and tones which evidently
pointed home their moral. I do not know whether
all this was noticed by outside observers; I thought
not. It surprised me a little when, one evening, Mr.
Thorndike spoke to me upon the subject.
He happened to call when Mr. Staunton was there.
Margaret was singing in the music room, which opened




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF I                7. 307
out of the parlor. Of course the minister was bending
over her, and for a few moments Mr. Thorndike was
alone with me.
A little while we both listened to Margaret's voice,
which floated out to us clear and sweet. My companion
had been leaning his head on his hand, thus concealing
his face; but when he looked up I saw an unfamiliar
trouble in his deep eyes. IHe spoke hoarsely:"Is she, is Margaret going to marry Mr. Staunton,
Laura? Perhaps I have no right to ask, but you know
you have treated me almost like a brother."
"  have no idea," I answered, honestly. " You have
seen as much, I imagine, as I have. He is very attentive, but she is reserved, even to me. I have no means
of guessing her intentions."
He tried to smile, but it was a ghastly failure.
" Well," he said, " God bless her, whomever she marries, wherever her lot is cast. She will decide wisely.
It is absurd for me to question it. Her own pure instincts will not mislead her; but Mr. Staunton, - Laura,
I can never think he is good enough for her. Take my
word for it, there is poverty of heart and soul beneath
that fine exterior. The soil is too poor for wholesome
grain where all that exotic luxuriance of transplanted
flowers springs up."
In a few moments more he left. When I urged him
to stay and see my sister, he answered in a voice I
should scarcely have known, it was so constrained and
unnatural: -
" Not to-night. To-night, at least, you must excuse
me."




308         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
I needed no more words to tell me that he loved
Margaret with a love as pure and as strong as his
manly heart. Had he so loved me, I was conscious
that I should have returned it. I esteemed him as I
esteemed no other man. Perhaps I had unwittingly
striven to please him; but it was here, as in all else, I
who had failed, and Margaret, my calm, pale, firm
sister, who had won what she seemed not to value
after all. Well, thank Heaven and the common sense
I inherited from my father, I should not die for love. I
had no story-book sentimentality about it. If a good
man, like Ignatius Thorndike, had truly loved me, and
Heaven had separated us, I cannot answer for my fortitude; but, while I recognized the possible hold he
might have had on my heart, my affections not having
been sought, were still in my own keeping, and I was
quite capable of being a true sister to him, and entering
with unselfish warmth into his love for Margaret and
all its accompanying hopes and fears.
That evening when I was alone with my sister, I told
her all that had passed. I did not omit to describe the
expressions which had swept over Mr. Thorndike's face
or the inflections of his voice. She listened silently.
Her back was toward me as she stood letting down her
hair before the mirror. I thought her fingers trembled
a little, but I could not be sure. When I had concluded she turned round for a moment. I could not
read her face distinctly, it was shrouded so by the
golden hair sweeping round it; but I could see that
her eyes glittered, whether with tears or pride, and




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.  309
that her cheeks were glowing. Her voice was steady
and unmoved as usual.
"Thank you, Laura," she said, quietly. "It is unnecessary to speak to Mr. Thorndike again upon the
subject, but should any one ask you hereafter whether
I am going to marry Mr. Staunton you can say no;
as I shall certainly tell the gentleman himself if he
ever gives me an opportunity."
She said no more. I longed to sound her as to
her sentiments toward Mr. Thornclike, but I could
think of no way. Open as a child in all her acts, Margaret was reserved about her feelings; and this reserve
had even grown upon her of late. She went on undressing as tranquilly as if I had not told her that
Mr. Thorndike loved her, and then knelt down, with
her childlike instinct of reverence, to say her prayers,
for neither great grief nor overwhelming joy had as
yet taught her how to pray.
We went out of town early in thle spring, as we had
come in late; but before we went Mr. Staunton's visits
had nearly ceased. I conjectured, though Margaret did
not tell me, that he had offered her his hand and been
rejected. His sermons about this time took a melancholy tone. He dwelt much on the fact that we are
pilgrims and strangers, and have no continuing city
here; he bewailed the vanity of life and the unstable
nature of earthly hopes and dreams. He quoted largely
from that school of bards whose constant longing
seems to be to have the grass green alnd the snow
white above their graves; the storms whistling and the




310        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
flowers blooming over them, all at once. In this phase
of emotional development he was more popular than
ever, especially with the young ladies of his flock.
The dear creatures seemed to have an affinity for tears,
and take naturally to lamentations; and as not a few
were rich and some handsome, he was in a fair way to
console himself in time.
When we were settled in our suburban home we
missed Mr. Thorndike's frequent visits still more than
in the city. There was a different reason now for his
not coming to us. It was the spring of 1858. The
commercial earthquake which had commenced in the
fall had been rumbling all winter, and bursting out
now and then to overwhelm its victims with a financial
ruin sudden and terrible. Toward spring the failures
grew perhaps less frequent but more severe; for firms
which had struggled so long, if they went down at
last, wrought a devastation as fearful as when Samson,
blind and old and persecuted long, pulled down upon
himself the temple of Dagon. Few merchants had
time for much social civility. It was all they could do
to fight their way in the hand-to-hand conflict going on
around them. Papa said Mr. Thorndike was struggling
with the rest, — that he had a great many bad debts,
and it was doubtful how long he would be able to meet
his engagements.
"Couldn't you help him? " I asked, when he told us
this.
Papa shook his head.
"I offered to, but he obstinately refused to involve




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.   311
me in any way.'No one can do more in these times,'
he said,'than look out for himself. You have children,
and I have none. You are an older man than I, and
not used as I am to struggling and privation. I shall
remember all my life this friendship, when so few
would dare to be friendly; but I must stand or fall
alone, — I don't know which it will be.' He is a noble
fellow, girls; not many like him in these days, when
people hold honor and faith and friendship as mere
fictions."
I turned to look at Margaret. I wanted to see how
she was affected by this praise, but she had gone out of
the room.
That day papa, not feeling very well, did not go to
town. After dinner we were all together in the diningroom. Papa was at the window, where the sunset
brightened his silver hair. Margaret was half-sitting,
half-lying on a lounge in the back part of the room,
and I was on a stool beside her. I think we were all
partly asleep, papa smoking and watching the blue
rings float up and away, and we girls dreaming each
her own dreams. The sound of a horse galloping up
the avenue aroused us. We heard the rider dismount
and speak to Patrick, who was at work on a flower-bed
not far from the house. Then, the doors being open, he
came without ringing into the hall, and along to the
dining-room. It was Mr. Thorndike. He evidently
saw no one but my father, and neither Margaret nor
I made any movement. He went straight up to papa
and stood before him. His face was very white, but




312         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
calm. His voice did not tremble, but there was a
sadness in it deeper than tears.
"Mr. Otis," he said, "my struggle is over.  My
paper was protested to-day. These last failures have
been too much for me. I have done my best, but the
fruit of my life's toil is gone. I shall give up every
cent, and no man can lose much by me; but I must
begin again at the foot of the ladder,' I who am no
longer young. But, thank Heaven, I have no one
dearer than myself to suffer through my misfortune.
I have repined at my loneliness sometimes, but it comforts me now."
Papa was betrayed by his sympathy into suggesting
a thought to his friend which he would never have
accepted for himself.
"But can't you save enough to go into business
again?  It is custom; every one does it nowadays.
INo one gives up every thing."
Mr. Thorndike smiled with an indescribable expression of patient pride.
", Dear sir, you would be the very last to temporize
with duty yourself. No, I must preserve my honor at
all costs. I shall go into business again, I hope; but it
will be as a poor man, as poor as I was twenty years
ago. You must feel that this is right."
"It is right." It was Margaret who spoke. I had
never seen her so stirred from her usual calmness.
She sprang from the sofa and walked to Ignatins
Thorndike's side. "Yes, my friend, you are right;
you could do no other way. There is no absolute ruin




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.   313
in life save the ruin of integrity; no utter wreck but
the wreck of honor. Gold is tried and purified by
fire; only the baser metals are destroyed."
He held her hand, her white, delicate hand, that
did not look as if there were any strength in it to
labor.  He glanced at her figure, so slender and
so graceful, arrayed with such costly simplicity, - a
woman whom it seemed no poor man could venture
to win. Then he looked steadfastly in her eyes. What
did he read there?  They were luminous, as on that
night when he had given her back our silly leap-year
letter —when she had first discovered how good he was.
A flush like the dawning was on her cheeks. A noble
pride, kindled rather for him than herself, shone in her
face. She looked fit for a hero's bride. But what read
Ignatius Thorndike in her eyes? He held her hand for
a moment, gazing at her steadily. Then he said, with
less composure than he had shown before, —
"God bless you, Margaret; I cannot even thank
you," and turned away. As he went out of the door I,
who was nearest to it, heard him murmur," I could have
borne all but this. This makes the cup too bitter."
I understood then that Margaret's soul had revealed
itself to him in her look, -that he felt sure of her love.
I know his first, despairing thought was that he could
never marry her; that love had come too late, - come
but to mock him with tantalizing glimpses of what might
have been. I was not troubled, however, for I had
faith in the true hearts of them both. I believe that
when two belong to each other so that apart their being
14




314         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
is incomplete, -so that, in life or death, no other could
usurp the throne, -it is seldom possible to separate
them, even in this world. Through pain and weariness
it may be; over paths rough with rocks and thorns, or
lying among shadows; still, were it from far antipodes,
they will draw near to each other. By and by Mr.
Thorndike would come to understand that to deprive
Margaret of himself, of his love, would be to do her. a
heavier wrong than to subject her to one meal a day
and an attic. Not, however, that I apprehended any
such romantic catastrophe. The wife of a business
man, who possesses strong health and active energies,
can never know hopeless poverty. Besides, papa was
well enough able to assist them. There would be only
he and I left; he could give my sister her fortune now.
I did not mention any of my speculations to Margaret. She did not allude to Mr. Thorndike beyond a
simple expression of her sympathy in his misfortunes;
and I respected her reticent delicacy. We did not see
him again for more than a month. From time to time
I inquired of papa concerning his affairs. He had behaved nobly, -given up every thing, and refused an
offer from papa, and two other of his warm friends, to
lend him a sufficient capital to start again. He had
sturdily adhered to his preference for independence,
and was going to establish himself in a commission
business. I believe I exulted in him -in the integrity
which no temptations could shake, the self-respect which
no misfortunes could lessen - as much as if his love
had been mine.




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.   315
It was June when he came to us again, —just a
year, as I happened to remember,- from the day at which
I dated the real beginning of our friendship. He looked
a little worn by anxiety and labor, but hopeful and resolute notwithstanding. For the first time he asked
Margaret to walk with him, and omitted me in the invitation. I saw them, a few moments afterward, from
my window, pacing slowly under the trees, her light
dress gleaming through the summer greenery. They
were gone a long time. When they returned Margaret
came directly upstairs. A tender, womanly light was
in her eyes; an expression of entire happiness upon her
face.  She sat down beside me, and laid her head
against my shoulder, with a caressing manner which
was unusual in her; for, though deeply and fervently
affectionate, she was seldom demonstrative.
"I al not half worthy of him, Laura," she said,
hiding her eyes from me; "not half worthy of being
Ignatius Thorndike's wife; but I have promised to be
so. I don't know what he sees in me, that noble man,
— the best man I ever knew, -strong and true as an
angel."
I could tell very well what he saw in her, -a bride
whom any man might be proud to win; but those who
love truly are always humble. I did not dispute the
point; I only rallied her a little.
"Do I hear you rightly, Margaret?" I asked, with
apparent incredulity. "Why, don't you remember
all Mr. Thorndike said, last summer, about men who
asked women a great deal younger than themselves to




316        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
marry them,h —ow wrong he thought it, how hazardous? "
"That was when they asked hastily; when they
wooed women who were not sure of their own hearts;
when they married without knowing, beyond doubt,
that their wives loved them."
"And he has no doubt of your love, then?"
"Thank Heaven, none; nor I of his."
T-Ier sweetness and frankness had quite overruled my
attempts to tease her, and banished the desire. I caught
her in my arms instead, and wept over her passionately,
- not, Heaven knows, because I was sorry; every thing
had happened as I most wished. I could give up
my beloved sister to her husband without a single apprehension as to her future. Nevertheless the tears
would come. They are most women's safety-valve, and
answer quite as well for occasions of extreme joy as for
those of sorrow. Mine were contagious, and we had a
good cry together, — we two, who had been the dearest
upon earth to each other almost all the years of our
young lives. I could be dearest to Margaret no longer.
Was there any unworthy jealousy in my tears?
"' What will papa say?" I asked, when we had got
quiet again.
"6 Oh, he is pleased. Ignatius spoke to him first; and
indeed, Laura, what could he have hoped for me half
so good? As he himself said, he can give me to Mr.
Thorndike without a doubt or a fear. I know it was a
long time before Ignatius could make up his mind to
ask my hand, because he is poor now, and he could




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.  317
not bear to have me share poverty with him; but
finally ""' But finally he bethought himself to do you better
justice, and not sacrifice your heart and his own to
what is, at worst, but a doubtful fear."
I went donwnstairs presently to see and congratulate
my brother-in-law elect. Margaret staid behind; she
had need to be alone, she said. I think she prayed
then.
It was not long before Mr. Thorndike left. I was
going with him into the hall, but I saw a rapid figure
flitting down the stairs to join him, and I retreated,
to leave them to exchange together their first lovers'
farewell.
They were to be married in the early fall, before we
went into town, and we commenced the preparations
at once. I wanted to have superintended Margaret's
trousseau, and I thought nothing could be too costly or
too elegant for her. It was a real annoyance when she
quietly refused to have this and that, because it was not
fitting for the wife of a man whose fortune was yet to
make. But she had always had her own way, - she did
so still. Her quiet, persistent mildness was all-powerful.
In respect to style of living and expenses I could see
there would be perfect harmony between her and her
betrothed. Both were independent, and entirely above
vanity. I went into the parlor one day, and found
papa fussing and fretting in a manner quite unusual
for him.




318        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
"What is the matter?" I asked, as I went up to
him.
"Matter enough!  One likes to see a very young
man Quixotic, and heroic, and all that; but Ignatius
Thorndike is old enough to take a common-sense view
of life. I have been telling him I was going to buy
3Margaret a house and furnish it, and transfer some
stock to her name; and instead of thanking me, behold,
he will have Margaret and nothing else. He is not
willing I should do any thing for her. If he were rich,
he says, he should not mind; but, as he is not, he would
prefer beginning his married life as suits his altered fortunes. It's absurd, — absolutely ridiculous."
"' And what does Margaret say?"'
" Oh, agrees with Ignatius, of course. She understands him so well that I suppose she thinks it would
make him unhappy to owe too much, even to her."
It was possible, too, I thought, that Margaret preferred
to be dependent on her husband. I had begun to understand her nature now.
She and Ignatius - the two firm, quiet ones- had
their way. Papa only gave them their furniture, their
silver, and linen. Mr. Thorndike rented a small, pleasant house in town, and it was all fitted up ready for
them to go into before they were married.
It was the first of October when they went away
from us. They had a very quiet wedding. Margaret
wore white muslin, in lieu of the satin and point lace I
would fain have selected; but with all her simplicity
of attire she could not help looking like a queen.




A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.  319
Nature had stamped her reginca. There was an unutterable content and peace in Ignatius Thorndike's face
when he came from church with his wife, - his young,
true, fair wife; and Margaret looked as if the ducal
strawberries would have elevated her less than the unadorned honor of being Mrs. Thorndike.
They had no bridal tour. It was not only that the
new-made husband had no superfluity of time or means,
— in any circumstances neither of them would have
fancied it. Their happiness was not of a kind to require
change of air and scene. They needed no company besides each other. We knew this, - papa and I, - and
did not intrude upon them much at first. After a while,
however, we fell into the habit of spending with them
some portion of every day. In fact, we cannot stay
away, it is such a pleasant home to visit. A neat little
house, simple in furniture and adornments, but with a
few sunny pictures, plenty of choice books, and always
fresh flowers in the crystal vase on Margaret's table. I
do not know how the one tidy maid contrives to keep
every thing so neat, and bright, and smiling. I half
suspect Margaret of assisting her; but her hands are
as white and ladylike as ever, her dress as faultlessly
neat and elegant. She never talks about her domestic
affairs. She is content to love us dearly and welcome us
heartily, without presenting constant drafts on our sympathy in household grievances.
Her husband is all Margaret's husband ought to be,
— loving, proud, honest, and fearless. I think he forgets that he is just beginning the struggle for fortune




320        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
at an age when he hoped to be able to leave it off.
Cheered by her brave, hopeful love, he knows no regrets. He puts mind and brain into his business during many hours of each day; but he comes home to
rest and refreshment, and his heart has a sure anchor.
Already he is successful. When patience and industry
join hands with tact and skill the reward is sure. I
should not be surprised if Ignatius Thorndike were one
day to be numbered again among the rich men of Boston. But can he ever be a richer man than now?




OUT OF NAZARETH.
A   QUEER little town, among hills and streams,
where, under the thrifty, painstaking New
England farming, the very rocks had blossomed into
gardens, and every little brook had to turn a big millwheel. A place that might have been poetical, if it
had not been so severely useful; with skies blue as
Italy, and peaks which made you think of Switzerland;
and yet a place where no tourists went, and which nobody ever thought of talking about.
The site for the little red school-house on the hill-side
had been chosen because the land was rocky and therefore cheap, as well as because it was near the centre of
the district.  By the merest accident it was the most
picturesque nook in the whole town. At its back a
wood crowned the hill, — a pleasant wood, where there
was little underbrush, and the school-boys kept all the
snakes killed, so that timid girls could go there and
gather flowers in spring and summer, and fill their
dinner baskets with chestnuts when the early frosts
opened the burs. The meadow, stretching out green
and level at the eastward, was a capital place for straw14*                v




322        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
berries and playing "gool;" and the hill, sloping so
steeply fiom the school-house door, - what royal coasting there was down it in winter. All the juveniles
appreciated these points of attraction; and Miss Amber,
the teacher, appreciated what the rest forgot, the picturesqueness of a landscape which would have enchanted a painter, -if you could fancy a painter ever
going to Nazareth, - and so all were satisfied.
Miss Amber had taught school in Nazareth, summer
and winter, for five years; but then she began when she
was seventeen, - so she was not very old. She was an
orphan; but the townsfolks had loved her father, and
she did not lack for friends. Parson Amber had been
for thirty years their minister, and when he died, and
his fair invalid wife, whom he had married late in life,
laid her head down on his dead heart, and died in time
to be buried in the same grave, every home in the
little country town was open to his only child, and
every heart was ready to give her welcome. But she
chose independence, and asked for the post of teacher
of the district school.
She retained the small but pleasant cottage which
her father owned, and the woman who had been at
once housekeeper and maid of all work for her parents;
and so pleased herself with the semblance of a home
to go to when her day's work was over, though the
cherishing love, which had made those lowly walls so
dear, was gone from the earth.
Miss Amber made a good teacher. I do not mean
by this that she liked it. I do not hold to the creed




OUT OF NAZARETH.                323
that to teach well one must be in love with one's work.
One must have ability to impart knowledge, and a respectable fund of knowledge to impart. Beyond these
it only wants self-control and a conscience, — two
things which Miss Amber had. So she did her duty
in the fear of God, and did it well. It was not in the
nature of things that she should particularly enjpy it.
Her father had been a man of literary tastes and
thorough culture, and after she had mastered the
tedious first rudiments of knowledge he had been
her teacher. To one who had walked among the stars,
dreamed through the classics, was familiar with the
daily lives and ways of the poets as with the faces of
her neighbors, - one whose soul was full of subtile perceptions of beauty, undeveloped powers of imagination, longings all the stronger because unspoken after
the glory, and romance, and fervor, of a full life,
there could be little attractive in the task of thumping
A B C's into naughty curly heads, or kindling torches
of illumination to guide benighted intellects through the
Rule of Three. All the more glory to her, I say, therefore, because she did her work well. All heroes do not
lead regiments. She always passed her'"noonings" at
school, and staid at night to mend pens and prepare
copy-books, - so for eight hours of every day she was
not her own. Her moments and her thoughts were
paid for, and she gave them every one faithfully. Then
she went home, put on her home dress and her home
face, and was her own mistress.
Did I say that Miss Amber had many friends in




324        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
Nazareth?  I should have been nearer the truth to say
she had but one. All cared for her. Partly for her
fathers sake, and partly for her own, the minister's little
girl was dear to each and all. But if friendship means
something more than liking; if it means companionship
in pursuits, exchange of ideas, community of thoughts,
she had one sole friend, -Adam Russell. And even on
him she secretly looked down a little, though nothing
in her manner ever gave a suggestion of it. She was
exquisitely refined. Her mother had been faultlessly
bred, -her father was a gentleman of the old school.
To a dweller in Nazareth such refinement, inherited
and cultivated, was no blessing. It was hard sometimes
to conceal her annoyance at neighborly familiarities,
awkward country ways. But her kind heart carried
her safely through, and she wounded no mortal's selflove.
Still she wished — she could not help wishing it
every night when he sat by her side —that Adam
Russell were less rugged; less noisy in step and voice;
had more softness, more social adroitness. She liked
him heartily, nevertheless.
He had been her father's pupil. For three years
before Parson Amber died he had taught the two together, -girl and boy. After his death they had kept
on with their studies. It would have been so solitary
to give up all old habits. After the first wild spasm of
grief was over, and Grace had begun to grow familiar
with her loneliness and sorrow, and recognize it as
something that was not to be confronted or shaken off,




OUT OF NAZARETH.               325
- a quiet guest rather, to sit with her at board and
fireside until her own death day, —she began to feel
the need of keeping up old ways. When Adam Russell
came, timidly enough, not dreaming of books or study,
but only to bring her a late flower or two which the
autumn blasts had spared, and show her in his sad eyes
and mutely sympathizing face how sorry he was for her,
she brought out the last book they had been reading,
and asked him quietly if he would stay and study with
her a while. When he went away, she said, struggling
with something that rose up in her throat and seemed
to choke her'"Perhaps you had better come every night as you
used, and we will try how we can get on together without a teacher. I think papa would have wished it."
Then she shut the door hurriedly, almost in his face;
for she felt a storm of sobs and tears bursting forth
which he must not see. How grief shook her. What
bitter, bitter cries smote the very heavens from those
orphan lips. With what unavailing anguish she called
for voices to answer her, to bless her, which must be
silent evermore, until she, too, should learn the secret
password which opens the portal of eternity. How, at
last, came merciful exhaustion, and then, through the
stillness, a whisper faint and sweet as of a ministering
angel:"He is a father of the fatherless, - even God in His
holy habitation."
Little she knew, little she would ever know, how her
sorrow was shared even then, —how he stood outside,




326         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
that simple country-bred boy, not daring to seek admittance again, or profier any comfort, and yet longing,
in a passion of tender grief, and loving pain, to bear
it all for her,- to shield that graceful head from every
storm of life. He did not go away until the moans,
that had penetrated faintly to his ear, were still, and
the glow of a just-lighted lamp shone out softly from
Miss Amber's window.
He was only sixteen then, and she was seventeen.
He did not think about love. No dream of possible
possession, no longing to call her his, blent with the
humble sincerity of his worship. He only felt that to
have died to make her happy would have been easier
than to stand outside and know her shaken with a
sorrow he was powerless to soothe.
Since that night five years had passed. Miss Amber
had taught the village school.  Adam  Russell had
worked the days through upon his father's farm, serving with faithful hands, but with heart and mind often
far enough away. Evenings they had met almost daily.
In the summer they took their books out of doors,
or sat, when it was stormy, in the old window-seat; in
winter at the fireside, with Aunt Prudence Fairly, the
housekeeper, in the other corner nodding over her knitting. No one ever gossiped about Miss Amber; perhaps
because she was open and frank as daylight in all her
ways. Then, too, she held herself grandly above gossip,
and, doing what she knew was right, would never have
thought or cared what speech it might provoke. Moreover, there was an atmosphere of womanly dignity




OUT OF NAZARETH.               327
about her which would have forbidden foolish jesting
with her name. If any one speculated, country fashion,
that it would be a match some day between her and
young Russell, she never knew it, and the thought of it
had never entered her head.
She was twenty-two now, and he twenty-one in the
summer gone by. She remembered his age as she
sat waiting for him in the early autumn evening, and
thought with a real regret that he would soon be going
away to try his fortune elsewhere, as he had always
said he should after he was of age. The books they
were reading lay beside her in the old-fashioned windowseat; but she would not open them until he came. She
sat with still face and wide eyes looking out toward the
sunset.
She was beautiful just then. Ordinarily she was only
distinguished-looking. She was tall and well-made.
Her face was pale usually; clear and healthy, but colorless. There was character enough in her proud features,
and a look of resolution and self-will about the corners
of her month and in her dark gray eyes. But there
were moments, as now, when her soul looked out
through those eyes as through open windows, and
they grew luminous with the inner light; when roses
glowed on her cheeks and rivalled the bright bloom of
her lips. These moments of transfiguration were when
she looked at sunsets, or read poetry, or heard music.
I think the sea would have wrought the same miracle;
but her home was inland among the hills, and she had
never seen it.




328        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
Adam Russell came in before the spell had ceased to
work, while still the sunset's brightness was reflected in
her changeful face. He had a love for the beautiful as
quick and keen as her own; and, though neither of
them knew it then, he had more power and more
genius. Indeed, of genius, strictly speaking, she had
not a bit. She was intensely appreciative, not creative.
Yet his face told no tales. He was not handsome,
but he looked strong and in earnest: true Saxon,large of limb, tough of muscle, with brown hair and
blue, resolute eyes; Roundhead rather than Cavalier.
Miiss Amber turned and took up a book as he entered.
6" Not to-night, Grace," he said, putting it away; "at
least not now. Give me a little time to talk."
His accent touched her; for there was in it a certain
pleading inflection, unconscious and tender.
"I don't know when, after to-night, I shall be here
again," he went on, half-sadly, half-expectantly, as if he
longed, yet scarcely hoped, to move her regret. "Shall
you miss me at all?"
" I shall miss you more than you can guess. What a
lonely five years these last would have been but for our
evenings together. I am not of a temperament to relish
solitude without some one to whom I can say how
sweet it is. But are you really going? When do you
go, and'where?"
"I am really going. I staid here thus long only
because they needed me at home. Father must make
his next year's arrangements without me. You know




OUT OF NAZARETH.              329
I never thought farming would suit me for a permanent
thing, - or New England either, for that matter."
"And yet she is a good mother."
"Yes;" and the slow blue eyes kindled a little, and
then softened. "'I hope you are not thinking I don't
love home. If I were rich, I think I would live and
die here; but I must have room to grow. I must make
money faster; for I want what it will bring. Why
should I weary you with reasons? I think you've
heard them all before. You knew my purpose, and
now the time is come. I shall go to-morrow; where, I
don't know yet, but out toward the sunset. I have
three thousand dollars, which my grandmother gave
me when she died. When I have made them  ten
times three, I think I shall be ready to come back.
Simple people could live well enough on thirty thousand, couldn't they, Grace?"
He asked this question, and then he bit his lip with
vexation. He had meant to ask her for her love, and
here he was talking about money. Still he wanted so
much to know what sum she would think enough for
comfort, -when he might venture to come back. He
had outgrown a little in these five years his boyish
ignorance and simplicity of heart. He was no longer
content to worship without the thought of return. He
loved Grace Amber, and he wanted her, —to be his
own; to meet him, with those proud, sweet eyes of
hers, when he came in; to belong to him, with her
red lips, and her dark shining hair, and her proud,
pure woman's heart. But he had not outgrown his




830        SOME WOMEN'S REARTS.
boyish shyness; and his very sense of her goodness and
grace rmade him awkward. He had longing enough,
but little hope. I am not sure that women do not like
a self-confident wooer better. He started from  his
thoughts as if fiom a trance, when, after a moment's
silence, her sweet voice broke upon his ear: -
"I don't know much about money, but I should
think thirty thousand dollars, two thousand a year,
enough for luxury. We never had more than half that
income in my father's life, and we surely lived in
comfort."
"' And when I have that much may I come back for
you? Oh, Grace, Grace, I don't know how to tell you,
but you must have seen that you are all I care for in
this world. Your sorrow  pierces me to the heart.
Your smiles make me glad. I would give every
moment of my life for your happiness. I know I'm
not good enough or polished enough for you. I know
I'm not half what you deserve; but oh, who will ever
love you so well?  WVho could love you so well as I,
who have loved you all my life? If I grow better,
worthier, will you promise to love me, to keep your
heart for me?"
"Let me think, - wait, - give me time to tell you."
The silence that fell between them only lasted five
minutes. It seemed to Adam Russell like a cycle of
eternity.
Grace Amber's brain reeled a moment, and then
grew steady. His declaration had been the greatest
surprise of her life. During all the hours they had




OUT o0] NAZA RE'T.               331
passed together she had never thought of his loving
her. Could she give him what he asked?  She stole
a stealthy look at him as he sat with his eyes turned
away. It was not the face or form of her ideal.  She
loved softness, gentleness, poetry of motion, grace of
aspect. She neecledd most of all something to rely on,
-strength, courage, truth, - but she did not know her
own needs as yet. Her quiet life had developed her so
slowly that she had not learned to understand herself.
What she fancied now, she would not love five years
hence. Still she could only answer from present knowledge. She cared more for Adam Russell than for any
one else in the world. She would feel the pain she
must give him to her own heart's core, but he did not
satisfy her taste. She could not feel for him one throb
of the soft, sweet tumult of passion which she supposed
love was. She noticed the square, ungraceful shape of
his stalwart figure in his ill-fitting country-made clothes.
She looked at his hard, rough hands, browned with the
summer's work in plow-field and hay-field. She did
not see in him one thing to please her fancy. Plenty
of good sterling qualities to make her honor and trust
in him, -but not the eloquence of dark eyes and
silver tongue, - not the magical charm, the persuasive
witchery which could win her love.
She spoke at length, tenderly, deprecatingly, pitifully,
with tears in her voice and her eyes:c "I can't, Adam, I can't. I have tried, but it is of no
use. I do love you, I love you dearly; but oh! forgive
me, it is not in that way."




332        SOME WOMEN'S  IEARTS.
"Forgive you! Forgive you for not loving me,
Grace! Did you think I could blame you? I hardly
hoped at all. I knew I was not good enough, - I said
so. Forgive me for troubling you. I have pained
you, made you cry. Don't, Grace, you will break my
heart," for, moved to the depths by his words, she was
sobbing passionately.
"I don't wonder you couldn't love meo I only
wonder I could have been so mad as to think it
possible. God bless you. God make you happy. I
know you are my friend, my true, good friend, and
that is enough. It must be enough. You will be my
friend still when I come back, won't you; wherever
you are, married or single?"
A great gulping sob shook him in spite of himself as
he said that, - he was not strong enough to bear the
thought of finding her married to some one else. She
could not answer him, for her tears were falling fast;
but she put out her hand, and he took it and held it in
a close pressure. After a moment he let it go, and for
her sake forced himself to self-control and calmness.
" I brought you a book," he said; " one you like, and
I want you should keep it to make you think of me
sometimes when I can read with you no more."
He laid it in her hand, an edition of Shelley, bound as
Shelley should be, in leather the color of the sea, and
printed on fair, creamy pages, in type it would be a
luxury to read. It was an English edition. He had
been to Boston and back for it the day before. He
said nothing of another gift he had purchased for her




OUT OF NAZARETH.               333
there, —- a ring with a pearl white as milk, faintly
flashing, —he had given up all hope that she would
wear that now.
He received her thanks with a sad smile, and soon
after he went away. He turned back on the threshold
to say, looking at her with tender, sorrowful eyes:"' If ever you want a friend, Grace, - if ever there is
any thing a brother could do for you, - let me know.
Promise me. My father can always tell you where I
am, so it will be easy to send me word. No matter
how far it is, I will not fail you."
When he was gone Grace Amber went back into the
room where she had received her first offer. She had
it to herself. Aunt Prudence was doing fortnightly
duty at a sewing-society, and there was no one to
notice her mood. She tried to read a little in her
Shelley. Then she shut it and fell to thinking. She
could not turn her mind all at once from the true,
honest love that had been laid at her feet. She thought
it all over, - what he had said, - how he had looked
at her, —how generous and patient and earnest he was.
If she could have loved him she knew he would never
have failed her. She could have looked forward to a
fiture fixed and safe and sheltered. But of what avail
all this when she could not give him her heart? - that
wilful, fluttering thing waited for the voice of another
charmer. Some one there must be in the world who
would look at her with the eyes of which she had
dreamed,-whose tones, silver sweet to her ears, would
woo in poet phrases, - a lover after her own heart.




334         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
But she pitied Adam  Russell, her old playfellow,
her fellow student, her one friend for so many years.
She went to bed, at last, with a heartache for his sake;
and his familiar, kindly face blended strangely in her
dreams with the dark eyes, and smile half-sad, halftender of the true Prince who was to come some
day.
That was autumn; and the winter which followed
was insupportably long and tedious.  She had never
thought that she could miss her old friend so much.
Her school duties seemed harder and more monotonous,
-the children more hopelessly stupid and the days
longer. Then the evenings, - those still, dreary times,
with no one to read to her, or hear her read, and the
silence broken only by the steady, drowsy click of
Aunt Prudence's knitting-needles. There was no one
to notice the bit of scarlet ribbon with which she
brightened her winter-dress, or the new ways she did
her hair. She was not one whit more in love with
Adam Russell than ever; but his going away and
leaving no one to take his place made a terrible blank
in her life. She grew thin. She looked not only pale,
but listless.  She found her solitude and the dull
monotony of her days insupportable. She resolved to
change it. She began searching the papers. In some
of' them, she thought, she would be sure to see the
opening she waited for.  Her evenings, devoted to
advertising columns, became a little more interesting.
At length she chanced upon an advertisement for a
governess whch seemed to promise something. All the




OUT OF NAZARlETH.               335
wisdom of Solomon was not, for a wonder, required of
the applicant. She was not expected to sing like
Patti, play like Gottschalk, and dance like Mademoiselle Cubas. The accomplishments, so called, were to
be taught by masters engaged for the purpose, - the
governess was expected to train her pupils in the
ordinary branches of an English education, to direct
their reading, and criticise their manners. Miss Amber
had no fear but that she was qualified. The only
trouble was the references required. To whom could
she refer,- whose indorsemlent, of all she knew, woulc
establish her credentials?
She was firank by nature, and she solved the question
in the directest way. She wrote a letter to the address
given in the advertisement, in which, with straightforward simplicity, she set forth the details of her
birth, breeding, and acquirements, - all her past life, in
short. Perhaps nine advertisers for governesses out of
ten would have passed such a letter by unheeded.
Fortunately she had chanced upon the tenth one, who
appreciated it, and understood her at once. She received in reply a communication nearly, as frank as her
own.
Mrs. St. Clair, the lady who desired her services,
was a widow with two daughters to educate, of whom
the younger was ten and the elder twelve. She residedc
in New York in the winter, in summer upon the Hudson; and she wished a governess who would be no less
a companion for herself than an instructress for her
daughters. If Miss Amnber chose to accept the engage



336        SOME WOMEN'S BEAR TS
ment she would be treated in all respects, social and
domestic, as one of themselves.  She concluded by
naming a salary which sounded munificent to one
accustomed to the wages of a district school-teacher
in the country.
Miss Amber answered the letter by return mail, accepting the situation, and agreeing, as had been proposed,
to join the family at Riverdale the second week in May.
This done, she dispatched a note to the schoolcommittee of Nazareth, informing them that she must
resign her post at the end of the winter term.
Her next task was to settle matters with Aunt
Prudence. The little cottage where they lived, with
the books and furniture it contained, was her inheritance from her father. She could not have borne to
have it pass into other hands, or to see it shut up. She
proposed to her housekeeper to remain there, and keep
a home always open for her return, -promising to
send her from each quarter's salary a remittance sufficient to keep her in comfort. The proposal was accepted with thanks, after a few vain remonstrances on
the evils of young girls going to strange places, the
dangers of city life, and sundry kindred topics.
So all was settled, and then Miss Amber had a pleasant employment for her leisure in making her preparations. It was marvellous how far her money went,
aided by the contrivances of her deft fingers, for she
was her own dress-maker.
School closed, and she parted from the children, the
last day, with more real regret than she could have im



O UT OF NAZARETH.                337
agined it possible to feel for them. They were a link to
her past life; and the future, now that she was draiwing
near it, seemed so dim, so vague, so untried, that she
shrank from it a little, and turned to the past with a
strange tenderness. She shed not a few tears for the
days gone by, as she roamed again over her old haunts,
and went round among all her old, kind friends to bid
them farewell.
Still, when she had fairly left Nazareth behind her,
and started on her way to Riverdale, her spirits rose.
The prospect of change exhilarated her. She seemed
to breathe freer. Her pulses thrilled at the thought of
new scenes and new faces, - perhaps, who knew, the
real storyv-book lover at last. It was time, she said to
herself, with a smile and a blush,  she was almost
twenty-three, and if he did not make haste, "the invisible, unknown he," she would be old and faded before
he came for her.
That night she passed on the Sound. The next forenoon she reached Riverdale station. The other passengers who got out there marched away, as if each
one knew where he was going. She was left nearly
alone, when a respectable-looking coachman asked if it
was Miss Amber, and conducted her to a carriage where
a middle-aged lady and two little girls sat waiting. It
was kind of them, she thought, to meet her. She went
forward with a pleased smile on her face that made her
lovely. Mrs. St. Clair looked at her critically. She
liked the graceful figure in quiet, lady-like travelling
garb; the pale, high-bred face; the simple yet elegant
15                   V




338         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
manner. She congratulated herself. She had not done
ill in trusting to her intuitions. She welcomed her
governess cordially, and introduced Helen and May,
her daughters.
In the mean time Miss Amber's cool eyes had taken
her measure also. They saw in her a shrewd, reasonable, kindly woman,- no enthusiast, yet not without impulse, - a true lady, - a mother who would be judicious
and faithful, but one whose affection would never be
idolatrous or unreasonable, - a person whose whole
character was well-regulated and consistent; whom she
should like sincerely, and get on with serenely, but
about whom she could never be enthusiastic.
They were satisfied mutually.
That was a pleasant summer. Mrs. St. Clair had
notions of her own about governesses, and recognized
a lady when she saw one. Miss Amber fell into the
ways of the household without difficulty. She had
quite as much time to herself as was good for her.
She found Mrs. St. Clair a pleasant friend; and the
children, if no better than other children, were no
worse, and had been trained to be obedient and not
exacting.
Gradually she became familiar with the family history. Mrs. St. Clair, not more than thirty-five now,
had been her husband's second wife. Besides her own
two little girls there was a son of the first Mvrs. St.
Clair; a young gentleman of twenty-five, who had been
living for several years in Italy, and was expected home
by and by. About this absentee, "brother Paul," as




OUT OF NAZARETH.                339
they called him, the children were very enthusiastic. He
was so handsome, so generous, -above all, he painted
so beautifully. I-e must paint Miss Amber's portrait
when he came home.
Mrs. St. Clair spoke of him with a certain kind of
affection. That he was her husband's son was a claim
on her regard which she would never have thought of
ignoring. Still there was no difficulty in perceiving
that he was not to her taste. A very real woman, she
had not much sympathy with the ideal. She was just
the kind of person to look coldly on artists, and dis-,
trust poets. So her curt and slightly sarcastic comments on the children's rhapsodies only amused their
governess.
Unconsciously to herself Miss Amber was beginning
to make a hero of this unknown "'brother Paul."  It
would have shocked her if she had realized how much
she thought about him, - how much reference she had
in her choice of books and studies to the probability of
their future meeting, and the subjects she should want
to discuss with him. She would have laughed at the
idea of the rich Mr' St. Clair falling in love with his
sisters' governess; and yet, underneath her acknowledgments that such dreams would be impossible of fulfillment, and absurd of' conception, I am not sure that
there did not lurk a hidden something, not vivid enough
to be called a hope, less tangible than a fancy, which
pointed to him as the true Prince.
After a quiet, pleasant summer the family went back
to New York.  Miss Amber was more than  ever




840         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
charmed with her situation, as indeed she had reason.
Mrs. St. Clair had taken a hearty and honest liking to
her, and meant to afford her every enjoyment and advantage in her power. If she had been a daughter of
the house her position could hardly have been more
agreeable or independent. She had, to be sure, her
hours for lessons, when she taught with zeal and thoroughness, - but she might have done as much had
iMay and Helen been her own young sisters. Outside
these hours they were quite as much in their mother's
charge as in hers. She enjoyed this luxurious life. She
delighted in the ease and elegance of her surroundings,
— handsome furniture, spacious rooms, attentive servants. When she thought of Nazareth, in those days,
it was almost with a shiver of self-pity. How had she
lived so long with such commonplace associations?
What would tempt her ever to go back to that rugged
life, so bare of all luxury and grace?
In New York Mr's. St. Clair introduced her in society as her friend. Probably few guessed at her position; or, if they did, they politely ignored it, perceiving
that they were expected to receive her on the footing
of one of the, family. At first she remonstrated against
giving up so much time to society; but when she saw
it was really Mrs. St. Clair's wish, she yielded to the
natural, girlish enjoyment it gave her, only taking most
conscientious care that her pupils should never be neglected, or their hours for study set aside.
She met with admiration enough to have turned some
heads. [Not that she was called a beauty. The women,




OUT OF NAZARETH.               341
indeed, could see nothing to admire in "that pale
girl;" but the men seemed to find something. Perhaps it was partly the oddity of a woman who did not
sing or play or dance, in a circle where every one else
at least attempted these accomplishments. Then her
style was so peculiar. She dressed so simply, yet with
a taste so faultless. Her conversation was so piquant, so
fresh; her moods so independent; her bearing so quietly
regal. It was the difference between a nature pure,
inexperienced, unhackneyed, and one which an artificial
life had warped out of all originality; cramped remorselessly down to conventional standards. Mrs. Sto
Clair smiled to herself now and then to see how her
protegee was becoming the fashion.
HIer smiles changed to half-vexed astonishment when
two offers of marriage came from two of the best
matches in the city, and were successively rejected.
"I do not think you know your own mind, or have
any true idea of your own requirements," she said in a
provoked tone, on the second of these occasions.
s" Why? Because I do not love Mr. Desmond or Mr.
Vanderpool?  I know no harm of them; but I cannot
help it if they do not touch my heart. It bores me and
tires me out to talk with either of them an hour at a
time: what would it be to see their faces opposite me
for ever? Are you in haste to look out for a new governess?"
6"I should be sorry to part with you, - I need not
tell you that, —but I am not selfish enough to wish
you to forget your own interests, and lose your chances




342         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
in life for the sake of being my governess. However,
you must gang your aill gait."
" Waiting for Paul, I know it!" MIrs. St. Clair soliloquized in an annoyed tone, as the door closed upon Miss
Amber.  GShe is romantic, and those children have
made him  out such a wonder. A selfish, luxurious
dreamer; he isn't half good enough for her."
It was just about that time that one of Aunt Prudence's occasional letters came, with an item of Nazareth news in it of more than usual interest. Adam
Russell's mother had died suddenly. He had been
sent for, but only arrived in time to stand over her
grave. He had seemed very much overcome, but had
only staid in Nazareth a few days. The night before he
went away he had called at the old parsonage. It must
have been to ask after Grace, for he had not talked of
any thing else, and spoke little even of her. He took
down some of the books, and went and sat in the old
window-seat, and turned them over; and after he had
sat there a while he got up and went away.
This letter touched Miss Amber's heart strangely.
She had been Adam Russell's true friend too many
years not to feel his sorrow. She knew by her own
memories of anguish what it must be to him to lose his
mother. It would seem to sever his connection with
Nazareth; for between him and his father-a stern,
rigid man -there was no great attachment.  Perhaps
she should never see him again. How strange it would
be, after all those years of friendship. How good he
had been to her; how much he had loved her. She




OUT OF NAZARETI.               343
wanted to write to him and try to comfort him a little;
she thought she would if she had known where he was.
But she did not know. There was no way but to send
the letter to his father for him; and then it would be
speculated about, and grow old and cold before it
reached him. So she gave it up. Perhaps something
whispered that since she could not give him what he
had asked her for, any thing else which she could give
him would be worth little. The thought of his lonely
heart, his unshared sorrow, haunted and saddened her
for days,- until, in fact, it was banished by a new and
most potent excitement.
"' Brother Paul " was coming. He had started in the
"Arago."  She was nearly due. He might be there any
day. May and Helen were wild with the eager excitement of children. Miss Amber's expectation was
quieter, but not less intense. The daily lessons were
hard work for both teacher and pupils.
At last, one day, in the very midst of study hours,
there was the bustle of an arrival in the hall. The
girls sprang up and tossed their books to the ceiling.
The governess attempted no restraint. She, too, would
have liked to join the wild rush down the stairs. She
retreated, instead, to her own room, and, like a sensible
young woman, improved the time to make her toilet.
It cost her more study than all the parties at which she
had assisted that winter. She did not acknowledge to
herself the half of her real interest. She wanted to have
him for a friend, she thought, - to hear him talk about
Italy; she must not shock his fastidious taste by her




344         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
first appearance. She tried half a dozen things, and
ended with a plain but rich black silk, which fitted her
figure exquisitely, finished with soft laces at wrists and
throat. Black became her. It seemed a sort of continuation, in effect, of her soft, dark hair. It made her
pale face look clear. Still, when all was done she was
not satisfied. She did not like the slight, pale girl she
saw in the mirror. Something seemed wanting of grace
and sparkle, - some charm she lacked in her own eyes
that she knew not where to borrow. I do not know
but she would have dressed over again if Helen, at the
door, had not saved her the trouble.
" Mamma wants you to come down. Paul has been
asking for you. Hte laughed at May and me for writing
so much about you, and he says he wants to see the
paragon."
Indiscreet tongue of childhood! Miss Amber's cheeks
blazed, - her eyes glittered.  They had been making
her ridiculous. Well, she would be indifferent enough.
Her excitement supplied the lacking charm. If she had
looked in the glass now she would have seen no want
of life and sparkle.
She went into the drawing-room haughtily. Haughtily
she received Mr. St. Clair's salutations. Silently and
coolly she took her place at the window. He was enchanted. Surely the half had not been told him. None
of them had written of her as handsome. What else
did they call this radiant creature, with the wide, lurminous eyes, the dusky, soft-falling hair, the pale brow, and
the rose tint on cheek and lip?




OUT OF NAZA RETH.              345
You perceive there was a certain exaggerative romance in his manner of thinking. He was both poet
and painter, — not great in either art, but with enough
of an artist's soul to color his conceptions.
Miss Amber, on her part, despite her vexation and her
cool ways, lost not an inflection of his voice, not a shade
of his expression. It thrilled her with a new emotion
when he looked at her or spoke to her. Here were the'
dark, eloquent eyes of which she had dreamed, - here
the silver tongue, the high-bred, faultlessly elegant
manner. Of course he was nothing to her; but with
such a man in the world for a standard of comparison,
what chance was there for the Desmonds and Vanderpools of society?  She was cool and self-possessed as a
veteran, however. No one could have guessed from
her manner the new, overpowering fascination which
swayed her heart. Even Mrs. St. Clair gloried in her
quiet dignity, and began to hope that she was not going
to be foolish enough, after all, to fall in love with Paul.
Is there any need to tell how the days and weeks of
their acquaintance went on? how the spell of those unaccustomed charms stole over Miss Amber's dreaming
heart, innocent, childlike, and almost as susceptible at
twenty-three as in early girlhood? She lost her power
to criticise, and believed in Paul St. Clair's genius as he
believed in it himself. She listened to him with pulses
that kept time to the melody of his voice as he lay on
an ottoman at her feet, and said his own rhymes to
her, looking up now and then into her face with the
dangerous sweetness of his dark eyes. She grew to
15-*




346         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
find every hour spiceless, insipid, that was not passed
in his presence. And yet she kept up to herself the
pretty fiction that he did not, and never would, love
her, that it was only his genius which charmed her; and
so she blinded her eyes as to whither she was drifting.
As for him, he had had fancies many, and loves
many; but he felt in her presence that he had never
loved before. I know not how real his passion was.
His own faith in it was profound.
Mrs. St. Clair looked on with a certain degree of such
patience as one has with the vagaries and petulance of
a sick child. She thought that the flame would consume
all its oil and go out after a while, at least in Miss
Amber's heart. For her step-son she was not much
concerned; she believed thoroughly in his power of
recuperation.
Before they left town in the spring she found, to her
dismay, that affairs were assuming a more serious character than she had anticipated.
Miss Amber waited on her one morning with a cool
announcement of her wish to resign her situation. A
question or two elicited the cause. Mr. St. Clair had
proposed to her, and she had promised to be his wife.
Of course she could not with propriety continue to
teach there; and probably Mrs. St. Clair would not
wish it,- this speech, with q curious look and an air at
once deprecating and defiant.
Mrs. St. Clair considered a moment. Matters had
certainly gone farther and faster than she expected.
She had judged Paul by his past flames, and so failed




OUT OF NAZARETH.               347
to do him justice. She had not given him credit for so
much direct resolution and energy. Her chief concern
was for Miss Amber, for whom she entertained a true,
practical, common-sense, yet most earnest friendship,
more real and tangible, as well as more judicious, than
one woman in ten is capable of feeling for another. She
appreciated the girl's intense, affluent nature; she
thought it too rich a freight to be wrecked on the
lee-shore of an unhappy marriage. Still, if it were
possible that the marriage would not be unhappy; if
she herself had not done Paul justice; if they indeed
belonged together; then, in Heaven's name, let them
marry. It would be giving her a daughter-in-law after
her own heart. But, at any rate, they should have time
to know whether they really and thoroughly suited
each other. She spoke, after her silent consideration,
deliberately:"' I am not willing to release you. I want you should
stay with me through the summer, as much for your
own sake as for mine. Do not suspect me of being
opposed to this marriage. If you could be happy in it,
it would give me undisguised satisfaction. Paul has no
occasion to marry for money; it needs only that his wifb
should be a gentlewoman. All my concern is that you
should not make a mistake. A man can bear an unhappy
or an unsatisfying marriage without ruin -the world
offers him so many resources. To a woman, such a
woman as you, it would be fatal. Stay here, therefore.
Learn to know him well; and when you are satisfied
by a fair trial that he fulfils all the demands of your




348         SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
nature, marry him. I believe if I were your mother I
should hardly feel for you more anxiously, and I could
not counsel you differently than I do now."
liss Amber's eyes overflowed. For the first time she
took Mrs. St. Clair's hand, and pressed her lips upon it
with heart-felt tenderness.  Then she lifted her face
with a smile and a blush.
"W' hat will he think? I told him I must positively
leave, -that it would not be right for me to stay."
" I will settle it with him. You shall not be compromised; and I assure you he will be only too glad."
In her secret heart Miss Amber was glad also. She
had dreaded to go back to Nazareth, even for a time, -
to her dull, ungenial life there; the rude ways, the
work-a-day habits. She had dreaded yet more to leave
Paul St. Clair. In that stage of her love-malady his
presence was the one charm of the universe. Take that
away, and sun, moon, and stars would refuse to give
their light.
So they all went up to Riverdale, and she basked in
that marvellous brightness, morning, noon, and night.
He had the freedom  of the schoolroom nowv, and he
haunted it incessantly during lesson hours. Indeed,
when the warm weather ca.me he persuaded his mother
that both his sisters and their teacher were in need of
a vacation; and for the months of July and August
lessons were interdicted altogether.
Then, of course, he must paint her portrait, -the
natural pastime of an artist in love. There were long
sittings, in which he painted little and made love much.




OUT OF NAZARETH.                349
He sketched her in every attitude, every costume,never able to decide in which she was most charming.
At last she grew tired. She thought it was the warm
weather, or the long, fruitless sittings. Mrs. St. Clair
smiled shrewdly, and said something to herself about a
surfeit of sweetmeats. If Paul would but have let her
have her own way his power over her would have
lasted longer. She longed to go off by herself and rest;
to think her own thoughts, and have a few free breaths
out of his atmosphere. But he could not understand it.
He drew strength and refreshment and constant pleasure from her larger, deeper, stronger nature. How was
he to know that this, and not the weather, was exhausting her, wearing her out?
She bore it as long as she could. The very effort to
keep up the spell weakened it. Trying to delude herself into thinking that she was as happy as ever, as
much entranced in his presence, only made her real
discontent and weariness more tangible. Then, too, her
nature was, as I have said, singularly honest, - honest
to herself as well as to others. She had never been
accustomed to self-deception, or to tampering with the
truth. When she found that she was tired of Paul, of
his dark eyes and soft tones, his poetry, his painting, his
Italy, she was too truthful to wear a mask. She wondered at herself. HIe was certainly her ideal. She
ought to have been satisfied for ever in his presence,
only - she wasn't. She had taken more real comfort
with Adam Russell in the old window-seat at Nazareth,
fagging at Virgil and Cicero, than she seemed ever likely




350        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
to find sitting in the perfumed air of Paul St. Clair's
studio, and listening to his honeyed words and soft
rhynles. The wine had been too sweet. Was she to
blame because it palled on her taste?
Still she did blame herself intensely. It well-nigh
broke her heart. She almost resolved to bear on in
silence, for ever. How could she tell him when he loved
her so; when he had said so often it would be death to
part with her? Perhaps she would even have gone to
such length of self-martyrdom  as to smother for his
sake the rereonstrance of her own soul, and go on with
the fiction of love when the reality was dead, if it had
not been for 3IMrs. St. Clair.
That lady found her crying one morning, and made
use of the opportunity to wrench the truth from her.
Indeed, after the first pang which it gave her pride to
confess that she had been mistaken, it came easily
enough. It was such a relief to tell the whole truth;
to lean a little on the strength and judgment of another. When she had said all that was in her heart she
smiled with a little touch of self-scorn.
"How weak you will think me, - how weak I am!
I don't know that I understand myself. Perhaps I love
Paul as much as ever. Perhaps it is only this oppressive weather that makes me feel tired of every thing,
and when a cool, fresh day comes I shall be myself
again."
Mrs. St. Clair looked at her kindly, but with a shrewd
comprehension, as she answered her: -
" I think you do love Paul just as much as ever, be



OUT OF NAZARETH.               351
cause I do not think it was ever love which you felt for
him. You had an ideal, and you thought he fulfilled it.
His dark eyes and soft words, his poetry and painting
and dreaming, bewitched you, -but the back-bone of
love was not there. It was impossible that it should be,,
for you were the stronger spirit of the two; and I think
no real woman loves where she cannot lean. With you
he would have become like a parasite. He would have
drawn all the life out of you. You talked of how tired
you would be of Desmond and of Vanderpool. I tell you
either of them would be rest itself compared with Paul.
The mind cannot dwell for ever in an artificial atmosplere. One must touch bottom sometimes. I am only
thankful that you have found out the truth in season."
" But I cannot break my word. I know Paul loves
me. I am not bad enough to requite love with cruel
wrong."
"Humph! To my thinking the cruel wrong would be
in marrying him when you don't want him. He would
find out soon enough how you felt. The very selfishness of his nature would make him keenly sensitive to
any coldness; and you know you are no hypocrite.
Trust me, even if you loved him, he would be better,off without you. He would lean on you till the little
strength nature gave him would have died of inaction.
He will be twice the man married to a woman weaker
than himself, - one who looks up to him, - whom he
must sustain. If you dread telling him, let me."
" No; if it is right to tell him I must do it. I will
not delegate my duties. I will go now; but I seem to




352        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
myself like Judas when he betrayed his Lord. To
have received his love, four months ago, with joy and
pride beyond words, and now to scorn it and reject it!
Let me go this instant, or I shall never have enough
courage."
How she got through the interview she never knew.
When she went into his studio he was retouching the
outlines of her portrait, looking at it with lingering,
loving eyes. He sprang, when he heard her step, to
meet her, radiant with welcome. She almost thought
again that she loved him, as she met the ardent gaze
of the dark eyes, and listened to the familiar music
of his voice. She felt guilty and hopeless, as the
strong Roman when he met the glazing reproachful
eye of the master he had murdered. But she plunged
desperately on, and told him the truth.
His burst of passionate grief, his upbraiding, his
despair, pierced her heart. She sat very still; but she
grew terribly pale, and her breath seemed to forsake
her. When he paused she said, -it was all she could
do to speak, and her tones were so low he thought them
icy cold," If you wish it, if you say so, I will marry you; but
I do not love you in that way at all."
"You are mad, Grace, my darling, -my darling,
You could not so have deceived yourself and me.
You have told me you loved me so often."
Low and clear fell the slow, controlled tones:6'I am not mad. I know my own heart now. I
know it was not love. I am not deceived, though I was
then."




OUT OF NAZARETH.                353
He thought her pitiless, her tones fell so evenly, her
eyes were so cold and dry. He little knew how near
her heart seemed to breaking. It roused his anger.
He asked, bitterly,"What is my crime? What have I done?'
"Nothing; only I have found out that I do not love
you."'
If she had felt less she would have shown more
emotion, been more tender; but she could not trust
her voice for an unnecessary word. At her icy stillness
his passion burst all bounds. He forgot himself, and
overwhelmed her with reproaches; pierced her with
arrows of scorn that quivered in her very heart. She
rose at last, and looked at him with sad, imploring
eyes.
"After so many happy hours, I hoped we could have
parted friends."'
"A man forgives his murderer sometimes," he sneered,
"who shoots him in fair duel. I never heard of one
who shook hands, at parting, with a masked assassin."
With these words for the end of so much loving she
went out of the room. She went upstairs, still firmly
and tearlessly, and packed her trunks. She could not
trust herself to rest or pause. When she had arranged
all her possessions, and dressed herself for a journey,
she went to Mrs. St. Clair.
"' The next train leaves in half an hour. My trunks
are all ready. Can I be sent to the station? "
Mrs. St. Clair saw a resolution in her face which it
would be useless to oppose. Indeed she did not wish
W




354         S01ME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
to oppose it; for she knew her well enough to recognize her need of change and solitude. She only asked,
after she had ordered the carriage,"Will you come back to me when we go to town
again in the fall?"
A shudder shook Miss Amber's frame; she answered,
with almost a groan, -
"No, Mrs. St. Clair, never. I love you, and I love
the children; but I am done with governessing for
life. I am going home. If there is less to interest
there, less to please, God knows how much less pain
there is. MiYere safety is something."
"I understand your feeling so, now. If you ever
change your mind your place here will never be so
filled that it will not be open to you to return."
When the cars whirled Miss Amber away she gave
no look backward. She had but one longing, -to get
home. She had been out into the world, and gathered
herself apples of Sodom. The fair hues which looked
so bright in the distance had  all faded.  In the
pleasure-gardens stones had goaded, thorns had pricked
her. She asked now only rest. Nazareth was rough,
and rugged, and commonplace as ever, doubtless; but
no paradise of promised delights could have seduced
her from it. During all the journey she allowed herself no backward thoughts. She would suffer her selfcontrol to run no risks till she should be beyond the
reach of curious eyes, within the chamber where she
had dreamed all her childish dreams, before her world's
work and world's trouble came.




OUT OF NAZARETH.               355
The next day she reached Nazareth. Drawing her
thick veil down to escape notice, she walked home
across the fields, leaving her trunks to be sent for.
Just past her twenty-fourth birthday, and done with
life, -so she thought.
Aunt Prudence Fairly was a kindly soul, and, thanks
to the silent influence of her residence in Parson
Amber's family, not curious. She welcomed Grace
with genuine delight, and in the next breath told her
how pale she looked, — " dead beat out."
"I know it. I am sick."
"Well, you just go to bed, and I'll make you a nice
bowl of penny-r'yal, and put some draughts to your
feet, and have you round as chipper as can be in a
couple of days."
Miss Amber smiled faintly at the thought of such
medicine for her pain. But she felt too desolate not
to value the kindness of the intention. She laid her
fingers  on Aunt Prudence's withered hand with a
gentle touch.
"That would not help me," she said, kindly. "I am
not ill of any thing but weariness. If you will let me
go to my room and not come out of it for the next
three days I shall be all right. I want a thorough rest
before I can bear to see or speak to any one, even you."
The good old soul had the grace to submit, though it
was about the hardest task Miss Amber could have
imposed. She longed to ask and answer questions, -
at least to look at the returned wanderer, and tend hers
-but she took her disappointment patiently.




356        SOME WOMEN'NS HEARTS.
For three days Miss Amber staid quite alone, only taking in periodical cups of tea, and slices of toast, which
she ate and drank mechanically, because they were
brought, but which did her much good nevertheless.
In those three days she grew better acquainted with
her own heart. She thought a great deal about Paul
St. Clair; and she began to understand how imaginary
had been her love for him, even while it was most
entrancing, - how little it would have been capable of
withstanding the rude buffetings of actual life in this
most real world. She pitied him with all the compassion
of her heart in his present pain; but she had faith, after
all, that it would be a wholesome tonic, - that the bitter
draught would give him strength. Involuntarily she
recalled the past of two years ago, and contrasted it
with the present. How boyish, undisciplined, unworthy,
seemed Paul's anger, his rage at the truth, his refusal
to part friends, when compared with Adam Russell's
unselfish patience. She could not help seeing where
was the finer fibre of manhood.
She thought of the hard, rough hands, and ungraceful air which had seemed so intolerable to her then.
Of how much less moment they seemed now. She
was learning to look beyond externals, to that which
can alone endure the heat of the furnace. She began
to see Adam Russell as he was, —strong and faithful
and self-denying, - the true gentleman.  She half
wondered that, in those old days, she had not loved
him, for the very thought of him now was like the fresh
cool wind blowing over the hills.




OUT OF NAZARETH.               357
She looked out of the window at the rugged, beautiful landscape. She longed to climb the steep paths; to
feel the free, life-giving air. She felt as if she had
been surfeited with flowers and sweetness and luxury.
She liked better this simple life, which lay before her
now, in the town where her father and mother had
died. She thought of the past with no regret, save for
the pain she had given Paul. Her own share of suffering did not pay too dearly for the knowledge she had
won. She dressed herself carefully, - it was the evening of the third day, - and went downstairs.
"I am well, now," she said, with a smile which made
Aunt Prudence think of sunshine after a long storm.
"You won't go back for a week or two, I reckon?"
asked the old lady, looking at her with fond eyes.
"No, I'm not going back. When the school is vacant
again I shall take it."
"Will you be contented?" - with a shrewd, questioning glance.
"Yes, never fear. There will be no relapse into that
restless mood which drove me away. I have seen the
world, and it is no better than Nazareth."
"Well, theu, I guess you can have the school by
asking for it. Sally Perkins has been teaching, and
she's goin' to be married this fall. School was out the
day you came home."
Miss Amber had sat down in the window-seat, and
was looking at the sunset fires burning beyond the
hills. She wanted to inquire for the old friend who
used to sit there with her, and she felt a singular




358        SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS.
diffidence. She did not look at Aunt Prudence when
she spoke.
"sThis window-seat makes me think of Adam. It
seems a long time since we used to study here together.
Do you know where he is now?"
Not rightly.  Somewhere out West. He hasn't
been home since his mother died, but they say he's
making a power of money. He has something to do
with railroads, and he's a great politician. He sent
home some of his speeches, and I got'em to read after
they'd done with'em over to his father's. I don't
believe but what they're here now."
She bustled round to find them, and  liss Amber
went on with her own thoughts. She did not read the
speeches till the next morning, when Arnt Prudence
was busy, and she could have them  all to herself
She did not care much for politics; but if their subject
had been the Government of Timbuctoo they would
have interested her, for they made her better acquainted
with her old fiiend. She felt, as she read, that she was
in presence of an intellect more subtile and clear and
powerful than her own. She recognized now and then
touches of genius; and she saw how a fancy was held
in leash by the subject, that might be full of exquisite
grace. She began to wonder how he could ever have
loved her; and to think it was because in those old
days he had not learned to appreciate himself. I think
she was not far from being in love with him, only she
was judicious enough not to see it, and only to think
of him as her best friend.  Her past experience was
her security against being morbid or sentineltlal.




OUT OF NAZARETH.               359
The first of November she began again her old
work. It tasked her energies. It was a very different
thing from teaching May and Helen, her quick, graceful pupils. These untrained imps were stolid some of
them, roguish some of them, stupid some of them,
uncultured and undisciplined all. Still she was not
discouraged, and seldom vexed. She seemed to have
acquired some of Adam Russell's patience. She was as
forbearing with error and stupidity as he would have
been; and so, in brief space, she won love, and conquered all disposition to offend.
Her life went on monotonously enough until the next
summer, when it was varied a little by a visitor. Mrs.
St. Clair came to see her, and staid a week. She
brought her a letter from Paul. Having outlived his
despair, his natural good-nature made him penitent for
having parted with Miss Amber in anger. He wrote to
tell her so. Moreover, he had something else to communicate which he knew she would be glad to hear.
He was engaged, with every prospect of a happy
future.  His betrothed was charming as any of his
dreams, and she loved him without doubt or question.
He believed that they suited each other utterly; and,
dear as MIiss Amber had been, sad for him as their parting had been, he was constrained to confess that she had,
questionless, decided rightly for him as well as for herself.
When she had read it through she raised her eyes to
meet M1Vrs. St. Clair's smile.
"I told vou I had no fears for him. I never thought
you were the one it would be best for him to marry,




360         SOME WOMEN'S IEARTS.
any more than I was deluded into believing he could
make you permanently happy. His Lily is just to his
taste. She will look up to him, and lean on him, and
think him the first of created beings. They will be
married this, fall, and then I want you to come back
to me."
This was the true object of the visit. Probably Mrs.
St. Clair had not a doubt of success. But Miss Amber
was firm. No persuasions moved her.  She found herself best and happiest in Nazareth, and there she would
stay. Her friend left her behind reluctantly, but was
her friend too truly to indulge in any pique.
How little would Grace Amber have believed, two
years before, that she could have refused such an offer
without regret, - chosen Nazareth before the world.
Now it must be some other lure than luxury and ease
and a city life which would wile her from those rugged
hills.
Living there, teaching still, the years went by her and
changed her little. Spring violets bloomed, summer
roses blushed and faded, autumn fruits ripened, and
winter snows whitened the fields, bringing her little
variety. Still she was content. She smiled as she
looked at herself in the mirror on her twenty-ninth
birthday, tying on her bonnet, to think that when the
next year came round they would call her an old maid.
There were no silver threads in her soft dusky hair, for
the years had been kind to her. You would scarcely
have known she was older than at twenty-two, save by
the deeper meaning of her face.




OUT OF NAZARETH.               361
It was Sunday. She had staid at home in the morning to nurse Aunt Prudence through an unwonted
attack of sick headache; but in the afternoon she went
to church as usual. It was September. The fields were
green still, and the skies bright. But there was the
breath of autumn in the air, and it braced her nerves
and quickened her footsteps. She walkedc on cheerily,
and there was a bright glow on her cheek as she took
her seat in church. It deepened a little when some unconscious magnetism drew her eyes to the Russell pew,
and she saw sitting there an old friend.
Time had changed Adam Russell. He looked fully
his years; indeed, at twenty-eight he might well have
been taken for thirty-five. His face was calm and kindly,
but with a look of thought and power,- a masterful
look, as of one who had struggled with the world and
conquered it. He had lost nothing of his old friendly
honesty, but he had gained that indescribable something
which the world recognizes as the distinction of a gentleman.
It was no wonder that Miss Amber heard little of the
sermon. Try as she would, her thoughts proved rebels.
She stole no more glances after the first look; but more
than once she felt that his eyes were on her face. She
hurried out when the'service was over, but fast as she
walked it was not long before his fiee, firm steps overtook her. There was no awkwardness or embarrassment in his manner. He took her books from her hand
as quietly as if a week, and not seven years, had lain
between their last meeting and this. He even called
16




862        SOME WOME N'S HEARTS.
her Grace, with the pleasant freedom of their old, longcontinued friendship. At first he did most of the talking; but soon they were chatting together as of old.
When they reached the gate she asked if he could come
in to tea, or would they wait for him at home?
" Come in!" he answered. " Surely I can, if you are
good enough to ask me. The only one who would have
missed me at home is waiting for me in another home,
now."7
Then they talked about his mother, and his sorrow
and her sympathy drew them still more into the old
manner of intimate friendliness.
After tea was over Aunt Prudence, worthy for once;
of her name, found her head getting to be more troublesome, and judiciously made her exit. So it chanced
that they sat down together at the west window, where
lay the Shelley, in its sea-green covers, just as the sun
was setting.
" It makes the years seem short," he said, "' to sit here
again; and yet they were long enough in passing. But
I did mly task. I have brought home the thirty thousand dollars, Grace. I know I did not suit you then, -
you thought you could not love me. I meant to grow
fitter for you with the years, -more worthy; for I had
always one fixed purpose, -to come home, and, if I
found you free, ask you the question I asked you that
night over again. Would there be any more hope for
me now?"
"It is I who am not good enough for you now," she
answered, faintly.




OUT OF NARARETH'.               363
Then she told him the story of her year and a half
away from Nazareth,- the story of Paul.
"Did you think that could trouble me?" he asked
when she paused. "If you are left to me, do I care for
the dreams which never proved themselves real? Can
I be too thankful for any thing which taught you selfknowledge? I have never lost hope, or ceased striving,
that I might grow fit.to be your choice at last. See,
this is what I had for you that night; it has never left
me. Will you wear it now?"
He drew the ring from his breast, — its pure pearl
faintly flashing, - and Miss Amber held out her hand.
And so, with the ring upon her finger, and her hand in
his, the twilight found them, and folded its soft shadows
round them like a blessing.
She had won her life's rest at last.
"Do you love Nazareth too well to leave it?"
This question came the next day, when they had
grown familiar with their joy.
"We will live where you choose," he went on, seeing
that she hesitated in her reply. " It will be no sacrifice
for me to live here, if you like it best. I have left my
work behind me: it is for you to say whether I go back
to it or begin a new life here."
She thought a little, silently. Nazareth was dear, —
dearer than ever now. All the pure joy of her life had
found her there; but he was dearer, -his interest the
first thought. She would like to see him in his true
sphere; to cheer him on in his work for God and mlan.




364        SOME WOMEN'S NEAR TS.
There was little for him to do in the quiet New England town. He wanted more room, she knew. So she
put her hand in his and answered him, —
"Let us go back to your work. I shall have no regrets. Where thou goest I will go. Thy people shall
be my people, and thy God my God."
So, three weeks after, true husband and true wife,
they went hand in hand out of Nazareth.
Cambridge: Press of John Wilson & Son.