THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
BOOKS BY EDITH WHARTON 
 
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THE DESCENT 
 OF MAN 
 
 AND 
 OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 EDITH 
 
 W H A R T O N 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNERS 
 SONS, NEW YORK: 1904 
 
ightf .1904, by Charles Scribners Sons 
 
 The Trow Press, New York 
 
TO 
 EDWARD L. BURLINGAME 
 
 MY FIRST AND KINDEST CRITIC 
 
 804237 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 I 
 
 The Descent of Man 1 
 
 II 
 
 The Mission of Jane 37 
 
 III 
 
 The Other Two 71 
 
 IV 
 
 The Quicksand 109 
 
 V 
 
 The Dilettante 141 
 
 VI 
 
 The Reckoning 161 
 
 VII 
 
 Expiation 
 
 VIII 
 
 The Lady s Maid s Bell 
 
 IX 
 
 A Venetian Night s Entertainment 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 WHEN Professor Linyard came back from 
 his holiday in the Maine woods the air of 
 rejuvenation he brought with him was due 
 less to the influences of the climate than to the com 
 panionship he had enjoyed on his travels. To Mrs. 
 Linyard s observant eye he had appeared to set out 
 alone; but an invisible traveller had in fact accom 
 panied him, and if his heart beat high it was simply 
 at the pitch of his adventure: for the Professor had 
 eloped with an idea. 
 
 No one who has not tried the experiment can 
 divine its exhilaration. Professor Linyard would not 
 have changed places with any hero of romance 
 pledged to a flesh-and-blood abduction. The most fas 
 cinating female is apt to be encumbered with lug 
 gage and scruples: to take up a good deal of room 
 in the present and overlap inconveniently into the 
 future; whereas an idea can accommodate itself to 
 a single molecule of the brain or expand to the cir 
 cumference of the horizon. The Professor s compan 
 ion had to the utmost this quality of adaptability. As 
 the express train whirled him away from the some 
 what inelastic circle of Mrs. Linyard s affections, his 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 idea seemed to be -sitting opposite him, and their eyes 
 met every moment or two in a glance of joyous com 
 plicity; yet when a friend of the family presently 
 joined him and began to talk about college matters, 
 the idea slipped out of sight in a flash, and the Pro 
 fessor would have had no difficulty in proving that 
 he was alone. 
 
 But if, from the outset, he found his idea the most 
 agreeable of fellow-travellers, it was only in the 
 aromatic solitude of the woods that he tasted the full 
 savour of his adventure. There, during the long cool 
 August days, lying full length on the pine-needles 
 and gazing up into the sky, he would meet the eyes 
 of his companion bending over him like a nearer 
 heaven. And what eyes they were! clear yet un 
 fathomable, bubbling with inexhaustible laughter, yet 
 drawing their freshness and sparkle from the central 
 depths of thought! To a man who for twenty yars 
 had faced an eye reflecting the commonplace with per 
 fect accuracy, these escapes into the inscrutable had 
 always been peculiarly inviting; but hitherto the Pro 
 fessor s mental infidelities had been restricted by an 
 unbroken and relentless domesticity. Now, for the 
 first time since his marriage, chance had given him 
 six weeks to himself, and he was coming home with 
 his lungs full of liberty. 
 
 It must not be inferred that the Professor s do- 
 
THE DESCENT 0F M-A-N 
 
 mestic relations were defective: they were in fact so 
 complete that it was almost impossible to get away 
 from them. It is the happy husbands who are really 
 in bondage; the little rift within the lute is often a 
 passage to freedom. Marriage had given the Pro 
 fessor exactly what he had sought in it: a comfort 
 able lining to life. The impossibility of rising to 
 sentimental crises had made him scrupulously care 
 ful not to shirk the practical obligations of the bond. 
 He took as it were a sociological view of his case, and 
 modestly regarded himself as a brick in that founda 
 tion on which the state is supposed to rest. Perhaps 
 if Mrs. Linyard had cared about entomology, or had 
 taken sides in the war over the transmission of ac 
 quired characteristics, he might have had a less 
 impersonal notion of marriage; but he was uncon 
 scious of any deficiency in their relation, and if con 
 sulted would probably have declared that he didn t 
 want any woman bothering with his beetles. His real 
 life had always lain in the universe of thought, in 
 that enchanted region which, to those who have lin 
 gered there, comes to have so much more colour and 
 substance than the painted curtain hanging before it. 
 The Professor s particular veil of Maia was a nar 
 row strip of homespun woven in a monotonous pat 
 tern; but he had only to lift it to step into an empire. 
 This unseen universe was thronged with the most 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 seductive shapes: the Professor moved Sultan-like 
 through a seraglio of ideas. But of all the lovely ap 
 paritions that wove their spells about him, none had 
 ever worn quite so persuasive an aspect as this latest 
 favourite. For the others were mostly rather grave 
 companions, serious-minded and elevating enough to 
 have passed muster in a Ladies Debating Club; but 
 this new fancy of the Professor s was simply one em 
 bodied laugh. It was, in other words, the smile of 
 relaxation at the end of a long day s toil: the flash of 
 irony which the laborious mind projects, irresistibly, 
 over labour conscientiously performed. The Professor 
 had always been a hard worker. If he was an indul 
 gent friend to his ideas he was also a stern task 
 master to them. For, in addition to their other duties, 
 they had to support his family: to pay the butcher 
 and baker, and provide for Jack s schooling and 
 Millicent s dresses. The Professor s household was a 
 modest one, yet it tasked his ideas to keep it up to 
 his wife s standard. Mrs. Linyard was not an exact 
 ing wife, and she took enough pride in her husband s 
 attainments to pay for her honours by turning Milli 
 cent s dresses and darning Jack s socks and going to 
 the College receptions year after year in the same 
 black silk with shiny seams. It consoled her to see an 
 occasional mention of Professor Linyard s remarkable 
 monograph on the Ethical Reactions of the Infusoria, 
 [4] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 or an allusion to his investigations into the Uncon 
 scious Cerebration of the Amoeba. 
 
 Still there were moments when the healthy indif 
 ference of Jack and Millicent reacted on the maternal 
 sympathies; when Mrs. Linyard would have made 
 her husband a railway director, if by this trans 
 formation she might have increased her boy s allow 
 ance and given her daughter a new hat, or a set of 
 furs such as the other girls were wearing. Of such 
 moments of rebellion the Professor himself was not 
 wholly unconscious. He could not indeed understand 
 why any one should want a new hat; and as to an 
 allowance, he had had much less money at college 
 than Jack, and had yet managed to buy a microscope 
 and collect a few "specimens"; while Jack was free 
 from such expensive tastes! But the Professor did 
 not let his want of sympathy interfere with the dis 
 charge of his paternal obligations. He worked hard 
 to keep the wants of his family gratified, and it was 
 precisely in the endeavour to attain this end that he at 
 length broke down and had to cease from work alto 
 gether. 
 
 To cease from work was not to cease from thought 
 of it; and in the unwonted pause from effort the 
 Professor found himself taking a general survey of 
 the field he had travelled. At last it was possible to 
 lift his nose from the loom, to step a moment in 
 [5] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 front of the tapestry he had been weaving. From this 
 first inspection of the pattern so long wrought over 
 from behind, it was natural to glance a little farther 
 and seek its reflection in the public eye. It was not 
 indeed of his special task that he thought in this con 
 nection. He was but one of the great army of weavers 
 at work among the threads of that cosmic woof; and 
 what he sought was the general impression their 
 labour had produced. 
 
 When Professor Linyard first plied his microscope, 
 the audience of the man of science had been composed 
 of a few fellow-students, sympathetic or hostile as 
 their habits of mind predetermined, but versed in the 
 jargon of the profession and familiar with the point 
 of departure. In the intervening quarter of a century, 
 however, this little group had been swallowed up in 
 a larger public. Every one now read scientific books 
 and expressed an opinion on them. The ladies and 
 the clergy had taken them up first; now they had 
 passed to the school-room and the kindergarten. Daily 
 life was regulated on scientific principles; the daily 
 papers had their "Scientific Jottings"; nurses passed 
 examinations in hygienic science, and babies were fed 
 and dandled according to the new psychology. 
 
 The very fact that scientific investigation still had, 
 to some minds, the flavor of heterodoxy, gave it a per 
 ennial interest. The mob had broken down the walls 
 [6] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 of tradition to batten in the orchard of forbidden 
 knowledge. The inaccessible goddess whom the Pro 
 fessor had served in his youth now offered her charms 
 in the market-place. And yet it was not the same 
 goddess, after all, but a pseudo-science masquerading 
 in the garb of the real divinity. This false goddess 
 had her ritual and her literature. She had her sacred 
 books, written by false priests and sold by millions 
 to the faithful. In the most successful of these works, 
 ancient dogma and modern discovery were depicted 
 in a close embrace under the lime-lights of a hazy 
 transcendentalism ; and the tableau never failed of 
 its effect. Some of the books designed on this pop 
 ular model had lately fallen into the Professor s 
 hands, and they filled him with mingled rage and 
 hilarity. The rage soon died: he came to regard this 
 mass of pseudo-literature as protecting the truth 
 from desecration. But the hilarity remained, and 
 flowed into the form of his idea. And the idea the 
 divine incomparable idea was simply that he should 
 avenge his goddess by satirising her false interpreters. 
 He would write a skit on the "popular" scientific 
 book; he would so heap platitude on platitude, fallacy 
 on fallacy, false analogy on false analogy, so use his 
 superior knowledge to abound in the sense of the 
 ignorant, that even the gross crowd would join in 
 the laugh against its augurs. And the laugh should 
 [7] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 be something more than the distention of mental mus 
 cles; it should be the trumpet-blast bringing down 
 the walls of ignorance, or at least the little stone 
 striking the giant between the eyes. 
 
 II 
 
 ri^ HE Professor, on presenting his card, had im- 
 * agined that it would command prompt access to 
 the publisher s sanctuary; but the young man who 
 read his name was not moved to immediate action. 
 It was clear that Professor Linyard of Hillbridge 
 University was not a specific figure to the purveyors 
 of popular literature. But the publisher was an old 
 friend; and when the card had finally drifted to his 
 office on the languid tide of routine he came forth at 
 once to greet his visitor. 
 
 The warmth of his welcome convinced the Pro 
 fessor that he had been right in bringing his manu 
 script to Ned Harviss. He and Harviss had been at 
 Hillbridge together, and the future publisher had 
 been one of the wildest spirits in that band of col 
 lege outlaws which yearly turns out so many inoffen 
 sive citizens and kind husbands and fathers. The 
 Professor knew the taming qualities of life. He was 
 aware that many of his most reckless comrades had 
 been transformed into prudent capitalists or cowed 
 wage-earners; but he was almost sure that he could 
 [8] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 count on Harviss. So rare a sense of irony, so keen a 
 perception of relative values, could hardly have been 
 blunted even by twenty years intercourse with the 
 obvious. 
 
 The publisher s appearance was a little disconcert 
 ing. He looked as if he had been fattened on popular 
 fiction ; and his fat was full of optimistic creases. The 
 Professor seemed to see him bowing into the office a 
 long train of spotless heroines laden with the maiden 
 tribute of the hundredth thousand volume. 
 
 Nevertheless, his welcome was reassuring. He did 
 not disown his early enormities, and capped his vis 
 itor s tentative allusions by such flagrant references 
 to the past that the Professor produced his manu 
 script without a scruple. 
 
 "What you don t mean to say you ve been doing 
 something in our line?" 
 
 The Professor smiled. "You publish scientific books 
 sometimes, don t you?" 
 
 The publisher s optimistic creases relaxed a little. 
 "H m it all depends I m afraid you re a little 
 too scientific for us. We have a big sale for scientific 
 breakfast foods, but not for the concentrated essences. 
 In your case, of course, I should be delighted to 
 stretch a point; but in your own interest I ought to 
 tell you that perhaps one of the educational houses 
 would do you better." 
 
 [9] 
 
THE DESCENT OP MAN 
 
 The Professor leaned back, still smiling luxuri 
 ously. 
 
 "Well, look it over I rather think you ll take it." 
 
 "Oh, we ll take it, as I say; but the terms might 
 not" 
 
 "No matter about the terms " 
 
 The publisher threw his head back with a laugh. 
 "I had no idea that science was so profitable; we find 
 our popular novelists are the hardest hands at a bar 
 gain." 
 
 "Science is disinterested," the Professor corrected 
 him. "And I have a fancy to have you publish this 
 thing." 
 
 "That s immensely good of you, my dear fellow. 
 Of course your name goes with a certain public 
 and I rather like the originality of our bringing out 
 a worlj; so out of our line. I daresay it may boom us 
 both." His creases deepened at the thought, and he 
 shone encouragingly on the Professor s leave-taking. 
 
 Within a fortnight, a line from Harviss recalled 
 the Professor to town. He had been looking forward 
 with immense zest to this second meeting; Harviss s 
 college roar was in his tympanum, and he could al 
 ready hear the protracted chuckle which would follow 
 his friend s progress through the manuscript. He 
 was proud of the adroitness with which he had kept 
 his secret from Harviss, had maintained to the last 
 [10] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 the pretence of a serious work, in order to give the 
 keener edge to his reader s enjoyment. Not since 
 under-graduate days had the Professor tasted such 
 a draught of pure fun as his anticipations now poured 
 for him. 
 
 This time his card brought instant admission. He 
 was bowed into the office like a successful novelist, 
 and Harviss grasped him with both hands. 
 
 "Well do you mean to take it?" he asked with a 
 lingering coquetry. 
 
 "Take it? Take it, my dear fellow? It s in press 
 already you ll excuse my not waiting to consult you ? 
 There will be no difficulty about terms, I assure you, 
 and we had barely time to catch the autumn market. 
 My dear Linyard, why didn t you tell me?" His 
 voice sank to a reproachful solemnity, and he pushed 
 forward his own arm-chair. 
 
 The Professor dropped into it with a chuckle. "And 
 miss the joy of letting you find out?" 
 
 "Well it was a joy." Harviss held out a box of 
 his best cigars. "I don t know when I ve had a bigger 
 sensation. It was so deucedly unexpected and, my 
 dear fellow, you ve brought it so exactly to the right 
 shop." 
 
 "I m glad to hear you say so," said the Professor 
 modestly. 
 
 Harviss laughed in rich appreciation. "I don t sup- 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 pose you had a doubt of it ; but of course I was quite 
 unprepared. And it s so extraordinarily out of your 
 line" 
 
 The Professor took off his glasses and rubbed them 
 with a slow smile. 
 
 "Would you have thought it so at college ?" 
 
 Harviss stared. "At college? Why, you were the 
 most iconoclastic devil " 
 
 There was a perceptible pause. The Professor re 
 stored his glasses and looked at his friend. "Well ?" 
 he said simply. 
 
 "Well?" echoed the other, still staring. "Ah 
 I see; you mean that that s what explains it. The 
 swing of the pendulum, and so forth. Well, I admit 
 it s not an uncommon phenomenon. I ve conformed 
 myself, for example; most of our crowd have, I be 
 lieve; but somehow I hadn t expected it of you." 
 
 The close observer might have detected a faint sad 
 ness under the official congratulation of his tone; but 
 the Professor was too amazed to have an ear for such 
 fine shades. 
 
 "Expected it of me? Expected what of me?" he 
 gasped. "What in heaven do you think this thing 
 is?" And he struck his fist on the manuscript which 
 lay between them. 
 
 Harviss had recovered his optimistic creases. He 
 rested a benevolent eye on the document. 
 [12] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 "Why, your apologia your confession of faith, I 
 should call it. You surely must have seen which way 
 you were going? You can t have written it in your 
 sleep ?" 
 
 "Oh, no, I was wide awake enough," said the Pro 
 fessor faintly. 
 
 "Well, then, why are you staring at me as if I were 
 not?" Harviss leaned forward to lay a reassuring 
 hand on his visitor s worn coat-sleeve. "Don t mis 
 take me, my dear Linyard. Don t fancy there was 
 the least unkindness in my allusion to your change 
 of front. What is growth but the shifting of the 
 stand-point? Why should a man be expected to look 
 at life with the same eyes at twenty and at our age ? 
 It never occurred to me that you could feel the least 
 delicacy in admitting that you have come round a 
 little have fallen into line, so to speak." 
 
 But the Professor had sprung up as if to give his 
 lungs more room to expand; and from them there 
 issued a laugh which shook the editorial rafters. 
 
 "Oh, Lord, oh, Lord is it really as good as that ?" 
 
 Harviss had glanced instinctively toward the elec 
 tric bell on his desk; he was evidently prepared for 
 an emergency. 
 
 "My dear fellow " he began in a soothing tone. 
 
 "Oh, let me have my laugh out, do," implored the 
 Professor. "I ll I ll quiet down in a minute; you 
 [13] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 needn t ring for the young man." He dropped into his 
 chair again and grasped its arms to steady his shak 
 ing. "This is the best laugh I ve had since college/ 
 he brought out between his paroxysms. And then, sud 
 denly, he sat up with a groan. "But if it s as good as 
 that it s a failure!" he exclaimed. 
 
 Harviss, stiffening a little, examined the tip of his 
 cigar. "My dear Linyard," he said at length, "I don t 
 understand a word you re saying." 
 
 The Professor succumbed to a fresh access, from 
 the vortex of which he managed to fling out "But 
 that s the very core of the joke!" 
 
 Harviss looked at him resignedly. "What is?" 
 
 "Why, your not seeing your not understand 
 ing" 
 
 "Not understanding what?" 
 
 "Why, what the book is meant to be." His laugh 
 ter subsided again and he sat gazing thoughtfully at 
 the publisher. "Unless it means," he wound up, "that 
 I ve over-shot the mark." 
 
 "If I am the mark, you certainly have," said Har 
 viss, with a glance at the clock. 
 
 The Professor caught the glance and interpreted 
 it. "The book is a skit," he said, rising. 
 
 The other stared. "A skit? It s not serious, you 
 mean?" 
 
 "Not to me but it seems you ve taken it so." 
 [14] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 "You never told me " began the publisher in a 
 ruffled tone. 
 
 "No, I never told you/ said the Professor. 
 
 Harviss sat staring at the manuscript between 
 them. "I don t pretend to be up in such recondite 
 forms of humour," he said still stiffly. "Of course you 
 address yourself to a very small class of readers." 
 
 "Oh, infinitely small," admitted the Professor, ex 
 tending his hand toward the manuscript. 
 
 Harviss appeared to be pursuing his own train of 
 thought. "That is," he continued, "if you insist on an 
 ironical interpretation." 
 
 "If I insist on it what do you mean?" 
 
 The publisher smiled faintly. "Well isn t the 
 book susceptible of another? If / read it without see 
 ing" 
 
 "Well?" murmured the other, fascinated. 
 
 "why shouldn t the rest of the world?" declared 
 Harviss boldly. "I represent the Average Reader 
 that s my business, that s what I ve been training my 
 self to do for the last twenty years. It s a mission 
 like another the thing is to do it thoroughly; not 
 to cheat and compromise. I know fellows who are 
 publishers in business hours and dilettantes the rest 
 of the time. Well, they never succeed : convictions are / \ 
 just as necessary in business as in religion. But that s j 
 not the point I was going to say that if you ll let 
 [15] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 me handle this book as a genuine thing I ll guaran 
 tee to make it go." 
 
 The Professor stood motionless, his hand still on 
 the manuscript. 
 
 "A genuine thing?" he echoed. 
 
 "A serious piece of work the expression of your 
 convictions. I tell you there s nothing the public likes 
 as much as convictions they ll always follow a man 
 who believes in his own ideas. And this book is just 
 on the line of popular interest. You ve got hold of a 
 big thing. It s full of hope and enthusiasm: it s writ 
 ten in the religious key. There are passages in it that 
 would do splendidly in a Birthday Book things that 
 popular preachers would quote in their sermons. If 
 you d wanted to catch a big public you couldn t have 
 gone about it in a better way. The thing s perfect for 
 my purpose I wouldn t let you alter a word of it. 
 It will sell like a popular novel if you ll let me handle 
 it in the right way." 
 
 Ill 
 
 T 1 7HEN the Professor left Harviss s office the 
 
 ^ ^ manuscript remained behind. He thought he 
 
 had been taken by the huge irony of the situation 
 
 by the enlarged circumference of the joke. In its 
 
 original form, as Harviss had said, the book would 
 
 [16] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 have addressed itself to a very limited circle: now it 
 would include the world. The elect would understand ; 
 the crowd would not; and his work would thus serve 
 a double purpose. And, after all, nothing was changed 
 in the situation; not a word of the book was to be 
 altered. The change was merely in the publisher s 
 point of view, and in the "tip" he was to give the re 
 viewers. The Professor had only to hold his tongue 
 and look serious. 
 
 These arguments found a strong reinforcement in 
 the large premium which expressed Harviss s sense of 
 his opportunity. As a satire the book would have 
 brought its author nothing; in fact, its cost would 
 have come out of his own pocket, since, as Harviss 
 assured him, no publisher would have risked taking 
 it. But as a profession of faith, as the recantation 
 of an eminent biologist, whose leanings had hitherto 
 been supposed to be toward a cold determinism, it 
 would bring in a steady income to author and pub 
 lisher. The offer found the Professor in a moment 
 of financial perplexity. His illness, his unwonted 
 holiday, the necessity of postponing a course of well- 
 paid lectures, had combined to diminish his resources ; 
 and when Harviss offered him an advance of a thou 
 sand dollars the esoteric savour of the joke became 
 irresistible. It was still as a joke that he persisted 
 in regarding the transaction; and though he had 
 [17] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 pledged himself not to betray the real intent of the 
 book, he held in petto the notion of some day being 
 able to take the public into his confidence. As for the 
 initiated, they would know at once: and however long 
 a face he pulled his colleagues would see the tongue 
 in his cheek. Meanwhile it fortunately happened that, 
 even if the book should achieve the kind of triumph 
 prophesied by Harviss, it would not appreciably in 
 jure its author s professional standing. Professor 
 Linyard was known chiefly as a microscopist. On 
 the structure and habits of a certain class of coleop- 
 tera he was the most distinguished living authority; 
 but none save his intimate friends knew what general 
 izations on the destiny of man he had drawn from 
 these special studies. He might have published a 
 treatise on the Filioque without shaking the con 
 fidence of those on whose approval his reputation 
 rested; and moreover he was sustained by the thought 
 that one glance at his book would let them into its 
 secret. In fact, so sure was he of this that he won 
 dered the astute Harviss had cared to risk such 
 speedy exposure. But Harviss had probably reflected 
 that even in this reverberating age the opinions of the 
 laboratory do not easily reach the street; and the 
 Professor, at any rate, was not bound to offer advice 
 on this point. 
 
 , The determining cause of his consent was the fact 
 [18] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 that the book was already in press. The Professor 
 knew little about the workings of the press, but the 
 phrase gave him a sense of finality, of having been 
 caught himself in the toils of that mysterious engine. 
 If he had had time to think the matter over his 
 scruples might have dragged him back; but his con 
 science was eased by the futility of resistance. 
 
 IV 
 
 TiyTRS. LINYARD did not often read the papers; 
 ^ * and there was therefore a special significance 
 in her approaching her husband one evening after 
 dinner with a copy of the New York Investigator 
 in her hand. Her expression lent solemnity to the act: 
 Mrs. Linyard had a limited but distinctive set of ex 
 pressions, and she now looked as she did when the 
 President of the University came to dine. 
 
 "You didn t tell me of this, Samuel," she said in 
 a slightly tremulous voice. 
 
 "Tell you of what?" returned the Professor, red 
 dening to the margin of his baldness. 
 
 "That you had published a book I might never 
 have heard of it if Mrs. Pease hadn t brought me the 
 paper." 
 
 Her husband rubbed his eye-glasses and groaned. 
 "Oh, you would have heard of it," he said gloomily. 
 [19] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 Mrs. Linyard stared. "Did you wish to keep it 
 from me, Samuel?" And as he made no answer, she 
 added with irresistible pride: "Perhaps you don t 
 know what beautiful things have been said about 
 it." 
 
 He took the paper with a reluctant hand. "Has 
 Pease been saying beautiful things about it?" 
 
 "The Professor? Mrs. Pease didn t say he had 
 mentioned it." 
 
 The author heaved a sigh of relief. His book, as 
 Harviss had prophesied, had caught the autumn 
 market: had caught and captured it. The publisher 
 had conducted the campaign like an experienced 
 strategist. He had completely surrounded the enemy. 
 Every newspaper, every periodical, held in ambush 
 an advertisement of "The Vital Thing." Weeks in 
 advance the great commander had begun to form his 
 lines of attack. Allusions to the remarkable sig 
 nificance of the coming work had appeared first in 
 the scientific and literary reviews, spreading thence 
 to the supplements of the daily journals. Not a mo 
 ment passed without a quickening touch to the public 
 consciousness : seventy millions of people were forced 
 to remember at least once a day that Professor Lin- 
 yard s book was on the verge of appearing. Slips 
 emblazoned with the question: Have you read "The 
 Vital Thing ? fell from the pages of popular novels 
 [20] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 and whitened the floors of crowded street-cars. The 
 query, in large lettering, assaulted the traveller at 
 the railway bookstall, confronted him on the walls 
 of "elevated" stations, and seemed, in its ascending 
 scale, about to supplant the interrogations as to 
 sapolio and stove-polish which animate our rural 
 scenery. 
 
 On the day of publication the Professor had with 
 drawn to his laboratory. The shriek of the advertise 
 ments was in his ears and his one desire was to avoid 
 all knowledge of the event they heralded. A reaction 
 of self-consciousness had set in, and if Harviss s 
 cheque had sufficed to buy up the first edition of 
 "The Vital Thing" the Professor would gladly have 
 devoted it to that purpose. But the sense of inevi- 
 tableness gradually subdued him, and he received his 
 wife s copy of the Investigator with a kind of im 
 personal curiosity. The review was a long one, full 
 of extracts : he saw, as he glanced over the latter, how 
 well they would look in a volume of "Selections." 
 The reviewer began by thanking his author "for 
 sounding with no uncertain voice that note of ring 
 ing optimism, of faith in man s destiny and the su 
 premacy of good, which has too long been silenced 
 by the whining chorus of a decadent nihilism. . . . 
 It is well," the writer continued, "when such remind 
 ers come to us not from the moralist but from the 
 [21] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 man of science when from the desiccating atmos 
 phere of the laboratory there rises this glorious cry of 
 faith and reconstruction." 
 
 The review was minute and exhaustive. Thanks no 
 doubt to Harviss s diplomacy, it had been given to 
 the Investigator s "best man/ and the Professor was 
 startled by the bold eye with which his emancipated 
 fallacies confronted him. Under the reviewer s han 
 dling they made up admirably as truths, and their 
 author began to understand Harviss s regret that they 
 should be be used for any less profitable purpose. 
 
 The Investigator, as Harviss phrased it, "set the 
 pace," and the other journals followed, finding it 
 easier to let their critical man-of -all-work play a va 
 riation on the first reviewer s theme than to secure 
 an expert to "do" the book afresh. But it was evi 
 dent that the Professor had captured his public, for 
 all the resources of the profession could not, as Har 
 viss gleefully pointed out, have carried the book so 
 straight to the heart of the nation. There was some 
 thing noble in the way in which Harviss belittled his 
 own share in the achievement, and insisted on the 
 inutility of shoving a book which had started with 
 such headway on. 
 
 "All I ask you is to admit that I saw what would 
 happen," he said with a touch of professional pride. 
 "I knew you d struck the right note I knew they d 
 [22] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 be quoting you from Maine to San Francisco. Good 
 as fiction? It s better it ll keep going longer." 
 
 "Will it?" said the Professor with a slight shud 
 der. He was resigned to an ephemeral triumph, but 
 the thought of the book s persistency frightened him. 
 
 "I should say so ! Why, you fit in everywhere sci 
 ence, theology, natural history and then the all-for- 
 the-best element which is so popular just now. Why, 
 you come right in with the How-to-Relax series, and 
 they sell way up in the millions. And then the book s 
 so full of tenderness there are such lovely things 
 in it about flowers and children. I didn t know an 
 old Dryasdust like you could have such a lot of sen 
 timent in him. Why, I actually caught myself sniv 
 elling over that passage about the snowdrops piercing 
 the frozen earth; and my wife was saying the other 
 day that, since she s read The Vital Thing/ she be 
 gins to think you must write the What-Cheer Col 
 umn, in the Inglenook." He threw back his head 
 with a laugh which ended in the inspired cry : "And, 
 by George, sir, when the thing begins to slow off 
 well start somebody writing against it, and that will 
 run us straight up into another hundred thousand." 
 
 And as earnest of this belief he drew the Professor 
 a supplementary cheque. 
 
 [23] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 MRS. LINYARD S knock cut short the im 
 portunities of the lady who had been trying to 
 persuade the Professor to be taken by flashlight at 
 his study-table for the Christmas number of the 
 Inglenook. On this point the Professor had fancied 
 himself impregnable; but the unwonted smile with 
 which he welcomed his wife s intrusion showed that 
 his defences were weakening. 
 
 The lady from the Inglenook took the hint with 
 professional promptness, but said brightly, as she 
 snapped the elastic around her note-book: "I sha n t 
 let you forget me, Professor." 
 
 The groan with which he followed her retreat was 
 interrupted by his wife s question: "Do they pay you 
 for these interviews, Samuel?" 
 
 The Professor looked at her with sudden attention. 
 "Not directly," he said, wondering at her expression. 
 
 She sank down with a sigh. "Indirectly, then?" 
 
 "What is the matter, my dear? I gave you Har- 
 viss s second cheque the other day " 
 
 Her tears arrested him. "Don t be hard on the boy, 
 Samuel! I really believe your success has turned his 
 head." 
 
 "The boy what boy? My success ? Explain 
 yourself, Susan!" 
 
 [24] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 "It s only that Jack has has borrowed some 
 money which he can t repay. But you mustn t think 
 him altogether to blame, Samuel. Since the success of 
 your book he has been asked about so much it s 
 given the children quite a different position. Millicent 
 says that wherever they go the first question asked 
 is, Are you any relation of the author of "The Vital 
 Thing"? Of course we re all very proud of the book; 
 but it entails obligations which you may not have 
 thought of in writing it." 
 
 The Professor sat gazing at the letters and news 
 paper clippings on the study-table which he had 
 just successfully defended from the camera of the 
 Inglenook. He took up an envelope bearing the name 
 of a popular weekly paper. 
 
 "I don t know that the Inglenook would help 
 much," he said, "but I suppose this might." 
 
 Mrs. Linyard s eyes glowed with maternal avidity. 
 
 "What is it, Samuel?" 
 
 "A series of Scientific Sermons for the Round- 
 the-Gas-Log column of The Woman s World. I be 
 lieve that journal has a larger circulation than any 
 other weekly, and they pay in proportion." 
 
 He had not even asked the extent of Jack s in 
 debtedness. It had been so easy to relieve recent do 
 mestic difficulties by the timely production of Har- 
 viss s two cheques that it now seemed natural to get 
 [25] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 % 
 Mrs. Linyard out of the room by promising further 
 
 reinforcements. The Professor had indignantly re 
 jected Harviss s suggestion that he should follow up 
 his success by a second volume on the same lines. He 
 had sworn not to Tend more than a passive support 
 to the fraud of "The Vital Thing"; but the tempta 
 tion to free himself from Mrs. Linyard prevailed 
 over his last scruples, and within an hour he was at 
 work on the Scientific Sermons. 
 
 The Professor was not an unkind man. He really 
 enjoyed making his family happy; and it was his 
 own business if his reward for so doing was that it 
 kept them out of his way. But the success of "The 
 Vital Thing" gave him more than this negative sat 
 isfaction. It enlarged his own existence and opened 
 new doors into other lives. The Professor, during fifty 
 virtuous years, had been cognizant of only two types 
 of women: the fond and foolish, whom one married, 
 and the earnest and intellectual, whom one did not. 
 Of the two, he infinitely preferred the former, even 
 for conversational purposes. But as a social instru 
 ment woman was unknown to him ; and it was not till 
 he was drawn into the world on the tide of his literary 
 success that he discovered the deficiencies in his classi 
 fication of the sex. Then he learned with astonish 
 ment of the existence of a third type: the woman 
 who is fond without foolishness and intellectual with- 
 [26] 
 
THE DESCE NT OF MAN 
 
 out earnestness. Not that the Professor inspired, or 
 sought to inspire, sentimental emotions; but he ex 
 panded in the warm atmosphere of personal interest 
 which some of his new acquaintances contrived to 
 create about him. It was delightful to talk of serious 
 things in a setting of frivolity, and to be personal 
 without being domestic. 
 
 Even in this new world, where all subjects were 
 touched on lightly, and emphasis was the only in 
 delicacy, the Professor found himself constrained to 
 endure an occasional reference to his book. It was 
 unpleasant at first; but gradually he slipped into the 
 habit of hearing it talked of, and grew accustomed 
 to telling pretty women just how "it had first come 
 to him." 
 
 Meanwhile the success of the Scientific Sermons 
 was facilitating his family relations. His photograph 
 in the Inglenook, to which the lady of the note-book 
 had succeeded in appending a vivid interview, car 
 ried his fame to circles inaccessible even to "The 
 Vital Thing"; and the Professor found himself the 
 man of the hour. He soon grew used to the functions 
 of the office, and gave out hundred-dollar interviews 
 on every subject, from labour-strikes to Babism, with 
 a frequency which reacted agreeably on the domestic 
 exchequer. Presently his head began to figure in the 
 advertising pages of the magazines. Admiring read- 
 [27] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 ers learned the name of the only breakfast-food in 
 use at his table, of the ink with which "The Vital 
 Thing" had been written, the soap with which the 
 author s hands were washed, and the tissue-builder 
 which fortified him for further effort. These confi 
 dences endeared the Professor to millions of readers, 
 and his head passed in due course from the magazine 
 and the newspaper to the biscuit-tin and the choco 
 late-box. 
 
 VI 
 
 THE Professor, all the while, was leading a 
 double life. While the author of "The Vital 
 Thing" reaped the fruits of popular approval, the 
 distinguished microscopist continued his laboratory 
 work unheeded save by the few who were engaged in 
 the same line of investigations. His divided allegiance 
 had not hitherto affected the quality of his work: it 
 seemed to him that he returned to the laboratory with 
 greater zest after an afternoon in a drawing-room 
 where readings from "The Vital Thing" had alter 
 nated with plantation melodies and tea. He had long 
 ceased to concern himself with what his colleagues 
 thought of his literary career. Of the few whom he 
 frequented, none had referred to "The Vital Thing"; 
 and he knew enough of their lives to guess that their 
 silence might as fairly be attributed to indifference as 
 [28] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 to disapproval. They were intensely interested in the 
 Professor s views on beetles but they really cared 
 very little what he thought of the Almighty. 
 
 The Professor entirely shared their feelings, and 
 one of his chief reasons for cultivating the success 
 which accident had bestowed on him, was that it 
 enabled him to command a greater range of appli 
 ances for his real work. He had known what it was 
 to lack books and instruments; and "The Vital 
 Thing" was the magic wand which summoned them 
 to his aid. For some time he had been feeling his way 
 along the edge of a discovery: balancing himself 
 with professional skill on a plank of hypothesis flung 
 across an abyss of uncertainty. The conjecture was 
 the result of years of patient gathering of facts: its 
 corroboration would take months more of compari 
 son and classification. But at the end of the vista 
 victory loomed. The Professor felt within himself 
 that assurance of ultimate justification which, to the 
 man of science, makes a life-time seem the mere 
 comma between premiss and deduction. But he had 
 reached the point where his conjectures required 
 formulation. It was only by giving them expression, 
 by exposing them to the comment and criticism of his 
 associates, that he could test their final value; and 
 this inner assurance was confirmed by the only friend 
 whose confidence he invited. 
 [29] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 Professor Pease, the husband of the lady who had 
 opened Mrs. Linyard s eyes to the triumph of "The 
 Vital Thing," was the repository of her husband s 
 scientific experiences. What he thought of "The Vital 
 Thing" had never been divulged ; and he was capable 
 of such vast exclusions that it was quite possible that 
 pervasive work had not yet reached him. In any case, 
 it was not likely to affect his judgment of the au 
 thor s professional capacity. 
 
 "You want to put that all in a book, Linyard," 
 was Professor Pease s conclusion, after listening to 
 the summary of his friend s projected work. "I m 
 sure you ve got hold of something big; but to see it 
 clearly yourself you ought to outline it for others. 
 Take my advice chuck everything else and get to 
 work to-morrow. It s time you wrote a book, anyhow." 
 
 It s time you wrote a book, anyhow! The words 
 smote the Professor with mingled pain and ecstasy; 
 he could have wept over their significance. But his 
 friend s other phrase reminded him with a start of 
 Harviss. "You have got hold of a big thing " it 
 had been the publisher s first comment on "The Vital 
 Thing." But what a world of meaning lay between 
 the two phrases ! It was the world in which the pow 
 ers who fought for the Professor were destined to 
 wage their final battle ; and for the moment he had no 
 doubt of the outcome. 
 
 [30] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 "By George, I ll do it, Pease!" he said, stretch 
 ing his hand to his friend. 
 
 The next day he went to town to see Harviss. He 
 wanted to ask for an advance on the new popular 
 edition of "The Vital Thing/ He had determined to 
 drop a course of supplementary lectures at the Uni 
 versity and to give himself up for a year to his book. 
 To do this additional funds were necessary; but 
 thanks to "The Vital Thing" they would be forth 
 coming. 
 
 The publisher received him as cordially as usual; 
 but the response to his demand was not as prompt as 
 his previous experience had entitled him to expect. 
 
 "Of course we ll be glad to do what we can for 
 you, Linyard; but the fact is we ve decided to give 
 up the idea of the new edition for the present." 
 
 "You ve given up the new edition?" 
 
 "Why, yes we ve done pretty well by The Vital 
 Thing, and we re inclined to think it s your turn to 
 do something for it now." 
 
 The Professor looked at him blankly. "What can I 
 do for it?" he asked "what more his accent added. 
 
 "Why, put a little new life in it by writing some 
 thing else. The secret of perpetual motion hasn t yet 
 been discovered, you know, and it s one of the laws 
 : of literature that books which start with a rush are 
 apt to slow down sooner than the crawlers. We ve 
 [31] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 kept The Vital Thing* going for eighteen months 
 but, hang it, it ain t so vital any more. We simply 
 couldn t see our way to a new edition. Oh, I don t 
 say it s dead yet but it s moribund, and you re the 
 only man who can resuscitate it." 
 
 The Professor continued to stare. "I what can I 
 do about it?" he stammered. 
 
 "Do ? Why, write another like it go it one better : 
 you know the trick. The public isn t tired of you by 
 any means; but you want to make yourself heard 
 again before anybody else cuts in. Write another book 
 write two, and we ll sell them in sets in a box: The 
 Vital Thing Series. That will take tremendously in 
 the holidays. Try and let us have a new volume by 
 October I ll be glad to give you a big advance if 
 you ll sign a contract on that." 
 
 The Professor sat silent: there was too cruel an 
 irony in the coincidence. 
 
 Harviss looked up at him in surprise. 
 
 "Well, what s the matter with taking my advice 
 you re not going out of literature, are you?" 
 
 The Professor rose from his chair. "No I m go 
 ing into it," he said simply. 
 
 "Going into it?" 
 
 "I m going to write a real book a serious one." 
 
 "Good Lord! Most people think The Vital 
 Thing s serious." 
 
 [32] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 "Yes but I mean something different." 
 
 "In your old line beetles and so forth?" 
 
 "Yes," said the Professor solemnly. 
 
 Harviss looked at him with equal gravity. "Well, 
 I m sorry for that," he said, "because it takes you 
 out of our bailiwick. But I suppose you ve made 
 enough money out of The Vital Thing to permit 
 yourself a little harmless amusement. When you 
 want more cash come back to us only don t put it 
 off too long, or some other fellow will have stepped 
 into your shoes. Popularity don t keep, you know ; and 
 the hotter the success the quicker the commodity per 
 ishes." 
 
 He leaned back, cheerful and sententious, deliver 
 ing his axioms with conscious kindliness. 
 
 The Professor, who had risen and moved to the 
 door, turned back with a wavering step. 
 
 "When did you say another volume would have to 
 be ready?" he faltered. 
 
 "I said October but call it a month later. You 
 don t need any pushing nowadays." 
 
 "And you d have no objection to letting me have 
 a little advance now ? I need some new instruments for 
 my real work." 
 
 Harviss extended a cordial hand. "My dear fellow, 
 that s talking I ll write the cheque while you wait; 
 and I daresay we can start up the cheap edition of 
 [33] 
 
THE DESCENT OF MAN 
 
 The Vital Thing at the same time, if you ll pledge 
 yourself to give us the book by November. How 
 much?" he asked, poised above his cheque-book. 
 
 In the street, the Professor stood staring about him, 
 uncertain and a little dazed. 
 
 "After all, it s only putting it off for six months," 
 he said to himself; "and I can do better work when I 
 get my new instruments." 
 
 He smiled and raised his hat to the passing vic 
 toria of a lady in whose copy of "The Vital Thing" 
 he had recently written: 
 
 Labor est etiam ipsa voluptas. 
 
 [34] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 I 
 
 LETHBURY, surveying his wife across the 
 dinner table, found his transient glance ar 
 rested by an indefinable change in her ap 
 pearance. 
 
 "How smart you look! Is that a new gown?" he 
 asked. 
 
 Her answering look seemed to deprecate his charg 
 ing her with the extravagance of wasting a new gown 
 on him, and he now perceived that the change lay 
 deeper than any accident of dress. At the same time, 
 he noticed that she betrayed her consciousness of it 
 by a delicate, almost frightened blush. It was one 
 of the compensations of Mrs. Lethbury s protracted 
 childishness that she still blushed as prettily as at 
 eighteen. Her body had been privileged not to out 
 strip her mind, and the two, as it seemed to Lethbury, 
 were destined to travel together through an eternity 
 of girlishness. 
 
 "I don t know what you mean," she said. 
 
 Since she never did, he always wondered at her 
 bringing this out as a fresh grievance against him; 
 but his wonder was unresentful, and he said good- 
 humouredly: "You sparkle so that I thought you had 
 on your diamonds." 
 
 [37] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 She sighed and blushed again. 
 
 "It must be/ he continued, "that you ve been to a 
 dressmaker s opening. You re absolutely brimming 
 with illicit enjoyment." 
 
 She stared again, this time at the adjective. His 
 adjectives always embarrassed her: their unintel 
 ligibleness savoured of impropriety. 
 
 "In short," he summed up, "you ve been doing 
 something that you re thoroughly ashamed of." 
 
 To his surprise she retorted: "I don t see why I 
 should be ashamed of it!" 
 
 Lethbury leaned back with a smile of enjoyment. 
 When there was nothing better going he always liked 
 to listen to her explanations. 
 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 She was becoming breathless and ejaculatory. "Of 
 course you ll laugh you laugh at everything!" 
 
 "That rather blunts the point of my derision, 
 doesn t it?" he interjected; but she pushed on with 
 out noticing: 
 
 "It s so easy to laugh at things." 
 
 "Ah," murmured Lethbury with relish, "that s 
 Aunt Sophronia s, isn t it?" 
 
 Most of his wife s opinions were heirlooms, and he 
 , * took a quaint pleasure in tracing their descent. She 
 was proud of their age, and saw no reason for dis 
 carding them while they were still serviceable. Some, 
 [38] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 of course, were so fine that she kept them for state 
 occasions, like her great-grandmother s Crown Derby ; 
 but from the lady known as Aunt Sophronia she had 
 inherited a stout set of every-day prejudices that 
 were practically as good as new; whereas her hus 
 band s, as she noticed, were always having to be re 
 placed. -In the early days she had fancied there might 
 be a certain satisfaction in taxing him with the fact; 
 but she had long since been silenced by the reply: 
 "My dear, I m not a rich man, but I never use an 
 opinion twice if I can help it." 
 
 She was reduced, therefore, to dwelling on his 
 moral deficiencies; and one of the most obvious of 
 these was his refusal to take things seriously. On 
 this occasion, however, some ulterior purpose kept her 
 from taking up his taunt. 
 
 "I m not in the least ashamed !" she repeated, with 
 the air of shaking a banner to the wind; but the do 
 mestic atmosphere being calm, the banner drooped 
 unheroically. 
 
 "That," said Lethbury judicially, "encourages me 
 to infer that you ought to be, and that, consequently, 
 you ve been giving yourself the unusual pleasure of 
 I doing something I shouldn t approve of." 
 
 She met this with an almost solemn directness. 
 "No," she said. "You won t approve of it. I ve allowed 
 for that." 
 
 [39] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 "Ah," he exclaimed, setting down his liqueur- 
 glass. "You ve worked out the whole problem, eh?" 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 "That s uncommonly interesting. And what is it?" 
 
 She looked at him quietly. "A baby." 
 
 If it was seldom given her to surprise him, she had 
 attained the distinction for once. 
 
 "A baby?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "A human baby?" 
 
 "Of course!" v she cried, with the virtuous resent 
 ment of the woman who has never allowed dogs in 
 the house. 
 
 Lethbury s puzzled stare broke into a fresh smile. 
 "A baby I sha n t approve of? Well, in the abstract 
 I don t think much of them, I admit. Is this an ab 
 stract baby?" 
 
 Again she frowned at the adjective; but she had 
 reached a pitch of exaltation at which such obstacles 
 could not deter her. 
 
 "It s the loveliest baby " she murmured. 
 /"Ah, then it s concrete. It exists. In this harsh 
 world it draws its breath in pain " 
 
 "It s the healthiest child I ever saw!" she indig 
 nantly corrected. 
 
 "You ve seen it, then?" 
 
 Again the accusing blush suffused her. "Yes I ve 
 seen it." [ 40 ] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 "And to whom does the paragon belong?" 
 
 And here indeed she confounded him. "To me I 
 hope," she declared. 
 
 He pushed his chair back with an articulate mur 
 mur. "To you ?" 
 
 "To us" she corrected. 
 
 "Good Lord !" he said. If there had been the least 
 
 hint of hallucination in her transparent gaze but 
 
 r 
 
 /no: it was as clear, as shallow, as easily fathomable 
 / as when he had first suffered the sharp surprise of 
 striking bottom in it. 
 
 It occurred to him that perhaps she was trying to 
 be funny : he knew that there is nothing more cryptic 
 than the humour of the unhumourous. 
 
 "Is it a joke?" he faltered. 
 
 "Oh, I hope not. I want it so much to be a 
 reality " 
 
 He paused to smile at the limitations of a world 
 in which jokes were not realities, and continued 
 gently: "But since it is one already " 
 "To us, I mean: to you and me. I want " her 
 voice wavered, and her eyes with it. "I have always 
 wanted so dreadfully ... it has been such a dis 
 appointment ... not to . . ." 
 
 "I see," said Lethbury slowly. 
 
 But he had not seen before. It seemed curious 
 now that he had never thought of her taking it in 
 [4.1] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 that way, had never surmised any hidden depths be 
 neath her outspread obviousness. He felt as though 
 he had touched a secret spring in her mind. 
 
 There was a moment s silence, moist and tremulous 
 on her part, awkward and slightly irritated on his. 
 
 "You ve been lonely, I suppose?" he began. It was 
 odd, having suddenly to reckon with the stranger who 
 gazed at him out of her trivial eyes. 
 
 "At times," she said. 
 
 "I m sorry/ 
 
 "It was not your fault. A man has so many occu 
 pations; and women who are clever or very hand 
 some I suppose that s an occupation too. Sometimes 
 I ve felt that when dinner was ordered I had noth 
 ing to do till the next day." 
 
 "Oh," he groaned. 
 
 "It. wasn t your fault," she insisted. "I never told 
 you but when I chose that rose-bud paper for the 
 front room upstairs, I always thought " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "It would be such a pretty paper for a baby 
 to wake up in. That was years ago, of course; but it 
 was rather an expensive paper . . . and it hasn t 
 faded in the least . . ." she broke off incoherently. 
 
 "It hasn t faded?" 
 
 "No and so I thought ... as we don t use the 
 room for anything . . . now that Aunt Sophronia is 
 [42] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 dead ... I thought I might . . . you might . . . 
 oh, Julian, if you could only have seen it just wak 
 ing up in its crib !" 
 
 "Seen what where? You haven t got a baby up 
 stairs?" 
 
 "Oh, no not yet/ she said, with her rare laugh 
 the girlish bubbling of merriment that had seemed 
 one of her chief graces in the early days. It occurred 
 to him that he had not given her enough things to 
 laugh about lately. But then she needed such very 
 elementary things: she was as difficult to amuse as 
 a savage. He concluded that he was not sufficiently 
 simple. 
 
 "Alice," he said almost solemnly, "what do you 
 mean?" 
 
 She hesitated a moment: he saw her gather her 
 courage for a supreme effort. Then she said slowly, 
 gravely, as though she were pronouncing a sacra 
 mental phrase: 
 
 "I m so lonely without a little child and I thought 
 perhaps you d let me adopt one. . . . It s at the hos 
 pital ... its mother is dead . . . and I could . . . 
 pet it, and dress it, and do things for it ... and 
 it s such a good baby . . . you can ask any of the 
 nurses ... it would never, never bother you by cry 
 ing . . ." 
 
 [43] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 I ETHBURY accompanied his wife to the hos- 
 *" pital in a mood of chastened wonder. It did not 
 occur to him to oppose her wish. He knew, of course, 
 that he would have to bear the brunt of the situa 
 tion: the jokes at the club, the enquiries, the expla 
 nations. He saw himself in the comic role of the 
 adopted father and welcomed it as an expiation. For 
 
 / in his rapid reconstruction of the past he found him 
 self cutting a shabbier figure than he cared to ad- 
 
 V mit. He had always been intolerant of stupid people, 
 d_itjwas his punishment to be convicted of stupidity. 
 As his mind traversed the years between his mar 
 riage and this unexpected assumption of paternity, 
 he saw, in the light of an overheated imagination, 
 many signs of unwonted crassness. It was not that he 
 had ceased to think his wife stupid: she rvas stupid, 
 limited, inflexible; but there was a pathos in the 
 struggles of her swaddled mind, in its blind reach- 
 ings toward the primal emotions. He had always 
 thought she would have been happier with a child; 
 but he had thought it mechanically, because it had so 
 often been thought before, because it was in the nat 
 ure of things to think it of every woman, because 
 his wife was so eminently one of a species that she 
 fitted into all the generalisations of the sex. But lit; 
 [44] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 had regarded this generalisation as merely typical of 
 the triumph of tradition over experience. Maternity 
 was no doubt the supreme function of primitive 
 woman, the one end to which her whole organism 
 tended; but the law of increasing complexity had 
 operated in both sexes, and he had not seriously sup 
 posed that, outside the world of Christmas fiction 
 and anecdotic art, such truisms had any special hold 
 on the feminine imagination. Now he saw that the 
 arts in question were kept alive by the vitality of the 
 sentiments they appealed to. 
 
 Lethbury was in fact going through a rapid 
 process of readjustment. His marriage had been a 
 failure, but he had preserved toward his wife the 
 exact fidelity of act that is sometimes supposed to 
 excuse any divagation of feeling; so that, for years, 
 the tie between them had consisted mainly in his ab- 
 / staining from making love to other women. The 
 abstention had not always been easy, for the world 
 is surprisingly well-stocked with the kind of woman 
 one ought to have married but did not; and Leth 
 bury had not escaped the solicitation of such alterna 
 tives. His immunity had been purchased at the cost 
 of taking refuge in the somewhat rarefied atmosphere 
 of his perceptions; and his world being thus limited, 
 he had given unusual care to its details, compensating 
 himself for the narrowness of his horizon by the 
 [451 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 minute finish of his foreground. It was a world of 
 fine shadings and the nicest proportions, where im 
 pulse seldom set a blundering foot, and the feast of 
 reason was undisturbed by an intemperate flow of 
 soul. To such a banquet his wife naturally remained 
 uninvited. The diet would have disagreed with her., 
 and she would probably have objected to the other 
 guests. But Lethbury, miscalculating her needs, had 
 hitherto supposed that he had made ample provision 
 for them, and was consequently at liberty to enjoy 
 his own fare without any reproach of mendicancy at 
 his gates. Now he beheld her pressing a starved 
 face against the windows of his life, and in his im 
 aginative reaction he invested her with a pathos bor 
 rowed from the sense of his own shortcomings. 
 
 In the hospital the imaginative process continued 
 with increasing force. He looked at his wife with 
 new eyes. Formerly she had been to him a mere bun 
 dle of negations, a labyrinth of dead walls and bolted 
 doors. There was nothing behind the walls, and the 
 doors led no whither: he had sounded and listened 
 often enough to be sure of that. Now he felt like a 
 traveller who, exploring some ancient ruin, comes on 
 an inner cell, intact amid the general dilapidation, 
 and painted with images which reveal the forgotten 
 uses of the building. 
 
 His wife stood by a white crib in one of the wards. 
 [46] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 In the crib lay a child, a year old, the nurse affirmed, 
 but to Lethbury s eye a mere dateless fragment of 
 humanity projected against a background of con 
 jecture. Over this anonymous particle of life Mrs. < 
 Lethbury leaned," such ecstasy reflected in her face i 
 as strikes up, in Correggio s Night-piece, from the 
 child s body to the mother s countenance. It was a 
 light that irradiated and dazzled her. She looked up 
 at an enquiry of Lethbury s, but as their glances met 
 he perceived that she no longer saw him, that he 
 had become as invisible to her as she had long been 
 to him. He had to transfer his question to the nurse. 
 
 "What is the child s name?" he asked. 
 
 "We call her Jane," said the nurse. 
 
 Ill 
 
 T ETHBURY, at first, had resisted the idea of a 
 ^ legal adoption; but when he found that his 
 wife could not be brought to regard the child as hers 
 till it had been made so by process of law, he promptly 
 withdrew his objection. On one point only he 
 remained inflexible ; and that was the changing of the 
 waif s name. Mrs. Lethbury, almost at once, had 
 expressed a wish to rechristen it: she fluctuated 
 between ^urje^and Gladyj, deferring the moment of 
 decision like a lady wavering between two bonnets. 
 
 [47] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 But Lethbury was unyielding. In the general sur 
 render of his prejudices this one alone held out. 
 
 "But Jane is so dreadful," Mrs. Lethbury pro 
 tested. 
 
 "Well, we don t know that she won t be dreadful. 
 She may grow up a Jane." 
 
 His wife exclaimed reproachfully. "The nurse says 
 she s the loveliest " 
 
 "Don t they always say that?" asked Lethbury pa 
 tiently. He was prepared to be inexhaustibly patient 
 now that he had reached a firm foothold of opposi 
 tion. 
 
 "It s cruel to call her Jane," Mrs. Lethbury 
 pleaded. 
 
 "It s ridiculous to call her Muriel." 
 
 "The nurse is sure she must be a lady s child." 
 
 Lethbury winced: he had tried, all along, to keep 
 his mind off the question of antecedents. 
 
 "Well, let her prove it," he said, with a rising sense 
 of exasperation. He wondered how he could ever have 
 allowed himself to be drawn into such a ridiculous 
 business ; for the first time he felt the full irony of it. 
 He had visions of coming home in the afternoon to 
 a house smelling of linseed and paregoric, and of be 
 ing greeted by a chronic howl as he went up stairs 
 to dress for dinner. He had never been a club-man, 
 but he saw himself becoming one now. 
 [48] 
 
T 
 
 ^ ^^ MISSION OF JANE 
 
 The worst of his anticipations were unfulfilled. 
 The baby was surprisingly well and surprisingly 
 quiet^ Such infantile remedies as she absorbed were 
 not potent enough to be perceived beyond the nursery ; 
 
 /and when Lethbury could be induced to enter that 
 sanctuary, there was nothing to jar his nerves in the 
 mild pink presence of his adopted daughter. Jars 
 there were, indeed: they were probably inevitable in 
 the disturbed routine of the household; but they 
 occurred between Mrs. Lethbury and the nurses, 
 and Jane contributed to them only a placid stare 
 which might have served as a rebuke to the com 
 batants. 
 
 In the reaction from his first impulse of atone 
 ment, Lethbury noted with sharpened perceptions the 
 effect of the change on his wife s character. He saw 
 already the error of supposing that it could work 
 any transformation in her. It simply magnified her 
 existing qualities. She was like a dried sponge put in 
 water: she expanded, but she did not change her 
 shape. From the stand-point of scientific observation 
 it was curious to see how her stored instincts re 
 sponded to the pseudo-maternal call. She overflowed 
 with the petty maxims of the occasion. One felt in 
 her the epitome, the consummation, of centuries of 
 
 i animal maternity, so that this little woman, who 
 
 screamed at a mouse and was nervous about burglars, 
 
 [49] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 came to typify the cave-mother rending her prey for 
 her young. 
 
 It was less easy to regard philosophically the prac 
 tical effects of her borrowed motherhood. Lethbury 
 found with surprise that she was becoming assertive 
 and definite. She no longer represented the negative 
 side of his life; she showed, indeed, a tendency to 
 inconvenient affirmations. She had gradually expanded 
 her assumption of motherhood till it included his own 
 share in the relation, and he suddenly found himself 
 regarded as the father of Jane. This was a contin 
 gency he had not foreseen, and it took all his philoso 
 phy to accept it; but there were moments of compen 
 sation. For Mrs. Lethbury was undoubtedly happy for 
 the first time in years; and the thought that he had 
 tardily contributed to this end reconciled him to the 
 irony of the means. 
 
 At first he was inclined to reproach himself for 
 still viewing the situation from the outside, for re 
 maining a spectator instead of a participant. He had 
 been allured, for a moment, by the vision of severed 
 hands meeting over a cradle, as the whole body of 
 domestic fiction bears witness to their doing; and the 
 fact that no such conjunction took place he could 
 explain only on the ground that it was a borrowed 
 cradle. He did not dislike the little girl. She still 
 remained to him a hypothetical presence, a query 
 [50] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 rather than a fact ; "but her nearness was not unpleas 
 ant, and there were moments when her tentative 
 utterances, her groping steps, seemed to loosen the 
 dry accretions enveloping his inner self. But even at 
 such moments moments which he invited and ca 
 ressed she did not bring him nearer to his wife. He 
 now perceived that he had made a certain place in 
 his life for Mrs. Lethbury, and that she no longer 
 fitted into it. It was too late to enlarge the space, and 
 so she overflowed and encroached. Lethbury strug 
 gled against the sense of submergence. He let down 
 barrier after barrier, yielding privacy after privacy; 
 but his wife s personality continued to dilate. She was 
 no longer herself alone: she was herself and Jane. 
 Gradually, in a monstrous fusion of identity, she be 
 came herself, himself and Jane; and instead of try 
 ing to adapt her to a spare crevice of his character, 
 he found himself carelessly squeezed into the small 
 est compartment of the domestic economy. 
 
 IV 
 
 T T E continued to tell himself that he was satis- 
 * -* fied if his wife was happy; and it was not till 
 the child s tenth year that he felt a doubt of her hap 
 piness. 
 
 Jane had been a preternaturally good child. Dur- 
 [51] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 ing the eight years of her adoption she had caused 
 her foster-parents no anxiety beyond those connected 
 with the usual succession of youthful diseases. But 
 her unknown progenitors had given her a robust con 
 stitution, and she passed unperturbed through mea 
 sles, chicken-pox and whooping-cough. If there was 
 any suffering it was endured vicariously by Mrs. 
 Lethbury, whose temperature rose and fell with the 
 patient s, and who could not hear Jane sneeze with 
 out visions of a marble angel weeping over a broken 
 column. But though Jane s prompt recoveries contin 
 ued to belie such premonitions, though her existence 
 continued to move forward on an even keel of good 
 health and good conduct, Mrs. Lethbury s satisfac 
 tion showed no corresponding advance. Lethbury, at 
 first, was disposed to add her disappointment to the 
 long list of feminine inconsistencies with which the 
 sententious observer of life builds up his favourable 
 induction ; but circumstances presently led him to take 
 a kindlier view of the case. 
 
 Hitherto his wife had regarded him as a negligible 
 factor in Jane s evolution. Beyond providing for his 
 adopted daughter, and effacing himself before her, he 
 was not expected to contribute to her well-being. But 
 as time passed he appeared to his wife in a new 
 light. It was he who was to educate Jane. In mat 
 ters of the intellect, Mrs. Lethbury was the first to 
 [52] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 declare her deficiencies to proclaim them, even, with 
 a certain virtuous superiority. She said she did not 
 pretend to be clever, and there was no denying the 
 truth of the assertion. Now, however, she seemed less 
 ready, not to own her limitations, but to glory in them. 
 Confronted with the problem of Jane s instruction 
 she stood in awe of the child. 
 
 "I have always been stupid, you know," she said 
 to Lethbury with a new humility, "and I m afraid I 
 sha n t know what is best for Jane. I m sure she has 
 a wonderfully good mind, and I should reproach my 
 self if I didn t give her every opportunity." She 
 looked at him helplessly. "You must tell me what 
 ought to be done." 
 
 Lethbury was not unwilling to oblige her. Some 
 where in his mental lumber-room there rusted a 
 theory of education such as usually lingers among 
 the impedimenta of the childless. He brought this 
 out, refurbished it, and applied it to Jane. At first 
 he thought his wife had not overrated the quality of 
 the child s mind. Jane seemed extraordinarily intel 
 ligent. Her precocious definiteness of mind was en 
 couraging to her inexperienced preceptor. She had no 
 difficulty in fixing her attention, and he felt that every 
 fact he imparted was being etched in metal. He 
 helped his wife to engage the best teachers, and for 
 a while continued to take an ex-official interest in his 
 [53] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 adopted daughter s studies. But gradually his inter 
 est waned. Jane s ideas did not increase with her ac 
 quisitions. Her young mind remained a mere receptacle 
 for facts: a kind of cold-storage from which any 
 thing which had been put there could be taken out at 
 a moment s notice, intact but congealed. She devel 
 oped, moreover, an inordinate pride in the capacity 
 of her mental storehouse, and a tendency to pelt her 
 public with its contents. She was overheard to jeer 
 at her nurse for not knowing when the Saxon Hep 
 tarchy had fallen, and she alternately dazzled and 
 depressed Mrs. Lethbury by the wealth of her chrono 
 logical allusions. She showed no interest in the sig 
 nificance of the facts she amassed: she simply col 
 lected dates as another child might have collected 
 stamps or marbles. To her foster-mother she seemed 
 a prodigy of wisdom ; but Lethbury saw, with a secret 
 movement of sympathy, how the aptitudes in which 
 Mrs. Lethbury gloried were slowly estranging her 
 from her child. 
 
 "She is getting too clever for me," his wife said to 
 him, after one of Jane s historical flights, "but I am 
 so glad that she will be a companion to you." 
 
 Lethbury groaned in spirit. He did not look for 
 ward to Jane s companionship. She was still a good 
 little girl: but there was something automatic and 
 formal in her goodness, as though it were a kind of 
 [54] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 moral calisthenics which she went through for the sake 
 of showing her agility. An early consciousness of 
 virtue had moreover constituted her the natural guar 
 dian and adviser of her elders. Before she was fifteen 
 she had set about reforming the household. She took 
 Mrs. Lethbury in hand first; then she extended her 
 efforts to the servants, with consequences more dis 
 astrous to the domestic harmony; and lastly she ap 
 plied herself to Lethbury. She proved to him by sta 
 tistics that he smoked too much, and that it was 
 injurious to the optic nerve to read in bed. She took 
 him to task for not going to church more regularly, 
 and pointed out to him the evils of desultory reading. 
 She suggested that a regular course of study encour 
 ages mental concentration, and hinted that inconsecu- 
 tiveness of thought is a sign of approaching age. 
 
 To her adopted mother her suggestions were 
 equally pertinent. She instructed Mrs. Lethbury in 
 an improved way of making beef stock, and called 
 her attention to the unhygienic qualities of carpets. 
 She poured out distracting facts about bacilli and 
 vegetable mould, and demonstrated that curtains and 
 picture-frames are a hot-bed of animal organisms. 
 She learned by heart the nutritive ingredients of the 
 principal articles of diet, and revolutionised the 
 cuisine by an attempt to establish a scientific average 
 between starch and phosphates. Four cooks left dur- 
 [55] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 ing this experiment, and Lethbury fell into the habit 
 of dining at his club. 
 
 Once or twice, at the outset, he had tried to check 
 Jane s ardour; but his efforts resulted only in hurt 
 ing his wife s feelings. Jane remained impervious, 
 and Mrs. Lethbury resented any attempt to protect 
 her from her daughter. Lethbury saw that she was 
 consoled for the sense of her own inferiority by the 
 thought of what Jane s intellectual companionship 
 must be to him; and he tried to keep up the illusion 
 by enduring with what grace he might the blighting 
 edification of Jane s discourse. 
 
 A S Jane grew up he sometimes avenged himself 
 ** by wondering if his wife was still sorry that 
 they had not called her Muriel. Jane was not ugly; 
 she developed, indeed, a kind of categorical pretti- 
 ness which might have been a projection of her mind. 
 She had a creditable collection of features, but one 
 had to take an inventory of them to find out that she 
 was good-looking. The fusing grace had been omitted. 
 Mrs. Lethbury took a touching pride in her daugh 
 ter s first steps in the world. She expected Jane to 
 take by her complexion those whom she did not cap 
 ture by her learning. But Jane s rosy freshness did not 
 [56] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 work any perceptible ravages. - Whether the young 
 men guessed the axioms on her lips and detected the 
 encyclopaedia in her eye, or whether they simply found 
 no intrinsic interest in these features, certain it is, 
 that, in spite of her mother s heroic efforts, and of 
 incessant calls on Lethbury s purse, Jane, at the end 
 of her first season, had dropped hopelessly out of the 
 running. A few duller girls found her interesting, 
 and one or two young men came to the house with 
 the object of meeting other young women; but she 
 was rapidly becoming one of the social supernumer 
 aries who are asked out only because they are on peo 
 ple s lists. 
 
 The blow was bitter to Mrs. Lethbury ; but she con 
 soled herself with the idea that Jane had failed be 
 cause she was too clever. Jane probably shared this 
 conviction; at all events she betrayed no conscious 
 ness of failure. She had developed a pronounced taste 
 for society, and went out, unweariedly and obsti 
 nately, winter after winter, while Mrs. Lethbury 
 toiled in her wake, showering attentions on oblivious 
 hostesses. To Lethbury there was something at once 
 tragic and exasperating in the sight of their two fig 
 ures, the one conciliatory, the other dogged, both pur 
 suing with unabated zeal the elusive prize of popu 
 larity. He even began to feel a personal stake in the 
 pursuit, not as it concerned Jane but as it affected 
 [57] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 his wife. He saw that the latter was the victim of 
 Jane s disappointment: that Jane was not above the 
 crude satisfaction of "taking it out" of her mother. 
 Experience checked the impulse to come to his wife s 
 defence; and when his resentment was at its height, 
 Jane disarmed him by giving up the struggle. 
 
 Nothing was said to mark her capitulation; but 
 Lethbury noticed that the visiting ceased and that 
 the dressmaker s bills diminished. At the same time 
 Mrs. Lethbury made it known that Jane had taken 
 up charities ; and before long Jane s conversation con 
 firmed this announcement. At first Lethbury congratu 
 lated himself on the change; but Jane s domesticity 
 soon began to weigh on him. During the day she 
 was sometimes absent on errands of mercy; but in the 
 evening she was always there. At first she and Mrs. 
 Lethbury sat in the drawing-room together, and 
 Lethbury smoked in the library; but presently Jane 
 formed the habit of joining him there, and he began 
 to suspect that he was included among the objects of 
 her philanthropy. 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury confirmed the suspicion. "Jane has 
 grown very serious-minded lately," she said. "She im 
 agines that she used to neglect you and she is trying 
 to make up for it. Don t discourage her," she added in 
 nocently. 
 
 Such a plea delivered Lethbury helpless to his 
 F581 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 daughter s ministrations; and he found himself meas 
 uring the hours he spent with her by the amount of 
 relief they must be affording her mother. There were 
 even moments when he read a furtive gratitude in 
 Mrs. Lethbury s eye. 
 
 But Lethbury was no hero, and he had nearly 
 reached the limit of vicarious endurance when some 
 thing wonderful happened. They never quite knew 
 afterward how it had come about, or who first per 
 ceived it; but Mrs. Lethbury one day gave tremulous 
 voice to their discovery. 
 
 "Of course," she said, "he comes here because of 
 Elise." The young lady in question, a friend of 
 Jane s, was possessed of attractions which had already 
 been found to explain the presence of masculine vis 
 itors. 
 
 Lethbury risked a denial. "I don t think he does/ 
 he declared. 
 
 "But Elise is thought very pretty," Mrs. Lethbury 
 insisted. 
 
 "I can t help that," said Lethbury doggedly. 
 
 He saw a faint light in his wife s eyes; but she 
 remarked carelessly: "Mr. Budd would be a very 
 good match for Elise." 
 
 Lethbury could hardly repress a chuckle: he was 
 so exquisitely aware that she was trying to propitiate 
 the gods. 
 
 [59] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 For a few weeks neither said a word; then Mrs. 
 Lethbury once more reverted to the subject. 
 
 "It is a month since Elise went abroad," she said. 
 
 "Is it?" 
 
 "And Mr. Budd seems to come here just as 
 often" 
 
 "Ah," said Lethbury with heroic indifference; and 
 his wife hastily changed the subject. 
 
 Mr. Winstanley Budd was a young man who suf 
 fered from an excess of manner. Politeness gushed 
 from him in the driest seasons. He was always per 
 forming feats of drawing-room chivalry, and the ap 
 proach of the most unobtrusive female threw him into 
 attitudes which endangered the furniture. His feat 
 ures, being of the cherubic order, did not lend them 
 selves to this role; but there were moments when he 
 appeared to dominate them, to force them into com 
 pliance with an aquiline ideal. The range of Mr. 
 Budd s social benevolence made its object hard to dis 
 tinguish. He spread his cloak so indiscriminately that 
 one could not always interpret the gesture, and Jane s 
 impassive manner had the effect of increasing his 
 demonstrations : she threw him into paroxysms of po 
 liteness. 
 
 At first he filled the house with his amenities; but 
 gradually it became apparent that his most dazzling 
 effects were directed exclusively to Jane. Lethbury 
 [60] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 and his wife held their breath and looked away from 
 each other. They pretended not to notice the fre 
 quency of Mr. Budd s visits, they struggled against 
 an imprudent inclination to leave the young people 
 too much alone. Their conclusions were the result of 
 indirect observation, for neither of them dared to be 
 caught watching Mr. Budd: they behaved like nat 
 uralists on the trail of a rare butterfly. 
 
 In his efforts not to notice Mr. Budd, Lethbury 
 centred his attentions on Jane; and Jane, at this 
 crucial moment, wrung from him a reluctant admira 
 tion. While her parents went about dissembling their 
 emotions, she seemed to have none to conceal. She be 
 trayed neither eagerness nor surprise ; so complete was 
 her unconcern that there were moments when Leth 
 bury feared it was obtuseness, when he could hardly 
 help whispering to her that now was the moment ta 
 lower the net. 
 
 Meanwhile the velocity of Mr. Budd s gyrations 
 increased with the ardour of courtship; his politeness 
 became incandescent, and Jane found herself the cen 
 tre of a pyrotechnical display culminating in the "set 
 piece" of an offer of marriage. 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury imparted the news to her husband 
 
 one evening after their daughter had gone to bed. 
 
 The announcement was made and received with an 
 
 air of detachment, as though both feared to be be- 
 
 [61] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 trayed into unseemly exultation; but Lethbury, as his 
 wife ended, could not repress the inquiry, "Have they 
 decided on a day?" 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury s superior command of her features 
 enabled her to look shocked. "What can you be think 
 ing of? He only offered himself at five!" 
 
 "Of course of course " stammered Lethbury 
 "but nowadays people marry after such short engage 
 ments " 
 
 "Engagement!" said his wife solemnly. "There is 
 no engagement." 
 
 Lethbury dropped his cigar. "What on earth do 
 you mean?" 
 
 "Jane is thinking it over." 
 
 "Thinking it over?" 
 
 "She has asked for a month before deciding." 
 
 Lethbury sank back with a gasp. Was it genius or 
 was it madness? He felt incompetent to decide; and 
 Mrs. Lethbury s next words showed that she shared 
 his difficulty. 
 
 "Of course I don t want to hurry Jane " 
 
 "Of course not," he acquiesced. 
 
 "But I pointed out to her that a young man of Mr. 
 Budd s impulsive temperament might might be 
 easily discouraged " 
 
 "Yes; and what did she say?" 
 
 "She said that if she was worth winning she was 
 worth waiting for." 
 
 [62] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 VI 
 
 HE period of Mr. Budd s probation could 
 scarcely have cost him as much mental anguish 
 as it caused his would-be parents-in-law. 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury, by various ruses, tried to shorten 
 the ordeal, but Jane remained inexorable; and each 
 morning Lethbury came down to breakfast with the 
 certainty of finding a letter of withdrawal from her 
 discouraged suitor. 
 
 When at length the decisive day came, and Mrs. 
 Lethbury, at its close, stole into the library with an 
 air of chastened joy, they stood for a moment with 
 out speaking; then Mrs. Lethbury paid a fitting 
 tribute to the proprieties by faltering out: "It will be 
 dreadful to have to give her up " 
 
 Lethbury could not repress a warning gesture; but 
 even as it escaped him he realised that his wife s 
 grief was genuine. 
 
 "Of course, of course," he said, vainly sounding 
 his own emotional shallows for an answering regret. 
 And yet it was his wife who had suffered most from 
 Jane! 
 
 He had fancied that these sufferings would be 
 
 effaced by the milder atmosphere of their last weeks 
 
 together; but felicity did not soften Jane. Not for a 
 
 moment did she relax her dominion: she simply 
 
 [63] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 widened it to include a new subject. Mr. Budd found 
 himself under orders with the others ; and a new fear 
 assailed Lethbury as he saw Jane assume prenuptial 
 control of her betrothed. Lethbury had never felt any 
 strong personal interest in Mr. Budd; but as Jane s 
 prospective husband the young man excited his sym 
 pathy. To his surprise he found that Mrs. Lethbury 
 shared the feeling. 
 
 "I m afraid he may find Jane a little exacting," 
 she said, after an evening dedicated to a stormy dis 
 cussion of the wedding arrangements. "She really 
 ought to make some concessions. If he wants to be 
 married in a black frock-coat instead of a dark gray 
 one " She paused and looked doubtfully at Leth 
 bury. 
 
 "What can I do about it?" he said. 
 
 "You might explain to him tell him that Jane 
 
 isr 
 
 
 
 isn t always " 
 
 Lethbury made an impatient gesture. "What are 
 you afraid of? His finding her out or his not finding 
 her out?" 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury flushed. "You put it so dreadfully !" 
 
 Her husband mused for a moment; then he said 
 with an air of cheerful hypocrisy: "After all, Budd 
 is old enough to take care of himself." 
 
 But the next day Mrs. Lethbury surprised him. 
 Late in the afternoon she entered the library, so 
 ^64] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 breathless and inarticulate that he scented a catas 
 trophe. 
 
 "I ve done it!" she cried. 
 
 "Done what?" 
 
 "Told him." She nodded toward the door. "He s 
 j ust gone. Jane is out, and I had a chance to talk to 
 him alone." 
 
 Lethbury pushed a chair forward and she sank 
 intojk^---- 
 
 "What did you tell him? That she is not always" 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury lifted a tragic eye. "No; I told him 
 that she always is " 
 
 "Always is ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 There was a pause. Lethbury made a call on his 
 hoarded philosophy. He saw Jane suddenly rein 
 stated in her evening seat by the library fire; but an 
 answering chord in him thrilled at his wife s heroism. 
 
 "Well what did he say?" 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury s agitation deepened. It was clear 
 that the blow had fallen. 
 
 "He ... he said . . . that we ... had never 
 understood Jane ... or appreciated her . . ." The 
 final syllables were lost in her handkerchief, and she 
 left him marvelling at the mechanism of woman. 
 
 After that, Lethbury faced the future with an un 
 daunted eye. They had done their duty at least his 
 [65] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 wife had done hers-4pnd they were reaping the usual 
 
 Harvest of ingratitude with a zest seldom accorded to 
 I 
 I such reaping. There was a marked change in Mr. 
 
 Budd s manner, and his increasing coldness sent a 
 j genial glow through Lethbury s system. It was easy 
 \ to bear with Jane in the light of Mr. Budd s dis- 
 approval. 
 
 There was a good deal to be borne in the last days, 
 and the brunt of it fell on Mrs. Lethbury. Jane 
 marked her transition to the married state by a season 
 able but incongruous display of nerves. She became 
 sentimental, hysterical and reluctant. She quarrelled 
 with her betrothed and threatened to return the 
 ring. Mrs. Lethbury had to intervene, and Leth 
 bury felt the hovering sword of destiny. But the blow 
 was suspended. Mr. Budd s chivalry was proof 
 against all his bride s caprices and his devotion 
 throve on her cruelty. Lethbury feared that he was 
 too faithful, too enduring, and longed to urge him 
 to vary his tactics. Jane presently reappeared with 
 the ring on her finger, and consented to try on the 
 wedding-dress; but her uncertainties, her reactions, 
 were prolonged till the final day. 
 
 When it dawned, Lethbury was still in an ecstasy 
 of apprehension. Feeling reasonably sure of the prin 
 cipal actors he had centred his fears on incidental 
 possibilities. The clergyman might have a stroke, or 
 [66] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 the church might burn down, or there might be some 
 thing wrong with the license. He did all that was 
 humanly possible to avert such contingencies, but 
 there remained that incalculable factor known as the 
 hand of God. Lethbury seemed to feel it groping for 
 him. 
 
 At the altar it almost had him by the nape. Mr. 
 Budd was late; and for five immeasurable minutes 
 Lethbury and Jane faced a churchful of conjecture. 
 Then the bridegroom appeared, flushed but chival 
 rous, and explaining to his father-in-law under cover 
 of the ritual that he had torn his glove and had to go 
 back for another. 
 
 "You ll be losing the ring next," muttered Leth 
 bury ; but Mr. Budd produced this article punct 
 ually, and a moment or two later was bearing its 
 wearer captive down the aisle. 
 
 X At the wedding-breakfast Lethbury caught his 
 wife s eye fixed on him in mild disapproval, and un 
 derstood that his hilarity was exceeding the bounds 
 
 * of fitness. (He pulled himself together and tried to 
 subdue his tone; but his jubilation bubbled over like 
 
 I a champagne-glass perpetually refilled. The deeper 
 
 LL his ..draughts the higher it rose. J 
 
 It was at the brim when, in the wake of the dis 
 persing guests, Jane came down in her travelling- 
 dress and fell on her mother s neck. 
 [67] 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 
 
 "I can t leave you!" she wailed, and Lethbury felt 
 as suddenly sobered as a man under a douche. But if 
 the bride was reluctant her captor was relentless. 
 Never had Mr. Budd been more dominant, more 
 aquiline. Lethbury s last fears were dissipated as the 
 young man snatched Jane from her mother s bosom 
 and bore her off to the brougham. 
 
 The brougham rolled away, the last milliner s girl 
 forsook her post by the awning, the red carpet was 
 folded up, and the house door closed. Lethbury stood 
 alone in the hall with his wife. As he turned toward 
 her, he noticed the look of tired heroism in her eyes, 
 the deepened lines of her face. They reflected his 
 own symptoms too accurately not to appeal to him. 
 The nervous tension had been horrible. He went up 
 to her, and an answering impulse made her lay a 
 hand on his arm. He held it there a moment. 
 
 "Let us go off and have a jolly little dinner at a 
 restaurant," he proposed. 
 
 There had been a time when such a suggestion 
 would have surprised her to the verge of disapproval; 
 but now she agreed to it at once. 
 
 . "Oh, that would be so nice," she murmured with a 
 great sigh of relief and assuagement. 
 
 Jane had fulfilled her mission after all: she had 
 drawn them together at last. 
 
 i [68] 
 
 , 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 I 
 
 WAYTHORN, on the drawing-room hearth, 
 waited for his wife to come down to 
 dinner. 
 
 It was their first night under his own roof, and 
 he was surprised at his thrill of boyish agitation. He 
 was not so old, to be sure his glass gave him little 
 more than the five-and-thirty years to which his wife 
 confessed but he had fancied himself already in the 
 temperate zone ; yet here he was listening for her step 
 with a tender sense of all it symbolised, with some old 
 trail of verse about the garlanded nuptial door-posts 
 floating through his enjoyment of the pleasant room 
 and the good dinner just beyond it. 
 
 They had been hastily recalled from their honey 
 moon by the illness of Lily Haskett, the child of Mrs. 
 Waythorn s first marriage. The little girl, at Way- 
 thorn s desire, had been transferred to his house on 
 the day of her mother s wedding, and the doctor, on 
 their arrival, broke the news that she was ill with 
 typhoid, but declared that all the symptoms were fa 
 vourable. Lily could show twelve years of unblemished 
 health, and the case promised to be a light one. The 
 nurse spoke as reassuringly, and after a moment of 
 alarm Mrs. Waythorn had adjusted herself to the sit- 
 [71] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 uation. She was very fond of Lily her affection for 
 the child had perhaps been her decisive charm in 
 Waythorn s eyes but she had the perfectly balanced 
 nerves which her little girl had inherited, and no 
 woman ever wasted less tissue in unproductive worry. 
 Waythorn- was therefore quite prepared to see her 
 come in presently, a little late because of a last look 
 at Lily, but as serene and well-appointed as if her 
 good-night kiss had been laid on the brow of health. 
 Her composure was restful to him; it acted as bal 
 last to his somewhat unstable sensibilities. As he pic 
 tured her bending over the child s bed he thought how 
 soothing her presence must be in illness : her very step 
 would prognosticate recovery. 
 
 His own life had been a gray one, from tempera 
 ment rather than circumstance, and he had been 
 drawn to her by the unperturbed gaiety which kept 
 her fresh and elastic at an age when most women s 
 activities are growing either slack or febrile. He 
 knew what was said about her; for, popular as she 
 was, there had always been a faint undercurrent of 
 detraction. When she had appeared in New York, 
 nine or ten years earlier, as the pretty Mrs. Haskett 
 whom Gus Varick had unearthed somewhere was it 
 in Pittsburg or Utica? society, while promptly ac 
 cepting her, had reserved the right to cast a doubt on 
 its own indiscrimination. Enquiry, however, established 
 [72] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 her undoubted connection with a socially reigning 
 family, and explained her recent divorce as the 
 natural result of a runaway match at seventeen; and 
 as nothing was known of Mr. Haskett it was easy to 
 believe the worst of him. 
 
 Alice Haskett s remarriage with Gus Varick was a 
 passport to the set whose recognition she coveted, and 
 for a few years the Varicks were the most popular 
 couple in town. Unfortunately the alliance was brief 
 and stormy, and this time the husband had his cham 
 pions. Still, even Varick s stanchest supporters ad 
 mitted that he was not meant for matrimony, and Mrs. 
 Varick s grievances were of a nature to begf the in 
 spection of the New York courts. A Ne^Btork di 
 vorce is in itself a diploma of virtue, and yi the semi- 
 widowhood of this second separation Mrs.* Varick 
 took on an air of sanctity, and was allowed to confide 
 her wrongs to some of the most scrupulous ears in 
 town. But when it was known that she was to marry 
 Waythorn there was a momentary reaction. Her best 
 * friends would have preferred to see her remain in the 
 role of the injured wife, which was as becoming to 
 her as crape to a rosy complexion. True, a decent 
 time had elapsed, and it was not even suggested that 
 Waythorn had supplanted his predecessor. People 
 shook their heads over him, however, and one grudging 
 friend, to whom he affirmed that he took the step with 
 [73] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 his eyes open, replied oracularly : "Yes and with 
 your ears shut." 
 
 Waythorn could afford to smile at these innuendoes. 
 In the Wall Street phrase, he had "discounted" them. 
 He knew that society has not yet adapted itself to the 
 consequences of divorce, and that till the adaptation 
 takes place every woman who uses the freedom the law 
 accords her must be her own social justification. Way- 
 thorn had an amused confidence in his wife s ability to 
 justify herself. His expectations were fulfilled, and 
 before the wedding took place Alice Varick s group 
 had rallied openly to her support. She took it all im- 
 perturbably: she had a way of surmounting obstacles 
 without iKning to be aware of them, and Waythorn 
 looked back witli wonder at the trivialities over which 
 he had worn his nerves thin. He had the sense of hav 
 ing found refuge in a richer, warmer nature than his 
 own, and his satisfaction, at the moment, was humour 
 ously summed up in the thought that his wife, 
 when she had done all she could for Lily, would 
 not be ashamed to come down and enjoy a good 
 dinner. 
 
 The anticipation of such enjoyment was not, how 
 ever, the sentiment expressed by Mrs. Waythorn s 
 charming face when she presently joined him. Though 
 she had put on her most engaging teagown she had 
 neglected to assume the smile that went with it, and 
 [74] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 Waythorn thought he had never seen her look so 
 nearly worried. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked. "Is anything wrong with 
 Lily?" 
 
 "No; I ve just been in and she s still sleeping." 
 Mrs. Waythorn hesitated. "But something tiresome 
 has happened." 
 
 He had taken her two hands, and now perceived 
 that he was crushing a paper between them. 
 
 "This letter?" 
 
 "Yes Mr. Haskett has written I mean his law 
 yer has written." 
 
 Waythorn felt himself flush uncomfortably. He 
 dropped his wife s hands. 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "About seeing Lily. You know the courts " 
 
 "Yes, yes," he interrupted nervously. 
 
 Nothing was known about Haskett in New York. 
 He was vaguely supposed to have remained in the 
 outer darkness from which his wife had been rescued, 
 and Waythorn was one of the few who were aware 
 that he had given up his business in Utica and fol 
 lowed her to New York in order to be near his little 
 girl. In the days of his wooing, Waythorn had often 
 met Lily on the doorstep, rosy and smiling, on her 
 way "to see papa." 
 
 "I am so sorry," Mrs. Waythorn murmured. 
 [75] 
 
 iiorti 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 He roused himself. "What does he want?" 
 
 "He wants to see her. You know she goes to him 
 once a week." 
 
 "Well he doesn t expect her to go to him now, 
 does he?" 
 
 "No he has heard of her illness; but he expects 
 to come here." 
 
 "Here?" 
 
 Mrs. Waythorn reddened under his gaze. They 
 looked away from each other. 
 
 "I m afraid he has the right. . . . You ll see. . . ." 
 She made a proffer of the letter. 
 
 Waythorn moved away with a gesture of refusal. 
 He stood staring about the softly lighted room, which 
 a moment before had seemed so full of bridal in 
 timacy. 
 
 "I m so sorry/ she repeated. "If Lily could have 
 been moved " 
 
 "That s out of the question," he returned impa 
 tiently. 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 Her lip was beginning to tremble, and he felt him 
 self a brute. 
 
 "He must come, of course," he said. "When is 
 his day?" 
 
 "I m afraid to-morrow." 
 
 "Very well. Send a note in the morning." 
 [76] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 The butler entered to announce dinner. 
 
 Waythorn turned to his wife. "Come you must be 
 tired. It s beastly, but try to forget about it," he said, 
 drawing her hand through his arm. 
 
 "You re so good, dear. I ll try," she whispered 
 back. 
 
 Her face cleared at once, and as she looked at him 
 across the flowers, between the rosy candle-shades, he 
 saw her lips waver back into a smile. 
 
 "How pretty everything is !" she sighed luxuriously. 
 
 He turned to the butler. "The champagne at once, 
 please. Mrs. Waythorn is tired." 
 
 In a moment or two their eyes met above the spark 
 ling glasses. Her own were quite clear and untroubled : 
 he saw that she had obeyed his injunction and for- I 
 gotten. 
 
 II 
 
 WAYTHORN, the next morning, went down 
 town earlier than usual. Haskett was not 
 likely to come till the afternoon, but the instinct of 
 flight drove him forth. He meant to stay away all 
 day he had thoughts of dining at his club. As his 
 door closed behind him he reflected that before he 
 opened it again it would have admitted another man 
 who had as much right to enter it as himself, and the 
 thought filled him with a physical repugnance. 
 [77] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 He caught the "elevated" at the employes hour, 
 and found himself crushed between two layers of pen 
 dulous humanity. At Eighth Street the man facing 
 him wriggled out, and another took his place. Way- 
 thorn glanced up and saw that it was Gus Varick. 
 The men were so close together that it was impos 
 sible to ignore the smile of recognition on Varick s 
 handsome overblown face. And after all why not? 
 They had always been on good terms, and Varick 
 had been divorced before Waythorn s attentions to his 
 wife began. The two exchanged a word on the per 
 ennial grievance of the congested trains, and when a 
 seat at their side was miraculously left empty the in 
 stinct of self-preservation made Waythorn slip into 
 it after Varick. 
 
 The latter drew the stout man s breath of relief. 
 "Lord-^I was beginning to feel like a pressed flow 
 er." He leaned back, looking unconcernedly at Way- 
 thorn. "Sorry to hear that Sellers is knocked out 
 again." 
 
 "Sellers?" echoed Waythorn, starting at his part 
 ner s name. 
 
 Varick looked surprised. "You didn t know he was 
 laid up with the gout?" 
 
 "No. I ve been away I only got back last night." 
 Waythorn felt himself reddening in anticipation of 
 the other s smile. 
 
 [78] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 "Ah yes ; to be sure. And Sellers s attack came on 
 two days ago. I m afraid he s pretty bad. Very 
 awkward for me, as it happens, because he was 
 just putting through a rather important thing for 
 me." 
 
 "Ah?" Waythorn wondered vaguely since when 
 Varick had been dealing in "important things." 
 Hitherto he had dabbled only in the shallow pools 
 of speculation, with which Waythorn s office did not 
 usually concern itself. 
 
 It occurred to him that Varick might be talking at 
 random, to relieve the strain of their propinquity. 
 That strain was becoming momentarily more apparent 
 to Waythorn, and when, at Cortlandt Street, he 
 caught sight of an acquaintance and had a sudden 
 vision of the picture he and Varick must present to 
 an initiated eye, he jumped up with a muttered ex 
 cuse. 
 
 "I hope you ll find Sellers better," said Varick civ 
 illy, and he stammered back: "If I can be of any use 
 to you " and let the departing crowd sweep him to 
 the platform. 
 
 At his office he heard that Sellers was in fact ill 
 with the gout, and would probably not be able to 
 leave the house for some weeks. 
 
 "I m sorry it should have happened so, Mr. Way- 
 thorn," the senior clerk said with affable significance. 
 [79] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 "Mr. Sellers was very much upset at the idea of giv 
 ing you such a lot of extra work just now." 
 
 "Oh, that s no matter," said Waythorn hastily. He 
 secretly welcomed the pressure of additional business, 
 and was glad to think that, when the day s work was 
 over, he would have to call at his partner s on the way 
 home. 
 
 He was late for luncheon, and turned in at the near 
 est resturant instead of going to his club. The place 
 was full, and the waiter hurried him to the back of 
 the room to capture the only vacant table. In the 
 cloud of cigar-smoke Waythorn did not at once dis 
 tinguish his neighbours; but presently, looking about 
 him, he saw Varick seated a few feet off. This time, 
 luckily, they were too far apart for conversation, and 
 Varick, who faced another way, had probably not 
 even een him; but there was an irony in their re 
 newed nearness. 
 
 Varick was said to be fond of good living, and as 
 Waythorn sat despatching his hurried luncheon he 
 looked across half enviously at the other s leisurely 
 degustation of his meal. When Waythorn first saw 
 him he had been helping himself with critical de 
 liberation to a bit of Camembert at the ideal point of 
 liquefaction, and now, the cheese removed, he was just 
 pouring his cafe double from its little two-storied 
 earthen pot. He poured slowly, his ruddy profile bent 
 [80] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 above the task, and one beringed white hand steadying 
 the lid of the coffee-pot; then he stretched his other 
 hand to the decanter of cognac at his elbow, filled 
 a liqueur-glass, took a tentative sip, and poured the 
 brandy into his coffee-cup. 
 
 Waythorn watched him in a kind of fascination. 
 What was he thinking of only of the flavour of the 
 coffee and the liqueur? Had the morning s meeting 
 left no more trace in his thoughts than on his face? 
 Had his wife so completely passed out of his life that 
 even this odd encounter with her present husband, 
 within a week after her remarriage, was no more than 
 an incident in his day? And as Waythorn mused, an 
 other idea struck him: had Haskett ever met Varick 
 as Varick and he had just met? The recollection of 
 Haskett perturbed him, and he rose and left the res 
 taurant, taking a circuitous way out to escape the 
 placid irony of Varick s nod. 
 
 It was after seven when Waythorn reached home. 
 He thought the footman who opened the door looked 
 at him oddly. 
 
 "How is Miss Lily?" he asked in haste. 
 
 "Doing very well, sir. A gentleman " 
 
 "Tell Barlow to put off dinner for half an hour," 
 [Waythorn cut him off, hurrying upstairs. 
 
 He went straight to his room and dressed without 
 seeing his wife. When he reached the drawing-room 
 [81] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 she was there, fresh and radiant. Lily s day had been 
 good; the doctor was not coming back that evening. 
 
 At dinner Waythorn told her of Sellers s illness 
 and of the resulting complications. She listened sym 
 pathetically, adjuring him not to let himself be over 
 worked, and asking vague feminine questions about 
 the routine of the office. Then she gave him the chron 
 icle of Lily s day; quoted the nurse and doctor, and 
 told him who had called to inquire. He had never seen 
 her more serene and unruffled. It struck him, with a 
 curious pang, that she was very happy in being with 
 him, so happy that she found a childish pleasure in 
 rehearsing the trivial incidents of her day. 
 
 After dinner they went to the library, and the ser 
 vant put the coffee and liqueurs on a low table before 
 her and left the room. She looked singularly soft and 
 girlish in her rosy pale dress, against the dark leather 
 of one of his bachelor armchairs. A day earlier thr 
 contrast would have charmed him. 
 
 He turned away now, choosing a cigar with affected 
 deliberation. 
 
 "Did Haskett come?" he asked, with his back to 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, yes he came." 
 
 "You didn t see him, of course?" 
 
 She hesitated a moment. "I let the nurse see him. 3 
 
 That was all. There was nothing more to ask. He 
 [82] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 swung round toward her, applying a match to his 
 cigar. Well, the thing was over for a week, at any 
 rate. He would try not to think of it. She looked up 
 at him, a trifle rosier than usual, with a smile in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Ready for your coffee, dear?" 
 
 He leaned against the mantelpiece, watching her as 
 she lifted the coffee-pot. The lamplight struck a 
 gleam from her bracelets and tipped her soft hair 
 with brightness. How light and slender she was, and 
 how each gesture flowed into the next! She seemed / 
 a creature all compact of harmonies. As the thought j 
 of Haskett receded, Waythorn felt himself yielding V 
 again to the joy of possessorship. They were his, 
 those white hands with their flitting motions, his the 
 light haze of hair, the lips and eyes. . . . 
 
 She set down the coffee-pot, and reaching for the 
 decanter of cognac, measured off a liqueur-glass and 
 poured it into his cup. 
 
 Waythorn uttered a sudden exclamation. 
 
 "What is the matter?" she said, startled. 
 
 "Nothing; only I don t take cognac in my cof 
 fee." 
 
 "Oh, how stupid of me," she cried. 
 
 Their eyes met, and she blushed a sudden agonised \Y 
 red. 
 
 [83] 
 
 v 
 ^ 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 III 
 
 ri 1 EN days later, Mr. Sellers, still house-bound, 
 * asked Waythorn to call on his way down town. 
 
 The senior partner, with his swaddled foot propped 
 up by the fire, greeted his associate with an air of 
 embarrassment. 
 
 "I m sorry, my dear fellow; I ve got to ask you to 
 do an awkward thing for me." 
 
 Waythorn waited, and the other went on, after a 
 pause apparently given to the arrangement of his 
 phrases: "The fact is, when I was knocked out I had 
 just gone into a rather complicated piece of business 
 for Gus Varick." 
 
 "Well?" said Waythorn, with an attempt to put 
 him at his ease. 
 
 "Well it s this way: Varick came to me the day 
 before my attack. He had evidently had an inside tip 
 from somebody, and had made about a hundred thou 
 sand. He came to me for advice, and I suggested his 
 going in with Vanderlyn." 
 
 "Oh, the deuce!" Waythorn exclaimed. He saw in 
 a flash what had happened. The investment was an 
 alluring one, but required negotiation. He listened 
 quietly while Sellers put the case before him, and, the 
 statement ended, he said: "You think I ought to see 
 Varick?" 
 
 [84] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 "I m afraid I can t as yet. The doctor is obdurate. 
 And this thing can t wait. I hate to ask you, but no 
 one else in the office knows the ins and outs of it." 
 
 Waythorn stood silent. He did not care a farthing 
 for the success of Varick s venture, but the honour of 
 the office was to be considered, and he could hardly 
 refuse to oblige his partner. 
 
 "Very well," he said, "I ll do it." 
 
 That afternoon, apprised by telephone, Varick 
 called at the office. Waythorn, waiting in his private 
 room, wondered what the others thought of it. The 
 newspapers, at the time of Mrs. Waythorn s mar 
 riage, had acquainted their readers with every detail 
 of her previous matrimonial ventures, and Waythorn 
 could fancy the clerks smiling behind Varick s back 
 as he was ushered in. 
 
 Varick bore himself admirably. He was easy with 
 out being undignified, and Waythorn was conscious of 
 cutting a much less impressive figure. Varick had no 
 experience of business, and the talk prolonged itself 
 for nearly an hour while Waythorn set forth with 
 scrupulous precision the details of the proposed 
 transaction. 
 
 "I m awfully obliged to you," Varick said as he 
 rose. "The fact is I m not used to having much money 
 to look after, and I don t want to make an ass of my 
 self " He smiled, and Waythorn could not help no- 
 [85] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 ticing that there was something pleasant about his 
 smile. "It feels uncommonly queer to have enough 
 cash to pay one s bills. I d have sold my soul for it a 
 few years ago !" 
 
 Waythorn winced at the allusion. He had heard it 
 rumoured that a lack of funds had been one of the de 
 termining causes of the Varick separation, but it did 
 not occur to him that Varick s words were intentional. 
 It seemed more likely that the desire to keep clear of 
 embarrassing topics had fatally drawn him into one. 
 Waythorn did not wish to be outdone in civility. 
 
 "We ll do the best we can for you/ he said. "I 
 think this is a good thing you re in." 
 
 "Oh, I m sure it s immense. It s awfully good of 
 you " Varick broke off, embarrassed. "I suppose the 
 thing s settled now but if " 
 
 "If anything happens before Sellers is about, I ll 
 see you again," said Waythorn quietly. He was glad, 
 in the end, to appear the more self-possessed of the 
 two. 
 
 The course of Lily s illness ran smooth, and as the 
 days passed Waythorn grew used to the idea of Has- 
 kett s weekly visit. The first time the day came round, 
 he stayed out late, and questioned his wife as to the 
 visit on his return. She replied at once that Haskett 
 [86] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 had merely seen the nurse downstairs, as the doctor 
 did not wish any one in the child s sick-room till after 
 the crisis. 
 
 The following week Waythorn was again conscious 
 of the recurrence of the day, but had forgotten it by 
 the time he came home to dinner. The crisis of the 
 disease came a few days later, with a rapid decline of 
 fever, and the little girl was pronounced out of dan 
 ger. In the rejoicing which ensued the thought of 
 Haskett passed out of Waythorn s mind, and one 
 afternoon, letting himself into the house with a latch 
 key, he went straight to his library without noticing a 
 shabby hat and umbrella in the hall. 
 
 In the library he found a small effaced-looking man 
 with a thinnish gray beard sitting on the edge of a 
 chair. The stranger might have been a piano-tuner, 
 or one of those mysteriously efficient persons who are 
 summoned in emergencies to adjust some detail of the 
 domestic machinery. He blinked at Waythorn through 
 a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and said mildly: 
 "Mr. Waythorn, I presume? I am Lily s father." 
 
 Waythorn flushed. "Oh " he stammered uncom 
 fortably. He broke off, disliking to appear rude. In 
 wardly he was trying to adjust the actual Haskett to 
 the image of him projected by his wife s reminis 
 cences. Waythorn had been allowed to infer that 
 Alice s first husband was a brute. 
 [87] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 "I am sorry to intrude/ said Haskett, with his 
 over-the-counter politeness. 
 
 "Don t mention it/ returned Waythorn, collecting 
 himself. "I suppose the nurse has been told?" 
 
 "I presume so. I can wait/ said Haskett. He had 
 a resigned way of speaking, as though life had worn 
 down his natural powers of resistance. 
 
 Waythorn stood on the threshold, nervously pulling 
 off his gloves. 
 
 "I m sorry you ve been detained. I will send for the 
 nurse," he said; and as he opened the door he added 
 with an effort: "I m glad we can give you a good re 
 port of Lily." He winced as the we slipped out, but 
 Haskett seemed not to notice it. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Waythorn. It s been an anxious 
 time for me." 
 
 "Ah, well, that s past. Soon she ll be able to go to 
 you." Waythorn nodded and passed out. 
 
 In his own room he flung himself down with a 
 groan. He hated the womanish sensibility which made 
 him suffer so acutely from the grotesque chances of 
 life. He had known when he married that his wife s 
 former husbands were both living, and that amid the 
 multiplied contacts of modern existence there were a 
 thousand chances to one that he would run against 
 one or the other, yet he found himself as much dis 
 turbed by his brief encounter with Haskett as though 
 [88] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 the law had not obligingly removed all difficulties in 
 the way of their meeting. 
 
 Waythorn sprang up and began to pace the room 
 nervously. He had not suffered half as much from 
 his two meetings with Varick. It was Haskett s pres 
 ence in his own house that made the situation so in 
 tolerable. He stood still, hearing steps in the passage. 
 
 "This way, please," he heard the nurse say. Has- 
 kett was being taken upstairs, then: not a corner of 
 the house but was open to him. Waythorn dropped 
 into another chair, staring vaguely ahead of him. On 
 his dressing-table stood a photograph of Alice, taken 
 when he had first known her. She was Alice Varick 
 then how fine and exquisite he had thought her! 
 Those were Varick s pearls about her neck. At Way- 
 thorn s instance they had been returned before her 
 marriage. Had Haskett ever given her any trinkets 
 and what had become of them, Waythorn wondered? 
 He realised suddenly that he knew very little of 
 Haskett s past or present situation; but from the 
 ^ man s appearance and manner of speech he could re 
 construct with curious precision the surroundings of 
 Alice s first marriage. And it startled him to think that 
 she had, in the background of her life, a phase of 
 existence so different from anything with which he 
 had connected her. Varick, whatever his faults, was 
 a gentleman, in the conventional, traditional sense of 
 [89] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 the term: the sense which at that moment seemed, 
 oddly enough, to have most meaning to Waythorn. 
 He and Varick had the same social habits, spoke the 
 same language, understood the same allusions. But 
 this other man ... it was grotesquely upper- 
 
 Imost in Waythorn s mind that Haskett had worn a 
 made-up tie attached with an elastic. Why should that 
 ridiculous detail symbolise the whole man? Waythorn 
 was exasperated by his own paltriness, but the fact of 
 the tie expanded, forced itself on him, became as it 
 were the key to Alice s past. He could see her, as Mrs. 
 Haskett, sitting in a " front parlour " furnished in 
 plush, with a pianola, and a copy of "Ben Hur" on 
 the centre-table. He could see her going to the thea 
 tre with Haskett or perhaps even to a "Church So 
 ciable" she in a "picture hat" and Haskett in a 
 black frock-coat, a little creased, with the made-up 
 tie on an elastic. On the way home they would stop 
 and look at the illuminated shop-windows, lingering 
 over the photographs of New York actresses. On Sun 
 day afternoons Haskett would take her for a walk, 
 pushing Lily ahead of them in a white enamelled per 
 ambulator, and Waythorn had a vision of the people 
 they would stop and talk to. He could fancy how 
 pretty Alice must have looked, in a dress adroitly 
 constructed from the hints of a New York fashion- 
 paper, and how she must have looked down on the 
 [90] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 other women, chafing at her life, and secretly feeling 
 that she belonged in a bigger place. 
 
 For the moment his foremost thought was one of 
 wonder at the way in which she had shed the phase 
 of existence which her marriage with Haskett im 
 plied. It was as if her whole aspect, every gesture, 
 every inflection, every allusion, were a studied nega 
 tion of that period of her life. If she had denied be 
 ing married to Haskett she could hardly have stood 
 more convicted of duplicity than in this obliteration 
 of the self which had been his wife. 
 
 Waythorn started up, checking himself in the 
 analysis of her motives. What right had he to create 
 a fantastic effigy of her and then pass judgment on 
 it? She had spoken vaguely of her first marriage as 
 unhappy, had hinted, with becoming reticence, that 
 Haskett had wrought havoc among her young illu 
 sions. ... It was a pity for Waythorn s peace 
 of mind that Haskett s very inoffensiveness shed a 
 new light on the nature of those illusions. A man 
 would rather think that his wife has been brutalised 
 by her first husband than that the process has been 
 reversed. 
 
 [91] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 IV 
 
 "A/T R WAYTHORN ; I don>t like that French 
 ^ -*- governess of Lily s." 
 
 Haskett, subdued and apologetic, stood before 
 Waythorn in the library, revolving his shabby hat in 
 his hand. 
 
 Waythorn, surprised in his armchair over the even 
 ing paper, stared back perplexedly at his visitor. 
 
 "You ll excuse my asking to see you," Haskett con 
 tinued. "But this is my last visit, and I thought if I 
 could have a word with you it would be a better way 
 than writing to Mrs. Waythorn s lawyer." 
 
 Waythorn rose uneasily. He did not like the French 
 governess either; but that was irrelevant. 
 
 "I am not so sure of that," he returned stiffly ; "but 
 since you wish it I will give your message to my 
 wife." He always hesitated over the possessive pro 
 noun in addressing Haskett. 
 
 The latter sighed. "I don t know as that will help 
 much. She didn t like it when I spoke to her." 
 
 Waythorn turned red. "When did you see her?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Not since the first day I came to see Lily right 
 after she was taken sick. I remarked to her then that 
 I didn t like the governess." 
 
 Waythorn made no answer. He remembered dis- 
 [92] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 tinctly that, after that first visit, he had asked his 
 wife if she had seen Haskett. She had lied to him 
 then, but she had respected his wishes since; and the 
 incident cast a curious light on her character. He was 
 sure she would not have seen Haskett that first day 
 if she had divined that Waythorn would object, and 
 the fact that she did not divine it was almost as dis- \ 
 agreeable to the latter as the discovery that she had 
 lied to him. 
 
 "I don t like the woman," Haskett was repeating 
 with mild persistency. "She ain t straight, Mr. Way- 
 thorn she ll teach the child to be underhand. I ve 
 noticed a change in Lily she s too anxious to please 
 and she don t always tell the truth. She used to be 
 the straightest child, Mr. Waythorn " He broke off, 
 his voice a little thick. "Not but what I want her to 
 have a stylish education," he ended. 
 
 Waythorn was touched. "I m sorry, Mr. Haskett; 
 but frankly, I don t quite see what I can do." 
 
 Haskett hesitated. Then he laid his hat on the 
 table, and advanced to the hearth-rug, on which Way- 
 thorn was standing. There was nothing aggressive in 
 his manner, but he had the solemnity of a timid man 
 resolved on a decisive measure. 
 
 There s just one thing you can do, Mr. Way- 
 lorn," he said. "You can remind Mrs. Waythorn 
 ;hat, by the decree of the courts, I am entitled to 
 [93] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 have a voice in Lily s bringing up." He paused, and 
 went on more deprecatingly : "I m not the kind to 
 talk about enforcing my rights, Mr. Waythorn. I 
 don t know as I think a man is entitled to rights he 
 hasn t known how to hold on to; but this business of 
 the child is different. I ve never let go there and I 
 never mean to." 
 
 The scene left Waythorn deeply shaken. Shame 
 facedly, in indirect ways, he had been finding out 
 about Haskett ; and all that he had learned was favour 
 able. The little man, in order to be near his daughter, 
 had sold out his share in a profitable business in Utica, 
 and accepted a modest clerkship in a New York manu 
 facturing house. He boarded in a shabby street and 
 had few acquaintances. His passion for Lily filled his 
 life. Waythorn felt that this exploration of Haskett 
 was like groping about with a dark-lantern in his 
 wife s past; but he saw now that there were recesses 
 his lantern had not explored. He had never enquired 
 into the exact circumstances of his wife s first matri 
 monial rupture. On the surface all had been fair. H 
 was she who had obtained the divorce, and the court 
 had given her the child. But Waythorn knew how 
 many ambiguities such a verdict might cover. Th( 
 mere fact that Haskett retained a right over his 
 daughter implied an unsuspected compromise. Way- 
 [94] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 thorn was an idealist. He always refused to recognise 
 unpleasant contingencies till he found himself con- 
 . fronted with them, and then he saw them followed by 
 a spectral train of consequences. His next days were 
 thus haunted, and he determined to try to lay the 
 ghosts by conjuring them up in his wife s presence. 
 
 When he repeated Haskett s request a flame of an 
 ger passed over her face; but she subdued it instantly 
 and spoke with a slight quiver of outraged mother 
 hood. 
 
 "It is very ungentlemanly of him," she said. 
 
 The word grated on Waythorn. "That is neither 
 here nor there. It s a bare question of rights." 
 
 She murmured: "It s not as if he could ever be a 
 help to Lily" 
 
 Waythorn flushed. This was even less to his taste. 
 "The question is," he repeated, "what authority has 
 he over her?" 
 
 She looked downward, twisting herself a little in 
 her seat. "I am willing to see him I thought you 
 objected," she faltered. 
 
 In a flash he understood that she knew the extent 
 of Haskett s claims. Perhaps it was not the first time 
 she had resisted them. 
 
 "My objecting has nothing to do with it," he said 
 coldly; "if Haskett has a right to be consulted you 
 must consult him." 
 
 [95] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 She burst into tears, and he saw that she expected 
 him to regard her as a victim. 
 
 Haskett did not abuse his rights. Waythorn had 
 felt miserably sure that he would not. But the gov 
 erness was dismissed, and from time to time the lit 
 tle man demanded an interview with Alice. After the 
 first outburst she accepted the situation with her 
 usual adaptability. Haskett had once reminded Way- 
 thorn of the piano-tuner, and Mrs. Waythorn, after 
 a month or two, appeared to class him with that do 
 mestic familiar. Waythorn could not but respect the 
 father s tenacity. At first he had tried to cultivate the 
 suspicion that Haskett might be "up to" something, 
 that he had an object in securing a foothold in the 
 house. But in his heart Waythorn was sure of Has- 
 kett s single-mindedness ; he even guessed in the 
 latter a mild contempt for such advantages as his 
 relation with the Waythorns might offer. Haskett s 
 sincerity of purpose made him invulnerable, and his 
 successor had to accept him as a lien on the property. 
 
 Mr. Sellers was sent to Europe to recover from his 
 gout, and Varick s affairs hung on Waythorn s hands. 
 The negotiations were prolonged and complicated; 
 they necessitated frequent conferences between the 
 two men, and the interests of the firm forbade Way- 
 [96] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 thorn s suggesting that his client should transfer his 
 business to another office. 
 
 Varick appeared well in the transaction. In mo 
 ments of relaxation his coarse streak appeared, and 
 Waythorn dreaded his geniality; but in the office he 
 was concise and clear-headed, with a flattering defer 
 ence to Waythorn s judgment. Their business rela 
 tions being so affably established, it would have been 
 absurd for the two men to ignore each other in so 
 ciety. The first time they met in a drawing-room, 
 Varick took up their intercourse in the same easy key, 
 and his hostess s grateful glance obliged Waythorn 
 to respond to it. After that they ran across each other 
 frequently, and one evening at a ball Waythorn, wan 
 dering through the remoter rooms, came upon Varick 
 seated beside his wife. She coloured a little, and 
 faltered in what she was saying; but Varick nodded 
 to Waythorn without rising, and the latter strolled 
 on. 
 
 In the carriage, on the way home, he broke out ner 
 vously: "I didn t know you spoke to Varick." 
 
 Her voice trembled a little. "It s the first time he 
 happened to be standing near me; I didn t know 
 what to do. It s so awkward, meeting everywhere 
 and he said you had been very kind about some busi 
 ness." 
 
 "That s different," said Waythorn. 
 [97] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 She paused a moment. "Ill do just as you wish/ 
 she returned pliantly. "I thought it would be less 
 awkward to speak to him when we meet." 
 
 <Her pliancy was beginning to sicken him. Had she 
 really no will of her own no theory about her rela 
 tion to these men? She had accepted Haskett did 
 she mean to accept Varick? It was "less awkward," 
 as she had said, and her instinct was to evade diffi 
 culties or to circumvent them. With sudden vividness 
 Waythorn saw how the instinct had developed. She 
 was "as easy as an old shoe" a shoe that too many 
 feet had worn. Her elasticity was the result of ten 
 sion in too many different directions. Alice Haskett 
 Alice Varick Alice Waythorn she had been each 
 in turn, and had left hanging to each name a little 
 of her privacy, a little of her personality, a little of 
 the inmost self where the unknown god abides. 
 
 "Yes it s better to speak to Varick," said Way- 
 thorn wearily. 
 
 winter wore on, and society took ad- 
 vantage of the Waythorns acceptance of Var 
 ick. Harassed hostesses were grateful to them for 
 bridging over a social difficulty, and Mrs. Waythorn 
 was held up as a miracle of good taste. Some ex- 
 [98] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 perimental spirits could not resist the diversion of 
 throwing Varick and his former wife together, and 
 there were those who thought he found a zest in the 
 propinquity. But Mrs. Waythorn s conduct remained 
 irreproachable. She neither avoided Varick nor sought 
 him out. Even Way thorn could not but admit that ; 
 she had discovered the solution of the newest social 
 problem. 
 
 He had married her without giving much thought to 
 that problem. He had fancied that a woman can shed 
 her past like a man. But now he saw that Alice was 
 bound to hers both by the circumstances which forced 
 her into continued relation with it, and by the traces 
 it had left on her nature. With grim irony Waythorn 
 compared himself to a member of a syndicate. He 
 held so many shares in his wife s personality and his 
 predecessors were his partners in the business. If 
 there had been any element of passion in the transac 
 tion he would have felt less deteriorated by it. The 
 fact that Alice took her change of husbands like a 
 change of weather reduced the situation to mediocrity. 
 He could have forgiven her for blunders, for excesses ; 
 for resisting Haskett, for yielding to Varick; for 
 anything but her acquiescence and her tact. She re 
 minded him of a juggler tossing knives; but the 
 knives were blunt and she knew they would never 
 cut her. 
 
 [99] 
 

 THE OTHER TWO 
 
 And then, gradually, habit formed a protecting sur 
 face for his sensibilities. If he paid for each day s 
 i comfort with the small change of his illusions, he 
 grew daily to value the comfort more and set less store 
 upon the coin. He had drifted into a dulling pro 
 pinquity with Haskett and Varick and he took refuge 
 in the cheap revenge of satirising the situation. He 
 even began to reckon up the advantages which ac 
 crued from it, to ask himself if it were not better to 
 own a third of a wife who knew how to make a man 
 happy than a whole one who had lacked opportunity 
 to acquire the art. For it was an art, and made up, 
 like all others, of concessions, eliminations and em 
 bellishments; of lights judiciously thrown and shad 
 ows skilfully softened. His wife knew exactly how 
 to manage the lights, and he knew exactly to what 
 training she owed her skill. He even tried to trace 
 the source of his obligations, to discriminate between 
 the influences which had combined to produce his do 
 mestic happiness: he perceived that Haskett s com 
 monness had made Alice worship good breeding, 
 while Varick s liberal construction of the marriage 
 bond had taught her to value the conjugal virtues; so 
 that he was directly indebted to his predecessors for 
 the devotion which made his life easy if not inspiring. 
 
 From this phase he passed into that of complete ac 
 ceptance. He ceased to satirise himself because time 
 [100] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 dulled the irony of the situation and the joke lost its 
 humour with its sting. Even tlifr sight of Ha skew s 
 hat on the hall table had ceased to touch the springs 
 of epigram. The hat was often seen there now, for it 
 had been decided that it was better for Lily s father 
 to visit her than for the little girl to go to his board 
 ing-house. Waythorn, having acquiesced in this ar 
 rangement, had been surprised to find how little dif 
 ference it made. Haskett was never obtrusive, and 
 the few visitors who met him on the stairs were un 
 aware of his identity. Waythorn did not know how 
 often he saw Alice, but with himself Haskett was sel 
 dom in contact. 
 
 One afternoon, however, he learned on entering that 
 Lily s father was waiting to see him. In the library 
 he found Haskett occupying a chair in his usual pro 
 visional way. Waythorn always felt grateful to him 
 for not leaning back. 
 
 "I hope you ll excuse me, Mr. Waythorn," he said 
 rising. "I wanted to see Mrs. Waythorn about Lily, 
 and your man asked me to wait here till she came 
 in." 
 
 "Of course," said Waythorn, remembering that a 
 sudden leak had that morning given over the draw 
 ing-room to the plumbers. 
 
 He opened his cigar-case and held it out to his vis 
 itor, and Haskett s acceptance seemed to mark a fresh 
 [101] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 stage .in their intercourse. The spring evening was 
 chilly^ and Way.thorn invited his guest to draw up his 
 chair to the fire. He meant to find an excuse to leave 
 Haskett in a moment; but he was tired and cold, and 
 after all the little man no longer jarred on him. 
 
 The two were enclosed in the intimacy of their 
 blended cigar-smoke when the door opened and Varick 
 walked into the room. Waythorn rose abruptly. It was 
 the first time that Varick had come to the house, and 
 the surprise of seeing him, combined with the singular 
 inopportuneness of his arrival, gave a new edge to 
 Waythorn s blunted sensibilities. He stared at his 
 visitor without speaking. 
 
 Varick seemed too preoccupied to notice his host s 
 embar ras sment . 
 
 "My dear fellow," he exclaimed in his most expan 
 sive tone, "I must apologise for tumbling in on you 
 in this way, but I was too late to catch you down 
 town, and so I thought " 
 
 He stopped short, catching sight of Haskett, and 
 his sanguine colour deepened to a flush which spread 
 vividly under his scant blond hair. But in a moment 
 he recovered himself and nodded slightly. Haskett re 
 turned the bow in silence, and Waythorn was still 
 groping for speech when the footman came in car 
 rying a tea-table. 
 
 The intrusion offered a welcome vent to Waythorn s 
 [102] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 nerves. "What the deuce are you bringing this here 
 for?" he said sharply. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir, but the plumbers are still 
 in the drawing-room, and Mrs. Way thorn said she 
 would have tea in the library." The footman s per 
 fectly respectful tone implied a reflection on Way- 
 thorn s reasonableness. 
 
 "Oh, very well," said the latter resignedly, and the 
 footman proceeded to open the folding tea-table and 
 set out its complicated appointments. While this in 
 terminable process continued the three men stood 
 motionless, watching it with a fascinated stare, till 
 Waythorn, to break the silence, said to Varick: "Won t 
 you have a cigar?" 
 
 He held out the case he had just tendered to Has- 
 kett, and Varick helped himself with a smile. Way- 
 thorn looked about for a match, and finding none, 
 proffered a light from his own cigar. Haskett, in the 
 background, held his ground mildly, examining his 
 cigar-tip now and then, and stepping forward at the 
 right moment to knock its ashes into the fire. 
 
 The footman at last withdrew, and Varick immedi 
 ately began: "If I could just say half a word to you 
 about this business " 
 
 "Certainly," stammered Waythorn; "in the dining- 
 room " 
 
 But as he placed his hand on the door it opened 
 [103] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 from without, and his wife appeared on the thres 
 hold. 
 
 She came in fresh and smiling, in her street dress 
 and hat, shedding a fragrance from the boa which 
 she loosened in advancing. 
 
 "Shall we have tea in here, dear?" she began; and 
 then she caught sight of Varick. Her smile deepened, 
 veiling a slight tremor of surprise. 
 
 "Why, how do you do?" she said with a distinct 
 note of pleasure. 
 
 As she shook hands with Varick she saw Haskett 
 standing behind him. Her smile faded for a moment, 
 but she recalled it quickly, with a scarcely perceptible 
 side-glance at Waythorn. 
 
 "How do you do, Mr. Haskett?" she said, and shook 
 hands with him a shade less cordially. 
 
 The three men stood awkwardly before her, till 
 Varick, always the most self-possessed, dashed into 
 an explanatory phrase. 
 
 "We I had to see Waythorn a moment on busi 
 ness," he stammered, brick-red from chin to nape. 
 
 Haskett stepped forward with his air of mild obsti 
 nacy. "I am sorry to intrude; but you appointed five 
 o clock " he directed his resigned glance to the time 
 piece on the mantel. 
 
 She swept aside their embarrassment with a charm 
 ing gesture of hospitality. 
 
 [104] 
 
THE OTHER TWO 
 
 "I m so sorry I m always late; but the afternoon 
 was so lovely." She stood drawing off her gloves, pro 
 pitiatory and graceful, diffusing about her a sense of 
 ease and familiarity in which the situation lost its 
 grotesqueness. "But before talking business," she 
 added brightly, "I m sure every one wants a cup of 
 tea." 
 
 She dropped into her low chair by the tea-table, and 
 the two visitors, as if drawn by her smile, advanced to 
 receive the cups she held out. 
 
 She glanced about for Waythorn, and he took the 
 third cup with a laugh. 
 
 [105] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 AS Mrs. Quentin s victoria, driving homeward, 
 turned from the Park into Fifth Avenue, she 
 divined her son s tall figure walking ahead of 
 her in the twilight. His long stride covered the ground 
 more rapidly than usual, and she had a premonition 
 that, if he were going home at that hour, it was be 
 cause he wanted to see her. 
 
 Mrs. Quentin, though not a fanciful woman, was 
 sometimes aware of a sixth sense enabling her to de 
 tect the faintest vibrations of her son s impulses. She 
 was too shrewd to fancy herself the one mother in 
 possession of this faculty, but she permitted herself 
 to think that few could exercise it more discreetly. 
 If she could not help overhearing Alan s thoughts, 
 she had the courage to keep her discoveries to herself, 
 the tact to take for granted nothing that lay below 
 the surface of their spoken intercourse : she knew 
 that most people would rather have their letters read 
 than their thoughts. For this super feminine discretion 
 Alan repaid her by being Alan. There could have 
 been no completer reward. He was the key to the 
 meaning of life, the justification of what must have 
 seemed as incomprehensible as it was odious, had it 
 [ 109 ] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 not all-sufficingly ended in himself. He was a perfect 
 son, and Mrs. Quentin had always hungered for per 
 fection. 
 
 Her house, in a minor way, bore witness to the 
 craving. One felt it to be the result of a series of 
 eliminations: there was nothing fortuitous in its 
 blending of line and colour. The almost morbid finish 
 of every material detail of her life suggested the pos 
 sibility that a diversity of energies had, by some 
 pressure of circumstance, been forced into the chan 
 nel of a narrow dilettanteism. Mrs. Quentin s fas 
 tidiousness had, indeed, the flaw of being too one 
 sided. Her friends were not always worthy of the 
 chairs they sat in, and she overlooked in her associates 
 defects she would not have tolerated in her bric-a- 
 brac. Her house was, in fact, never so distinguished 
 as when it was empty; and it was at its best in the 
 warm fire-lit silence that now received her. 
 
 Her son, who had overtaken her on the door-step, 
 followed her into the drawing-room, and threw him 
 self into an armchair near the fire, while she laid off 
 her furs and busied herself about the tea-table. For 
 a while neither spoke; but glancing at him across the 
 kettle, his mother noticed that he sat staring at the 
 embers with a look she had never seen on his face, 
 though its arrogant young outline was as familiar to 
 her as her own thoughts. The look extended itself to 
 [110] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 his negligent attitude, to the droop of his long fine 
 hands, the dejected tilt of his head against the cush 
 ions. It was like the moral equivalent of physical 
 fatigue: he looked, as he himself would have phrased 
 it, dead-beat, played out. Such an air was so for 
 eign to his usual bright indomitableness that Mrs. 
 Quentin had the sense of an unfamiliar presence, in 
 which she must observe herself, must raise hurried 
 barriers against an alien approach. It was one of the 
 drawbacks of their excessive intimacy that any break 
 in it seemed a chasm. 
 
 She was accustomed to let his thoughts circle about 
 her before they settled into speech, and she now sat 
 in motionless expectancy, as though a sound might 
 frighten them away. 
 
 At length, without turning his eyes from the fire, 
 he said: "I m so glad you re a nice old-fashioned in 
 tuitive woman. It s painful to see them think." 
 
 Her apprehension had already preceded him. 
 "Hope Fenno ?" she faltered. 
 
 He nodded. "She s been thinking hard. It was 
 very painful to me at least; and I don t believe she 
 enjoyed it: she said she didn t." He stretched his 
 feet to the fire. "The result of her cogitations is that 
 she won t have me. She arrived at this by pure ra 
 tiocination it s not a question of feeling, you under 
 stand. I m the only man she s ever loved but she 
 
 [in] 
 

 THE QUICKSAND 
 
 won t have me. What novels did you read when you 
 were young, dear? I m convinced it all turns on 
 that. If she d been brought up on Trollope and 
 Whyte-Melville, instead of Tolstoi and Mrs. Ward, 
 we should have now been vulgarly sitting on a sofa, 
 trying on the engagement-ring." 
 
 Mrs. Quentin at first was kept silent by the mother s 
 instinctive anger that the girl she has not wanted for 
 her son should have dared to refuse him. Then she 
 said: "Tell me, dear." 
 
 "My good woman, she has scruples." 
 
 "Scruples?" 
 
 "Against the paper. She objects to me in my official 
 capacity as owner of the Radiator." 
 
 His mother did not echo his laugh. 
 
 "She had found a solution, of course she over 
 flows with expedients. I was to chuck the paper, and 
 we were to live happily ever afterward on canned 
 food and virtue. She even had an alternative ready 
 women are so full of resources ! I was to turn the 
 Radiator into an independent organ, and run it at a 
 loss to show the public what a model newspaper 
 ought to be. On the whole, I think she fancied this 
 plan more than the other it commended itself to her 
 as being more uncomfortable and aggressive. It s not 
 the fashion nowadays to be good by stealth." 
 
 Mrs. Quentin said to herself: "I don t know how 
 [112] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 much he cared!" Aloud she murmured: "You must 
 give her time." 
 
 "Time?" 
 
 "To move out the old prejudices and make room 
 for new ones." 
 
 "My dear mother, those she has are brand-new; 
 that s the trouble with them. She s tremendously up- 
 to-date. She takes in all the moral fashion-papers, 
 and wears the newest thing in ethics." 
 
 Her resentment lost its way in the intricacies of 
 his metaphor. "Is she so very religious?" 
 
 "You dear archaic woman! She s hopelessly irre 
 ligious ; that s the difficulty. You can make a religious 
 woman believe almost anything: there s the habit of 
 credulity to work on. But when a girl s faith in the 
 Deluge has been shaken, it s very hard to inspire her 
 with confidence. She makes you feel that, before be 
 lieving in you, it s her duty as a conscientious agnostic 
 to find out whether you re not obsolete, or whether the 
 text isn t corrupt, or somebody hasn t proved conclu 
 sively that you never existed, anyhow." 
 
 Mrs. Quentin was again silent. The two moved 
 in that atmosphere of implications and assumptions 
 where the lightest word may shake down the dust of 
 countless stored impressions; and speech was some 
 times more difficult between them than had their union 
 been less close. 
 
 [113] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 Presently she ventured, "It s impossible?" 
 
 "Impossible?" 
 
 She seemed to use her words cautiously, like 
 weapons that might slip and inflict a cut. "What she 
 suggests." 
 
 Her son, raising himself, turned to look at her for 
 the first time. Their glance met in a shock of com 
 prehension. He was with her against the girl, then! 
 Her satisfaction overflowed in a murmur of tender 
 ness. 
 
 "Of course not, dear. One can t change change 
 one s life. . . ." 
 
 "One s self," he emended. "That s what I tell her. 
 What s the use of my giving up the paper if I keep 
 my point of view?" 
 
 The psychological distinction attracted her. "Which 
 is it she minds most?" 
 
 "Oh, the paper for the present. She undertakes 
 to modify the point of view afterward. All she asks 
 is that I shall renounce my heresy: the gift of grace 
 will come later." 
 
 Mrs. Quentin sat gazing into her untouched cup. 
 Her son s first words had produced in her the hal 
 lucinated sense of struggling in the thick of a crowd 
 that he could not see. It was horrible to feel herself 
 hemmed in by influences imperceptible to him; yet if 
 anything could have increased her misery it would 
 [114] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 have been the discovery that her ghosts had become 
 visible. 
 
 As though to divert his attention, she precipitately 
 asked: "Are you ?" 
 
 His answer carried the shock of an evocation. "I 
 merely asked her what she thought of you." 
 
 "Of me?" 
 
 "She admires you immensely, you know." 
 
 For a moment Mrs. Quentin s cheek showed the 
 lingering light of girlhood: praise transmitted by her 
 son acquired something of the transmitter s merit. 
 "Well?" she smiled. 
 
 "Well you didn t make my father give up the 
 Radiator, did you?" 
 
 His mother, stiffening, made a circuitous return: 
 "She never comes here. How can she know me?" I 
 
 "She s so poor! She goes out so little." He rose 
 and leaned against the mantlepiece, dislodging with 
 impatient fingers a slender bronze wrestler poised on 
 a porphyry base, between two warm-toned Spanish 
 ivories. "And then her mother " he added, as if in 
 voluntarily. 
 
 "Her mother has never visited me," Mrs. Quentin 
 finished for him. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. "Mrs. Fenno has the 
 scope of a wax doll. Her rule of conduct is taken 
 from her grandmother s sampler." 
 [115] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 "But the daughter is so modern and yet " 
 
 "The result is the same? Not exactly. She admires 
 you oh, immensely!" He replaced the bronze and 
 turned to his mother with a smile. "Aren t you on 
 some hospital committee together? What especially 
 strikes her is your way of doing good. She says 
 philanthropy is not a line of conduct but a state of 
 mind and it appears that you are one of the elect." 
 
 As, in the vague diffusion of physical pain, relief 
 seems to come with the acuter pang of a single nerve, 
 Mrs. Quentin felt herself suddenly eased by a rush 
 of anger against the girl. "If she loved you " she 
 began. 
 
 His gesture checked her. "I m not asking you to get 
 her to do that." 
 
 The two were again silent, facing each other in 
 the disarray of a common catastrophe as though 
 their thoughts, at the summons of danger, had rushed 
 naked into action. Mrs. Quentin, at this revealing mo 
 ment, saw for the first time how many elements of 
 her son s character had seemed comprehensible simply 
 because they were familiar: as, in reading a foreign 
 language, we take the meaning of certain words for 
 granted till the context corrects us. Often as, in a 
 given case, her maternal musings had figured his con 
 duct, she now found herself at a loss to forecast it; 
 and with this failure of intuition came a sense of the 
 [116] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 subserviency which had hitherto made her counsels 
 but the anticipation of his wish. Her despair escaped 
 in the moan, "What is it you ask me?" 
 
 "To talk to her." 
 
 "Talk to her?" 
 
 "Show her tell her make her understand that 
 the paper has always been a thing outside your life 
 that hasn t touched you that needn t touch her. 
 Only, let her hear you watch you be with you 
 she ll see . . . she can t help seeing. . . ." 
 
 His mother faltered. "But if she s given you her 
 reasons 1 ?" 
 
 "Let her give them to you! If she can when she 
 sees you. . . ." His impatient hand again displaced 
 the wrestler. "I care abominably," he confessed. 
 
 II 
 
 N the Fenno threshold a sudden sense of the f u- 
 tility of the attempt had almost driven Mrs. 
 Quentin back to her carriage ; but the door was already 
 ^opening, and a parlour-maid who believed that Miss 
 Fenno was in led the way to the depressing drawing- 
 room. It was the kind of room in which no member 
 of the family is likely to be found except after din 
 ner or after death. The chairs and tables looked like 
 poor relations who had repaid their keep by a long 
 career of grudging usefulness: they seemed banded 
 [117] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 together against intruders in a sullen conspiracy of 
 discomfort. Mrs. Quentin, keenly susceptible to such 
 influences, read failure in every angle of the up 
 holstery. She was incapable of the vulgar error of 
 thinking that Hope Fenno might be induced to 
 marry Alan for his money; but between this assump 
 tion and the inference that the girl s imagination 
 might be touched by the finer possibilities of wealth, 
 good taste admitted a distinction. The Fenno furni 
 ture, however, presented to such reasoning the ob- 
 tuseness of its black-walnut chamf erings ; and some 
 thing in its attitude suggested that its owners would 
 be as uncompromising. The room showed none of the 
 modern attempts at palliation, no apologetic draping 
 of facts; and Mrs. Quentin, provisionally perched on 
 a green-reps Gothic sofa with which it was clearly im 
 possible to establish any closer relation, concluded 
 that, had Mrs. Fenno needed another seat of the same 
 size, she would have set out placidly to match the one 
 on which her visitor now languished. 
 
 To Mrs. Quentin s fancy, Hope Fenno s opinions, 
 presently imparted in a clear young voice from the 
 opposite angle of the Gothic sofa, partook of the 
 character of their surroundings. The girl s mind was 
 like a large light empty place, scantily furnished 
 with a few massive prejudices, not designed to add 
 to any one s comfort but too ponderous to be easily 
 
 nisi 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 moved. Mrs. Quentin s own intelligence, in which its 
 owner, in an artistically shaded half-light, had so 
 long moved amid a delicate complexity of sensations, 
 seemed in comparison suddenly close and crowded; 
 and in taking refuge there from the glare of the 
 young girl s candour, the older woman found herself 
 stumbling in an unwonted obscurity. Her uneasiness 
 resolved itself into a sense of irritation against her 
 listener. Mrs. Quentin knew that the momentary 
 value of any argument lies in the capacity of the 
 mind to which it is addressed; and as her shafts of 
 persuasion spent themselves against Miss Fenno s 
 obduracy, she said to herself that, since conduct is 
 governed by emotions rather than ideas, the really 
 strong people are those who mistake their sensations 
 for opinions. Viewed in this light, Miss Fenno was 
 certainly very strong: there was an unmistakable ring 
 of finality in the tone with which she declared : 
 
 "It s impossible." 
 
 Mrs. Quentin s answer veiled the least shade of 
 * feminine resentment. "I told Alan that where he had 
 failed there was no chance of my making an im 
 pression." 
 
 Hope Fenno laid on her visitor s an almost rever 
 ential hand. "Dear Mrs. Quentin, it s the impression 
 you make that confirms the impossibility." 
 
 Mrs. Quentin waited a moment: she was perfectly 
 [119] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 aware that, where her feelings were concerned, her 
 sense of humour was not to be relied on. "Do I make 
 such an odious impression?" she asked at length, 
 with a smile that seemed to give the girl her choice of 
 two meanings. 
 
 "You make such a beautiful one ! It s too beautiful 
 it obscures my judgment." 
 
 Mrs. Quentin looked at her thoughtfully. "Would 
 it be permissible, I wonder, for an older woman to 
 suggest that, at your age, it isn t always a misfortune 
 to have what one calls one s judgment temporarily 
 obscured ?" 
 
 Miss Fenno flushed. "I try not to judge others " 
 
 "You judge Alan." 
 
 "Ah, he is not others," she murmured with an ac 
 cent that touched the older woman. 
 
 "You judge his mother." 
 
 "I don t; I don t!" 
 
 Mrs. Quentin pressed her point. "You judge your 
 self, then, as, you would be in my position and your 
 verdict condemns me." 
 
 "How can you think it? It s because I appreciate 
 the difference in our point of view that I find it so 
 difficult to defend myself " 
 
 "Against what?" 
 
 "The temptation to imagine that I might be as 
 you are feeling as I do." 
 
 [120] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 Mrs. Quentin rose with a sigh. "My child, in my 
 day love was less subtle." She added, after a moment: 
 "Alan is a perfect son." 
 
 "Ah, that again that makes it worse !" 
 
 "Worse?" 
 
 "Just as your goodness does, your sweetness, your 
 immense indulgence in letting me discuss things with 
 you in a way that must seem almost an impertinence." 
 
 Mrs. Quentin s smile was not without irony. "You 
 must remember that I do it for Alan." 
 
 "That s what I love you for!" the girl instantly 
 returned; and again her tone touched her listener. 
 
 "And yet you re sacrificing him and to an idea!" 
 
 "Isn t it to ideas that all the sacrifices that were 
 worth while have been made?" 
 
 "One may sacrifice one s self." 
 
 Miss Fenno s colour rose. "That s what I m doing," 
 she said gently. 
 
 Mrs. Quentin took her hand. "I believe you are," 
 
 she answered. "And it isn t true that I speak only 
 
 ^for Alan. Perhaps I did when I began; but now I 
 
 want to plead for you too against yourself." She 
 
 paused, and then went on with a deeper note: "I 
 
 have let you, as you say, speak your mind to me in 
 
 terms that some women might have resented, because 
 
 I wanted to show you how little, as the years go on, 
 
 theories, ideas, abstract conceptions of life, weigh 
 
 [121] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 against the actual, against the particular way in 
 which life presents itself to us to women especially. 
 To decide beforehand exactly how one ought to be 
 have in given circumstances is like deciding that one 
 will follow a certain direction in crossing an unex 
 plored country. Afterward we find that we must 
 turn out for the obstacles cross the rivers where 
 they re shallowest take the tracks that others have 
 beaten make all sorts of unexpected concessions. 
 Life is made up of compromises: that is what youth 
 refuses to understand. I ve lived long enough to doubt 
 whether any real good ever came of sacrificing beau 
 tiful facts to even more beautiful theories. Do I seem 
 casuistical? I don t know there may be losses either 
 way . . . but the love of the man one loves ... of 
 the child one loves . . . that makes up for every 
 thing. . . ." 
 
 She had spoken with a thrill which seemed to com 
 municate itself to the hand her listener had left in 
 hers. Her eyes filled suddenly, but through their dim 
 ness she saw the girl s lips shape a last desperate 
 denial: "Don t you see it s because I feel all this that 
 I mustn t that I can t?" 
 
 [122] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 III 
 
 TV/I" RS. QUENTIN, in the late spring afternoon, 
 *>** had turned in at the doors of the Metropolitan 
 Museum. She had been walking in the Park, in a soli 
 tude oppressed by the ever-present sense of her son s 
 trouble, and had suddenly remembered that some one 
 had added a Beltraffio to the collection. It was an old 
 habit of Mrs. Quentin s to seek in the enjoyment of 
 the beautiful the distraction that most of her acquaint 
 ances appeared to find in each other s company. She 
 had few friends, and their society was welcome to her 
 only in her more superficial moods ; but she could drug 
 anxiety with a picture as some women can soothe it 
 with a bonnet. 
 
 During the six months which had elapsed since her 
 visit to Miss Fenno she had been conscious of a pain 
 of which she had supposed herself no longer capable: 
 as a man will continue to feel the ache of an am 
 putated arm. She had fancied that all her centres of 
 ^feeling had been transferred to Alan; but she now 
 found herself subject to a kind of dual suffering, in 
 which her individual pang was the keener in that it 
 divided her from her son s. Alan had surprised her: 
 she had not foreseen that he would take a sentimental 
 rebuff so hard. His disappointment took the uncom 
 municative form of a sterner application to work. He 
 [123] 
 

 THE QUICKSAND 
 
 threw himself into the concerns of the Radiator with 
 an aggressiveness which almost betrayed itself in the 
 paper.y Mrs. Quentin never read the Radiator, but 
 from the glimpses of it reflected in the other journals 
 she gathered that it was at least not being subjected 
 to the moral reconstruction which had been one of 
 Miss Fenno s alternatives. 
 
 Mrs. Quentin never spoke to her son of what had 
 happened. She was superior to the cheap satisfaction 
 of avenging his injury by depreciating its cause. She 
 knew that in sentimental sorrows such consolations 
 are as salt in the wound. The avoidance of a subject 
 so vividly present to both could not but affect the 
 closeness of their relation. An invisible presence 
 hampered their liberty of speech and thought. The 
 girl was always between them; and to hide the sense 
 of her intrusion they began to be less frequently to 
 gether. It was then that Mrs. Quentin measured the 
 extent of her isolation. Had she ever dared to fore 
 cast such a situation, she would have proceeded on 
 the conventional theory that her son s suffering must 
 draw her nearer to him; and this was precisely the 
 relief that was denied her. Alan s uncommunicative- 
 ness extended below the level of speech, and his 
 mother, reduced to the helplessness of dead-reckon 
 ing, had not even the solace of adapting her sym 
 pathy to his needs. She did not know what he felt: 
 [124] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 his course was incalculable to her. She sometimes 
 wondered if she had become as incomprehensible to 
 him; and it was to find a moment s refuge from the 
 dogging misery of such conjectures that she had now 
 turned in at the Museum. 
 
 The long line of mellow canvases seemed to receive 
 her into the rich calm of an autumn twilight. She 
 might have been walking in an enchanted wood where 
 the footfall of care never sounded. So deep was the 
 sense of seclusion that, as she turned from her pro 
 longed communion with the new Beltraffio, it was a 
 surprise to find that she was not alone. 
 
 A young lady who had risen from the central otto 
 man stood in suspended flight as Mrs. Quentin faced 
 her. The older woman was the first to regain her self- 
 possession. 
 
 "Miss Fenno!" she said. 
 
 The girl advanced with a blush. As it faded, Mrs. 
 Quentin noticed a change in her. There had always 
 been something bright and bannerlike in her aspect, 
 but now her look drooped, and she hung at half- 
 mast, as it were. Mrs. Quentin, in the embarrassment 
 of surprising a secret that its possessor was doubtless 
 unconscious of betraying, reverted hurriedly to the 
 Beltraffio. 
 
 "I came to see this," she said. "It s very beauti 
 ful." 
 
 [125] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 Miss Fenno s eye travelled incuriously over the 
 mystic blue reaches of the landscape. "I suppose so/ 
 she assented; adding, after another tentative pause: 
 "You come here often, don t you?" 
 
 "Very often," Mrs. Quentin answered. "I find 
 pictures a great help." 
 
 "A help?" 
 
 "A rest, I mean ... if one is tired or out of sorts." 
 
 "Ah," Miss Fenno murmured, looking down. 
 
 "This Beltraffio is new, you know," Mrs. Quentin 
 continued. "What a wonderful background, isn t it? 
 Is he a painter who interests you ?" 
 
 The girl glanced again at the dusky canvas, as 
 though in a final endeavour to extract from it a clue to 
 the consolations of art. "I don t know," she said at 
 length; "I m afraid I don t understand pictures." 
 She moved nearer to Mrs. Quentin and held out her 
 hand. 
 
 "You re going?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Mrs. Quentin looked at her. "Let me drive you 
 home," she said, impulsively. She was feeling, with a 
 shock of surprise, that it gave her, after all, no pleas 
 ure to see how much the girl had suffered. 
 
 Miss Fenno stiffened perceptibly. "Thank you; I 
 shall like the walk." 
 
 Mrs. Quentin dropped her hand with a correspond- 
 [126] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 ing movement of withdrawal, and a momentary wave 
 of antagonism seemed to sweep the two women apart. 
 Then, as Mrs. Quentin, bowing slightly, again ad 
 dressed herself to the picture, she felt a sudden touch 
 on her arm. 
 
 "Mrs. Quentin," the girl faltered, "I really came 
 here because I saw your carriage." Her eyes sank, 
 and then fluttered back to her hearer s face. "I ve 
 been horribly unhappy !" she exclaimed. 
 
 Mrs. Quentin was silent. If Hope Fenno had ex 
 pected an immediate response to her appeal, she was 
 disappointed. The older woman s face was like a veil 
 dropped before her thoughts. 
 
 "I ve thought so often," the girl went on precipi 
 tately, "of what you said that day you came to see 
 me last autumn. I think I understand now what you 
 meant what you tried to make me see. . . . Oh, 
 Mrs. Quentin," she broke out, "I didn t mean to tell 
 you this I never dreamed of it till this moment 
 but you do remember what you said, don t you? You 
 must remember it! And now that I ve met you in 
 this way, I can t help telling you that I believe I 
 begin to believe that you were quite right, after all." 
 
 Mrs. Quentin had listened without moving; but now 
 she raised her eyes with a slight smile. "Do you wish 
 me to say this to Alan?" she asked. 
 
 The girl flushed, but her glance braved the smile. 
 [127] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 "Would he still care to hear it?" she said fearlessly. 
 
 Mrs. Quentin took momentary refuge in a renewed 
 inspection of the Beltraffio; then, turning, she said, 
 with a kind of reluctance: "He would still care." 
 
 "Ah !" broke from the girl. 
 
 During this exchange of words the two speakers 
 had drifted unconsciously toward one of the benches. 
 Mrs. Quentin glanced about her: a custodian who 
 had been hovering in the doorway sauntered into the 
 adjoining gallery, and they remained alone among 
 the silvery Vandykes and flushed bituminous Halses. 
 Mrs. Quentin sank down on the bench and reached a 
 hand to the girl. 
 
 "Sit by me," she said. 
 
 Miss Fenno dropped beside her. In both women 
 the stress of emotion was too strong for speech. The 
 girl was still trembling, and Mrs. Quentin was the 
 first to regain her composure. 
 
 "You say you ve suffered," she began at last. "Do 
 you suppose / haven t?" 
 
 "I knew you had. That made it so much worse for 
 me that I should have been the cause of your suf 
 fering for Alan!" 
 
 Mrs. Quentin drew a deep breath. "Not for Alan 
 only," she said. Miss Fenno turned on her a won 
 dering glance. "Not for Alan only. That pain every 
 woman expects and knows how to bear. We all know 
 [128] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 our children must have such disappointments, and to 
 suffer with them is not the deepest pain. It s the suf 
 fering apart in ways they don t understand." She 
 breathed deeply. "I want you to know what I mean. 
 You were right that day and I was wrong." 
 
 "Oh" the girl faltered. 
 
 Mrs. Quentin went on in a voice of passionate 
 lucidity. "I knew it then I knew it even while I was 
 trying to argue with you I ve always known it! I / 
 didn t want my son to marry you till I heard your 
 reasons for refusing him; and then then I longed 
 to see you his wife!" 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Quentin!" 
 
 "I longed for it; but I knew it mustn t be." 
 
 "Mustn t be?" 
 
 Mrs. Quentin shook her head sadly, and the girl, 
 gaining courage from this mute negation, cried with 
 an uncontrollable escape of feeling: 
 
 "It s because you thought me hard, obstinate, nar 
 row-minded ? Oh, I understand that so well ! My self - 
 righteousness must have seemed so petty ! A girl who 
 could sacrifice a man s future to her own moral van 
 ity for it was a form of vanity; you showed me that 
 plainly enough how you must have despised me! 
 But I am not that girl now indeed I m not. I m not 
 impulsive I think things out. I ve thought this out. 
 I know Alan loves me I know how he loves me and 
 [129] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 I believe I can help him oh, not in the ways I had 
 fancied before but just merely by loving him." She 
 paused, but Mrs. Quentin made no sign. "I see it all 
 so differently now. I see what an influence love itself 
 may be how my believing in him, loving him, ac 
 cepting him just as he is, might help him more than 
 any theories, any arguments. I might have seen this 
 long ago in looking at you as he often told me 
 in seeing how you d kept yourself apart from from 
 Mr. Quentin s work and his been always the 
 beautiful side of life to them kept their faith alive 
 in spite of themselves not by interfering, preach 
 ing, reforming, but by just loving them and being 
 there " She looked at Mrs. Quentin with a simple 
 nobleness. "It isn t as if I cared for the money, you 
 know; if I cared for that, I should be afraid " 
 
 "You will care for it in time," Mrs. Quentin said 
 "suddenly. 
 
 Miss Fenno drew back, releasing her hand. "In 
 time?" 
 
 "Yes; when there s nothing else left." She stared 
 a moment at the pictures. "My poor child," she broke 
 out, "I ve heard all you say so often before!" 
 
 "You ve heard it?" 
 
 "Yes from myself. I felt as you do, I argued as 
 you do, I acted as I mean to prevent your doing, when 
 I married Alan s father." 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 The long empty gallery seemed to reverberate with 
 the girl s startled exclamation "Oh, Mrs. Quentin " 
 "Hush; let me speak. Do you suppose I d do this 
 if you were the kind of pink-and-white idiot he ought 
 to have married? It s because I see you re alive, as I 
 was, tingling with beliefs, ambitions, energies, as I 
 was that I can t see you walled up alive, as I was, 
 without stretching out a hand to save you!" She sat 
 gazing rigidly forward, her eyes on the pictures, 
 speaking in the low precipitate tone of one who tries 
 to press the meaning of a lifetime into a few breath 
 less sentences. 
 
 "When I met Alan s father," she went on, "I knew 
 nothing of his his work. We met abroad, where I 
 had been living with my mother. That was twenty- 
 six years ago, when the Radiator was less less no 
 torious than it is now. I knew my husband owned a 
 newspaper a great newspaper and nothing more. 
 I had never seen a copy of the Radiator; I had no 
 notion what it stood for, in politics or in other ways. 
 We were married in Europe, and a few months after 
 ward we came to live here. People were already be 
 ginning to talk about the Radiator. My husband, on 
 leaving college, had bought it with some money an 
 old uncle had left him, and the public at first was 
 merely curious to see what an ambitious, stirring 
 young man without any experience of journalism was 
 [131] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 going to make out of his experiment. They found first 
 of all that he was going to make a great deal of money 
 out of it. I found that out too. I was so happy in 
 other ways that it didn t make much difference at 
 first; though it was pleasant to be able to help my 
 mother, to be generous and charitable, to live in a 
 nice house, and wear the handsome gowns he liked 
 to see me in. But still it didn t really count it counted 
 so little that when, one day, I learned what the 
 Radiator was, I would have gone out into the streets 
 barefooted rather than live another hour on the money 
 it brought in. . . ." Her voice sank, and she paused to 
 steady it. The girl at her side did not speak or move. 
 "I shall never forget that day," she began again. 
 "The paper had stripped bare some family scandal 
 some miserable bleeding secret that a dozen unhappy 
 people had been struggling to keep out of print 
 that would have been kept out if my huband had 
 not Oh, you must guess the rest ! I can t go on !" 
 
 She felt a hand on hers. "You mustn t go on," the 
 girl whispered. 
 
 "Yes, I must I must! You must be made to un 
 derstand." She drew a deep breath. "My husband 
 was not like Alan. When he found out how I felt 
 about it he was surprised at first but gradually he 
 began to see or at least I fancied he saw the hate- 
 fulness of it. At any rate he saw how I suffered, and 
 [132] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 he offered to give up the whole thing to sell the 
 paper. It couldn t be done all of a sudden, of course 
 he made me see that for he had put all his money 
 in it, and he had no special aptitude for any other 
 kind of work. He was a born journalist like Alan. 
 It was a great sacrifice for him to give up the paper, 
 but he promised to do it in time when a good op 
 portunity offered. Meanwhile, of course, he wanted 
 to build it up, to increase the circulation and to do 
 that he had to keep on in the same way he made 
 that clear to me. I saw that we were in a vicious cir 
 cle. The paper, to sell well, had to be made more 
 and more detestable and disgraceful. At first I re 
 belled but somehow I can t tell you how it was 
 after that first concession the ground seemed to give 
 under me: with every struggle I sank deeper. And 
 then then Alan was born. He was such a delicate 
 baby that there was very little hope of saving him. 
 But money did it the money from the paper. I took 
 him abroad to see the best physicians I took him to 
 ,a warm climate every winter. In hot weather the 
 doctors recommended sea air, and we had a yacht 
 and cruised every summer. I owed his life to the 
 Radiator. And when he began to grow stronger the 
 habit was formed the habit of luxury. He could not 
 get on without the things he had always been used 
 to. He pined in bad air; he droopeS under monotony 
 [133] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 and discomfort; he throve on variety, amusement, 
 travel, every kind of novelty and excitement. And all 
 J wanted for him his inexhaustible foster-mother was 
 there to give! 
 
 "My husband said nothing, but he must have seen 
 how things were going. There was no more talk of 
 giving up the Radiator. He never reproached me with 
 my inconsistency, but I thought he must despise me, 
 and the thought made me reckless. I determined to 
 ignore the paper altogether to take what it gave as 
 though I didn t know where it came from. And to ex 
 cuse this I invented the theory that one may, so to 
 speak, purify money by putting it to good uses. I 
 gave away a great deal in charity I indulged my 
 self very little at first. All the money that was not 
 spent on Alan I tried to do good with. But gradually, 
 as my boy grew up, the problem became more com 
 plicated. How was I to protect Alan from the con 
 tamination I had let him live in? I couldn t preach 
 by example couldn t hold up his father as a warn 
 ing, or denounce the money we were living on. All 
 I could do was to disguise the inner ugliness of life 
 by making it beautiful outside to build a wall of 
 beauty between him and the facts of life, turn his 
 tastes and interests another way, hide the Radiator 
 from him as a smiling woman at a ball may hide a 
 cancer in her breast! Just as Alan was entering col- 
 [184] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 lege his father died. Then I saw my way clear. I 
 had loved my husband and yet I drew my first free 
 breath in years. For the Radiator had been left to 
 Alan outright there was nothing on earth to pre 
 vent his selling it when he came of age. And there 
 was no excuse for his not selling it. I had brought 
 him up to depend on money, but the paper had given 
 us enough money to gratify all his tastes. At last we 
 could turn on the monster that had nourished us. I 
 felt a savage joy in the thought I could hardly 
 bear to wait till Alan came of age. But I had never 
 spoken to him of the paper, and I didn t dare speak 
 of it now. Some false shame kept me back, some vague 
 belief in his ignorance. I would wait till lie was twen 
 ty-one, and then we should be free. 
 
 "I waited the day came, and I spoke. You can 
 guess his answer, I suppose. He had no idea of sell 
 ing the Radiator. It wasn t the money he cared for 
 it was the career that tempted him. He was a born 
 journalist, and his ambition, ever since he could re 
 member, had been to carry on his father s work, to 
 develop, to surpass it. There was nothing in the world 
 as interesting as modern journalism. He couldn t 
 imagine any other kind of life that wouldn t bore 
 him to death. A newspaper like the Radiator might 
 be made one of the biggest powers on earth, and he 
 loved power, and meant to have all he could get. I 
 [135] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 listened to him in a kind of trance. I couldn t find 
 a word to say. His father had had scruples he had 
 none. I seemed to realise at once that argument would 
 be useless. I don t know that I even tried to plead 
 with him he was so bright and hard and inacces 
 sible ! Then I saw that he was, after all, what I had 
 made him the creature of my concessions, my con 
 nivances, my evasions. That was the price I had paid 
 for him I had kept him at that cost! 
 
 "Well I had kept him, at any rate. That was the 
 feeling that survived. He was my boy, my son, my 
 very own till some other woman took him. Mean 
 while the old life must go on as it could. I gave up 
 the struggle. If at that point he was inaccessible, at 
 others he was close to me. He has always been a per 
 fect son. Our tastes grew together we enjoyed the 
 same books, the same pictures, the same people. All 
 I had to do was to look at him in profile to see the 
 side of him that was really mine. At first I kept think 
 ing of the dreadful other side but gradually the im 
 pression faded, and I kept my mind turned from it, 
 as one does from a deformity in a face one loves. I 
 thought I had made my last compromise with life 
 had hit on a modus Vivendi that would last my time. 
 
 "And then he met you. I had always been prepared 
 for his marrying, but not a girl like you. I thought 
 he would choose a sweet thing who would never pry 
 [136] 
 
THE QUICKSAND 
 
 into his closets he hated women with ideas ! But as 
 soon as I saw you I knew the struggle would have to 
 begin again. He is so much stronger than his father 
 he is full of the most monstrous convictions. And 
 he has the courage of them, too you saw last year 
 that his love for you never made him waver. He be 
 lieves in his work ; he adores it it is a kind of hideous 
 idol to which he would make human sacrifices ! He 
 loves you still I ve been honest with you but his 
 love wouldn t change him. It is you who would have 
 to change to die gradually, as I have died, till there 
 is only one live point left in me. Ah, if one died com 
 pletely that s simple enough! But something per 
 sists remember that a single point, an aching 
 nerve of truth. Now and then you may drug it but 
 a touch wakes it again, as your face has waked it in 
 me. There s always enough of one s old self left to 
 suffer with. . . ." 
 
 She stood up and faced the girl abruptly. "What 
 shall I tell Alan?" she said. 
 
 * Miss Fenno sat motionless, her eyes on the ground. 
 Twilight was falling on the gallery a twilight which 
 seemed to emanate not so much from the glass dome 
 overhead as from the crepuscular depths into which 
 the faces of the pictures were receding. The cus 
 todian s step sounded warningly down the corridor. 
 When the girl looked up she was alone. 
 
 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 IT was on an impulse hardly needing the argu 
 ments he found himself advancing in its favour, 
 that Thursdale, on his way to the club, turned as 
 usual into Mrs. Vervain s street. 
 
 The "as usual " was his own qualification of the 
 act; a convenient way of bridging the interval in 
 days and other sequences that lay between this visit 
 and the last. It was characteristic of him that he in 
 stinctively excluded his call two days earlier, with 
 Ruth Gaynor, from the list of his visits to Mrs. Ver 
 vain: the special conditions attending it had made it 
 no more like a visit to Mrs. Vervain than an engraved 
 dinner invitation is like a personal letter. Yet it was 
 to talk over his call with Miss Gaynor that he was 
 now returning to the scene of that episode; and it 
 was because Mrs. Vervain could be trusted to handle 
 the talking over as skilfully as the interview itself 
 that, at her corner, he had felt the dilettante s irre 
 sistible craving to take a last look at a work of art 
 that was passing out of his possession. 
 
 On the whole, he knew no one better fitted to deal 
 
 with the unexpected than Mrs. Vervain. She excelled 
 
 in the rare art of taking things for granted, and 
 
 Thursdale felt a pardonable pride in the thought that 
 
 [141] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 she owed her excellence to his training. Early in his 
 career Thursdale had made the mistake, at the out 
 set of his acquaintance with a lady, of telling her that 
 he loved her and exacting the same avowal in return. 
 The latter part of that episode had been like the long 
 walk back from a picnic, when one has to carry all 
 the crockery one has finished using: it was the last 
 
 time Thursdale ever allowed himself to be encumbered 
 fa" / 
 
 with the debris of a feast. He thus incidentally learned 
 
 that the privilege of loving her is one of the least fa 
 vours that a charming woman can accord ; and in seek 
 ing to avoid the pitfalls of sentiment he had devel 
 oped a science of evasion in which the woman of the 
 moment became a mere implement of the game. He 
 owed a great deal of delicate enjoyment to the culti 
 vation of this art. The perils from which it had been 
 his refuge became naively harmless: was it possible 
 that he who now took his easy way along the levels 
 had once preferred to gasp on the raw heights of emo 
 tion ? Youth is a high-coloured season ; but he had the 
 satisfaction of feeling that he had entered earlier than 
 most into that chairo-oscuro of sensation where every 
 half-tone has its value. 
 
 As a promoter of this pleasure no one he had known 
 was comparable to Mrs. Vervain. He had taught a 
 good many women not to betray their feelings, but 
 he had never before had such fine material to work 
 [142] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 in. She had been surprisingly crude when he first 
 knew her; capable of making the most awkward in 
 ferences, of plunging through thin ice, of recklessly 
 undressing her emotions ; but she had acquired, under 
 the discipline of his reticences and evasions, a skill al 
 most equal to his own, and perhaps more remarkable 
 in that it involved keeping time with any tune he 
 played and reading at sight some uncommonly diffi 
 cult passages. 
 
 It had taken Thursdale seven years to form this 
 fine talent; but the result justified the effort. At the 
 crucial moment she had been perfect: her way of 
 greeting Miss Gaynor had made him regret that he 
 had announced his engagement by letter. It was an 
 evasion that confessed a difficulty; a deviation imply 
 ing an obstacle, where, by common consent, it was 
 agreed to see none; it betrayed, in short, a lack of 
 confidence in the completeness of his method. It had 
 been his pride never to put himself in a position which 
 had to be quitted, as it were, by the back door; but 
 [jere, as he perceived, the main portals would have 
 opened for him of their own accord. All this, and much 
 more, he read in the finished naturalness with which 
 Mrs. Vervain had met Miss Gaynor. He had never 
 seen a better piece of work: there was no over-eager 
 ness, no suspicious warmth, above all (and this gave 
 her art the grace of a natural quality) there were 
 [143] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 none of those damnable implications whereby a 
 woman, in welcoming her friend s betrothed, may 
 keep him on pins and needles while she laps the lady 
 in complacency. So masterly a performance, indeed, 
 hardly needed the offset of Miss Gaynor s door-step 
 words "To be so kind to me, how she must have 
 liked you!" though he caught himself wishing it 
 lay within the bounds of fitness to transmit them, as 
 a final tribute, to the one woman he knew who was un 
 failingly certain to enjoy a good thing. It was per 
 haps the one drawback to his new situation that it 
 might develop good things which it would be impos 
 sible to hand on to Margaret Vervain. 
 
 The fact that he had made the mistake of under 
 rating his friend s powers, the consciousness that his 
 writing must have betrayed his distrust of her effi 
 ciency, seemed an added reason for turning down her 
 street instead of going on to the club. He would show 
 her that he knew how to value her; he would ask her 
 to achieve with him a feat infinitely rarer and more 
 delicate than the one he had appeared to avoid. In 
 cidentally, he would also dispose of the interval of 
 time before dinner: ever since he had seen Miss Gay- 
 nor oiF, an hour earlier, on her return journey to 
 Buffalo, he had been wondering how he should put in 
 the rest of the afternoon. It was absurd, how he 
 missed the girl. . . . Yes, that was it: the desire to talk, 
 [ 144] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 about her was, after all, at the bottom of his im 
 pulse to call on Mrs. Vervain! It was absurd, if you 
 like but it was delightfully rejuvenating. He could 
 recall the time when he had been afraid of being 
 obvious: now he felt that this return to the primitive 
 emotions might be as restorative as a holiday in the 
 Canadian woods. And it was precisely by the girl s 
 candour, her directness, her lack of complications, that 
 he was taken. The sense that she might say something 
 rash at any moment was positively exhilarating: if 
 she had thrown her arms about him at the station he 
 would not have given a thought to his crumpled dig 
 nity. It surprised Thursdale to find what freshness of 
 heart he brought to the adventure; and though his 
 sense of irony prevented his ascribing his intactness to 
 any conscious purpose, he could but rejoice in the fact 
 that his sentimental economies had left him such a 
 large surplus to draw upon. 
 
 Mrs. Vervain was at home as usual. When one 
 visits the cemetery one expects to find the angel on 
 the tombstone, and it struck Thursdale as another 
 proof of his friend s good taste that she had been in 
 no undue haste to change her habits. The whole house 
 appeared to count on his coming; the footman took 
 his hat and overcoat as naturally as though there had 
 been no lapse in his visits; and the drawing-room at 
 once enveloped him in that atmosphere of tacit intel- 
 [145] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 ligence which Mrs. Vervain imparted to her very fur 
 niture. 
 
 It was a surprise that, in this general harmony of 
 circumstances, Mrs. Vervain should herself sound the 
 first false note. 
 
 "You?" she exclaimed; and the book she held 
 slipped from her hand. 
 
 It was crude, certainly; unless it were a touch of 
 the finest art. The difficulty of classifying it dis 
 turbed Thursdale s balance. 
 
 "Why not?" he said, restoring the book. "Isn t it 
 my hour?" And as she made no answer, he added 
 gently, "Unless it s some one else s?" 
 
 She laid the book aside and sank back into her 
 chair. "Mine, merely," she said. 
 
 "I hope that doesn t mean that you re unwilling to 
 share it?" 
 
 "With you? By no means. You re welcome to my 
 last crust." 
 
 He looked at her reproachfully. "Do you call this 
 the last?" 
 
 She smiled as he dropped into the seat across the 
 hearth. "It s a way of giving it more flavour !" 
 
 He returned the smile. "A visit to you doesn t need 
 such condiments." 
 
 She took this with just the right measure of retro 
 spective amusement. 
 
 [146] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 "Ah, but I want to put into this one a very special 
 taste/* she confessed. 
 
 Her smile was so confident, so reassuring, that it 
 lulled him into the imprudence of saying: "Why 
 should you want it to be different from what was 
 always so perfectly right?" 
 
 She hesitated. "Doesn t the fact that it s the last 
 constitute a difference?" 
 
 "The last my last visit to you?" 
 
 "Oh, metaphorically, I mean there s a break in 
 the continuity." 
 
 Decidedly, she was pressing too hard: unlearning 
 his arts already! 
 
 "I don t recognise it," he said. "Unless you make 
 me " he added, with a note that slightly stirred her 
 attitude of languid attention. 
 
 She turned to him with grave eyes. "You recog 
 nise no difference whatever?" 
 
 "None except an added link in the chain." 
 
 "An added link?" 
 
 -* "In having one more thing to like you for your 
 letting Miss Gaynor see why I had already so many." 
 He flattered himself that this turn had taken the least 
 hint of fatuity from the phrase. 
 
 Mrs. Vervain sank into her former easy pose. 
 "Was it that you came for?" she asked, almost gaily. 
 
 "If it is necessary to have a reason that was one." 
 [147] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 "To talk to me about Miss Gaynor?" 
 
 "To tell you how she talks about you." 
 
 "That will be very interesting especially if you 
 have seen her since her second visit to me/* 
 
 "Her second visit?" Thursdale pushed his chair 
 back with a start and moved to another. "She came 
 to see you again?" 
 
 "This morning, yes by appointment." 
 
 He continued to look at her blankly. "You sent for 
 her?" 
 
 "I didn t have to she wrote and asked me last 
 night. But no doubt you have seen her since." 
 
 Thursdale sat silent. He was trying to separate his 
 words from his thoughts, but they still clung to 
 gether inextricably. "I saw her off just now at the 
 station." 
 
 "And she didn t tell you that she had been here 
 again?" 
 
 "There was hardly time, I suppose there were 
 people about " he floundered. 
 
 "Ah, she ll write, then." 
 
 He regained his composure. "Of course she ll 
 write : very often, I hope. You know I m absurdly in 
 love," he cried audaciously. 
 
 She tilted her head back, looking up at him as he 
 leaned against the chimney-piece. He had leaned there 
 so often that the attitude touched a pulse which set 
 [148] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 up a throbbing in her throat. "Oh, my poor Thurs- 
 dale !" she murmured. 
 
 "I suppose it s rather ridiculous/ he owned; and 
 as she remained silent, he added, with a sudden 
 break "Or have you another reason for pitying 
 me?" 
 
 Her answer was another question. "Have you been 
 back to your rooms since you left her ?" 
 
 "Since I left her at the station? I came straight 
 here." 
 
 "Ah, yes you could: there was no reason " Her 
 words passed into a silent musing. 
 
 Thursdale moved nervously nearer. "You said you 
 had something to tell me ?" 
 
 "Perhaps I had better let her do so. There may be 
 a letter at your rooms." 
 
 "A letter? What do you mean? A letter from 
 her? What has happened?" 
 
 His paleness shook her, and she raised a hand of 
 reassurance. "Nothing has happened perhaps that 
 is just the worst of it. You always hated, you know," 
 she added incoherently, "to have things happen: you 
 never would let them." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 "Well, that was what she came here for: I sup 
 posed you had guessed. To know if anything had 
 happened." 
 
 [149] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 "Had happened?" He gazed at her slowly. "Be 
 tween you and me?" he said with a rush of light. 
 
 The words were so much cruder than any that had 
 ever passed between them, that the colour rose to her 
 face; but she held his startled gaze. 
 
 "You know girls are not quite as unsophisticated 
 as they used to be. Are you surprised that such an 
 idea should occur to her?" 
 
 His own colour answered hers : it was the only reply 
 that came to him. 
 
 Mrs. Vervain went on smoothly: "I supposed it 
 might have struck you that there were times when we 
 presented that appearance." 
 
 He made an impatient gesture. "A man s past is 
 his own!" 
 
 "Perhaps it certainly never belongs to the woman 
 who has shared it. But one learns such truths only by 
 experience; and Miss Gaynor is naturally inexpe 
 rienced." 
 
 "Of course but supposing her act a natural 
 one " he floundered lamentably among his innuen 
 does "I still don t see how there was anything " 
 
 "Anything to take hold of? There wasn t " 
 
 "Well, then ?" escaped him, in undisguised sat 
 isfaction; but as she did not complete the sentence he 
 went on with a faltering laugh: "She can hardly ob 
 ject to the existence of a mere friendship between 
 us!" 
 
 [150] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 "But she does," said Mrs. Vervain. 
 
 Thursdale stood perplexed. He had seen, on the 
 previous day, no trace of jealousy or resentment in 
 his betrothed: he could still hear the candid ring of 
 the girl s praise of Mrs. Vervain. If she were such an 
 abyss of insincerity as to dissemble distrust under 
 such frankness, she must at least be more subtle than 
 to bring her doubts to her rival for solution. The sit 
 uation seemed one through which one could no longer 
 move in a penumbra, and he let in a burst of light 
 with the direct query: "Won t you explain what you 
 mean?" 
 
 Mrs. Vervain sat silent, not provokingly, as though 
 to prolong his distress, but as if, in the attenuated 
 phraseology he had taught her, it was difficult to find 
 words robust enough to meet his challenge. It was 
 the first time he had ever asked her to explain any- 
 thing; and she had lived so long in dread of offering 
 elucidations which were not wanted, that she seemed 
 unable to produce one on the spot. 
 
 At last she said slowly: "She came to find out if 
 you were really free." 
 
 Thursdale coloured again. "Free?" he stammered, 
 with a sense of physical disgust at contact with such 
 crassness. 
 
 "Yes if I had quite done with you." She smiled 
 in recovered security. "It seems she likes clear out 
 lines; she has a passion for definitions." 
 [151] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 "Yes well?" he said, wincing at the echo of his 
 own subtlety. 
 
 "Well and when I told her that you had never 
 belonged to me, she wanted me to define my status 
 to know exactly where I had stood all along." 
 
 Thursdale sat gazing at her intently; his hand was 
 not yet on the clue. "And even when you had told her 
 that" 
 
 "Even when I had told her that I had had no 
 status that I had never stood anywhere, in any sense 
 she meant," said Mrs. Vervain, slowly "even then 
 she wasn t satisfied, it seems." 
 
 He uttered an uneasy exclamation. "She didn t be 
 lieve you, you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that she did believe me: too thoroughly." 
 
 "Well, then in God s name, what did she want?" 
 
 "Something more those were the words she used." 
 
 "Something more? Between between you and me? 
 Is it a conundrum?" He laughed awkwardly. 
 
 "Girls are not what they were in my day; they 
 are no longer forbidden to contemplate the relation 
 of the sexes." 
 
 "So it seems!" he commented. "But since, in this 
 case, there wasn t any " he broke off, catching the 
 dawn of a revelation in her gaze. 
 
 "That s just it. The unpardonable offence has been 
 in our not offending." 
 
 [152] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 He flung himself down despairingly. "I give it up ! 
 What did you tell her?" he burst out with sudden 
 crudeness. 
 
 "The exact truth. If I had only known,* she broke 
 off with a beseeching tenderness, "won t you believe 
 that I would still have lied for you ?" 
 
 "Lied for me? Why on earth should you have lied 
 for either of us?" 
 
 "To save you to hide you from her to the last! 
 As I ve hidden you from myself all these years!" 
 She stood up with a sudden tragic import in her 
 movement. "You believe me capable of that, don t 
 you ? If I had only guessed but I have never known 
 a girl like her; she had the truth out of me with a 
 spring." 
 
 "The truth that you and I had never " 
 
 "Had never never in all these years ! Oh, she 
 knew why she measured us both in a flash. She 
 didn t suspect me of having haggled with you her 
 words pelted me like hail. He just took what he 
 wanted sifted and sorted you to suit his taste. Burnt 
 out the gold and left a heap of cinders. And you let 
 him you let yourself be cut in bits she mixed her 
 metaphors a little be cut in bits, and used or dis 
 carded, while all the while every drop of blood in 
 you belonged to him! But he s Shylock he s Shy- 
 lock and you have bled to death of the pound of 
 [ 153 ] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 flesh he has cut out off you. But she despises me the 
 most, you know far the most " Mrs. Vervain 
 ended. 
 
 The words fell strangely on the scented stillness 
 of the room: they seemed out of harmony with its 
 setting of afternoon intimacy, the kind of intimacy 
 on which, at any moment, a visitor might intrude 
 without perceptibly lowering the atmosphere. It was 
 as though a grand opera-singer had strained the acous 
 tics of a private music-room. 
 
 Thursdale stood up, facing his hostess. Half the 
 room was between them, but they seemed to stare 
 close at each other now that the veils of reticence 
 and ambiguity had fallen. 
 
 His first words were characteristic: "She does de 
 spise me, then?" he exclaimed. 
 
 "She thinks the pound of flesh you took was a lit 
 tle too near the heart." 
 
 He was excessively pale. "Please tell me exactly 
 what she said of me." 
 
 "She did not speak much of you: she is proud. But 
 I gather that while she understands love or indiffer 
 ence, her eyes have never been opened to the 
 many intermediate shades of feeling. At any rate, 
 she expressed an unwillingness to be taken with 
 reservations she thinks you would have loved her 
 better if you had loved some one else first. The 
 [154] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 point of view is original she insists on a man with 
 a past!" 
 
 "Oh, a past if she s serious I could rake up a 
 past!" he said with a laugh. 
 
 "So I suggested: but she has her eyes on this par 
 ticular portion of it. She insists on making it a test 
 case. She wanted to know what you had done to me; 
 and before I could guess her drift I blundered into 
 telling her/ 
 
 Thursdale drew a difficult breath. "I never supposed 
 your revenge is complete," he said slowly. 
 
 He heard a little gasp in her throat. "My revenge? 
 When I sent for you to warn you to save you from 
 being surprised as I was surprised?" 
 
 "You re very good but it s rather late to talk of 
 saving me." He held out his hand in the mechanical 
 gesture of leave-taking. 
 
 "How you must care! for I never saw you so 
 dull," was her answer. "Don t you see that it s not 
 too late for me to help you?" And as he continued to 
 
 I 
 
 stare, she brought out sublimely: "Take the rest in 
 imagination! Let it at least be of that much use to 
 you. Tell her I lied to her she s too ready to believe 
 it! And so, after all, in a sense, I sha n t have been 
 wasted." 
 
 His stare hung on her, widening to a kind of won 
 der. She gave the look back brightly, unblushingly, 
 [155] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 as though the expedient were too simple to need 
 oblique approaches. It was extraordinary how a few 
 words had swept them from an atmosphere of the 
 most complex dissimulations to this contact of naked 
 souls. 
 
 It was not in Thursdale to expand with the press 
 ure of fate ; but something in him cracked with it, and 
 the rift let in new light. He went up to his friend and 
 took her hand. 
 
 "You would do it you would do it !" 
 
 She looked at him, smiling, but her hand shook. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said, kissing it. 
 
 "Good-bye? You are going ?" 
 
 "To get my letter." 
 
 "Your letter? The letter won t matter, if you will 
 only do what I ask." 
 
 He, returned her gaze. "I might, I suppose, 
 without being out of character. Only, don t you 
 see that if your plan helped me it could only harm 
 her?" 
 
 "Harm her?" 
 
 "To sacrifice you wouldn t make me different. I 
 shall go on being what I have always been sifting 
 and sorting, as she calls it. Do you want my punish 
 ment to fall on her?" 
 
 She looked at him long and deeply. "Ah, if I had 
 to choose between you !" 
 
 [156] 
 
THE DILETTANTE 
 
 "You would let her take her chance? But I can t, 
 you see. I must take my punishment alone." 
 
 She drew her hand away, sighing. "Oh, there will 
 be no punishment for either of you." 
 
 "For either of us? There will be the reading of 
 her letter for me." 
 
 She shook her head with a slight laugh. "There 
 will be no letter." 
 
 Thursdale faced about from the threshold with 
 fresh life in his look. "No letter? You don t mean " 
 
 "I mean that she s been with you since I saw her 
 she s seen you and heard your voice. If there is a 
 letter, she has recalled it from the first station, by 
 telegraph." 
 
 He turned back to the door, forcing an answer to 
 her smile. "But in the meanwhile I shall have read 
 it," he said. 
 
 The door closed on him, and she hid her eyes from 
 the dreadful emptiness of the room. 
 
 *- 
 
 ^> 
 
 [157] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 (( f "\HE marriage law of the new dispensation 
 | will be: Thou shalt not be unfaithful to 
 *- thyself." 
 
 A discreet murmur of approval filled the studio, 
 and through the haze of cigarette smoke Mrs. Clem 
 ent Westall, as her husband descended from his im 
 provised platform, saw him merged in a congratu 
 latory group of ladies. West all s informal talks on 
 "The New Ethics" had drawn about him an eager 
 following of the mentally unemployed those who, as 
 he had once phrased it, liked to have their brain-food 
 cut up for them. The talks had begun by accident. 
 Westall s ideas were known to be "advanced/* but 
 hitherto their advance had not been in the direction 
 of publicity. He had been, in his wife s opinion, 
 almost pusillanimously careful not to let his personal 
 views endanger his professional standing. Of late, 
 however, he had shown a puzzling tendency to dog 
 matise, to throw down the gauntlet, to flaunt his pri 
 vate code in the face of society; and the relation of 
 the sexes being a topic always sure of an audience, 
 a few admiring friends had persuaded him to give his 
 [161] 
 
rt 
 
 V 
 
 THE RECKONING 
 
 after-dinner opinions a larger circulation by sum 
 ming them up in a series of talks at the Van Sideren 
 studio. 
 
 The Herbert Van Siderens were a couple who sub 
 sisted, socially, on the fact that they had a studio. 
 Van Sideren s pictures were chiefly valuable as ac 
 cessories to the mise en scene which differentiated his 
 wife s "afternoons" from the blighting functions held 
 in long New York drawing-rooms, and permitted her 
 to offer their friends whiskey-and-soda instead of tea. 
 Mrs. Van Sideren, for her part, was skilled in mak 
 ing the most of the kind of atmosphere which a lay- 
 figure and an easel create; and if at times she found 
 the illusion hard to maintain, and lost courage to the 
 extent of almost wishing that Herbert could paint, 
 she promptly overcame such moments of weakness by 
 calling in some fresh talent, some extraneous re- 
 enforcement of the "artistic" impression. It was in 
 quest of such aid that she had seized on Westall, 
 coaxing him, somewhat to his wife s surprise, into a 
 flattered participation in her fraud. It was vaguely 
 felt, in the Van Sideren circle, that all the audacities 
 were artistic, and that a teacher who pronounced mar 
 riage immoral was somehow as distinguished as a 
 painter who depicted purple grass and a green sky. 
 The Van Sideren set were tired of the conventional 
 colour-scheme in art and conduct. 
 [162] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 Julia Westall had long had her own views on 
 the immorality of marriage; she might indeed have 
 claimed her husband as a disciple. In the early days 
 of their union she had secretly resented his disinclina 
 tion to proclaim himself a follower of the new creed ; 
 had been inclined to tax him with moral cowardice, 
 with a failure to live up to the convictions for which 
 their marriage was supposed to stand. That was in 
 the first burst of propagandism, when, womanlike, she 
 wanted to turn her disobedience into a law. Now she 
 felt differently. She could hardly account for the 
 change, yet being a woman who never allowed her 
 impulses to remain unaccounted for, she tried to do 
 so by saying that she did not care to have the articles 
 of her faith misinterpreted by the vulgar. In this 
 connection, she was beginning to think that almost 
 every one was vulgar; certainly there were few to 
 whom she would have cared to intrust the defence 
 of so esoteric a doctrine. And it was precisely at this 
 ^ point that Westall, discarding his unspoken princi 
 ples, had chosen to descend from the heights of 
 privacy, and stand hawking his convictions at the 
 street-corner ! 
 
 It was Una Van Sideren who, on this occasion, un 
 consciously focussed upon herself Mrs. WestalFs 
 wandering resentment. In the first place, the girl had 
 no business to be there. It was "horrid" Mrs. West- 
 [163] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 all found herself slipping back into the old feminine 
 vocabulary simply "horrid" to think of a young 
 girl s being allowed to listen to such talk. The fact 
 that Una smoked cigarettes and sipped an occasional 
 cocktail did not in the least tarnish a certain radiant 
 innocency which made her appear the victim, rather 
 than the accomplice, of her parents vulgarities. Julia 
 Westall felt in a hot helpless way that something 
 ought to be done that some one ought to speak to 
 the girl s mother. And just then Una glided up. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Westall, how beautiful it was!" Una 
 fixed her with large limpid eyes. "You believe it all, 
 I suppose?" she asked with seraphic gravity. 
 
 "All what, my dear child?" 
 
 The girl shone on her. "About the higher life the 
 freer expansion of the individual the law of fidelity 
 to one s self," she glibly recited. 
 
 Mrs. Westall, to her own wonder, blushed a deep 
 and burning blush. 
 
 "My dear Una," she said, "y u don t in the least 
 understand what it s all about!" 
 
 Miss Van Sideren stared, with a slowly answering 
 blush. "Don t you, then?" she murmured. 
 
 Mrs. Westall laughed. "Not always or altogether ! 
 But I should like some tea, please." 
 
 Una led her to the corner where innocent beverages 
 were dispensed. As Julia received her cup she scru- 
 [164] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 tinised the girl more carefully. It was not such a 
 girlish face, after all definite lines were forming 
 under the rosy haze of youth. She reflected that Una 
 must be six-and-twenty, and wondered why she had 
 not married. A nice stock of ideas she would have as 
 her dower ! If they were to be a part of the modern 
 girl s trousseau 
 
 Mrs. Westall caught herself up with a start. It 
 was as though some one else had been speaking a 
 stranger who had borrowed her own voice: she felt 
 herself the dupe of some fantastic mental ventrilo 
 quism. Concluding suddenly that the room was 
 stifling and Una s tea too sweet, she set down her 
 cup and looked about for Westall: to meet his eyes 
 had long been her refuge from every uncertainty. She 
 met them now, but only, as she felt, in transit; they 
 included her parenthetically in a larger flight. She 
 followed the flight, and it carried her to a corner to 
 which Una had withdrawn one of the palmy nooks 
 to which Mrs. Van Sideren attributed the success of 
 her Saturdays. Westall, a moment later, had over 
 taken his look, and found a place at the girl s side. 
 She bent forward, speaking eagerly; he leaned back, 
 listening, with the depreciatory smile which acted as 
 a filter to flattery, enabling him to swallow the 
 strongest doses without apparent grossness of appe 
 tite. Julia winced at her own definition of the smile. 
 [165] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 On the way home, in the deserted winter dusk, 
 Westall surprised his wife by a sudden boyish press 
 ure of her arm. "Did I open their eyes a bit? Did I 
 tell them what you wanted me to?" he asked gaily. 
 
 Almost unconsciously, she let her arm slip from 
 his. "What /wanted?" 
 
 "Why, haven t you all this time?" She caught 
 the honest wonder of his tone. "I somehow fancied 
 you d rather blamed me for not talking more openly 
 before . You almost made me feel, at times, that 
 I was sacrificing principles to expediency." 
 
 She paused a moment over her reply; then she 
 asked quietly: "What made you decide not to any 
 longer ?" 
 
 She felt again the vibration of a faint surprise. 
 "Why the wish to please you!" he answered, almost 
 too simjply. 
 
 "I wish you would not go on, then," she said ab 
 ruptly. 
 
 He stopped in his quick walk, and she felt his 
 stare through the darkness. 
 
 "Not go on?" 
 
 "Call a hansom, please. I m tired," broke from her 
 with a sudden rush of physical weariness. 
 
 Instantly his solicitude enveloped her. The room 
 had been infernally hot and then that confounded 
 cigarette smoke he had noticed once or twice that 
 [166] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 she looked pale she mustn t come to another Sat 
 urday. She felt herself yielding, as she always did, 
 to the warm influence of his concern for her, the 
 feminine in her leaning on the man in him with a 
 conscious intensity of abandonment. He put her in 
 the hansom, and her hand stole into his in the dark 
 ness. A tear or two rose, and she let them fall. It 
 was so delicious to cry over imaginary troubles ! 
 
 That evening, after dinner, he surprised her by 
 reverting to the subject of his talk. He combined a 
 man s dislike of uncomfortable questions with an al 
 most feminine skill in eluding them; and she knew 
 that if he returned to the subject he must have some 
 special reason for doing so. 
 
 "You seem not to have cared for what I said this 
 afternoon. Did I put the case badly?" 
 
 "No you put it very well." 
 
 "Then what did you mean by saying that you would 
 rather not have me go on with it?" 
 
 She glanced at him nervously, her ignorance of his 
 intention deepening her sense of helplessness. 
 
 "I don t think I care to hear such things discussed 
 in public." 
 
 "I don t understand you," he exclaimed. Again the 
 feeling that his surprise was genuine gave an air of 
 obliquity to her own attitude. She was not sure that 
 she understood herself. 
 
 [167] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 "Won t you explain?" he said with a tinge of im 
 patience. 
 
 Her eyes wandered about the familiar drawing- 
 room which had been the scene of so many of their 
 evening confidences. The shaded lamps, the quiet- 
 coloured walls hung with mezzotints, the pale spring 
 flowers scattered here and there in Venice glasses and 
 bowls of old Sevres, recalled, she hardly knew why, 
 the apartment in which the evenings of her first mar 
 riage had been passed a wilderness of rosewood and 
 upholstery, with a picture of a Roman peasant above 
 the mantlepiece, and a Greek slave in "statuary 
 marble" between the folding-doors of the back draw 
 ing-room. It was a room with which she had never 
 been able to establish any closer relation than that 
 between a traveller and a railway station; and now, 
 as she .looked about at the surroundings which stood 
 \ for her deepest affinities the room for which she had 
 || left that other room she was startled by the same 
 sense of strangeness and unfamiliarity. The prints, 
 the flowers, the subdued tones of the old porcelains, 
 , seemed to typify a superficial refinement which had no 
 I relation to the deeper significances of life. 
 
 Suddenly she heard her husband repeating his 
 question. 
 
 "I don t know that I can explain," she faltered. 
 He drew his arm-chair forward so that he faced 
 [168] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 her across the hearth. The light of a reading-lamp 
 fell on his finely drawn face, which had a kind of 
 surface-sensitiveness akin to the surface-refinement 
 of its setting. 
 
 "Is it that you no longer believe in our ideas?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "In our ideas?" 
 
 "The ideas I am trying to teach. The ideas you 
 and I are supposed to stand for." He paused a mo 
 ment. "The ideas on which our marriage was 
 founded." 
 
 The blood rushed to her face. He Ead his reasons, 
 then she was sure now that he had his reasons ! In 
 the ten years of their marriage, how often had either 
 of them stopped to consider the ideas on which it 
 was founded? How often does a man dig about the 
 basement of his house to examine its foundation ? The 
 foundation is there, of course the house rests on it 
 but one lives abovestairs and not in the cellar. It 
 was she, indeed, who in the beginning had insisted 
 on reviewing the situation now and then, on re 
 capitulating the reasons which justified her course, on 
 proclaiming, from time to time, her adherence to the 
 religion of personal independence; but she had long 
 ceased to feel the want of any such ideal standards, 
 and had accepted her marriage as frankly and nat 
 urally as though it had been based on the primitive 
 [169] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 needs of the heart, and required no special sanction 
 to explain or justify it. 
 
 "Of course I still believe in our ideas!" she ex 
 claimed. 
 
 "Then I repeat that I don t understand. It was a 
 part of your theory that the greatest possible pub 
 licity should be given to our view of marriage. Have 
 you changed your mind in that respect?" 
 
 She hesitated. "It depends on circumstances on 
 the public one is addressing. The set of people that 
 the Van Siderens get about them don t care for the 
 truth or falseness of a doctrine. They are attracted 
 simply by its novelty." 
 
 "And yet it was in just such a set of people that 
 you and I met, and learned the truth from each 
 other." 
 
 "That was different." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "I was not a young girl, to begin with. It is per 
 fectly unfitting that young girls should be present 
 at at such times should hear such things dis 
 cussed " 
 
 "I thought you considered it one of the deepest 
 social wrongs that such things never are discussed be 
 fore young girls; but that is beside the point, for I 
 don t remember seeing any young girl in my audi 
 ence to-day " 
 
 [170] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 "Except Una Van Sideren!" 
 
 He turned slightly and pushed back the lamp at 
 his elbow. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Van Sideren naturally " 
 
 "Why naturally?" 
 
 "The daughter of the house would you have had 
 her sent out with her governess ?" 
 
 "If I had a daughter I should not allow such things 
 to go on in my house!" 
 
 Westall, stroking his mustache, leaned back with 
 a faint smile. "I fancy Miss Van Sideren is quite 
 capable of taking care of herself." 
 
 "No girl knows how to take care of herself till 
 it s too late." 
 
 "And yet you would deliberately deny her the 
 surest means of self-defence?" 
 
 "What do you call the surest means of self-de 
 fence ?" 
 
 "Some preliminary knowledge of human nature in 
 its relation to the marriage tie." 
 
 She made an impatient gesture. "How should you 
 like to marry that kind of a girl?" 
 
 "Immensely if she were my kind of girl in other 
 respects." 
 
 She took up the argument at another point. 
 
 "You are quite mistaken if you think such talk does 
 not affect young girls. Una was in a state of the most 
 [171] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 absurd exaltation " She broke off, wondering why 
 she had spoken. 
 
 Westall reopened a magazine which he had laid 
 aside at the beginning of their discussion. "What you 
 tell me is immensely flattering to my oratorical talent 
 but I fear you overrate its effect. I can assure you 
 that Miss Van Sideren doesn t have to have her think 
 ing done for her. She s quite capable of doing it her 
 self." 
 
 "You seem very familiar with her mental proc 
 esses!" flashed unguardedly from his wife. 
 
 He looked up quietly from the pages he was cut 
 ting. 
 
 "I should like to be," he answered. "She interests 
 me." 
 
 II 
 
 TF there be a distinction in being misunderstood, it 
 was one denied to Julia Westall when she left her 
 first husband. Every one was ready to excuse and 
 even to defend her. The world she adorned agreed 
 that John Arment was "impossible," and hostesses 
 gave a sigh of relief at the thought that it would no 
 longer be necessary to ask him to dine. 
 
 There had been no scandal connected with the 
 
 divorce: neither side had accused the other of the 
 
 offence euphemistically described as "statutory." The 
 
 Arments had indeed been obliged to transfer their 
 
 [172] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 allegiance to a State which recognized desertion as 
 a cause for divorce, and construed the term so lib 
 erally that the seeds of desertion were shown to exist 
 in every union. Even Mrs. Arment s second marriage 
 did not irake traditional morality stir in its sleep. It 
 was known that she had not met her second husband 
 till after she had parted from the first, and she had, 
 moreover, replaced a rich man by a poor one. Though 
 Clement Westall was acknowledged to be a rising law- \/ 
 yer, it was generally felt that his fortunes would not 
 rise as rapidly as his reputation. The Westalls would 
 probably always have to live quietly and go out to 
 dinner in cabs. Could there be better evidence of Mrs. 
 Arment s complete disinterestedness? 
 
 If the reasoning by which her friends justified her 
 course was somewhat cruder and less complex than 
 her own elucidation of the matter, both explanations 
 led to the same conclusion: John Arment was impos 
 sible. The only difference was that, to his wife, his 
 impossibility was something deeper than a social dis 
 qualification. She had once said, in ironical defence 
 of her marriage, that it had at least preserved her 
 from the necessity of sitting next to him at dinner; 
 but she had not then realised at what cost the im 
 munity was purchased. John Arment was impossible; 
 but the sting of his impossibility lay in the fact that 
 he made it impossible for those about him to be other 
 [173] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 than himself. By an unconscious process of elimina 
 tion he had excluded from the world everything of 
 which he did not feel a personal need: had become, 
 as it were, a climate in which only his own require 
 ments survived. This might seem to imply a deliberate 
 selfishness; but there was nothing deliberate about 
 Arment. He was as instinctive as an animal or a child. 
 It was this childish element in his nature which some 
 times for a moment unsettled his wife s estimate of 
 him. Was it possible that he was simply undeveloped, 
 that he had delayed, somewhat longer than is usual, 
 the laborious process of growing up? He had the 
 kind of sporadic shrewdness which causes it to be 
 said of a dull man that he is "no fool"; and it was 
 this quality that his wife found most trying. Even 
 to the naturalist it is annoying to have his deductions 
 disturbed by some unforeseen aberrancy of form or 
 function; and how much more so to the wife whose 
 estimate of herself is inevitably bound up with her 
 judgment of her husband! 
 
 Arment s shrewdness did not, indeed, imply any 
 latent intellectual power; it suggested, rather, po 
 tentialities of feeling, of suffering, perhaps, in a 
 blind rudimentary way, on which Julia s sensibilities 
 naturally declined to linger. She so fully understood 
 her own reasons for leaving him that she disliked to 
 think they were not as comprehensible to her husband. 
 [174] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 She was haunted, in her analytic moments, by the look 
 of perplexity, too inarticulate for words, with which 
 he had acquiesced in her explanations. 
 
 These moments were rare with her, however. Her 
 marriage had been too concrete a misery to be sur 
 veyed philosophically. If she had been unhappy for 
 complex reasons, the unhappiness was as real as 
 though it had been uncomplicated. Soul is more 
 bruisable than flesh, and Julia was wounded in every 
 fibre of her spirit. Her husband s personality seemed 
 to be closing gradually in on her, obscuring the sky 
 and cutting off the air, till she felt herself shut up 
 among the decaying bodies of her starved hopes. A 
 sense of having been decoyed by some world-old con 
 spiracy into this bondage of body and soul filled her 
 with despair. If marriage was the slow life-long ac 
 quittal of a debt contracted in ignorance, then mar 
 riage was a crime against human nature. She, for one, 
 would have no share in maintaining the pretence of 
 which she had been a victim : the pretence that a man 
 and a woman, forced into the narrowest of personal 
 relations, must remain there till the end, though they 
 may have outgrown the span of each other s natures as 
 the mature tree outgrows the iron brace about the 
 sapling. 
 
 It was in the first heat of her moral indignation 
 that she had met Clement Westall. She had seen at 
 [175] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 once that he was "interested/* and had fought off 
 the discovery, dreading any influence that should draw 
 her back into the bondage of conventional relations. 
 To ward off the peril she had, with an almost crude 
 precipitancy, revealed her opinions to him. To her 
 surprise, she found that he shared them. She was at 
 tracted by the frankness of a suitor who, while press 
 ing his suit, admitted that he did not believe in mar 
 riage. Her worst audacities did not seem to surprise 
 him: he had thought out all that she had felt, and 
 they had reached the same conclusion. People grew at 
 varying rates, and the yoke that was an easy fit for the 
 one might soon become galling to the other. That was 
 what divorce was for: the readjustment of personal 
 relations. As soon as their necessarily transitive nat 
 ure was recognised they would gain in dignity as 
 well as in harmony. There would be no farther need 
 of the ignoble concessions and connivances, the per 
 petual sacrifice of personal delicacy and moral pride, 
 by means of which imperfect marriages were now 
 held together. Each partner to the contract would be 
 on his mettle, forced to live up to the highest stand 
 ard of self-development, on pain of losing the other s 
 respect and affection. The low nature could no longer 
 drag the higher down, but must struggle to rise, or 
 remain alone on its inferior level. The only neces 
 sary condition to a harmonious marriage was a frank 
 [176] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 recognition of this truth, and a solemn agreement be 
 tween the contracting parties to keep faith with them 
 selves, and not to live together for a moment after 
 complete accord had ceased to exist between them. 
 The new adultery was unfaithfulness to self. 
 
 It was, as Westall had just reminded her, on this 
 understanding that they had married. The ceremony 
 was an unimportant concession to social prejudice: 
 now that the door of divorce stood open, no marriage 
 need be an imprisonment, and the contract therefore 
 no longer involved any diminution of self-respect. 
 The nature of their attachment placed them so far 
 beyond the reach of such contingencies that it was 
 easy to discuss them with an open mind; and Julia s 
 sense of security made her dwell with a tender in 
 sistence on Westall s promise to claim his release 
 when he should cease to love her. The exchange of 
 these vows seemed to make them, in a sense, cham 
 pions of the new law, pioneers in the forbidden realm 
 of individual freedom: they felt that they had some 
 how achieved beatitude without martyrdom. 
 
 This, as Julia now reviewed the past, she perceived 
 to have been her theoretical attitude toward marriage. 
 It was unconsciously, insidiously, that her ten years 
 of happiness with Westall had developed another 
 conception of the tie; a reversion, rather, to the old 
 instinct of passionate dependency and possessorship 
 [177] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 that now made her blood revolt at the mere hint of 
 change. .Change? Renewal? Was that what they had 
 called it, in their foolish jargon? Destruction, ex 
 termination rather this rending of a myriad fibres 
 interwoven with another s being! Another? But he 
 was not other ! He and she were one, one in the mys 
 tic sense which alone gave marriage its significance. 
 The new law was not for them, but for the disunited 
 creatures forced into a mockery of union. The gospel 
 she had felt called on to proclaim had no bearing on 
 her own case. . . . She sent for the doctor and told 
 him she was sure she needed a nerve tonic. 
 
 She took the nerve tonic diligently, but it failed 
 to act as a sedative to her fears. She did not know 
 what she feared; but that made her anxiety the more 
 pervasive. Her husband had not reverted to the sub 
 ject of his Saturday talks. He was unusually kind and 
 considerate, with a softening of his quick manner, a 
 touch of shyness in his consideration, that sickened 
 her with new fears. She told herself that it was be- 
 caused she looked badly because he knew about the 
 doctor and the nerve tonic that he showed this def 
 erence to her wishes, this eagerness to screen her from 
 moral draughts; but the explanation simply cleared 
 the way for fresh inferences. 
 
 The week passed slowly, vacantly, like a prolonged 
 Sunday. On Saturday the morning post brought a 
 [178] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 note from Mrs. Van Sideren. Would dear Julia ask 
 Mr. Westall to come half an hour earlier than usual, 
 as there was to be some music after his "talk" ? West- 
 all was just leaving for his office when his wife read 
 the note. She opened the drawing-room door and 
 called him back to deliver the message. 
 
 He glanced at the note and tossed it aside. "What 
 a bore! I shall have to cut my game of racquets. 
 Well, I suppose it can t be helped. Will you write and 
 say it s all right?" 
 
 Julia hesitated a moment, her hand stiffening on 
 the chair-back against which she leaned. 
 
 "You mean to go on with these talks ?" she asked. 
 
 "I why not?" he returned; and this time it struck 
 her that his surprise was not quite unfeigned. The 
 perception helped her to find words. 
 
 "You said you had started them with the idea of 
 pleasing me " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I told you last week that they didn t please me." 
 
 "Last week? Oh " He seemed to make an effort 
 of memory. "I thought you were nervous then; you 
 sent for the doctor the next day." 
 
 "It was not the doctor I needed; it was your assur 
 ance " 
 
 "My assurance?" 
 
 Suddenly she felt the floor fail under her. She sank 
 [179] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 into the chair with a choking throat, her words, her 
 reasons slipping away from her like straws down a 
 whirling flood. 
 
 "Clement/ she cried, "isn t it enough for you to 
 know that I hate it?" 
 
 He turned to close the door behind them; then he 
 walked toward her and sat down.."What is it that you 
 hate?" he asked gently. 
 
 She had made a desperate effort to rally her routed 
 argument. 
 
 "I can t bear to have you speak as if as if our 
 marriage were like the other kind the wrong kind. 
 When I heard you there, the other afternoon, before 
 all those inquisitive gossiping people, proclaiming that 
 husbands and wives had a right to leave each other 
 whenever they were tired or had seen some one 
 else" 
 
 Westall sat motionless, his eyes fixed on a pattern 
 of the carpet. 
 
 "You have ceased to take this view, then?" he said 
 as she broke off. "You no longer believe that hus 
 bands and wives are justified in separating under 
 such conditions?" 
 
 "Under such conditions?" she stammered. "Yes 
 I still believe that but how can we judge for oth 
 ers? What can we know of the circumstances ?" 
 
 He interrupted her. "I thought it was a funda- 
 [180] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 mental article of our creed that the special circum 
 stances produced by marriage were not to interfere 
 with the full assertion of individual liberty." He 
 paused a moment. "I thought that was your reason 
 for leaving Arment." 
 
 She flushed to the forehead. It was not like him to 
 give a personal turn to the argument. 
 
 "It was my reason," she said simply. 
 
 "Well, then why do you refuse to recognise its 
 validity now?" 
 
 "I don t I don t I only say that one can t judge 
 for others." 
 
 He made an impatient movement. "This is mere 
 hair-splitting. What you mean is that, the doctrine 
 having served your purpose when you needed it, you 
 now repudiate it." 
 
 "Well," she exclaimed, flushing again, "what if I 
 do ? What does it matter to us ?" 
 
 Westall rose from his chair. He was excessively 
 pale, and stood before his wife with something of the 
 formality of a stranger. 
 
 "It matters to me," he said in a low voice, "because 
 I do not repudiate it." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And because I had intended to invoke it as" 
 
 He paused and drew his breath deeply. She sat 
 silent, almost deafened by her heart-beats. 
 [181] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 "as a complete justification of the course I am 
 about to take." 
 
 Julia remained motionless. "What course is that?" 
 she asked. 
 
 He cleared his throat. "I mean to claim the fulfil 
 ment of your promise." 
 
 For an instant the room wavered and darkened; 
 then she recovered a torturing acuteness of vision. 
 Every detail of her surroundings pressed upon her: 
 the tick of the clock, the slant of sunlight on the wall, 
 the hardness of the chair-arms that she grasped, 
 were a separate wound to each sense. 
 
 "My promise " she faltered. 
 
 "Your part of our mutual agreement to set each 
 other free if one or the other should wish to be re 
 leased." 
 
 She was silent again. He waited a moment, shifting 
 his position nervously; then he said, with a touch of 
 irritability: "You acknowledge the agreement?" 
 
 The question went through her like a shock. She 
 lifted her head to it proudly. "I acknowledge the 
 agreement," she said. 
 
 "And you don t mean to repudiate it?" 
 
 A log on the hearth fell forward, and mechanically 
 he advanced and pushed it back. 
 
 "No," she answered slowly, "I don t mean to re 
 pudiate it." 
 
 [182] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 There was a pause. He remained near the hearth, 
 his elbow resting on the mantel-shelf. Close to his 
 hand stood a little cup of jade that he had given her 
 on one of their wedding anniversaries. She wondered 
 vaguely if he noticed it. 
 
 "You intend to leave me, then?" she said at length. 
 
 His gesture seemed to deprecate the crudeness of 
 the allusion. 
 
 "To marry some one else?" 
 
 Again his eye and hand protested. She rose and 
 stood before him. 
 
 "Why should you be afraid to tell me? Is it Una 
 Van Sideren?" 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 "I wish you good luck," she said. 
 
 Ill 
 
 SHE looked up, finding herself alone. She did not 
 remember when or how he had left the room, or 
 how long afterward she had sat there. The fire still 
 smouldered on the hearth, but the slant of sunlight 
 had left the wall. 
 
 Her first conscious thought was that she had not 
 broken her word, that she had fulfilled the very let 
 ter of their bargain. There had been no crying out, 
 no vain appeal to the past, no attempt at tern- 
 [183] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 porising or evasion. She had marched straight up 
 to the guns. 
 
 Now that it was over, she sickened to find herself 
 alive. She looked about her, trying to recover her hold 
 on reality. Her identity seemed to be slipping from 
 her, as it disappears in a physical swoon. "This is 
 my room this is my house," she heard herself say 
 ing. Her room? Her house? She could almost hear 
 the walls laugh back at her. 
 
 She stood up, weariness in every bone. The 
 silence of the room frightened her. She remembered, 
 now, having heard the front door close a long time 
 ago: the sound suddenly re-echoed through her 
 brain. Her husband must have left the house, then 
 her husband? She no longer knew in what terms to 
 think: the simplest phrases had a poisoned edge. 
 She sank back into her chair, overcome by a strange 
 weakness. The clock struck ten it was only ten 
 o clock! Suddenly she remembered that she had not 
 ordered dinner ... or were they dining out that 
 evening? Dinner dining out the old meaningless 
 phraseology pursued her! She must try to think of 
 herself as she would think of some one else, a some 
 one dissociated from all the familiar routine of the 
 past, whose wants and habits must" gradually be 
 learned, as one might spy out the ways of a strange 
 animal. . . . 
 
 [184] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 The clock struck another hour eleven. She stood 
 up again and walked to the door: she thought she 
 would go up stairs to her room. Her room? Again 
 the word derided her. She opened the door, crossed 
 the narrow hall, and walked up the stairs. As she 
 passed, she noticed WestalTs sticks and umbrellas: 
 a pair of his gloves lay on the hall table. The same 
 stair-carpet mounted between the same walls; the 
 same old French print, in its narrow black frame, 
 faced her on the landing. This visual continuity was 
 intolerable. Within, a gaping chasm; without, the 
 same untroubled and familiar surface. She must get 
 away from it before she could attempt to think. But, 
 once in her room, she sat down on the lounge, a stu 
 por creeping over her. . . . 
 
 Gradually her vision cleared. A great deal had 
 happened in the interval a wild marching and coun 
 termarching of emotions, arguments, ideas a fury 
 of insurgent impulses that fell back spent upon 
 themselves. She had tried, at first, to rally, to or- 
 
 m 
 
 ganise these chaotic forces. There must be help 
 somewhere, if only she could master the inner tumult. 
 Life could not be broken off short like this, for a 
 whim, a fancy; the law itself would side with her, 
 would defend her. The law? What claim had she 
 upon it ? She was the prisoner of her own choice : she 
 had been her own legislator, and she was the pre- 
 [185] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 v destined victim of the code she had devised. But this 
 was grotesque, intolerable a mad mistake, for which 
 she could not be held accountable! The law she had 
 despised was still there, might still be invoked . . . 
 invoked, but to what end? Could she ask it to chain 
 Westall to her side ? She had been allowed to go free 
 when she claimed her freedom should she show less 
 magnanimity than she had exacted? Magnanimity? 
 The word lashed her with its irony one does not 
 strike an attitude when one is fighting for life! She 
 would threaten, grovel, cajole . . . she would yield 
 anything to keep her hold on happiness. Ah, but the 
 difficulty lay deeper! The law could not help her 
 her own apostasy could not help her. She was the 
 victim of the theories she renounced. It was as though 
 some giant machine of her own making had caught 
 her up in its wheels and was grinding her to 
 atoms. . . . 
 
 It was afternoon when she found herself out-of- 
 doors. She walked with an aimless haste, fearing to 
 meet familiar faces. The day was radiant, metallic: 
 one of those searching American days so calculated 
 to reveal the shortcomings of our street-cleaning and 
 the excesses of our architecture. The streets looked 
 bare and hideous; everything stared and glittered. 
 She called a passing hansom, and gave Mrs. Van 
 Sideren s address. She did not know what had led 
 [186] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 up to the act; but she found herself suddenly re 
 solved to speak, to cry out a warning. It was too late 
 to save herself but the girl might still be told. The 
 hansom rattled up Fifth Avenue; she sat with her 
 eyes fixed, avoiding recognition. At the Van Siderens 
 door she sprang out and rang the bell. Action had 
 cleared her brain, and she felt calm and self-pos 
 sessed. She knew now exactly what she meant to say. 
 
 The ladies were both out . . . the parlour-maid stood 
 waiting for a card. Julia, with a vague murmur, 
 turned away from the door and lingered a moment on 
 the sidewalk. Then she remembered that she had not 
 paid the cab-driver. She drew a dollar from her purse 
 and handed it to him. He touched his hat and drove 
 off, leaving her alone in the long empty street. She 
 wandered away westward, toward strange thorough 
 fares, where she was not likely to meet acquaintances. 
 The feeling of aimlessness had returned. Once she 
 found herself in the afternoon torrent of Broadway, 
 swept past tawdry shops and flaming theatrical post 
 ers, with a succession of meaningless faces gliding by 
 in the opposite direction. . . . 
 
 A feeling of faintness reminded her that she had 
 not eaten since morning. She turned into a side street 
 of shabby houses, with rows of ash-barrels behind 
 bent area railings. In a basement window she saw 
 the sign Ladies Restaurant: a pie and a dish of 
 [187] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 doughnuts lay against the dusty pane like petrified 
 food in an ethnological museum. She entered, and a 
 young woman with a weak mouth and a brazen eye 
 cleared a table for her near the window. The table 
 was covered with a red and white cotton cloth and 
 adorned with a bunch of celery in a thick tumbler and 
 a salt-cellar full of grayish lumpy salt. Julia ordered 
 tea, and sat a long time waiting for it. She was glad 
 to be away from the noise and confusion of the streets. 
 The low-ceilinged room was empty, and two or three 
 waitresses with thin pert faces lounged in the back 
 ground staring at her and whispering together. At 
 last the tea was brought in a discoloured metal tea 
 pot. Julia poured a cup and drank it hastily. It was 
 black and bitter, but it flowed through her veins like 
 an elixir. She was almost dizzy with exhilaration. Oh, 
 how tired, how unutterably tired she had been! 
 
 She drank a second cup, blacker and bitterer, and 
 now her mind was once more working clearly. She 
 felt as vigourous, as decisive, as when she had stood 
 on the Van Siderens door-step but the wish to re 
 turn there had subsided. She saw now the futility of 
 such an attempt the humiliation to which it might 
 have exposed her. . . . The pity of it was that she 
 did not know what to do next. The short winter day 
 was fading, and she realised that she could not re 
 main much longer in the restaurant without attracting 
 [188] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 notice. She paid for her tea and went out into the 
 street. The lamps were alight, and here and there a 
 basement shop cast an oblong of gas-light across the 
 fissured pavement. In the dusk there was something 
 sinister about the aspect of the street, and she hast 
 ened back toward Fifth Avenue. She was not used to 
 being out alone at that hour. 
 
 At the corner of Fifth Avenue she paused and 
 stood watching the stream of carriages. At last a po 
 liceman caught sight of her and signed to her that he 
 would take her across. She had not meant to cross 
 the street, but she obeyed automatically, and pres 
 ently found herself on the farther corner. There she 
 paused again for a moment; but she fancied the po 
 liceman was watching her, and this sent her hasten 
 ing down the nearest side street. . . . After that she 
 walked a long time, vaguely. . . . Night had fallen, 
 and now and then, through the windows of a passing 
 carriage, she caught the expanse of an evening waist 
 coat or the shimmer of an opera cloak. . . . 
 
 Suddenly she found herself in a familiar street. 
 She stood still a moment, breathing quickly. She had 
 turned the corner without noticing whither it led; but 
 now, a few yards ahead of her, she saw the house in 
 which she had once lived her first husband s house. 
 The blinds were drawn, and only a faint translucence 
 marked the windows and the transom above the door. 
 [189] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 As she stood there she heard a step behind her, and 
 a man walked by in the direction of the house. He 
 walked slowly, with a heavy middle-aged gait, his 
 head sunk a little between the shoulders, the red 
 crease of his neck visible above the fur collar of his 
 overcoat. He crossed the street, went up the steps of 
 the house, drew forth a latch-key, and let himself 
 in. ... 
 
 There was no one else in sight. Julia leaned for a 
 long time against the area-rail at the corner, her eyes 
 fixed on the front of the house. The feeling of phys 
 ical weariness had returned, but the strong tea still 
 throbbed in her veins and lit her brain with an un 
 natural clearness. Presently she heard another step 
 draw near, and moving quickly away, she too crossed 
 the street and mounted the steps of the house. The 
 impulse which had carried her there prolonged itself 
 in a quick pressure of the electric bell then she felt 
 suddenly weak and tremulous, and grasped the balus 
 trade for support. The door opened and a young foot 
 man with a fresh inexperienced face stood on the 
 threshold. Julia knew in an instant that he would 
 admit her. 
 
 "I saw Mr. Arment going in just now," she said. 
 "Will you ask him to see me for a moment?" 
 
 The footman hesitated. "I think Mr. Arment has 
 gone up to dress for dinner, madam." 
 [190] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 Julia advanced into the hall. "I am sure he will 
 see me I will not detain him long," she said. She 
 spoke quietly, authoritatively, in the tone which a 
 good servant does not mistake. The footman had his 
 hand on the drawing-room door. 
 
 "I will tell him, madam. What name, please?" 
 
 Julia trembled: she had not thought of that. 
 "Merely say a lady," she returned carelessly. 
 
 The footman wavered and she fancied herself lost; 
 but at that instant the door opened from within and 
 John Arment stepped into the hall. He drew back 
 sharply as he saw her, his florid face turning sallow 
 with the shock; then the blood poured back to it, 
 swelling the veins on his temples and reddening the 
 lobes of his thick ears. 
 
 It was long since Julia had seen him, and she was 
 startled at the change in his appearance. He had 
 thickened, coarsened, settled down into the enclosing 
 flesh. But she noted this insensibly: her one conscious 
 thought was that, now she was face to face with him, 
 she must not let him escape till he had heard her. 
 Every pulse in her body throbbed with the urgency of 
 her message. 
 
 She went up to him as he drew back. "I must speak 
 to you," she said. 
 
 Arment hesitated, red and stammering. Julia 
 glanced at the footman, and her look acted as a 
 [191] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 warning. The instinctive shrinking from a "scene" 
 predominated over every other impulse, and Arment 
 said slowly: "Will you come this way?" 
 
 He followed her into the drawing-room and closed 
 the door. Julia, as she advanced, was vaguely aware 
 that the room at least was unchanged: time had not 
 mitigated its horrors. The contadina still lurched 
 from the chimney-breast, and the Greek slave ob 
 structed the threshold of the inner room. The place 
 was alive with memories: they started out from every 
 fold of the yellow satin curtains and glided between 
 the angles of the rosewood furniture. But while some 
 subordinate agency was carrying these impressions to 
 her brain, her whole conscious effort was centred in 
 the act of dominating Arment s will. The fear that he 
 would refuse to hear her mounted like fever to her 
 brain. She felt her purpose melt before it, words and 
 arguments running into each other in the heat of her 
 longing. For a moment her voice failed her, and she 
 imagined herself thrust out before she could speak; 
 but as she was struggling for a word Arment pushed 
 a chair forward, and said quietly: "You are not well." 
 
 The sound of his voice steadied her. It was neither 
 kind nor unkind a voice that suspended judgment, 
 rather, awaiting unforseen developments. She sup 
 ported herself against the back of the chair and drew 
 a deep breath. 
 
 [192] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 "Shall I send for something?" he continued, with 
 a cold embarrassed politeness. 
 
 Julia raised an entreating hand. "No no thank 
 you. I am quite well." 
 
 He paused midway toward the bell, and turned on 
 her. "Then may I ask?" 
 
 "Yes," she interrupted him. "I came here because 
 I wanted to see you. There is something I must tell 
 you." 
 
 Arment continued to scrutinise her. "I am sur 
 prised at that," he said. "I should have supposed that 
 any communication you may wish to make could have 
 been made through our lawyers." 
 
 "Our lawyers!" She burst into a little laugh. "I 
 don t think they could help me this time." 
 
 Arment s face took on a barricaded look. "If there 
 is any question of help of course " 
 
 It struck her, whimsically, that she had seen that 
 look when some shabby devil called with a subscrip 
 tion-book. Perhaps he thought she wanted him to put 
 his name down for so much in sympathy or even in 
 money. . . . The thought made her laugh again. She 
 saw his look change slowly to perplexity. All his 
 facial changes were slow, and she remembered, sud 
 denly, how it had once diverted her to shift that lum 
 bering scenery with a word. For the first time it struck 
 her that she had been cruel. "There is a question of 
 [193] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 help," she said in a softer key; "you can help me; 
 but only by listening. ... I want to tell you some 
 thing. . . ." 
 
 Arment s resistance was not yielding. "Would it 
 not be easier to write?" he suggested. 
 
 She shook her head. "There is no time to write . . . 
 and it won t take long." She raised her head and their 
 eyes met. "My husband has left me," she said. 
 
 "Westall ?" he stammered, reddening again. 
 
 "Yes. This morning. Just as I left you. Because 
 he was tired of me." 
 
 The words, uttered scarcely above a whisper, 
 seemed to dilate to the limit of the room. Arment 
 looked toward the door; then his embarrassed glance 
 returned to Julia. 
 
 "I am very sorry," he said awkwardly, 
 
 "Thank you," she murmured. 
 
 "But I don t see" 
 
 "No but you will in a moment. Won t you 
 listen to me? Please!" Instinctively she had shifted 
 her position, putting herself between him and the 
 door. "It happened this morning," she went on in 
 short breathless phrases. "I never suspected any 
 thing I thought we were perfectly happy. . . . 
 Suddenly he told me he was tired of me . . . there 
 is a girl he likes better. ... He has gone to her. . . ." 
 As she spoke, the lurking anguish rose upon her, pos- 
 [194] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 sessing her once more to the exclusion of every other 
 emotion. Her eyes ached, her throat swelled with it, 
 and two painful tears ran down her face. 
 
 Arment s constraint was increasing visibly. "This 
 this is very unfortunate," he began. "But I should 
 say the law " 
 
 "The law?" she echoed ironically. "When he asks 
 for his freedom?" 
 
 "You are not obliged to give it." 
 
 "You were not obliged to give me mine but you 
 did." 
 
 He made a protesting gesture. 
 
 "You saw that the law couldn t help you didn t 
 you?" she went on. "That is what I see now. The 
 law represents material rights it can t go beyond. 
 If we don t recognise an inner law . . . the obliga 
 tion that love creates . . . being loved as well as lov 
 ing . . . there is nothing to prevent our spreading 
 ruin unhindered ... is there?" She raised her head 
 plaintively, with the look of a bewildered child. 
 "That is what I see now . . . what I wanted to tell 
 you. He leaves me because he s tired . . . but I was 
 not tired; and I don t understand why he is. That s 
 the dreadful part of it the not understanding: I 
 hadn t realised what it meant. But I ve been think 
 ing of it all day, and things have come back to me 
 things I hadn t noticed . . . when you and I ..." 
 [195] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 She moved closer to him, and fixed her eyes on his 
 with the gaze which tries to reach beyond words. "I 
 see now that you didn t understand did you?" 
 
 Their eyes met in a sudden shock of compre 
 hension: a veil seemed to be lifted between them. 
 Arment s lip trembled. 
 
 "No," he said, "I didn t understand." 
 
 She gave a little cry, almost of triumph. "I knew 
 it! I knew it! You wondered you tried to tell me 
 but no words came. . . . You saw your life falling 
 in ruins . . . the world slipping from you . . . and 
 you couldn t speak or move!" 
 
 She sank down on the chair against which she had 
 been leaning. "Now I know now I know," she re 
 peated. 
 
 "I am very sorry for you," she heard Arment 
 stammer. 
 
 She looked up quickly. "That s not what I came 
 for. I don t want you to be sorry. I came to ask you 
 to forgive me ... for not understanding that you 
 didn t understand. . . . That s all I wanted to say." 
 She rose with a vague sense that the end had come, 
 and put out a groping hand toward the door. 
 
 Arment stood motionless. She turned to him with 
 a faint smile. 
 
 "You forgive me?" 
 
 "There is nothing to forgive" 
 [196] 
 
THE RECKONING 
 
 "Then you will shake hands for good-bye?" She 
 felt his hand in hers: it was nerveless, reluctant. 
 "Good-bye," she repeated. "I understand now." 
 She opened the door and passed out into the hall. 
 As she did so, Arment took an impulsive step for 
 ward; but just then the footman, who was evidently 
 alive to his obligations, advanced from the back 
 ground to let her out. She heard Arment fall back. 
 The footman threw open the door, and she found her 
 self outside in the darkness. 
 
 [197] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 ""IT CAN never," said Mrs. Fetherel, "hear the bell 
 
 ring without a shudder." 
 
 -*- Her unruffled aspect she was the kind of 
 woman whose emotions never communicate themselves 
 to her clothes and the conventional background of the 
 New York drawing-room, with its pervading implica 
 tion of an imminent tea-tray and of an atmosphere in 
 which the social functions have become purely reflex, 
 lent to her declaration a relief not lost on her cousin 
 Mrs. Clinch, who, from the other side of the fireplace, 
 agreed, with a glance at the clock, that it was the hour 
 for bores. 
 
 "Bores!" cried Mrs. Fetherel impatiently. "If I 
 shuddered at them, I should have a chronic ague!" 
 
 She leaned forward and laid a sparkling finger on 
 her cousin s shabby black knee. "I mean the news 
 paper clippings," she whispered. 
 
 Mrs. Clinch returned a glance of intelligence. 
 "They ve begun already?" 
 
 "Not yet; but they re sure to now, at any minute, 
 my publisher tells me." 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel s look of apprehension sat oddly on 
 her small features, which had an air of neat sym- 
 [201] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 metry somehow suggestive of being set in order every 
 morning by the housemaid. Someone (there were ru 
 mours that it was her cousin) had once said that Paula 
 Fetherel would have been very pretty if she hadn t 
 looked so like a moral axiom in a copy-book hand. 
 
 Mrs. Clinch received her confidence with a smile. 
 "Well," she said, "I suppose you were prepared for 
 the consequences of authorship?" 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel blushed brightly. "It isn t their com 
 ing," she owned "it s their coming now" 
 
 "Now?" 
 
 "The Bishop s in town." 
 
 Mrs. Clinch leaned back and shaped her lips to a 
 whistle which deflected in a laugh. "Well !" she said. 
 
 "You see!" Mrs. Fetherel triumphed. 
 
 "Well weren t you prepared for the Bishop?" 
 
 "Not now at least, I hadn t thought of his seeing 
 the clippings." 
 
 "And why should he see them?" 
 
 "Bella won t you understand? It s John." 
 
 "John?" 
 
 "Who has taken the most unexpected tone one 
 might almost say out of perversity." 
 
 "Oh, perversity " Mrs. Clinch murmured, observ 
 ing her cousin between lids wrinkled by amusement. 
 "What tone has John taken?" 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel threw out her answer with the des- 
 [202] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 perate gesture of a woman who lays bare the traces 
 of a marital fist. "The tone of being proud of my 
 book/ 
 
 The measure of Mrs. Clinch s enjoyment over 
 flowed in laughter. 
 
 "Oh, you may laugh/ Mrs Fetherel insisted, 
 "but it s no joke to me. In the first place, John s lik 
 ing the book is so so such a false note it puts me 
 in such a ridiculous position; and then it has set him 
 watching for the reviews who would ever have sus 
 pected John of knowing that books were reviewed? 
 Why, he s actually found out about the Clipping Bu 
 reau, and whenever the postman rings I hear John 
 rush out of the library to see if there are any yellow 
 envelopes. Of course, when they do come he ll bring 
 them into the drawing-room and read them aloud to 
 everybody who happens to be here and the Bishop 
 is sure to happen to be here !" 
 
 Mrs. Clinch repressed her amusement. "The pict 
 ure you draw is a lurid one," she conceded, "but your 
 modesty strikes me as abnormal, especially in an au 
 thor. The chances are that some of the clippings will 
 be rather pleasant reading. The critics are not all 
 union men." 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel stared. "Union men?" 
 
 "Well, I mean they don t all belong to the well- 
 known Society- for-the-Persecution-of-Rising- Authors. 
 [203] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 Some of them have even been known to defy 
 its regulations and say a good word for a new writer." 
 
 "Oh, I dare say/ said Mrs. Fetherel, with the 
 laugh her cousin s epigram exacted. "But you don t 
 quite see my point. I m not at all nervous about the 
 success of my book my publisher tells me I have no 
 need to be but I am afraid of its being a succes de 
 scandale." 
 
 "Mercy!" said Mrs. Clinch, sitting up. 
 
 The butler and footman at this moment appeared 
 with the tea-tray, and when they had withdrawn, Mrs. 
 Fetherel, bending her brightly rippled head above the 
 kettle, continued in a murmur of avowal, "The title, 
 even, is a kind of challenge." 
 
 " Fast and Loose/ " Mrs. Clinch mused. "Yes, it 
 ought to take." 
 
 "I didn t choose it for that reason!" the author 
 protested. "I should have preferred something quieter 
 less pronounced; but I was determined not to 
 shirk the responsibility of what I had written. I 
 want people to know beforehand exactly what kind 
 of book they are buying." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Clinch, "that s a degree of con 
 scientiousness that I ve never met with before. So few 
 books fulfil the promise of their titles that expe 
 rienced readers never expect the fare to come up to the 
 menu." 
 
 [ 204] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 " Fast and Loose will be no disappointment on 
 that score/ her cousin significantly returned. "I ve 
 handled the subject without gloves. I ve called a spade 
 a spade." 
 
 "You simply make my mouth water! And to think 
 I haven t been able to read it yet because every spare 
 minute of my time has been given to correcting the 
 proofs of How the Birds Keep Christmas ! There s 
 an instance of the hardships of an author s life!" 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel s eye clouded. "Don t joke, Bella, 
 please. I suppose to experienced authors there s al 
 ways something absurd in the nervousness of a new 
 writer, but in my case so much is at stake; I ve put 
 so much of myself into this book and I m so afraid 
 of being misunderstood ... of being, as it were, in 
 advance of my time . . . like poor Flaubert. ... I 
 know you ll think me ridiculous . . . and if only my 
 own reputation were at stake, I should never give it 
 a thought . . . but the idea of dragging John s name 
 through the mire . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Clinch, who had risen and gathered her cloak 
 about her, stood surveying from her genial height her 
 cousin s agitated countenance. 
 
 "Why did you use John s name, then ?" 
 
 "That s another of my difficulties ! I had to. There 
 would have been no merit in publishing such a book 
 under an assumed name; it would have been an act 
 [205] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 of moral cowardice. Fast and Loose is not an ordi- 
 j nary novel. A writer who dares to show up the hollow- 
 I ness of social conventions must have the courage of 
 her convictions and be willing to accept the conse 
 quences of defying society. Can you imagine Ibsen or 
 Tolstoy writing under a false name? Mrs. Fetherel 
 lifted a tragic eye to her cousin. "You don t know, 
 Bella, how often I ve envied you since I began to 
 write. I used to wonder sometimes you won t mind 
 my saying so? why, with all your cleverness, you 
 hadn t taken up some more exciting subject than nat 
 ural history ; but I see now how wise you were. What 
 ever happens, you will never be denounced by the 
 press !" 
 
 "Is that what you re afraid of?" asked Mrs. Clinch, 
 as she grasped the bulging umbrella which rested 
 against her chair. "My dear, if I had ever had the 
 good luck to be denounced by the press, my brougham 
 would be waiting at the door for me at this very mo 
 ment, and I shouldn t have had to ruin this umbrella by 
 using it in the rain. Why, you innocent, if I d ever 
 felt the slightest aptitude for showing up social con 
 ventions, do you suppose I should waste my time writ 
 ing Nests Ajar and How to Smell the Flowers ? 
 There s a fairly steady demand for pseudo-science 
 and colloquial ornithology, but it s nothing, simply 
 nothing, to the ravenous call for attacks on social in- 
 [206] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 stitutions especially by those inside the institu 
 tions !" 
 
 There was often, to her cousin, a lack of taste in 
 Mrs. Clinch s pleasantries, and on this occasion they 
 seemed more than usually irrelevant. 
 
 " Fast and Loose was not written with the idea 
 of a large sale." 
 
 Mrs. Clinch was unperturbed. "Perhaps that s just 
 as well," she returned, with a philosophic shrug. "The 
 surprise will be all the pleasanter, I mean. For of 
 course it s going to sell tremendously; especially if 
 you can get the press to denounce it." 
 
 "Bella, how can you? I sometimes think you say 
 such things expressly to tease me; and yet I should 
 think you of all women would understand my pur 
 pose in writing such a book. It has always seemed to 
 me that the message I had to deliver was not for my 
 self alone, but for all the other women in the world 
 who have felt the hollowness of our social shams, 
 the ignominy of bowing down to the idols of the 
 market, but have lacked either the courage or the 
 power to proclaim their independence; and I have 
 fancied, Bella dear, that, however severely society 
 might punish me for revealing its weaknesses, I could 
 count on the sympathy of those who, like you" Mrs. 
 Fetherel s voice sank "have passed through the deep 
 waters." 
 
 [207] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 Mrs. Clinch gave herself a kind of canine shake, 
 as though to free her ample shoulders from any 
 drop of the element she was supposed to have tra 
 versed. 
 
 "Oh, call them muddy rather than deep/ she re 
 turned; "and you ll find, my dear, that women who ve 
 had any wading to do are rather shy of stirring up 
 mud. It sticks especially on white clothes." 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel lifted an undaunted brow. "I m not 
 afraid," she proclaimed; and at the same instant she 
 dropped her tea-spoon with a clatter and shrank back 
 into her seat. "There s the bell," she exclaimed, "and 
 I know it s the Bishop !" 
 
 It was in fact the Bishop of Ossining, who, impres 
 sively announced by Mrs. Fetherel s butler, now made 
 an entry that may best be described as not inadequate 
 to the expectations the announcement raised. The 
 Bishop always entered a room well; but, when unan 
 nounced, or preceded by a Low Church butler who 
 gave him his surname, his appearance lacked the im- 
 pressiveness conferred on it by the due specification 
 of his diocesan dignity. The Bishop was very fond of 
 his niece Mrs. Fetherel, and one of the traits he most 
 valued in her was the possession of a butler who knew 
 how to announce a bishop. 
 
 Mrs. Clinch was also his niece ; but, aside from the 
 fact that she possessed no butler at all, she had laid 
 [208] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 herself open to her uncle s criticism by writing insig 
 nificant little books which had a way of going into five 
 or ten editions, while the fruits of his own episcopal 
 leisure "The Wail of Jonah" (twenty cantos in 
 blank verse), and "Through a Glass Brightly; or, f 
 How to Raise Funds for a Memorial Window" in 
 explicably languished on the back shelves of a pub 
 lisher noted for his dexterity in pushing "devotional 
 goods." Even this indiscretion the Bishop might, how 
 ever, have condoned, had his niece thought fit to turn 
 to him for support and advice at the painful juncture 
 of her history when, in her own words, it became 
 necessary for her to invite Mr. Clinch to look out for 
 another situation. Mr. Clinch s misconduct was of the 
 kind especially designed by Providence to test the 
 fortitude of a Christian wife and mother, and the 
 Bishop was absolutely distended with seasonable ad 
 vice and edification; so that when Bella met his ten 
 tative exhortations with the curt remark that she pre 
 ferred to do her own housecleaning unassisted, her 
 uncle s grief at her ingratitude was not untempered 
 with sympathy for Mr. Clinch. 
 
 It is not surprising, therefore, that the Bishop s 
 warmest greetings were always reserved for Mrs. 
 Fetherel; and on this occasion Mrs. Clinch thought 
 she detected, in the salutation which fell to her share, 
 a pronounced suggestion that her own presence was 
 [209] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 superfluous a hint which she took with her usual 
 imperturbable good humour. 
 
 II 
 
 T EFT alone with the Bishop, Mrs. Fetherel 
 *-^ sought the nearest refuge from conversation by 
 offering him a cup of tea. The Bishop accepted with 
 the preoccupied air of a man to whom, for the mo 
 ment, tea is but a subordinate incident. Mrs. Fetherel s 
 nervousness increased; and knowing that the surest 
 way of distracting attention from one s own affairs 
 is to affect an interest in those of one s companion, 
 she hastily asked if her uncle had come to town on 
 business. 
 
 "On business yes " said the Bishop in an im 
 pressive tone. "I had to see my publisher, who has 
 been behaving rather unsatisfactorily in regard to my 
 last book." 
 
 "Ah your last book?" faltered Mrs. Fetherel, 
 with a sickening sense of her inability to recall the 
 name or nature of the work in question, and a mental 
 vow never again to be caught in such ignorance of a 
 colleague s productions. 
 
 " Through a Glass Brightly, " the Bishop ex 
 plained, with an emphasis which revealed his detec 
 tion of her predicament. "You may remember that 
 I sent you a copy last Christmas?" 
 [210] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 "Of course I do!" Mrs. Fetherel brightened. "It 
 was that delightful story of the poor consumptive 
 girl who had no money, and two little brothers to sup 
 port " 
 
 "Sisters idiot sisters " the Bishop gloomily cor 
 rected. 
 
 "I mean sisters ; and who managed to collect money 
 enough to put up a beautiful memorial window to her 
 her grandfather, whom she had never seen " 
 
 "But whose sermons had been her chief consolation 
 and support during her long struggle with poverty 
 and disease." The Bishop gave the satisfied sigh of 
 the workman who reviews his completed task. "A 
 touching subject, surely; and I believe I did it jus 
 tice ; at least so my friends assured me." 
 
 "Why, yes I remember there was a splendid re 
 view of it in the Reredos!" cried Mrs. Fetherel, 
 moved by the incipient instinct of reciprocity. 
 
 "Yes by my dear friend Mrs. Gollinger, whose 
 husband, the late Dean Gollinger, was under very par 
 ticular obligations to me. Mrs. Gollinger is a woman 
 of rare literary acumen, and her praise of my book 
 was unqualified ; but the public wants more highly sea 
 soned fare, and the approval of a thoughtful church- 
 woman carries less weight than the sensational com 
 ments of an illiterate journalist." The Bishop bent a 
 meditative eye on his spotless gaiters. "At the risk of 
 [211] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 horrifying you, my dear," he added, with a slight 
 laugh, "I will confide to you that my best chance of 
 a popular success would be to have my book de 
 nounced by the press." 
 
 "Denounced?" gasped Mrs. Fetherel. "On what 
 ground ?" 
 
 "On the ground of immorality." The Bishop evad 
 ed her startled gaze. "Such a thing is inconceivable to 
 you, of course ; but I am only repeating what my pub 
 lisher tells me. If, for instance, a critic could be in 
 duced I mean, if a critic were to be found, who 
 called in question the morality of my heroine in sacri 
 ficing her own health and that of her idiot sisters in 
 order to put up a memorial window to her grand 
 father, it would probably raise a general controversy 
 in the newspapers, and I might count on a sale of ten 
 or fifteen thousand within the next year. If he de 
 scribed her as morbid or decadent, it might even run 
 to twenty thousand; but that is more than I permit 
 myself to hope. In fact I should be satisfied with 
 any general charge of immorality." The Bishop sighed 
 again. "I need hardly tell you that I am actuated by 
 no mere literary ambition. Those whose opinion I 
 most value have assured me that the book is not with 
 out merit; but, though it does not become me to dis 
 pute their verdict, I can truly say that my vanity as 
 an author is not at stake. I have, however, a special 
 [212] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 reason for wishing to increase the circulation of 
 Through a Glass Brightly ; it was written for a pur 
 pose a purpose I have greatly at heart " 
 
 "I know/ cried his niece sympathetically. "The 
 chantry window ?" 
 
 "Is still empty, alas ! and I had great hopes that, 
 under Providence, my little book might be the means 
 of filling it. All our wealthy parishioners have given 
 lavishly to the cathedral, and it was for this reason 
 that, in writing Through a Glass, I addressed my 
 appeal more especially to the less well-endowed, 
 hoping by the example of my heroine to stimulate 
 the collection of small sums throughout the entire 
 diocese, and perhaps beyond it. I am sure," the Bish 
 op feelingly concluded, "the book would have a wide 
 spread influence if people could only be induced to 
 read it !" 
 
 His conclusion touched a fresh thread of associa 
 tion in Mrs. Fetherel s vibrating nerve-centres. "I 
 never thought of that!" she cried. 
 
 The Bishop looked at her enquiringly. 
 
 "That one s books may not be read at all! How 
 dreadful!" she exclaimed. 
 
 He smiled faintly. "I had not forgotten that I was 
 addressing an authoress," he said. "Indeed, I should 
 not have dared to inflict my troubles on any one not 
 of the craft." 
 
 [213] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel was quivering with the conscious 
 ness of her involuntary self -betrayal. "Oh, uncle!" 
 she murmured. 
 
 "In fact/ the Bishop continued, with a gesture 
 which seemed to brush away her scruples, "I came 
 here partly to speak to you about your novel. Fast 
 and Loose, I think you call it?" 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel blushed assentingly. 
 
 "And is it out yet?" the Bishop continued. 
 
 "It came out about a week ago. But you haven t 
 touched your tea and it must be quite cold. Let me 
 give you another cup." 
 
 "My reason for asking," the Bishop went on, with 
 the bland inexorableness with which, in his younger 
 days, he had been known to continue a sermon after 
 the senior warden had looked four times at his watch 
 "my reason for asking is, that I hoped I might not 
 be too late to induce you to change the title." 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel set down the cup she had filled. "The 
 title?" she faltered. 
 
 The Bishop raised a reassuring hand. "Don t mis 
 understand me, dear child; don t for a moment im 
 agine that I take it to be in any way indicative of the 
 contents of the book. I know you too well for that. 
 My first idea was that it had probably been forced 
 on you by an unscrupulous publisher I know too 
 well to what ignoble compromises one may be driven 
 [214] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 in such cases ! . . ." He paused, as though to give her 
 the opportunity of confirming this conjecture, but she 
 preserved an apprehensive silence, and he went on, 
 as though taking up the second point in his sermon 
 "Or, again, the name may have taken your fancy 
 without your realising all that it implies to minds 
 more alive than yours to offensive innuendoes. It is 
 ahem excessively suggestive, and I hope I am not 
 too late to warn you of the false impression it is like 
 ly to produce on the very readers whose approbation 
 you would most value. My friend Mrs. Gollinger, 
 for instance " 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel, as the publication of her novel testi 
 fied, was in theory a woman of independent views; 
 and if in practice she sometimes failed to live up to 
 her standard, it was rather from an irresistible ten 
 dency to adapt herself to her environment than from 
 any conscious lack of moral courage. The Bishop s 
 exordium had excited in her that sense of opposition 
 which such admonitions are apt to provoke; but as 
 he went on she felt herself gradually enclosed in an 
 atmosphere in which her theories vainly gasped for 
 breath. The Bishop had the immense dialectical ad 
 vantage of invalidating any conclusions at variance 
 with his own by always assuming that his premises 
 were among the necessary laws of thought. This 
 method, combined with the habit of ignoring any 
 [215] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 classifications but his own, created an element in 
 which the first condition of existence was the immedi 
 ate adoption of his standpoint; so that his niece, as 
 she listened, seemed to feel Mrs. Gollinger s Mechlin 
 cap spreading its conventual shadow over her rebel 
 lious brow and the Revue de Paris at her elbow 
 turning into a copy of the R credos. She had meant 
 to assure her uncle that she was quite aware of the 
 significance of the title she had chosen, that it had 
 been deliberately selected as indicating the subject of 
 her novel, and that the book itself had been written 
 in direct defiance of the class of readers for whose 
 susceptibilities he was alarmed. The words were al 
 most on her lips when the irresistible suggestion con 
 veyed by the Bishop s tone and language deflected 
 them into the apologetic murmur, "Oh, uncle, you 
 mustn t think I never meant " How much farther 
 this current of reaction might have carried her the 
 historian is unable to compute, for at this point the 
 door opened and her husband entered the room. 
 
 "The first review of your book !" he cried, flourish 
 ing a yellow envelope. "My dear Bishop, how lucky 
 you re here !" 
 
 Though the trials of married life have been class 
 ified and catalogued with exhaustive accuracy, there 
 is one form of conjugal misery which has perhaps re 
 ceived inadequate attention; and that is the suffering 
 F2161 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 of the versatile woman whose husband is not equally 
 adapted to all her moods. Every woman feels for the 
 sister who is compelled to wear a bonnet which does 
 not "go" with her gown; but how much sympathy is 
 given to her whose husband refuses to harmonise with 
 the pose of the moment? Scant justice has, for in 
 stance, been done to the misunderstood wife whose 
 husband persists in understanding her; to the sub 
 missive helpmate whose taskmaster shuns every oppor 
 tunity of browbeating her, and to the generous and 
 impulsive being whose bills are paid with philosophic 
 calm. Mrs. Fetherel, as wives go, had been fairly ex 
 empt from trials of this nature, for her husband, if 
 undistinguished by pronounced brutality or indiffer 
 ence, had at least the negative merit of being her in 
 tellectual inferior. Landscape-gardeners, who are 
 aware of the usefulness of a valley in emphasising 
 the height of a hill, can form an idea of the account to 
 which an accomplished woman may turn such defi 
 ciencies ; and it need scarcely be said that Mrs. Feth 
 erel had made the most of her opportunities. It was 
 agreeably obvious to every one, Fetherel included, 
 that he was not the man to appreciate such a woman ; 
 but there are no limits to man s perversity, and he did 
 his best to invalidate this advantage by admiring her 
 without pretending to understand her. What she most 
 suffered from was this fatuous approval : the madden- 
 [217] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 ing sense that, however she conducted herself, he 
 would always admire her. Had he belonged to the 
 class whose conversational supplies are drawn from 
 the domestic circle, his wife s name would never have 
 been off his lips ; and to Mrs. Fetherel s sensitive per 
 ceptions his frequent silences were indicative of the 
 fact that she was his one topic. 
 
 It was, in part, the attempt to escape this persist 
 ent approbation that had driven Mrs. Fetherel to 
 authorship. She had fancied that even the most in 
 fatuated husband might be counted on to resent, at 
 least negatively, an attack on the sanctity of the 
 hearth; and her anticipations were heightened by a 
 sense of the unpardonableness of her act. Mrs. 
 Fetherel s relations with her husband were in fact 
 complicated by an irrepressible tendency to be fond 
 of him; and there was a certain pleasure in the pros 
 pect of a situation that justified the most explicit ex 
 piation. 
 
 These hopes Fetherel s attitude had already de 
 feated. He read the book with enthusiasm, he pressed 
 it on his friends, he sent a copy to his mother ; and his 
 very soul now hung on the verdict of the reviewers. 
 It was perhaps this proof of his general inaptitude 
 that made his wife doubly alive to his special defects ; 
 so that his inopportune entrance was aggravated by 
 the very sound of his voice and the hopeless aberra- 
 [218] 
 
 
 
 P 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 tion of his smile. Nothing, to the observant, is more 
 indicative of a man s character and circumstances 
 than his way of entering a room. The Bishop of Ossi- 
 ning, for instance, brought with him not only an at 
 mosphere of episcopal authority, but an implied opin 
 ion on the verbal inspiration of the Scriptures and 
 on the attitude of the Church toward divorce; while 
 the appearance of Mrs. Fetherel s husband produced 
 an immediate impression of domestic felicity. His 
 mere aspect implied that there was a well-filled nur 
 sery upstairs ; that his wife, if she did not sew on his 
 buttons, at least superintended the performance of 
 that task; that they both went to church regularly, 
 and that they dined with his mother every Sunday 
 evening punctually at seven o clock. 
 
 All this and more was expressed in the affectionate 
 gesture with which he now raised the yellow envelope 
 above Mrs. Fetherel s clutch; and knowing the use- 
 lessness of begging him not to be silly, she said, 
 with a dry despair, "You re boring the Bishop 
 ^horribly." 
 
 Fetherel turned a radiant eye on that dignitary. 
 "She bores us all horribly, doesn t she, sir?" he ex 
 ulted. 
 
 "Have you read it?" said his wife, uncontrollably. 
 
 "Read it? Of course not it s just this minute 
 come. I say, Bishop, you re not going ?" 
 [219] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 "Not till I ve heard this/ said the Bishop, settling 
 himself in his chair with an indulgent smile. 
 
 His niece glanced at him despairingly "Don t let 
 John s nonsense detain you/ she entreated. 
 
 "Detain him? That s good/ guffawed Fetherel. 
 "It isn t as long as one of his sermons won t take 
 me five minutes to read. Here, listen to this, ladies and 
 gentlemen: In this age of festering pessimism and 
 decadent depravity, it is no surprise to the nauseated 
 reviewer to open one more volume saturated with the 
 fetid emanations of the sewer " 
 
 Fetherel, who was not in the habit of reading aloud, 
 paused with a gasp, and the Bishop glanced sharply 
 at his niece, who kept her gaze fixed on the tea-cup 
 she had not yet succeeded in transferring to his hand. 
 
 " Of the sewer/ " her husband resumed; " but 
 his wonder is proportionately great when he lights on 
 a novel as sweetly inoffensive as Paula Fetherel s 
 "Fast and Loose." Mrs. Fetherel is, we believe, a 
 new hand at fiction, and her work reveals frequent 
 traces of inexperience ; but these are more than atoned 
 for by her pure fresh view of life and her alto 
 gether unfashionable regard for the reader s moral 
 susceptibilities. Let no one be induced by its distinct 
 ly misleading title to forego the enjoyment of this 
 pleasant picture of domestic life, which, in spite of a 
 VI total lack of force in character-drawing and of con- 
 
 [220] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 secutiveness in incident, may be described as a dis 
 tinctly pretty story/ " 
 
 III 
 
 T T was several weeks later that Mrs. Clinch once 
 -* more brought the plebeian aroma of heated tram- 
 cars and muddy street-crossings into the violet-scented 
 atmosphere of her cousin s drawing-room. 
 
 "Well," she said, tossing a damp bundle of proof 
 into the corner of a silk-cushioned bergere, "I ve 
 read it at last and I m not so awfully shocked!" 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel, who sat near the fire with her head 
 propped on a languid hand, looked up without speak 
 ing. 
 
 "Mercy, Paula," said her visitor, "you re ill." 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel shook her head. "I was never bet- 
 ;er," she said, mournfully. 
 
 "Then may I help myself to tea? Thanks." 
 
 Mrs. Clinch carefully removed her mended glove 
 before taking a buttered tea-cake; then she glanced 
 again at her cousin. 
 
 "It s not what I said just now ?" she ventured. 
 
 "Just now?" 
 
 "About Fast and Loose ? I came to talk it over." 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel sprang to her feet. "I never," she 
 
 cried dramatically, "want to hear it mentioned 
 
 
 again!" 
 
 [221] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 "Paula!" exclaimed Mrs. Clinch, setting down her 
 cup. 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel slowly turned on her an eye brim 
 ming with the incommunicable; then, dropping into 
 her seat again, she added, with a tragic laugh: 
 "There s nothing left to say." 
 
 "Nothing ?" faltered Mrs. Clinch, longing for 
 another tea-cake, but feeling the inappropriateness 
 of the impulse in an atmosphere so charged with the 
 portentous. "Do you mean that everything has been 
 said?" She looked tentatively at her cousin. "Haven t 
 they been nice?" 
 
 "They ve been odious odious " Mrs. Fetherel 
 burst out, with an ineffectual clutch at her handker 
 chief. "It s been perfectly intolerable!" 
 
 Mrs. Clinch, philosophically resigning herself to 
 the propriety of taking no more tea, crossed over to 
 her cousin and laid a sympathising hand on that 
 lady s agitated shoulder. 
 
 "It is a bore at first," she conceded; "but you ll be 
 surprised to see how soon one gets used to it." 
 
 "I shall never get used to it " Mrs. Feth 
 erel brokenly declared. 
 
 "Have they been so very nasty all of them?" 
 
 "Every one of them !" the novelist sobbed. 
 
 "I m so sorry, dear; it does hurt, I know but 
 hadn t you rather expected it?" 
 [ 222] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 "Expected it?" cried Mrs. Fetherel, sitting up. 
 
 Mrs. Clinch felt her way warily. "I only mean, 
 dear, that I fancied from what you said before the 
 book came out that you rather expected that you d 
 rather discounted " 
 
 "Their recommending it to everybody as a perfect 
 ly harmless story?" 
 
 "Good gracious! Is that what they ve done?" 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel speechlessly nodded. 
 
 "Every one of them?" 
 
 "Every one." 
 
 "Whew!" said Mrs. Clinch, with an incipient 
 whistle. 
 
 "Why, you ve just said it yourself!" her cousin 
 suddenly reproached her. 
 
 "Said what?" 
 
 "That you weren t so awfully shocked " 
 
 "I? Oh, well you see, you d keyed me up to 
 such a pitch that it wasn t quite as bad as I 
 expected " 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel lifted a smile steeled for the worst. 
 "Why not say at once," she suggested, "that it s a 
 distinctly pretty story?" 
 
 "They haven t said that?" 
 
 "They ve all said it." 
 
 "My poor Paula!" 
 
 "Even the Bishop" 
 
 [223] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 "The Bishop called it a pretty story?" 
 
 "He wrote me I ve his letter somewhere. The title 
 rather scared him he wanted me to change it; but 
 when he d read the book he wrote that it was all right 
 and that he d sent several copies to his friends." 
 
 "The old hypocrite !" cried Mrs. Clinch. "That was 
 nothing but professional jealousy." 
 
 "Do you think so?" cried her cousin, brightening. 
 
 "Sure of it, my dear. His own books don t sell, 
 and he knew the quickest way to kill yours was 
 to distribute it through the diocese with his bless 
 ing." 
 
 "Then you don t really think it s a pretty story?" 
 V "Dear me, no ! Not nearly as bad as that " 
 
 "You re so good, Bella but the reviewers?" 
 
 "Oh, the reviewers," Mrs. Clinch jeered. She gazed 
 meditatively at the cold remains of her tea-cake. 
 "Let me see," she said, suddenly; "do you happen to 
 remember if the first review came out in an important 
 paper?" 
 
 "Yes the Radiator." 
 
 "That s it! I thought so. Then the others simply 
 r i followed suit: they often do if a big paper sets the 
 pace. Saves a lot of trouble. Now if you could only 
 have got the Radiator to denounce you " 
 
 "That s what the Bishop said!" cried Mrs. Feth- 
 erel. 
 
 [224] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 "He did?" 
 
 "He said his only chance of selling Through a 
 Glass Brightly was to have it denounced on the 
 ground of immorality." 
 
 "H m," said Mrs. Clinch, "I thought he knew a trick 
 or two." She turned an illuminated eye on her cousin. 
 "You ought to get him to denounce Fast and Loose !" 
 she cried. 
 
 Mrs, Fetherel looked at her suspiciously. "I sup 
 pose every book must stand or fall on its own merits," 
 she said in an unconvinced tone. 
 
 "Bosh! That view is as extinct as the post-chaise 
 and the packet-ship it belongs to the time when peo 
 ple read books. Nobody does that now; the reviewer 
 was the first to set the example, and the public were 
 only too thankful to follow it. At first they read the 
 reviews; now they read only the publishers extracts 
 from them. Even these are rapidly being replaced by 
 paragraphs borrowed from the vocabulary of com 
 merce. I often have to look twice before I am sure if 
 I am reading a department-store advertisement or the 
 announcement of a new batch of literature. The pub 
 lishers will soon be having their fall and spring open 
 ings and their special importations for Horse-Show 
 Week. But the Bishop is right, of course nothing 
 helps a book like a rousing attack on its morals; and 
 as the publishers can t exactly proclaim the impro- 
 [225] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 priety of their own wares, the task has to be left to 
 the press or the pulpit." 
 
 "The pulpit ?" Mrs. Fetherel mused. 
 
 "Why, yes look at those two novels in England 
 last year " 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel shook her head hopelessly. "There is 
 j so much more interest in literature in England than 
 here." 
 
 "Well, we ve got to make the supply create the de 
 mand. The Bishop could run your novel up into the 
 hundred thousands in no time." 
 
 "But if he can t make his own sell " 
 
 "My dear, a man can t very well preach against 
 his own writings !" 
 
 Mrs. Clinch rose and picked up her proofs. 
 
 "I m awfully sorry for you, Paula dear," she con 
 cluded, "but I can t help being thankful that there s 
 no demand for pessimism in the field of natural his 
 tory. Fancy having to write The Fall of a Sparrow/ 
 or How the Plants Misbehave !" 
 
 IV 
 
 "li/TRS FETHEREL, driving up to the Grand 
 *--* Central Station one morning about five months 
 later, caught sight of the distinguished novelist, 
 Archer Hynes, hurrying into the waiting-room ahead 
 of her. Hynes, on his side, recognising her brougham, 
 [226] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 turned back to greet her as the footman opened the 
 carriage door. 
 
 "My dear colleague! Is it possible that we are 
 travelling together?" 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel blushed with pleasure. Hynes had 
 given her two columns of praise in the Sunday Me 
 teor, and she had not yet learned to disguise her grat 
 itude. 
 
 "I am going to Ossining," she said smilingly. 
 
 "So am I. Why, this is almost as good as an elope 
 ment." 
 
 "And it will end where elopements ought to in 
 church." 
 
 "In church? You re not going to Ossining to go 
 to church?" 
 
 "Why not? There s a special ceremony in the cathe 
 dral the chantry window is to be unveiled." 
 
 "The chantry window? How picturesque! What is 
 a chantry ? And why do you want to see it unveiled ? 
 j, Are you after copy doing something in the Huys- 
 mans manner? La Cathedrale, eh?" 
 
 "Oh, no." Mrs. Fetherel hesitated. "I m going 
 simply to please my uncle," she said, at last. 
 
 "Your uncle?" 
 
 "The Bishop, you know." She smiled. 
 
 "The Bishop the Bishop of Ossining? Why, 
 wasn t he the chap who made that ridiculous attack on 
 [227] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 your book? Is that prehistoric ass your uncle? Upon 
 my soul, I think you re mighty forgiving to travel all 
 the way to Ossining for one of his stained-glass so 
 ciables !" 
 
 Mrs. FethereFs smiles flowed into a gentle laugh. 
 "Oh, I ve never allowed that to interfere with our 
 friendship. My uncle felt dreadfully about having 
 to speak publicly against my book it was a great deal 
 harder for him than for me but he thought it his 
 duty to do so. He has the very highest sense of duty." 
 
 "Well," said Hynes, with a shrug, "I don t know 
 that he didn t do you a good turn. Look at that !" 
 
 They were standing near the book-stall and he 
 pointed to a placard surmounting the counter and em 
 blazoned with the conspicuous announcement: "Fast 
 and Loose. New Edition with Author s Portrait. Hun 
 dred and Fiftieth Thousand." 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel frowned impatiently. "How absurd! 
 They ve no right to use my picture as a poster !" 
 
 "There s our train," said Hynes ; and they began to 
 push their way through the crowd surging toward one 
 of the inner doors. 
 
 As they stood wedged between circumferent shoul 
 ders, Mrs. Fetherel became conscious of the fixed 
 stare of a pretty girl who whispered eagerly to her 
 companion: "Look, Myrtle! That s Paula Fetherel 
 right behind us I knew her in a minute !" 
 [228] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 "Gracious where?" cried the other girl, giving 
 her head a twist which swept her Gainsborough 
 plumes across Mrs. Fetherel s face. 
 
 The first speaker s words had carried beyond her 
 companion s ear, and a lemon-coloured woman in spec 
 tacles, who clutched a copy of the "Journal of Psy 
 chology" in one drab-cotton-gloved hand, stretched 
 her disengaged hand across the intervening barrier 
 of humanity. 
 
 "Have I the privilege of addressing the distin 
 guished author of Fast and Loose ? If so, let me 
 thank you in the name of the Woman s Psychological 
 League of Peoria for your magnificent courage in 
 raising the standard of revolt against " 
 
 "You can tell us the rest in the car," said a fat man, 
 pressing his good-humoured bulk against the speaker s 
 arm. 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel, blushing, embarrassed and happy, 
 slipped into the space produced by this displacement, 
 and a few moments later had taken her seat in the 
 train. 
 
 She was a little late, and the other chairs were al 
 ready filled by a company of elderly ladies and clergy 
 men who seemed to belong to the same party, and 
 were still busy exchanging greetings and settling 
 themselves in their places. 
 
 One of the ladies, at Mrs. Fetherel s approach, 
 [229] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 uttered an exclamation of pleasure and advanced with 
 outstretched hand. "My dear Mrs. Fetherel ! I am so 
 delighted to see you here. May I hope you are going 
 to the unveiling of the chantry window? The dear 
 Bishop so hoped that you would do so ! But perhaps I 
 ought to introduce myself. I am Mrs. Gollinger" 
 she lowered her voice expressively "one of your 
 uncle s oldest friends, one who has stood close to him 
 through all this sad business,, and who knows what he 
 suffered when he felt obliged to sacrifice family af 
 fection to the call of duty." 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel, who had smiled and coloured slight 
 ly at the beginning of this speech, received its close 
 with a deprecating gesture. 
 
 "Oh, pray don t mention it," she murmured. "I 
 quite understood how my uncle was placed I bore 
 him no, ill will for feeling obliged to preach against 
 my book." 
 
 "He understood that, and was so touched by it ! He 
 has often told me that it was the hardest task he was 
 ever called upon to perform and, do you know, he 
 quite feels that this unexpected gift of the chantry 
 window is in some way a return for his courage in 
 preaching that sermon." 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel smiled faintly. "Does he feel that?" 
 
 "Yes; he really does. When the funds for the win 
 dow were so mysteriously placed at his disposal, just 
 [230] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 as he had begun to despair of raising them, he assured 
 me that he could not help connecting the fact with 
 his denunciation of your book." 
 
 "Dear uncle!" sighed Mrs. Fetherel. "Did he say 
 that?" 
 
 "And now," continued Mrs. Gollinger, with cumu 
 lative rapture "now that you are about to show, by 
 appearing at the ceremony to-day, that there has been 
 no break in your friendly relations, the dear Bishop s 
 happiness will be complete. He was so longing to 
 have you come to the unveiling !" 
 
 "He might have counted on me," said Mrs. Feth 
 erel, still smiling. 
 
 "Ah, that is so beautifully forgiving of you !" cried 
 Mrs. Gollinger enthusiastically. "But then, the Bish 
 op has always assured me that your real nature was 
 very different from that which if you will pardon 
 my saying so seems to be revealed by your brilliant 
 but er rather subversive book. If you only knew f 
 my niece, dear Mrs. Gollinger, he always said, you 
 would see that her novel was written in all innocence 
 of heart ; and to tell you the truth, when I first read 
 the book I didn t think it so very, very shocking. It 
 wasn t till the dear Bishop had explained to me but, 
 dear me, I mustn t take up your time in this way when 
 so many others are anxious to have a word with you." 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel glanced at her in surprise, and Mrs. 
 [231] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 Gollinger continued with a playful smile: "You for 
 get that your face is familiar to thousands whom you 
 have never seen. We all recognised you the moment 
 you entered the train, and my friends here are so 
 eager to make your acquaintance even those" her 
 smile deepened "who thought the dear Bishop not 
 quite unjustified in his attack on your remarkable 
 novel." 
 
 A RELIGIOUS light filled the chantry of Os- 
 ** sining Cathedral, filtering through the linen cur 
 tain which veiled the central window and mingling 
 with the blaze of tapers on the richly adorned altar. 
 In this devout atmosphere, agreeably laden with 
 the incense-like aroma of Easter lilies and forced li 
 lacs, Mrs. Fetherel knelt with a sense of luxurious sat 
 isfaction. Beside her sat Archer Hynes, who had re 
 membered that there was to be a church scene in his 
 next novel and that his impressions of the devotional 
 environment needed refreshing. Mrs. Fetherel was 
 very happy. She was conscious that her entrance had 
 sent a thrill through the female devotees who packed 
 the chantry, and she had humour enough to enjoy the 
 thought that, but for the good Bishop s denunciation 
 of her book, the heads of his flock would not have 
 been turned so eagerly in her direction. Moreover, as 
 [232] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 she entered she had caught sight of a society re 
 porter, and she knew that her presence, and the fact 
 that she was accompanied by Hynes, would be con 
 spicuously proclaimed in the morning papers. All 
 these evidences of the success of her handiwork might 
 have turned a calmer head than Mrs. Fetherel s; and 
 though she had now learned to dissemble her gratifi 
 cation, it still filled her inwardly with a delightful 
 glow. 
 
 The Bishop was somewhat late in appearing, and 
 she employed the interval in meditating on the plot 
 of her next novel, which was already partly sketched 
 out, but for which she had been unable to find a sat 
 isfactory denouement. By a not uncommon process 
 of ratiocination, Mrs. Fetherel s success had con 
 vinced her of her vocation. She was sure now that it 
 was her duty to lay bare the secret plague-spots of 
 society, and she was resolved that there should be no 
 doubt as to the purpose of her new book. Experience 
 had shown her that where she had fancied she was 
 calling a spade a spade she had in fact been alluding 
 in guarded terms to the drawing-room shovel. She was 
 determined not to repeat the same mistake, and she 
 flattered herself that her coming novel would not need 
 an episcopal denunciation to insure its sale, however 
 likely it was to receive this crowning evidence of suc 
 cess. 
 
 [233] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 She had reached this point in her meditations when 
 the choir burst into song and the ceremony of the un 
 veiling began. The Bishop, almost always felicitous 
 in his addresses to the fair sex, was never more so than 
 when he was celebrating the triumph of one of his 
 cherished purposes. There was a peculiar mixture of 
 Christian humility and episcopal exultation in the 
 manner with which he called attention to the Creator s 
 promptness in responding to his demand for funds, 
 and he had never been more happily inspired than in 
 eulogising the mysterious gift of the chantry window. 
 
 Though no hint of the donor s identity had been 
 allowed to escape him, it was generally understood 
 that the Bishop knew who had given the window, and 
 the congregation awaited in a flutter of suspense the 
 possible announcement of a name. None came, how 
 ever, though the Bishop deliciously titillated the curi 
 osity of his flock by circling ever closer about the in 
 teresting secret. He would not disguise from them, he 
 said, that the heart which had divined his inmost wish 
 had been a woman s is it not to woman s intuitions 
 that more than half the happiness of earth is owing ? 
 What man is obliged to learn by the laborious process 
 of experience, woman s wondrous instinct tells her 
 at a glance; and so it had been with this cherished 
 scheme, this unhoped-for completion, of their beauti 
 ful chantry. So much, at least, he was allowed to re- 
 [234] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 veal; and indeed, had he not done so, the window it 
 self would have spoken for him, since the first glance 
 at its touching subject and exquisite design would 
 show it to have originated in a woman s heart. This 
 tribute to the sex was received with an audible sigh of 
 contentment, and the Bishop, always stimulated by 
 such evidence of his sway over his hearers, took up 
 his theme with gathering eloquence. 
 
 Yes a woman s heart had planned the gift, a wom 
 an s hand had executed it, and, might he add, with 
 out too far withdrawing the veil in which Christian 
 beneficence ever loved to drape its acts might he 
 add that, under Providence, a book, a simple book, a 
 mere tale, in fact, had had its share in the good work 
 for which they were assembled to give thanks? 
 
 At this unexpected announcement, a ripple of ex 
 citement ran through the assemblage, and more than 
 one head was abruptly turned in the direction of 
 Mrs. Fetherel, who sat listening in an agony of won 
 der and confusion. It did not escape the observant 
 novelist at her side that she drew down her veil to con 
 ceal an uncontrollable blush, and this evidence of dis 
 may caused him to fix an attentive gaze on her, while 
 from her seat across the aisle Mrs. Gollinger sent a 
 smile of unctuous approval. 
 
 "A book a simple book " the Bishop s voice went 
 on above this flutter of mingled emotions. "What is 
 [235] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 a book? Only a few pages and a little ink and yet 
 one of the mightiest instruments which Providence has 
 devised for shaping the destinies of man . . . one of 
 the most powerful influences for good or evil which 
 the Creator has placed in the hands of his creat 
 ures. . . ." 
 
 The air seemed intolerably close to Mrs. Fetherel, 
 and she drew out her scent-bottle, and then thrust it 
 hurriedly away, conscious that she was still the centre 
 of an unenviable attention. And all the while the Bish 
 op s voice droned on ... 
 
 "And of all forms of literature, fiction is doubtless 
 that which has exercised the greatest sway, for good 
 or ill, over the passions and imagination of the mass 
 es. Yes, my friends, I am the first to acknowledge it 
 no sermon, however eloquent, no theological treat 
 ise, however learned and convincing, has ever in 
 flamed the heart and imagination like a novel a sim 
 ple novel. Incalculable is the power exercised over hu 
 manity by the great magicians of the pen a power 
 ever enlarging its boundaries and increasing its re 
 sponsibilities as popular education multiplies the num 
 ber of readers . . . Yes, it is the novelist s hand which 
 can pour balm on countless human sufferings, or in 
 oculate mankind with the festering poison of a cor 
 rupt imagination. . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel had turned white, and her eyes were 
 [236] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 fixed with a blind stare of anger on the large-sleeved 
 figure in the centre of the chancel. 
 
 * e And too often, alas, it is the poison and not the 
 balm which the unscrupulous hand of genius prof 
 fers to its unsuspecting readers. But, my friends, why 
 should I continue? None know better than an assem 
 blage of Christian women, such as I am now address 
 ing, the beneficent or baleful influences of modern fic 
 tion; and so, when I say that this beautiful chantry 
 window of ours owes its existence in part to the ro 
 mancer s pen" the Bishop paused, and bending for 
 ward, seemed to seek a certain face among the counte 
 nances eagerly addressed to his "when I say that 
 this pen, which for personal reasons it does not be 
 come me to celebrate unduly " 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel at this point half rose, pushing back 
 her chair, which scraped loudly over the marble floor ; 
 but Hynes involuntarily laid a warning hand on her 
 arm, and she sank down with a confused murmur 
 about the heat. 
 
 "When I confess that this pen, which for once 
 at least has proved itself so much mightier than the 
 sword, is that which was inspired to trace the simple 
 narrative of Through a Glass Brightly Mrs. 
 Fetherel looked up with a gasp of mingled relief 
 and anger "when I tell you, my dear friends, that it 
 was your Bishop s own work which first roused the 
 [237] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 mind of one of his flock to the crying need of a chan 
 try window, I think you will admit that I am justi 
 fied in celebrating the triumphs of the pen, even 
 though it be the modest instrument which your own 
 Bishop wields." 
 
 The Bishop paused impressively, and a faint gasp 
 of surprise and disappointment was audible through 
 out the chantry. Something very different from this 
 conclusion had been expected, and even Mrs. Gollin- 
 ger s lips curled with a slightly ironic smile. But 
 Archer Hynes s attention was chiefly reserved for 
 Mrs. Fetherel, whose face had changed with aston- 
 , ishing rapidity from surprise to annoyance, from an- 
 ,noyance to relief, and then back again to something 
 very like indignation. 
 
 The address concluded, the actual ceremony of the 
 unveiling was about to take place, and the attention 
 of the congregation soon reverted to the chancel, 
 where the choir had grouped themselves beneath the 
 veiled window, prepared to burst into a chant of 
 praise as the Bishop drew back the hanging. The mo 
 ment was an impressive one, and every eye was fixed 
 on the curtain. Even Hynes s gaze strayed to it for a 
 moment, but soon returned to his neighbour s face; 
 and then he perceived that Mrs. Fetherel, alone of all 
 the persons present, was not looking at the window. 
 Her eyes were fixed in an indignant stare on the Bish- 
 [238] 
 
EXPIATION 
 
 op; a flush of anger burned becomingly under her 
 veil, and her hands nervously crumpled the beautiful 
 ly printed programme of the ceremony. 
 
 Hynes broke into a smile of comprehension. He 
 glanced at the Bishop, and back at the Bishop s niece ; 
 then, as the episcopal hand was solemnly raised to 
 draw back the curtain, he bent and whispered in Mrs. 
 Fetherel s ear: 
 
 "Why, you gave it yourself ! You wonderful woman, 
 of course you gave it yourself!" 
 
 Mrs. Fetherel raised her eyes to his with a start. 
 Her blush deepened and her lips shaped a hasty 
 "No"; but the denial was deflected into the indignant 
 murmur "It wasn t his silly book that did it, any 
 how !" 
 
 [239] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 IT was the autumn after I had the typhoid. I d 
 been three months in hospital, and when I came 
 out I looked so weak and tottery that the two or 
 three ladies I applied to were afraid to engage me. 
 Most of my money was gone, and after I d boarded for 
 two months, hanging about the employment-agencies, 
 and answering any advertisement that looked any way 
 respectable, I pretty nearly lost heart, for fretting 
 hadn t made me fatter, and I didn t see why my luck 
 should ever turn. It did though or I thought so at 
 the time. A Mrs. Railton, a friend of the lady that 
 first brought me out to the States, met me one day and 
 stopped to speak to me : she was one that had always 
 a friendly way with her. She asked me what ailed 
 me to look so white, and when I told her, "Why, Hart 
 ley," says she, "I believe I ve got the very place for 
 you. Come in to-morrow and we ll talk about it." 
 
 The next day, when I called, she told me the lady 
 she d in mind was a niece of hers, a Mrs. Brympton, 
 a youngish lady, but something of an invalid, who 
 lived all the year round at her country-place on the 
 Hudson, owing to not being able to stand the fatigue 
 of town life. 
 
 [243] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 "Now, Hartley," Mrs. Railton said, in that cheery 
 way that always made me feel things must be going 
 to take a turn for the better "now understand me; 
 it s not a cheerful place I m sending you to. The house 
 is big and gloomy ; my niece is nervous, vapourish ; her 
 husband well, he s generally away; and the two 
 children are dead. A year ago I would as soon have 
 thought of shutting a rosy active girl like you into 
 a vault; but you re not particularly brisk yourself 
 just now, are you? and a quiet place, with country 
 air and wholesome food and early hours, ought to be 
 the very thing for you. Don t mistake me," she added, 
 for I suppose I looked a trifle downcast; "you may 
 find it dull but you wont be unhappy. My niece is an 
 angel. Her former maid, who died last spring, had 
 been with her twenty years and worshipped the 
 ground she walked on. She s a kind mistress to all, 
 and where the mistress is kind, as you know, the ser 
 vants are generally good-humoured, so you ll probably 
 get on well enough with the rest of the household. And 
 you re the very woman I want for my niece: quiet, 
 well-mannered, and educated above your station. You 
 read aloud well, I think? That s a good thing; my 
 niece likes to be read to. She wants a maid that can 
 be something of a companion: her last was, and I 
 can t say how she misses her. It s a lonely life . . . 
 Well, have you decided?" 
 
 [24*] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 "Why, ma am," I said, "I m not afraid of soli 
 tude." 
 
 "Well, then, go ; my niece will take you on my rec 
 ommendation. I ll telegraph her at once and you can 
 take the afternoon train. She has no one to wait on 
 her at present, and I don t want you to lodse any 
 time." 
 
 I was ready enough to start, yet something in me 
 hung back; and to gain time I asked, "And the gen 
 tleman, ma am?" 
 
 "The gentleman s almost always away, I tell you," 
 said Mrs. Railton, quick-like "and when he s there," 
 says she suddenly, "you ve only to keep out of his 
 way." 
 
 I took the afternoon train and got out at D 
 
 station at about four o clock. A groom in a dog-cart 
 was waiting, and we drove off at a smart pace. It was 
 a dull October day, with rain hanging close over 
 head, and by the time we turned into Brympton 
 Place woods the daylight was almost gone. The drive 
 wound through the woods for a mile or two, and came 
 out on a gravel court shut in with thickets of tall 
 black-looking shrubs. There were no lights in the win 
 dows, and the house did look a bit gloomy. 
 
 I had asked no questions of the groom, for I never 
 was one to get my notion of new masters from their 
 other servants: I prefer to wait and see for myself. 
 [245] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 But I could tell by the look of everything that I had 
 got into the right kind of house, and that things were 
 done handsomely. A pleasant-faced cook met me at 
 the back door and called the house-maid to show me 
 up to my room. "You ll see madam later/ she said. 
 "Mrs. Brympton has a visitor." 
 
 I hadn t fancied Mrs. Brympton was a lady to have 
 many visitors, and somehow the words cheered me. 
 I followed the house-maid upstairs, and saw, through 
 a door on the upper landing, that the main part of the 
 house seemed well furnished, with dark panelling and 
 a number of old portraits. Another flight of stairs led 
 us up to the servants wing. It was almost dark now, 
 and the house-maid excused herself for not having 
 brought a light. "But there s matches in your room," 
 she said, "and if you go careful you ll be all right. 
 Mind the step at the end of the passage. Your room 
 is just beyond." 
 
 I looked ahead as she spoke, and half-way down 
 the passage I saw a woman standing. She drew back 
 into a doorway as we passed and the house-maid 
 didn t appear to notice her. She was a thin woman 
 with a white face, and a darkish stuff gown and apron. 
 I took her for the housekeeper and thought it odd 
 that she didn t speak, but just gave me a long look as 
 she went by. My room opened into a square hall at 
 the end of the passage. Facing my door was another 
 [246] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 which stood open: the house-maid exclaimed when 
 she saw it: 
 
 "There Mrs. Blinder s left that door open 
 again!" said she, closing it. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Blinder the housekeeper ?" 
 
 "There s no housekeeper : Mrs. Blinder s the cook." 
 
 "And is that her room?" 
 
 "Laws, no," said the house-maid, cross-like. 
 "That s nobody s room. It s empty, I mean, and the 
 door hadn t ought to be open. Mrs. Brympton wants 
 it kept locked." 
 
 She opened my door and led me into a neat room, 
 nicely furnished, with a picture or two on the walls; 
 and having lit a candle she took leave, telling me that 
 the servants -hall tea was at six, and that Mrs. Brymp 
 ton would see me afterward. 
 
 I found them a pleasant-spoken set in the servants 
 hall, and by what they let fall I gathered that, as 
 Mrs. Railton had said, Mrs. Brympton was the kind 
 est of ladies; but I didn t take much notice of their 
 talk, for I was watching to see the pale woman in the 
 dark gown come in. She didn t show herself, however, 
 and I wondered if she ate apart; but if she wasn t 
 the housekeeper, why should she? Suddenly it struck 
 me that she might be a trained nurse, and in that case 
 her meals would of course be served in her room. If 
 Mrs. Brympton was an invalid it was likely enough 
 [247] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 she had a nurse. The idea annoyed me, I own, for 
 they re not always the easiest to get on with, and if 
 I d known I shouldn t have taken the place. But there 
 I was and there was no use pulling a long face over 
 it; and not being one to ask questions I waited to 
 see what would turn up. 
 
 When tea was over the house-maid said to the foot 
 man: "Has Mr. Ranford gone?" and when he said 
 yes, she told me to come up with her to Mrs. Brymp- 
 ton. 
 
 Mrs. Brympton was lying down in her bedroom. 
 Her lounge stood near the fire and beside it was a 
 shaded lamp. She was a delicate-looking lady, but 
 when she smiled I felt there was nothing I wouldn t 
 do for her. She spoke very pleasantly, in a low voice, 
 asking me my name and age and so on, and if I had 
 everything I wanted, and if I wasn t afraid of feeling 
 lonely in the country. 
 
 "Not with you I wouldn t be, madam," I said, and 
 the words surprised me when I d spoken them, for 
 I m not an impulsive person; but it was just as if I d 
 thought aloud. 
 
 She seemed pleased at that, and said she hoped 
 I d continue in the same mind; then she gave me a few 
 directions about her toilet, and said Agnes the house 
 maid would show me next morning where things were 
 kept. 
 
 [248] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELJ, 
 
 "I am tired to-night, and shall dine upstairs," she 
 said. "Agnes will bring me my tray, that you may 
 have time to unpack and settle yourself; and later 
 you may come and undress me." 
 
 "Very well, ma am," I said. "You ll ring, I sup 
 pose?" 
 
 I thought she looked odd. 
 
 "No Agnes will fetch you," says she quickly, and 
 took up her book again. 
 
 Well that was certainly strange: a lady s-maid 
 having to be fetched by the house-maid whenever her 
 lady wanted her ! I wondered if there were no bells in 
 the house; but the next day I satisfied myself that 
 there was one in every room, and a special one ringing 
 from my mistress s room to mine; and after that it 
 did strike me as queer that, whenever Mrs. Brympton 
 wanted anything, she rang for Agnes, who had to 
 walk the whole length of the servants wing to call me. 
 
 But that wasn t the only queer thing in the house. 
 The very next day I found out that Mrs. Brympton 
 had no nurse ; and then I asked Agnes about the wom 
 an I had seen in the passage the afternoon before. 
 Agnes said she had seen no one, and I saw that she 
 thought I was dreaming. To be sure, it was dusk 
 when we went down the passage, and she had excused 
 herself for not bringing a light; but I had seen the 
 woman plain enough to know her again if we should 
 [249] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 meet. I decided that she must have been a friend of 
 the cook s, or of one of the other women-servants; 
 perhaps she had come down from town for a night s 
 visit, and the servants wanted it kept secret. Some 
 ladies are very stiff about having their servants 
 friends in the house overnight. At any rate, I made 
 up my mind to ask no more questions. 
 
 In a day or two another odd thing happened. I 
 was chatting one afternoon with Mrs. Blinder, who 
 was a friendly disposed woman, and had been longer 
 in the house than the other servants, and she asked 
 me if I was quite comfortable and had everything I 
 needed. I said I had no fault to find with my place 
 or with my mistress, but I thought it odd that in so 
 large a house there was no sewing-room for the lady s 
 maid. 
 
 "Why," says she, "there is one: the room you re in 
 is the old sewing-room." 
 
 "Oh," said I ; "and where did the other lady s maid 
 sleep?" 
 
 At that she grew confused, and said hurriedly that 
 the servants rooms had all been changed about last 
 year, and she didn t rightly remember. 
 
 That struck me as peculiar, but I went on as if I 
 hadn t noticed: "Well, there s a vacant room opposite 
 mine, and I mean to ask Mrs. Brympton if I mayn t 
 use that as a sewing-room." 
 
 [250] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 To my astonishment, Mrs. Blinder went white, and 
 gave my hand a kind of squeeze. "Don t do that, my 
 dear/ said she, trembling-like. "To tell you the 
 truth, that was Emma Saxon s room, and my mistress 
 has kept it closed ever since her death." 
 
 "And who was Emma Saxon?" 
 
 "Mrs. Brympton s former maid." 
 
 "The one that was with her so many years?" said 
 I, remembering what Mrs. Railton had told me. 
 
 Mrs. Blinder nodded. 
 
 "What sort of woman was she?" 
 
 "No better walked the earth," said Mrs. Blinder. 
 "My mistress loved her like a sister." 
 
 "But I mean what did she look like?" 
 
 Mrs. Blinder got up and gave me a kind of angry 
 stare. "I m no great hand at describing," she said; 
 "and I believe my pastry s rising." And she walked 
 off into the kitchen and shut the door after her. 
 
 II 
 
 T HAD been near a week at Brympton before I 
 saw my master. Word came that he was arriving 
 one afternoon, and a change passed over the whole 
 household. It was plain that nobody loved him below 
 stairs. Mrs. Blinder took uncommon care with the din 
 ner that night, but she snapped at the kitchen-maid in 
 [251 1 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 a way quite unusual with her ; and Mr. Wace, the but 
 ler, a serious, slow-spoken man, went about his duties 
 as if he d been getting ready for a funeral. He was 
 a great Bible-reader, Mr. Wace was, and had a beau 
 tiful assortment of texts at his command; but that 
 day he used such dreadful language, that I was about 
 to leave the table, when he assured me it was all out 
 of Isaiah; and I noticed that whenever the master 
 came Mr. Wace took to the prophets. 
 
 About seven, Agnes called me to my mistress s 
 room; and there I found Mr. Brympton. He was 
 standing on the hearth; a big fair bull-necked man, 
 with a red face and little bad-tempered blue eyes : the 
 kind of man a young simpleton might have thought 
 handsome, and would have been like to pay dear for 
 thinking it. 
 
 He swung about when I came in, and looked me 
 over in a trice. I knew what the look meant, from 
 having experienced it once or twice in my former 
 places. Then he turned his back on me, and went on 
 talking to his wife ; and I knew what that meant, too. 
 I was not the kind of morsel he was after. The 
 typhoid had served me well enough in one way: it 
 kept that kind of gentleman at arm s-length. 
 
 "This is my new maid, Hartley," says Mrs. Brymp 
 ton in her kind voice ; and he nodded and went on with 
 what he was saying. 
 
 [252] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 In a minute or two he went off, and left my mis 
 tress to dress for dinner, and I noticed as I waited 
 on her that she was white, and chill to the touch. 
 
 Mr. Brympton took himself off" the next morning, 
 and the whole house drew a long breath when he 
 drove away. As for my mistress, she put on her hat 
 and furs (for it was a fine winter morning) and went 
 out for a walk in the gardens, coming back quite 
 fresh and rosy, so that for a minute, before her colour 
 faded, I could guess what a pretty young lady she 
 must have been, and not so long ago, either. 
 
 She had met Mr. Ranford in the grounds, and the 
 two came back together, I remember, smiling and 
 talking as they walked along the terrace under my 
 window. That was the first time I saw Mr. Ranford, 
 though I had often heard his name mentioned in the 
 hall. He was a neighbour, it appeared, living a mile 
 or two beyond Brympton, at the end of the village; 
 and as he was in the habit of spending his winters 
 t in the country he was almost the only company my 
 mistress had at that season. He was a slight tall gen 
 tleman of about thirty, and I thought him rather mel 
 ancholy-looking till I saw his smile, which had a 
 kind of surprise in it, like the first warm day in spring. 
 He was a great reader, I heard, like my mistress, 
 and the two were for ever borrowing books of one an 
 other, and sometimes (Mr. Wace told me) he would 
 [ 253 ] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 read aloud to Mrs. Brympton by the hour, in the big 
 dark library where she sat in the winter afternoons. 
 The servants all liked him, and perhaps that s more 
 of a compliment than the masters suspect. He had 
 a friendly word for every one of us, and we were all 
 glad to think that Mrs. Brympton had a pleasant 
 companionable gentleman like that to keep her com 
 pany when the master was away. Mr. Ranf ord seemed 
 on excellent terms with Mr. Brympton too; though 
 I couldn t but wonder that two gentlemen so unlike 
 each other should be so friendly. But then I knew 
 how the real quality can keep their feelings to them 
 selves. 
 
 As for Mr. Brympton, he came and went, never 
 staying more than a day or two, cursing the dulness 
 and the solitude, grumbling at everything, and (as 
 I soon found out) drinking a deal more than was 
 good for him. After Mrs. Brympton left the table 
 he would sit half the night over the old Brympton 
 port and madeira, and once, as I was leaving my mis 
 tress s room rather later than usual, I met him com 
 ing up the stairs in such a state that I turned sick 
 to think of what some ladies have to endure and hold 
 their tongues about. 
 
 The servants said very little about their master; 
 but from what they let drop I could see it had been 
 an unhappy match from the beginning. Mr. Brymp- 
 [ 254] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 ton was coarse, loud and pleasure-loving; my mis 
 tress quiet, retiring, and perhaps a trifle cold. Not 
 that she was not always pleasant-spoken to him: I 
 thought her wonderfully forbearing; but to a gentle 
 man as free as Mr. Brympton I daresay she seemed a 
 little offish. 
 
 Well, things went on quietly for several weeks. My 
 mistress was kind, my duties were light, and I got 
 on well with the other servants. In short, I had nothing 
 to complain of; yet there was always a weight on me. 
 I can t say why it was so, but I know it was not the 
 loneliness that I felt. I soon got used to that; and be 
 ing still languid from the fever, I was thankful for 
 the quiet and the good country air. Nevertheless, I 
 was never quite easy in my mind. My mistress, know 
 ing I had been ill, insisted that I should take my 
 walk regular, and often invented errands for me: a 
 yard of ribbon to be fetched from the village, a letter 
 posted, or a book returned to Mr. Ranford. As soon 
 ^as I was out of doors my spirits rose, and I looked 
 forward to my walks through the bare moist-smelling 
 woods; but the moment I caught sight of the house 
 again my heart dropped down like a stone in a well. 
 It was not a gloomy house exactly, yet I never en 
 tered it but a feeling of gloom came over me. 
 
 Mrs. Brympton seldom went out in winter; only 
 on the finest days did she walk an hour at noon on the 
 [255] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 south terrace. Excepting Mr. Ranford, we had no 
 
 visitors but the doctor, who drove over from D 
 
 about once a week. He sent for me once or twice to 
 give me some trifling direction about my mistress, 
 and though he never told me what her illness was, 1 
 thought, from a waxy look she had now and then of a 
 morning, that it might be the heart that ailed her. 
 The season was soft and unwholesome, and in Jan 
 uary we had a long spell of rain. That was a sore; 
 trial to me, I own, for I couldn t go out, and sitting 
 over my sewing all day, listening to the drip, drip 
 of the eaves, I grew so nervous that the least sound 
 made me jump. Somehow, the thought of that locked 
 room across the passage began to weigh on me. Once 
 or twice, in the long rainy nights, I fancied I heard 
 noises there; but that was nonsense, of course, and 
 the daylight drove such notions out of my head. Well, 
 one morning Mrs. Brympton gave me quite a start of 
 pleasure by telling me she wished me to go to town 
 for some shopping. I hadn t known till then how low 
 my spirits had fallen. I set off in high glee, and my 
 first sight of the crowded streets and the cheerful- 
 looking shops quite took me out of myself. Toward 
 afternoon, however, the noise and confusion began 
 to tire me, and I was actually looking forward to the 
 quiet of Brympton, and thinking how I should enjoy 
 the drive home through the dark woods, when I ran 
 [256] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 across an old acquaintance, a maid I had once been in 
 service with. We had lost sight of each other for a 
 number of years, and I had to stop and tell her what 
 had happened to me in the interval. When I men 
 tioned where I was living she rolled up her eyes and 
 pulled a long face. 
 
 "What! The Mrs. Brympton that lives all the year 
 at her place on the Hudson ? My dear, you won t stay 
 there three months." 
 
 "Oh, but I don t mind the country," says I, offend 
 ed somehow at her tone. "Since the fever I m glad 
 to be quiet." 
 
 She shook her head. "It s not the country I m think 
 ing of. All I know is she s had four maids in the last 
 six months, and the last one, who was a friend of mine, 
 told me nobody could stay in the house." 
 
 "Did she say why?" I asked. 
 
 "No she wouldn t give me her reason. But she 
 says to me, Mrs. Ansey, she says, if ever a young wom 
 an as you know of thinks of going there, you tell her 
 it s not worth while to unpack her boxes." 
 
 "Is she young and handsome?" said I, thinking of 
 Mr. Brympton. 
 
 "Not her ! She s the kind that mothers engage when 
 they ve gay young gentlemen at college." 
 
 Well, though I knew the woman was an idle gossip, 
 the words stuck in my head, and my heart sank lower 
 [257] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 than ever as I drove up to Brympton in the dusk. 
 There was something about the house I was sure of 
 it now . . . 
 
 When I went in to tea I heard that Mr. Brympton 
 had arrived, and I saw at a glance that there had 
 been a disturbance of some kind. Mrs. Blinder s hand 
 shook so that she could hardly pour the tea, and Mr. 
 Wace quoted the most dreadful texts full of brim 
 stone. Nobody said a word to me then, but when I 
 went up to my room Mrs. Blinder followed me. 
 
 "Oh, my dear," says she, taking my hand, "I m 
 so glad and thankful you ve come back to us !" 
 
 That struck me, as you may imagine. "Why," said 
 I, "did you think I was leaving for good?" 
 
 "No, no, to be sure," said she, a little confused, 
 "but I can t a-bear to have madam left alone for a 
 day even." She pressed my hand hard, and, "Oh, 
 Miss Hartley," says she, "be good to your mistress, 
 as you re a Christian woman." And with that she hur 
 ried away, and left me staring. 
 
 A moment later Agnes called me to Mrs. Brymp 
 ton. Hearing Mr. Brympton s voice in her room, I 
 went round by the dressing-room, thinking I would 
 lay out her dinner-gown before going in. The dress 
 ing-room is a large room with a window over the por 
 tico that looks toward the gardens. Mr. Brympton s 
 apartments are beyond. When I went in, the door into 
 [258] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 the bedroom was ajar, and I heard Mr. Brympton 
 saying angrily: "One would suppose he was the 
 only person fit for you to talk to." 
 
 "I don t have many visitors in winter," Mrs. 
 Brympton answered quietly. 
 
 "You have me!" he flung at her, sneeringly. 
 
 "You are here so seldom," said she. 
 
 "Well whose fault is that? You make the place 
 about as lively as the family vault 
 
 With that I rattled the toilet-things, to give my 
 mistress warning, and she rose and called me in. 
 
 The two dined alone, as usual, and I knew by Mr. 
 Wace s manner at supper that things must be going 
 badly. He quoted the prophets something terrible, 
 and worked 011 the kitchen-maid so that she declared 
 she wouldn t go down alone to put the cold meat in 
 the ice-box. I felt nervous myself, and after I had 
 put my mistress to bed I was half -tempted to go 
 down again and persuade Mrs. Blinder to sit up 
 awhile over a game of cards. But I heard her door 
 closing for the night and so I went on to my own room. 
 The rain had begun again, and the drip, drip, drip 
 seemed to be dropping into my brain. I lay awake 
 listening to it, and turning over what my friend in 
 town had said. What puzzled me was that it was al 
 ways the maids who left . . . 
 
 After a while I slept; but suddenly a loud noise 
 [259] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 wakened me. My bell had rung. I sat up, terrified by 
 the unusual sound, which seemed to go on jangling 
 through the darkness. My hands shook so that I 
 couldn t find the matches. At length I struck a light 
 and jumped out of bed. I began to think I must have 
 been dreaming; but I looked at the bell against the 
 wall, and there was the little hammer still quivering. 
 
 I was just beginning to huddle on my clothes when 
 I heard another sound. This time it was the door of 
 the locked room opposite mine softly opening and 
 closing. I heard the sound distinctly, and it fright 
 ened me so that I stood stock still. Then I heard a 
 footstep hurrying down the passage toward the main 
 house. The floor being carpeted, the sound was very 
 faint, but I was quite sure it was a woman s step. I 
 turned cold with the thought of it, and for a minute 
 or two I dursn t breathe or move. Then I came to my 
 senses. 
 
 "Alice Hartley," says I to myself, "someone left 
 that room just now and ran down the passage ahead 
 of you. The idea isn t pleasant, but you may as well 
 face it. Your mistress has rung for you, and to answer 
 her bell you ve got to go the way that other woman 
 has gone." 
 
 Well I did it. I never walked faster in my life, 
 yet I thought I should never get to the end of the 
 passage or reach Mrs. Brympton s room. On the way 
 [260] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 I heard nothing and saw nothing: all was dark and 
 quiet as the grave. When I reached my mistress s 
 door the silence was so deep that I began to think I 
 must be dreaming, and was half-minded to turn back. 
 Then a panic seized me, and I knocked. 
 
 There was no answer, and I knocked again, loudly. 
 To my astonishment the door was opened by Mr. 
 Brympton. He started back when he saw me, and in 
 the light of my candle his face looked red and savage. 
 
 "You?" he said, in a queer voice. "How many of 
 you are there, in God s name?" 
 
 At that I felt the ground give under me; but I 
 said to myself that he had been drinking, and an 
 swered as steadily as I could: "May I go in, sir? Mrs. 
 Brympton has rung for me." 
 
 "You may all go in, for what I care," says he, and, 
 pushing by me, walked down the hall to his own bed 
 room. I looked after him as he went, and to my sur 
 prise I saw that he walked as straight as a sober man. 
 
 I found my mistress lying very weak and still, but 
 she forced a smile when she saw me, and signed to 
 me to pour out some drops for her. After that she lay 
 without speaking, her breath coming quick, and her 
 eyes closed. Suddenly she groped out with her hand, 
 and "Emma" says she, faintly. 
 
 "It s Hartley, madam," I said. "Do you want any 
 thing?" 
 
 [261] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 She opened her eyes wide and gave me a startled 
 look. 
 
 "I was dreaming," she said. "You may go, now, 
 Hartley, and thank you kindly. I m quite well again, 
 you see." And she turned her face away from me. 
 
 Ill 
 
 T 1 1 HERE was no more sleep for me that night, and 
 -* I was thankful when daylight came. 
 
 Soon afterward, Agnes called me to Mrs. Brymp- 
 ton. I was afraid she was ill again, for she seldom 
 sent for me before nine, but I found her sitting up in 
 bed, pale and drawn-looking, but quite herself. 
 
 "Hartley," says she quickly, "will you put on your 
 things at once and go down to the village for me? I 
 want this prescription made up " here she hesitated 
 a minute and blushed "and I should like you to 
 be back again before Mr. Brympton is up." 
 
 "Certainly, madam," I said. 
 
 "And stay a moment " she called me back as 
 if an idea had just struck her "while you re waiting 
 for the mixture, you ll have time to go on to Mr. Ran- 
 ford s with this note." 
 
 It was a two-mile walk to the village, and on my 
 
 way I had time to turn things over in my mind. It 
 
 struck me as peculiar that my mistress should wish 
 
 the prescription made up without Mr. Brympton s 
 
 [262] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 knowledge; and, putting this together with the scene 
 of the night before, and with much else that I had 
 noticed and suspected, I began to wonder if the poor 
 lady was weary of her life, and had come to the mad 
 resolve of ending it. The idea took such hold on me 
 that I reached the village on a run, and dropped 
 breathless into a chair before the chemist s counter. 
 The good man, who was just taking down his shutters, 
 stared at me so hard that it brought me to myself. 
 
 "Mr. Limmel," I says, trying to speak indifferent, 
 "will you run your eye over this, and tell me if it s 
 quite right?" 
 
 He put on his spectacles and studied the prescrip 
 tion. 
 
 "Why, it s one of Dr. Walton s," says he. "What 
 should be wrong with it?" 
 
 "Well is it dangerous to take?" 
 
 "Dangerous how do you mean?" 
 
 I could have shaken the man for his stupidity. 
 , "I mean if a person was to take too much of it 
 by mistake of course " says I, my heart in my 
 throat. 
 
 "Lord bless you, no. It s only lime-water. You might 
 feed it to a baby by the bottleful." 
 
 I gave a great sigh of relief and hurried on to Mr. 
 Ranford s. But on the way another thought struck 
 me. If there was nothing to conceal about my visit to 
 [263] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 the chemist s, was it my other errand that Mrs. 
 Brympton wished me to keep private? Somehow, that 
 thought frightened me worse than the other. Yet the 
 two gentlemen seemed fast friends, and I would have 
 staked my head on my mistress s goodness. I felt 
 ashamed of my suspicions, and concluded that I was 
 still disturbed by the strange events of the night. I 
 left the note at Mr. Ranford s, and hurrying back 
 to Brympton, slipped in by a side door without being 
 seen, as I thought. 
 
 An hour later, however, as I was carrying in my 
 mistress s breakfast, I was stopped in the hall by Mr. 
 Brympton. 
 
 "What were you doing out so early?" he says, look 
 ing hard at me. 
 
 "Early me, sir?" I said, in a tremble. 
 
 "Come, come," he says, an angry red spot coming 
 out on his forehead, "didn t I see you scuttling home 
 through the shrubbery an hour or more ago ?" 
 
 I m a truthful woman by nature, but at that a lie 
 popped out ready-made. "No, sir, you didn t," said I 
 and looked straight back at him. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and gave a sullen laugh. 
 "I suppose you think I was drunk last night?" he 
 asked suddenly. 
 
 "No, sir, I don t," I answered, this time truthfully 
 enough. 
 
 [264] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 He turned away with another shrug. "A pretty no 
 tion my servants have of me !" I heard him mutter as 
 he walked off. 
 
 Not till I had settled down to my afternoon s sew 
 ing did I realise how the events of the night had 
 shaken me. I couldn t pass that locked door without 
 a shiver. I knew I had heard someone come out of 
 it, and walk down the passage ahead of me. I thought 
 of speaking to Mrs. Blinder or to Mr. Wace, the only 
 two in the house who appeared to have an inkling of 
 what was going on, but I had a feeling that if I ques 
 tioned them they would deny everything, and that I 
 might learn more by holding my tongue and keeping 
 my eyes open. The idea of spending another night 
 opposite the locked room sickened me, and once I was 
 seized with the notion of packing my trunk and tak 
 ing the first train to town ; but it wasn t in me to throw 
 over a kind mistress in that manner, and I tried to go 
 on with my sewing as if nothing had happened. I 
 j, hadn t worked ten minutes before the sewing machine 
 broke down. It was one I had found in the house, 
 a good machine but a trifle out of order: Mrs. Blin 
 der said it had never been used since Emma Sax 
 on s death. I stopped to see what was wrong, and as 
 I was working at the machine a drawer which I had 
 never been able to open slid forward and a photo 
 graph fell out. I picked it up and sat looking at it in 
 [265] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 a maze. It was a woman s likeness, and I knew I had 
 seen the face somewhere the eyes had an asking 
 look that I had felt on me before. And suddenly I 
 remembered the pale woman in the passage. 
 
 I stood up, cold all over, and ran out of the room. 
 My heart seemed to be thumping in the top of my 
 head, and I felt as if I should never get away from 
 the look in those eyes. I went straight to Mrs. Blin 
 der. She was taking her afternoon nap, and sat up 
 with a jump when I came in. 
 
 "Mrs. Blinder/ said I, "who is that?" And I held 
 out the photograph. 
 
 She rubbed her eyes and stared. 
 
 "Why, Emma Saxon," says she. "Where did you 
 find it?" 
 
 I looked hard at her for a minute. "Mrs. Blinder," 
 I said, "I ve seen that face before." 
 
 Mrs. Blinder got up and walked over to the look 
 ing-glass. "Dear me ! I must have been asleep," she 
 says. "My front is all over one ear. And now do run 
 along, Miss Hartley, dear, for I hear the clock strik 
 ing four, and I must go down this very minute and 
 put on the Virginia ham for Mr. Brympton s dinner." 
 
 [266] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 IV 
 
 O all appearances, things went on as usual for 
 a week or two. The only difference was that Mr. 
 Brympton stayed on, instead of going off as he usual 
 ly did, and that Mr. Ranford never showed himself. 
 I heard Mr. Brympton remark on this one afternoon 
 when he was sitting in my mistress s room before 
 dinner : 
 
 "Where s Ranford?" says he. "He hasn t been 
 near the house for a week. Does he keep away because 
 I m here?" 
 
 Mrs. Brympton spoke so low that I couldn t catch 
 her answer. 
 
 "Well," he went on, "two s company and three s 
 trumpery; I m sorry to be in Ranford s way, and I 
 suppose I shall have to take myself off again in a day 
 or two and give him a show." And he laughed at his 
 own joke. 
 
 The very next day, as it happened, Mr. Ranford 
 called. The footman said the three were very merry 
 over their tea in the library, and Mr. Brympton 
 strolled down to the gate with Mr. Ranford when he 
 left. 
 
 I have said that things went on as usual; and so 
 they did with the rest of the household; but as for 
 myself, I had never been the same since the night my 
 [267] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 bell had rung. Night after night I used to lie awake, 
 listening for it to ring again, and for the door of the 
 locked room to open stealthily. But the bell never 
 rang, and I heard no sound across the passage. At last 
 the silence began to be more dreadful to me than the 
 most mysterious sounds. I felt that someone was 
 cowering there, behind the locked door, watching and 
 listening as I watched and listened, and I could al 
 most have cried out, "Whoever you are, come out and 
 let me see you face to face, but don t lurk there and 
 spy on me in the darkness !" 
 
 Feeling as I did, you may wonder I didn t give 
 warning. Once I very nearly did so ; but at the last mo 
 ment something held me back. Whether it was com 
 passion for my mistress, who had grown more and 
 more dependent on me, or unwillingness to try a new 
 place, or some other feeling that I couldn t put a 
 name to, I lingered on as if spell-bound, though 
 every night was dreadful to me, and the days but 
 little better. 
 
 For one thing, I didn t like Mrs. Brympton s 
 looks. She had never been the same since that night, 
 no more than I had. I thought she would brighten 
 up after Mr. Brympton left, but though she seemed 
 easier in her mind, her spirits didn t revive, nor her 
 strength either. She had grown attached to me, and 
 seemed to like to have me about; and Agnes told me 
 [268] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 one day that, since Emma Saxon s death, I was the 
 only maid her mistress had taken to. This gave me a 
 warm feeling for the poor lady, though after all there 
 was little I could do to help her. 
 
 After Mr. Brympton s departure, Mr. Ranford 
 took to coming again, though less often than formerly. 
 I met him once or twice in the grounds, or in the vil 
 lage, and I couldn t but think there was a change in 
 him too ; but I set it down to my disordered fancy. 
 
 The weeks passed, and Mr. Brympton had now 
 been a month absent. We heard he was cruising with 
 a friend in the West Indies, and Mr. Wace said that 
 was a long way off, but though you had the wings of 
 a dove and went to the uttermost parts of the earth, 
 you couldn t get away from the Almighty. Agnes said 
 that as long as he stayed away from Brympton the 
 Almighty might have him and welcome; and this 
 raised a laugh, though Mrs. Blinder tried to look 
 shocked, and Mr. Wace said the bears would eat us. 
 * We were all glad to hear that the West Indies were 
 a long way off, and I remember that, in spite of Mr. 
 Wace s solemn looks, we had a very merry dinner that 
 day in the hall. I don t know if it was because of my 
 being in better spirits, but I fancied Mrs. Brympton 
 looked better too, and seemed more cheerful in her 
 manner. She had been for a walk in the morning, and 
 after luncheon she lay down in her room, and I read 
 [269] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 aloud to her. When she dismissed me I went to my 
 own room feeling quite bright and happy, and for the; 
 first time in weeks walked past the locked door with 
 out thinking of it. As I sat down to my work I looked 
 out and saw a few snow-flakes falling. The sight was 
 pleasanter than the eternal rain, and I pictured to 
 myself how pretty the bare gardens would look in 
 their white mantle. It seemed to me as if the snow 
 would cover up all the dreariness, indoors as well as 
 out. 
 
 The fancy had hardly crossed my mind when I 
 heard a step at my side. I looked up, thinking it was 
 Agnes. 
 
 "Well, Agnes " said I, and the words froze on 
 my tongue; for there, in the door, stood Emma Saxon, 
 
 I don t know how long she stood there. I only know 
 I couldn t stir or take my eyes from her. Afterward 
 I was terribly frightened, but at the time it wasn t 
 fear I felt, but something deeper and quieter. She 
 looked at me long and long, and her face was just one 
 dumb prayer to me but how in the world was I to 
 help her ? Suddenly she turned, and I heard her walk 
 down the passage. This time I wasn t afraid to follow 
 I felt that I must know what she wanted. I sprang 
 up and ran out. She was at the other end of tne pas 
 sage, and I expected her to take the turn toward my 
 mistress s room; but instead of that she pushed open 
 [270] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 the door that led to the backstairs. I followed her 
 down the stairs, and across the passageway to the back 
 door. The kitchen and hall were empty at that hour, 
 the servants being off duty, except for the footman, 
 who was in the pantry. At the door she stood still a 
 moment, with another look at me ; then she turned the 
 handle, and stepped out. For a minute I hesitated. 
 Where was she leading me to? The door had closed 
 softly after her, and I opened it and looked out, half- 
 expecting to find that she had disappeared. But I 
 saw her a few yards off hurrying across the court- 
 , yard to the path through the woods. Her figure 
 looked black and lonely in the snow, and for a second 
 my heart failed me and I thought of turning back. 
 But all the while she was drawing me after her; and 
 catching up an old shawl of Mrs. Blinder s I ran out 
 into the open. 
 
 Emma Saxon was in the wood-path now. She 
 walked on steadily, and I followed at the same pace, 
 J;ill we passed out of the gates and reached the high 
 road. Then she struck across the open fields to the vil- 
 lege. By this time the ground was white, and as she 
 climbed the slope of a bare hill ahead of me I noticed 
 that she left no foot-prints behind her. At sight of that 
 my heart shrivelled up within me, and my knees were 
 water. Somehow, it was worse here than indoors. She 
 made the whole countryside seem lonely as the grave, 
 [271] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 with none but us two in it, and no help in the wide 
 world. 
 
 Once I tried to go back; but she turned and looked 
 at me, and it was as if she had dragged me with ropes. 
 After that I followed her like a dog. We came to the 
 village and she led me through it, past the church 
 and the blacksmith s shop, and down the lane to Mr. 
 Ranford s. Mr. Ranford s house stands close to the 
 road: a plain old-fashioned building, with a flagged 
 path leading to the door between box-borders. The 
 lane was deserted, and as I turned into it I saw Emma 
 Saxon pause under the old elm by the gate. And now 
 another fear came over me. I saw that we had reached 
 the end of our journey, and that it was my turn to 
 act. All the way from Brympton I had been asking 
 myself what she wanted of me, but I had followed in 
 a trance, as it were, and not till I saw her stop at Mr. 
 Ranford s gate did my brain begin to clear itself. I 
 stood a little way off in the snow, my heart beating 
 fit to strangle me, and my feet frozen to the ground ; 
 and she stood under the elm and watched me. 
 
 I knew well enough that she hadn t led me there for 
 nothing. I felt there was something I ought to say or 
 do but how was I to guess what it was ? I had never 
 thought harm of my mistress and Mr. Ranford, but 
 I was sure now that, from one cause or another, some 
 dreadful thing hung over them. She knew what it was ; 
 [272] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 she would tell me if she could; perhaps she would 
 answer if I questioned her. 
 
 It turned me faint to think of speaking to her ; but 
 I plucked up heart and dragged myself across the 
 few yards between us. As I did so, I heard the house- 
 door open and saw Mr. Ranford approaching. He 
 looked handsome and cheerful, as my mistress had 
 looked that morning, and at sight of him the blood 
 began to flow again in my veins. 
 
 "Why, Hartley/ said he, "what s the matter? I 
 saw you coming down the lane just now, and came out 
 to see if you had taken root in the snow." He stopped 
 and stared at me. "What are you looking at ?" he says. 
 
 I turned toward the elm as he spoke, and his eyes 
 followed me; but there was no one there. The lane 
 was empty as far as the eye could reach. 
 
 A sense of helplessness came over me. She was gone, 
 and I had not been able to guess what she wanted. 
 Her last look had pierced me to the marrow; and yet 
 it had not told me ! All at once, I felt more desolate 
 than when she had stood there watching me. It seemed 
 as if she had left me all alone to carry the weight 
 of the secret I couldn t guess. The snow went round 
 me in great circles, and the ground fell away from 
 me . . . 
 
 A drop of brandy and the warmth of Mr. Ran- 
 f ord s fire soon brought me to, and I insisted on being 
 [273] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 driven back at once to Brympton. It was nearly dark, 
 and I was afraid my mistress might be wanting me. 
 I explained to Mr. Ranford that I had been out for 
 a walk and had been taken with a fit of giddiness as 
 I passed his gate. This was true enough; yet I never 
 felt more like a liar than when I said it. 
 
 When I dressed Mrs. Brympton for dinner she re 
 marked on my pale looks and asked what ailed me. 
 I told her I had a headache, and she said she would 
 not require me again that evening, and advised me to 
 go to bed. 
 
 It was a fact that I could scarcely keep on my feet ; 
 yet I had no fancy to spend a solitary evening in my 
 room. I sat downstairs in the hall as long as I could 
 hold my head up; but by nine I crept upstairs, too 
 weary to care what happened if I could but get my 
 head on a pillow. The rest of the household went to 
 bed soon afterward; they kept early hours when the 
 master was away, and before ten I heard Mrs. Blin- 
 der s door close, and Mr. Wace s soon after. 
 
 It was a very still night, earth and air all muffled 
 in snow. Once in bed I felt easier, and lay quiet, 
 listening to the strange noises that come out in a house 
 after dark. Once I thought I heard a door open and 
 close again below: it might have been the glass door 
 that led to the gardens. I got up and peered out of 
 the window; but it was in the dark of the moon, and 
 [274] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 nothing visible outside but the streaking of snow 
 against the panes. 
 
 I went back to bed and must have dozed, for I 
 jumped awake to the furious ringing of my bell. Be 
 fore my head was clear I had sprung out of bed, and 
 was dragging on my clothes. It is going to happen 
 now, I heard myself saying ; but what I meant I had 
 no notion. My hands seemed to be covered with glue 
 I thought I should never get into my clothes. At last 
 I opened my door and peered down the passage. As 
 far as my candle-flame carried, I could see nothing 
 unusual ahead of me. I hurried on, breathless; but as 
 I pushed open the baize door leading to the main hall 
 my heart stood still, for there at the head of the stairs 
 was Emma Saxon, peering dreadfully down into the 
 darkness. 
 
 For a second I couldn t stir; but my hand slipped 
 from the door, and as it swung shut the figure van 
 ished. At the same instant there came another sound 
 from below stairs a stealthy mysterious sound, as of 
 a latch-key turning in the house-door. I ran to Mrs. 
 Brympton s room and knocked. 
 
 There was no answer, and I knocked again. This 
 time I heard someone moving in the room; the bolt 
 slipped back and my mistress stood before me. To my 
 surprise I saw that she had not undressed for the 
 night. She gave me a startled look. 
 [275] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 "What is this, Hartley?" she says in a whis 
 per. "Are you ill? What are you doing here at this 
 hour?" 
 
 "I am not ill, madam; but my bell rang." 
 
 At that she turned pale, and seemed about to fall. 
 
 "You are mistaken," she said harshly; "I didn t 
 ring. You must have been dreaming." I had never 
 heard her speak in such a tone. "Go back to bed," she 
 said, closing the door on me. 
 
 But as she spoke I heard sounds again in the hall 
 below: a man s step this time; and the truth leaped 
 out on me. 
 
 "Madam," I said, pushing past her, "there is some 
 one in the house " 
 
 "Someone?" 
 
 "Mr. Brympton, I think I hear his step be 
 low" 
 
 A dreadful look came over her, and without a 
 word, she dropped flat at my feet. I fell on my knees 
 and tried to lift her: by the way she breathed I saw 
 it was no common faint. But as I raised her head 
 there came quick steps on the stairs and across the 
 hall: the door was flung open, and there stood Mr. 
 Brympton, in his travelling-clothes, the snow drip 
 ping from him. He drew back with a start as he saw 
 me kneeling by my mistress. 
 
 "What the devil is this?" he shouted. He was less 
 [276] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 high-coloured than usual, and the red spot came out 
 on his forehead. 
 
 "Mrs. Brympton has fainted, sir," said I. 
 
 He laughed unsteadily and pushed by me. "It s a 
 pity she didn t choose a more convenient moment. I m 
 sorry to disturb her, but " 
 
 I raised myself up aghast at the man s action. 
 
 "Sir," said I, "are you mad? What are you doing?" 
 
 "Going to meet a friend," said he, and seemed to 
 make for the dressing-room. 
 
 At that my heart turned over. I don t know what 
 I thought or feared; but I sprang up and caught him 
 by the sleeve. 
 
 "Sir, sir," said I, "for pity s sake look at your 
 wife!" 
 
 He shook me off furiously. 
 
 "It seems that s done for me," says he, and caught 
 hold of the dressing-room door. 
 
 At that moment I heard a slight noise inside. Slight 
 as it was, he heard it too, and tore the door open ; but 
 as he did so he dropped back. On the threshold stood 
 Emma Saxon. All was dark behind her, but I saw her 
 plainly, and so did he. He threw up his hands as if 
 to hide his face from her; and when I looked again 
 she was gone. 
 
 He stood motionless, as if the strength had run out 
 of him; and in the stillness my mistress suddenly 
 [277] 
 
THE LADY S MAID S BELL 
 
 raised herself, and opening her eyes fixed a look on 
 him. Then she fell back, and I saw the death-flutter 
 pass over her . . . 
 
 We buried her on the third day, in a driving snow 
 storm. There were few people in the church, for it 
 was bad weather to come from town, and I ve a no 
 tion my mistress was one that hadn t many near 
 friends. Mr. Ranford was among the last to come, 
 just before they carried her up the aisle. He was in 
 black, of course, being such a friend of the family, 
 and I never saw a gentleman so pale. As he passed 
 me, I noticed that he leaned a trifle on a stick he 
 carried; and I fancy Mr. Brympton noticed it too, for 
 the red spot came out sharp on his forehead, and all 
 through the service he kept staring across the church 
 at Mr. Ranford, instead of following the prayers as 
 a mourner should. 
 
 When it was over and we went out to the grave 
 yard, Mr. Ranford had disappeared, and as soon as 
 my poor mistress s body was underground, Mr. 
 Brympton jumped into the carriage nearest the gate 
 and drove off without a word to any of us. I heard 
 him call out, "To the station," and we servants went 
 back alone to the house. 
 
 [278] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT S ENTER 
 TAINMENT 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT S ENTER 
 TAINMENT 
 
 THIS is the story that, in the dining-room of 
 the old Beacon Street house (now the Alde- 
 baran Club)/ Judge Anthony Bracknell, of 
 the famous East India firm of Bracknell & Saulsbee, 
 when the ladies had withdrawn to the oval parlour 
 (and Maria s harp was throwing its gauzy web of 
 sound across the Common), used to relate to his grand 
 sons, about the year that Buonaparte marched upon 
 Moscow. 
 
 "T T IM Venice!" said the Lascar with the big ear- 
 * * rings ; and Tony Bracknell, leaning on the high 
 gunwale of his father s East Indiaman, the Hepzi- 
 bah B., saw far off, across the morning sea, a faint 
 vision of towers and domes dissolved in golden air. 
 
 It was a rare February day of the year 1760, and 
 young Tony, newly of age, and bound on the grand 
 tour aboard the crack merchantman of old BracknelTs 
 fleet, felt his heart leap up as the distant city trem 
 bled into shape. Venice! The name, since childhood, 
 had been a magician s wand to him. In the hall of 
 [281] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 the old Bracknell house at Salem there hung a series 
 of yellowing prints which Uncle Richard Saulsbee 
 had brought home from one of his long voyages: 
 views of heathen mosques and palaces, of the Grand 
 Turk s Seraglio, of St. Peter s Church in Rome; and, 
 in a corner the corner nearest the rack where the 
 old flintlocks hung a busy, merry, populous scene 
 entitled St. Mark s Square in Venice. This picture, 
 from the first, had singularly taken little Tony s 
 fancy. His unformulated criticism on the others was 
 that they lacked action. True, in the view of St. 
 Peter s an experienced-looking gentleman in a full- 
 bottomed wig was pointing out the fairly obvious 
 monument to a bashful companion, who had pre 
 sumably not ventured to raise his eyes to it; while, 
 at the doors of the Seraglio, a group of turbaned in 
 fidels observed with less hesitancy the approach of a 
 veiled lady on a camel. But in Venice so many things 
 were happening at once more, Tony was sure, than 
 had ever happened in Boston in a twelvemonth or 
 in Salem in a long life-time. For here, by their garb, 
 were people of every nation on earth, Chinamen, 
 Turks, Spaniards, and many more, mixed with a parti 
 colored throng of gentry, lackeys, chapmen, huck 
 sters, and tall personages in parsons gowns who 
 stalked through the crowd with an air of mastery, 
 a string of parasites at their heels. And all these peo- 
 [282 ] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 pie seemed to be diverting themselves hugely, chaffer 
 ing with the hucksters, watching the antics of trained 
 dogs and monkeys, distributing doles to maimed beg 
 gars or having their pockets picked by slippery-look 
 ing fellows in black the whole with such an air of 
 ease and good-humour that one felt the cut-purses to 
 be as much a part of the show as the tumbling acro 
 bats and animals. 
 
 As Tony advanced in years and experience this 
 childish mumming lost its magic; but not so the early 
 imaginings it had excited. For the old picture had 
 been but the spring-board of fancy, the first step of 
 a cloud-ladder leading to a land of dreams. With 
 these dreams the name of Venice remained asso 
 ciated; and all that observation or report subse 
 quently brought him concerning the place seemed, on 
 a sober warranty of fact, to confirm its claim to stand 
 midway between reality and illusion. There was, for 
 instance, a slender Venice glass, gold-powdered as 
 A with lily pollen or the dust of sunbeams, that, stand 
 ing in the corner cabinet betwixt two Lowestoft cad 
 dies, seemed, among its lifeless neighbors, to pal 
 pitate like an impaled butterfly. There was, farther, 
 a gold chain of his mother s, spun of that same sun- 
 pollen, so thread-like, impalpable, that it slipped 
 through the fingers like light, yet so strong that it 
 carried a heavy pendant which seemed held in air as 
 [283] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 if by magic. Magic! That was the word which tte 
 thought of Venice evoked. It was the kind of place, 
 Tony felt, in which things elsewhere impossible 
 might naturally happen, in which two and two might 
 make five, a paradox elope with a syllogism, and a 
 conclusion give the lie to its own premiss. Was there 
 ever a young heart that did not, once and again, long 
 to get away into such a world as that ? Tony, at least, 
 had felt the longing from the first hour when the 
 axioms in his horn-book had brought home to him his 
 heavy responsibilities as a Christian and a sinner. And 
 now here was his wish taking shape before him, as 
 the distant haze of gold shaped itself into towers and 
 domes across the morning sea ! 
 
 The Reverend Ozias Mounce, Tony s governor and 
 bear-leader, was just putting a hand to the third 
 clause of the fourth part of a sermon on Free-Will 
 and Predestination as the Hepzibah B. s anchor rat 
 tled overboard. Tony, in his haste to be ashore, would 
 have made one plunge with the anchor; but the Rev 
 erend Ozias, on being roused from his lucubrations, 
 earnestly protested against leaving his argument in 
 suspense. What was the trifle of an arrival at some 
 Papistical foreign city, where the very churches wore 
 turbans like so many Moslem idolaters, to the im 
 portant fact of Mr. Mounce s summing up his con 
 clusions before the Muse of Theology took flight ? He 
 [284] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 should be happy, he said, if the tide served, to visit 
 Venice with Mr. Bracknell the next morning. 
 
 The next morning, ha ! Tony murmured a sub 
 missive "Yes, sir," winked at the subjugated captain, 
 buckled on his sword, pressed his hat down with a 
 flourish, and before the Reverend Ozias had arrived 
 at his next deduction, was skimming merrily shore 
 ward in the Hepzibah s gig. 
 
 A moment more and he was in the thick of it! 
 Here was the very world of the old print, only suf 
 fused with sunlight and colour and bubbling with 
 merry noises. What a scene it was ! A square enclosed 
 in fantastic painted buildings, and peopled with a 
 throng as fantastic: a bawling, laughing, jostling, 
 sweating mob, parti-colored, parti-speeched, crack 
 ling and sputtering under the hot sun like a dish of 
 fritters over a kitchen fire. Tony, agape, shouldered 
 his way through the press, aware at once that, spite 
 of the tumult, the shrillness, the gesticulation, there 
 A was no undercurrent of clownishness, no tendency to 
 horse-play, as in such crowds on market-day at 
 home, but a kind of facetious suavity which seemed 
 to include everybody in the circumference of one 
 huge joke. In such an air the sense of strangeness 
 soon wore off, and Tony was beginning to feel him 
 self vastly at home, when a lift of the tide bore him 
 against a droll-looking bell-ringing fellow who car- 
 [285] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 ried above his head a tall metal tree hung with sher 
 bet-glasses. The encounter set the glasses spinning, 
 and three or four spun off and clattered to the stones. 
 The sherbet-seller called on all the saints, and Tony, 
 clapping a lordly hand to his pocket, tossed him a 
 ducat by mistake for a sequin. The fellow s eyes shot 
 out of their orbits, and just then a personable-looking 
 young man who had observed the transaction stepped 
 up to Tony and said pleasantly in English: 
 
 "I perceive, sir, that you are not familiar with our 
 currency." 
 
 "Does he want more?" says Tony, very lordly; 
 whereat the other laughed and replied: "You have 
 given him enough to retire from his business and open 
 a gaming-house over the arcade." 
 
 Tony joined in the laugh, and this incident bridg 
 ing the preliminaries, the two young men were pres 
 ently hobnobbing over a glass of Canary in front of 
 one of the coffee-houses about the square. Tony 
 counted himself lucky to have run across an English 
 speaking companion who was good-natured enough to 
 give him a clue to the labyrinth; and when he had 
 paid for the Canary (in the coin his friend selected) 
 they set out again to view the town. The Italian gen 
 tleman, who called himself Count Rialto, appeared 
 to have a very numerous acquaintance, and was able to 
 point out to Tony all the chief dignitaries of the 
 [286] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 state, the men of ton and ladies of fashion, as well as 
 a number of other characters of a kind not openly 
 mentioned in taking a census of Salem. 
 
 Tony, who was not averse from reading when 
 nothing better offered, had perused "The Merchant 
 of Venice" and Mr. Otway s fine tragedy; but though 
 these pieces had given him a notion that the social 
 usages of Venice differed from those at home, he was 
 unprepared for the surprising appearance and man 
 ners of the great people his friend named to him. 
 The gravest Senators of the Republic went in prodi 
 gious striped trousers, short cloaks and feathered 
 hats. One nobleman wore a ruff and doctor s gown, 
 another a black velvet tunic slashed with rose-colour; 
 while the President of the dreaded Council of Ten 
 was a terrible strutting fellow with a rapier-like nose, 
 a buff leather jerkin and a trailing scarlet cloak that 
 the crowd was careful not to step on. 
 
 It was all vastly diverting, and Tony would gladly 
 
 * have gone on forever ; but he had given his word to 
 
 the captain to be at the landing-place at sunset, and 
 
 here was dusk already creeping over the skies ! Tony 
 
 was a man of honour ; and having pressed on the Count 
 
 a handsome damascened dagger selected from one of 
 
 the goldsmiths shops in a narrow street lined with 
 
 such wares, he insisted on turning his face toward the 
 
 Hepzibah s gig. The Count yielded reluctantly; but 
 
 [287] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 as they came out again on the square they were caught 
 in a great throng pouring toward the doors of the 
 cathedral. 
 
 "They go to Benediction/ said the Count. "A beau 
 tiful sight, with many lights and flowers. It is a pity 
 you cannot take a peep at it." 
 
 Tony thought so too, and in another minute a leg 
 less beggar had pulled back the leathern flap of the 
 cathedral door, and they stood in a haze of gold and 
 perfume that seemed to rise and fall on the mighty 
 undulations of the organ. Here the press was as thick 
 as without; and as Tony flattened himself against a 
 pillar he heard a pretty voice at his elbow : "Oh, sir, 
 oh, sir, your sword!" 
 
 He turned at sound of the broken English, and 
 saw a girl who matched the voice trying to disengage 
 her dress from the tip of his scabbard. She wore 
 one of the voluminous black hoods which the Vene 
 tian ladies affected, and under its projecting eaves 
 her face spied out at him as sweet as a nesting 
 bird. 
 
 In the dusk their hands met over the scabbard, and 
 as she freed herself a shred of her lace flounce clung 
 to Tony s enchanted fingers. Looking after her, he 
 saw she was on the arm of a pompous-looking gray- 
 beard in a long black gown and scarlet stockings, 
 who, on perceiving the exchange of glances between 
 [ 288] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 the young people, drew the lady away with a threat 
 ening look. 
 
 The Count met Tony s eye with a smile. "One of 
 our Venetian beauties," said he; "the lovely Polixena 
 Cador. She is thought to have the finest eyes in Ven 
 ice." 
 
 "She spoke English," stammered Tony. 
 
 "Oh ah precisely: she learned the language at the 
 Court of St. James, where her father, the Senator, 
 was formerly accredited as Ambassador. She played 
 as an infant with the royal princes of England." 
 
 "And that was her father?" 
 
 "Assuredly: young ladies of Donna Polixena s 
 rank do not go abroad save with their parents or a 
 duenna." 
 
 Just then a soft hand slid into Tony s. His heart 
 gave a foolish bound, and he turned about half- 
 expecting to meet again the merry eyes under the 
 hood; but saw instead a slender brown boy, in some 
 kind of fanciful page s dress, who thrust a folded 
 paper between his fingers and vanished in the throng. 
 Tony, in a tingle, glanced surreptitiously at the 
 Count, who appeared absorbed in his prayers. The 
 crowd, at the ringing of a bell, had in fact been over- 
 swept by a sudden wave of devotion; and Tony 
 seized the moment to step beneath a lighted shrine 
 with his letter. 
 
 [ 289 ] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 "I am in dreadful trouble and implore your help. 
 Polixena" he read; but hardly had he seized the 
 sense of the words when a hand fell on his shoulder, 
 and a stern-looking man in a cocked hat, and bear 
 ing a kid of rod or mace, pronounced a few words in 
 Venetian. 
 
 Tony, with a start, thrust the letter in his breast, 
 and tried to jerk himself free; but the harder he 
 jerked the tighter grew the other s grip, and the 
 Count, presently perceiving what had happened, 
 pushed his way through the crowd, and whispered 
 hastily to his companion: "For God s sake, make no 
 struggle. This is serious. Keep quiet and do as I tell 
 you." 
 
 Tony was no chicken-heart. He had something of 
 a name for pugnacity among the lads of his own age 
 at home, and was not the man to stand in Venice 
 what he would have resented in Salem; but the devil 
 of it was that this black fellow seemed to be pointing 
 to the letter in his breast; and this suspicion was con 
 firmed by the Count s agitated whisper: 
 
 "This is one of the agents of the Ten. For God s 
 sake, no outcry." He exchanged a word or two with 
 the mace-bearer and again turned to Tony. "You have 
 been seen concealing a letter about your person " 
 "And what of that?" says Tony furiously. 
 "Gently, gently, my master. A letter handed to 
 [290] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 you by the page of Donna Polixena Cador. A black 
 business ! Oh, a very black business ! This Cador is 
 one of the most powerful nobles in Venice. I be 
 seech you, not a word, sir! Let me think deliber 
 ate" 
 
 His hand on Tony s shoulder, he carried on a rapid 
 dialogue with the potentate in the cocked hat. 
 
 "I am sorry, sir but our young ladies of rank 
 are as jealously guarded as the Grand Turk s wives, 
 and you must be answerable for this scandal. The 
 best I can do is to have you taken privately to the 
 Palazzo Cador, instead of being brought before the 
 Council. I have pleaded your youth and inexperience" 
 Tony winced at this "and I think the business 
 may still be arranged." 
 
 Meanwhile the agent of the Ten had yielded his 
 place to a sharp-featured shabby-looking fellow in 
 black, dressed somewhat like a lawyer s clerk, who 
 laid a grimy hand on Tony s arm, and with many 
 apologetic gestures steered him through the crowd to 
 the doors of the church. The Count held him by the 
 other arm, and in this fashion they emerged on the 
 square, which now lay in darkness save for the many 
 lights twinkling under the arcade and in the windows 
 of the gaming-rooms above it. 
 
 Tony by this time had regained voice enough to 
 declare that he would go where they pleased, but that 
 [291] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 he must first say a word to the mate of the Hepzibah, 
 who had now been awaiting him some two hours or 
 more at the landing-place. 
 
 The Count repeated this to Tony s custodian, but 
 the latter shook his head and rattled off a sharp de 
 nial. 
 
 "Impossible, sir," said the Count. "I entreat you 
 not to insist. Any resistance will tell against you in 
 the end." 
 
 Tony fell silent. With a rapid eye he was measur 
 ing his chances of escape. In wind and limb he was 
 more than a mate for his captors, and boyhood s 
 ruses were not so far behind him but he felt himself 
 equal to outwitting a dozen grown men; but he had 
 the sense to see that at a cry the crowd would close in 
 on him. Space was what he wanted : a clear ten yards, 
 and he would have laughed at Doge and Council. But 
 the throng was thick as glue, and he walked on sub 
 missively, keeping his eye alert for an opening. Sud 
 denly the mob swerved aside after some new show. 
 Tony s fist instantly shot out at the black fellow s 
 chest, and before the latter could right himself the 
 young New Englander was showing a clean pair of 
 heels to his escort. On he sped, cleaving the crowd like 
 a flood-tide in Gloucester bay, diving under the first 
 arch that caught his eye, dashing down a lane to an 
 unlit water-way, and plunging across a narrow humD- 
 [292] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 back bridge which landed him in a black pocket between 
 walls. But now his pursuers were at his back, rein 
 forced by the yelping mob. The walls were too high 
 to scale, and for all his courage Tony s breath came 
 short as he paced the masonry cage in which ill-luck 
 had landed him. Suddenly a gate opened in one of 
 the walls, and a slip of a servant wench looked out 
 and beckoned him. There was no time to weigh 
 chances. Tony dashed through the gate, his rescuer 
 slammed and bolted it, and the two stood in a narrow 
 paved well between high houses. 
 
 II 
 
 THE servant picked up a lantern and signed to 
 Tony to follow her. They climbed a squalid 
 stairway of stone, felt their way along a corridor, and 
 entered a tall vaulted room feebly lit by an oil-lamp 
 hung from the painted ceiling. Tony discerned traces 
 of former splendour in his surroundings, but he had 
 no time to examine them, for a figure started up at 
 his approach and in the dim light he recognized the 
 girl who was the cause of all his troubles. 
 
 She sprang toward him with outstretched hands, 
 but as he advanced her face changed and she shrank 
 back abashed. 
 
 "This is a misunderstanding a dreadful misun- 
 [293] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 derstanding," she cried out in her pretty broken Eng 
 lish. "Oh, how does it happen that you are here?" 
 
 "Through no choice of my own, madam, I assure 
 you!" retorted Tony, not overpleased by his recep 
 tion. 
 
 "But why how how did you make this unfortu 
 nate mistake?" 
 
 "Why, madam, if you ll excuse my candour, I think 
 the mistake was yours " 
 
 "Mine?" 
 
 "in sending me a letter " 
 
 "You a. letter?" 
 
 "by a simpleton of a lad, who must needs hand 
 it to me under your father s very nose " 
 
 The girl broke in on him with a cry. "What ! It 
 was you who received my letter?" She swept round 
 on the little maid-servant and submerged her under a 
 flood of Venetian. The latter volleyed back in the 
 same jargon, and as she did so, Tony s astonished 
 eye detected in her the doubleted page who had 
 handed him the letter in Saint Mark s. 
 
 "What!" he cried, "the lad was this girl in dis 
 guise?" 
 
 Polixena broke off with an irrepressible smile; but 
 her face clouded instantly and she returned to the 
 charge. 
 
 "This wicked, careless girl she has ruined me, she 
 [294] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 will be my undoing ! Oh, sir, how can I make you un 
 derstand? The letter was not intended for you it 
 was meant for the English Ambassador, an old friend 
 of my mother s, from whom I hoped to obtain assist 
 ance oh, how can I ever excuse myself to you?" 
 
 "No excuses are needed, madam/ said Tony bow 
 ing; "though I am surprised, I own, that any one 
 should mistake me for an ambassador." 
 
 Here a wave of mirth again overran Polixena s 
 face. "Oh, sir, you must pardon my poor girl s mis 
 take. She heard you speaking English, and and I 
 had told her to hand the letter to the handsomest for 
 eigner in the church." Tony bowed again, more pro 
 foundly. "The English Ambassador," Polixena added 
 simply, "is a very handsome man." 
 
 "I wish, madam, I were a better proxy!" 
 
 She echoed his laugh, and then clapped her hands 
 together with a look of anguish. "Fool that I am! 
 How can I jest at such a moment? I am in dreadful 
 trouble, and now perhaps I have brought trouble on 
 you also Oh, my father ! I hear my father com 
 ing!" She turned pale and leaned tremblingly upon 
 the little servant. 
 
 Footsteps and loud voices were in fact heard out 
 side, and a moment later the red-stockinged Senator 
 stalked into the room attended by half-a-dozen of the 
 magnificoes whom Tony had seen abroad in the square. 
 [295] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 At sight of him, all clapped hands to their swords 
 and burst into furious outcries; and though their 
 jargon was unintelligible to the young man, their 
 tones and gestures made their meaning unpleasantly 
 plain. The Senator, with a start of anger, first flung 
 himself on the intruder; then, snatched back by his 
 companions, turned wrathfully on his daughter, who, 
 at his feet, with outstretched arms and streaming 
 face, pleaded her cause with all the eloquence of 
 young distress. Meanwhile the other nobles gesticu 
 lated vehemently among themselves, and one, a 
 truculent-looking personage in ruff and Spanish cape, 
 stalked apart, keeping a jealous eye on Tony. The 
 latter was at his wits end how to comport himself, 
 for the lovely Polixena s tears had quite drowned her 
 few words of English, and beyond guessing that the 
 magnificoes meant him a mischief he had no notion 
 what they would be at. 
 
 At this point, luckily, his friend Count Rialto sud 
 denly broke in on the scene, and was at once assailed 
 by all the tongues in the room. He pulled a long face 
 at sight of Tony, but signed to the young man to be 
 silent, and addressed himself earnestly to the Sena 
 tor. The latter, at first, would not draw breath to hear 
 him; but presently, sobering, he walked apart with 
 the Count, and the two conversed together out of ear 
 shot. 
 
 [296] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 "My dear sir," said the Count, at length turning 
 to Tony with a perturbed countenance, "it is as I 
 feared, and you are fallen into a great misfortune." 
 
 "A great misfortune! A great trap, I call it!" 
 shouted Tony, whose blood, by this time, was boil 
 ing ; but as he uttered the word the beautiful Polixena 
 cast such a stricken look on him, that he blushed up 
 to the forehead. 
 
 "Be careful," said the Count, in a low tone. 
 "Though his Illustriousness does not speak your lan 
 guage, he understands a few words of it, and " 
 
 "So much the better!" broke in Tony; "I hope he 
 will understand me if I ask him in plain English 
 what is his grievance against me." 
 
 The Senator, at this, would have burst forth again ; 
 but the Count, stepping between, answered quickly: 
 "His grievance against you is that you have been de 
 tected in secret correspondence with his daughter, the 
 most noble Polixena Cador, the betrothed bride of 
 this gentleman, the most illustrious Marquess Zani- 
 polo " and he waved a deferential hand at the 
 frowning hidalgo of the cape and ruff. 
 
 "Sir," said Tony, "if that is the extent of my 
 offence, it lies with the young lady to set me free, 
 since by her own avowal " but here he stopped short, 
 for, to his surprise, Polixena shot a terrified glance at 
 him. 
 
 [297] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 "Sir/ interposed the Count, "we are not accus 
 tomed in Venice to take shelter behind a lady s repu 
 tation." 
 
 "No more are we in Salem," retorted Tony in a 
 white heat. "I was merely about to remark that, by 
 the young lady s avowal, she has never seen me be 
 fore." 
 
 Polixena s eyes signalled her gratitude, and he felt 
 he would have died to defend her. 
 
 The Count translated his statement, and presently 
 pursued: "His Illustriousness observes that, in that 
 case, his daughter s misconduct has been all the more 
 reprehensible." 
 
 " Her misconduct? Of what does he accuse 
 her?" 
 
 "Of sending you, just now, in the church of Saint 
 Mark, a letter which you were seen to read openly 
 and thrust in your bosom. The incident was witnessed 
 by his Illustriousness the Marquess Zanipolo, who, in 
 consequence, has already repudiated his unhappy 
 bride." 
 
 Tony stared contemptuously at the black Mar 
 quess. "If his Illustriousness is so lacking in gallantry 
 as to repudiate a lady on so trivial a pretext, it is he 
 and not I who should be the object of her father s 
 resentment." 
 
 "That, my dear young gentleman, is hardly for 
 [298] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 you to decide. Your only excuse being your ignorance 
 of our customs, it is scarcely for you to advise us how 
 to behave in matters of punctilio." 
 
 It seemed to Tony as though the Count was going 
 over to his enemies, and the thought sharpened his 
 retort. 
 
 "I had supposed/ said he, "that men of sense had 
 much the same behaviour in all countries, and that, 
 here as elsewhere, a gentleman would be taken at his 
 word. I solemnly affirm that the letter I was seen to 
 read reflects in no way on the honour of this young 
 lady, and has in fact nothing to do with what you 
 suppose." 
 
 As he had himself no notion what the letter 
 was about, this was as far as he dared commit him 
 self. 
 
 There was another brief consultation in the oppos 
 ing camp, and the Count then said: "We all know, 
 sir, that a gentleman is obliged to meet certain in 
 quiries by a denial; but you have at your command 
 the means of immediately clearing the lady. Will you 
 show the letter to her father?" 
 
 There was a perceptible pause, during which Tony, 
 while appearing to look straight before him, managed 
 to deflect an interrogatory glance toward Polixena. 
 Her reply was a faint negative motion, accompanied 
 by unmistakable signs of apprehension. 
 [299] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 "Poor girl!" he thought, "she is in a worse case 
 than I imagined, and whatever happens I must keep 
 her secret." 
 
 He turned to the Senator with a deep bow. "I am 
 not," said he, "in the habit of showing my private 
 correspondence to strangers." 
 
 The Count interpreted these words, and Donna 
 Polixena s father, dashing his hand on his hilt, broke 
 into furious invective, while the Marquess continued 
 to nurse his outraged feelings aloof. 
 
 The Count shook his head funereally. "Alas, sir, it 
 is as I feared. This is not the first time that youth 
 and propinquity have led to fatal imprudence. But I 
 need hardly, I suppose, point out the obligation in 
 cumbent upon you as a man of honour." 
 
 Tony stared at him haughtily, with a look which 
 was meant for the Marquess. "And what obligation 
 is that?" 
 
 "To repair the wrong you have done in other 
 words, to marry the lady." 
 
 Polixena at this burst into tears, and Tony said 
 to himself: "Why in heaven does she not bid me show 
 the letter ?" Then he remembered that it had no super 
 scription, and that the words it contained, supposing 
 them to have been addressed to himself, were hardly 
 of a nature to disarm suspicion. The sense of the girl s 
 grave plight effaced all thought of his own risk, but 
 [ 300] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 the Count s last words struck him as so preposterous 
 that he could not repress a smile. 
 
 "I cannot flatter myself/ said he, "that the lady 
 would welcome this solution." 
 
 The Count s manner became increasingly cere 
 monious. "Such modesty," he said, "becomes your 
 youth and inexperience; but even if it were justified 
 it would scarcely alter the case, as it is always as 
 sumed in this country that a young lady wishes to 
 marry the man whom her father has selected." 
 
 "But I understand just now," Tony interposed, "that 
 the gentleman yonder was in that enviable position." 
 
 "So he was, till circumstances obliged him to waive 
 the privilege in your favour." 
 
 "He does me too much honour; but if a deep sense 
 of my un worthiness obliges me to decline " 
 
 "You are still," interrupted the Count, "labouring 
 tinder a misapprehension. Your choice in the matter 
 is no more to be consulted than the lady s. Not to put 
 too fine a point on it, it is necessary that you should 
 marry her within the hour." 
 
 Tony, at this, for all his spirit, felt the blood run 
 thin in his veins. He looked in silence at the threat 
 ening visages between himself and the door, stole a 
 side-glance at the high barred windows of the apart 
 ment, and then turned to Polixena, who had fallen 
 sobbing at her father s feet. 
 [301] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 "And if I refuse?" said he. 
 
 The Count made a significant gesture. "I am not 
 so foolish as to threaten a man of your mettle. But 
 perhaps you are unaware what the consequences would 
 be to the lady." 
 
 Polixena, at this, struggling to her feet, addressed 
 a few impassioned words to the Count and her father ; 
 but the latter put her aside with an obdurate gesture. 
 
 The Count turned to Tony. "The lady herself 
 pleads for you at what cost you do not guess but 
 as you see it is vain. In an hour his Illustriousness s 
 chaplain will be here. Meanwhile his Illustriousness 
 consents to leave you in the custody of your be 
 trothed." 
 
 He stepped back, and the other gentlemen, bow 
 ing with deep ceremony to Tony, stalked out one by 
 one from the room. Tony heard the key turn in the 
 lock, and found himself alone with Polixena. 
 
 Ill 
 
 THE girl had sunk into a chair, her face hid 
 den, a picture of shame and agony. So moving 
 was the sight that Tony once again forgot his own 
 extremity in the view of her distress. He went 
 [302] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 and kneeled beside her, drawing her hands from her 
 face. 
 
 "Oh, don t make me look at you!" she sobbed; but 
 it was on his bosom that she hid from his gaze. He 
 held her there a breathing-space, as he might have 
 clasped a weeping child; then she drew back and put 
 him gently from her. 
 
 "What humiliation!" she lamented. 
 
 "Do you think I blame you for what has hap 
 pened ?" 
 
 "Alas, was it not my foolish letter that brought 
 you to this plight ? And how nobly you defended me ! 
 How generous it was of you not to show the letter! 
 If my father knew I had written to the Ambassador 
 to save me from this dreadful marriage his anger 
 against me would be even greater." 
 
 "Ah it was that you wrote for?" cried Tony with 
 unaccountable relief. 
 
 "Of course what else did you think?" 
 
 "But is it too late for the Ambassador to save 
 you?" 
 
 "From you?" A smile flashed through her tears. 
 "Alas, yes." She drew back and hid her face again, 
 as though overcome by a fresh wave of shame. 
 
 Tony glanced about him. "If I could wrench a bar 
 out of that window " he muttered. 
 
 "Impossible ! The court is guarded. You are a pris- 
 [303] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 oner, alas. Oh, I must speak!" She sprang up and 
 paced the room. "But indeed you can scarce think 
 worse of me than you do already " 
 
 "I think ill of you?" 
 
 "Alas, you must! To be unwilling to marry the 
 man my father has chosen for me " 
 
 "Such a beetle-browed lout! It would be a burn 
 ing shame if you married him." 
 
 "Ah, you come from a free country. Here a girl is 
 allowed no choice." 
 
 "It is infamous, I say infamous !" 
 
 "No, no I ought to have resigned myself, like so 
 many others." 
 
 "Resigned yourself to that brute! Impossible!" 
 
 "He has a dreadful name for violence his gon 
 dolier has told my little maid such tales of him! But 
 why do I talk of myself, when it is of you I should 
 be thinking?" 
 
 "Of me, poor child?" cried Tony, losing his head. 
 
 "Yes, and how to save you for I can save you! 
 But every moment counts and yet what I have to 
 say is so dreadful." 
 
 "Nothing from your lips could seem dreadful." 
 
 "Ah, if he had had your way of speaking!" 
 
 "Well, now at least you are free of him," said 
 Tony, a little wildly; but at this she stood up and 
 bent a grave look on him. 
 
 [304] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 "No, I am not free/ she said; "but you are, if you 
 will do as I tell you." 
 
 Tony, at this, felt a sudden dizziness; as though, 
 from a mad flight through clouds and darkness, he had 
 dropped to safety again, and the fall had stunned him. 
 
 "What am I to do?" he said. 
 
 "Look away from me, or I can never tell you." 
 
 He thought at first that this was a jest, but her 
 eyes commanded him, and reluctantly he walked away 
 and leaned in the embrasure of the window. She stood 
 in the middle of the room, and as soon as his back 
 was turned she began to speak in a quick monotonous 
 voice, as though she were reciting a lesson. 
 
 "You must know that the Marquess Zanipolo, 
 though a great noble, is not a rich man. True, he 
 has large estates, but he is a desperate spendthrift 
 and gambler, and would sell his soul for a round sum 
 of ready money. If you turn round I shall not go 
 on! He wrangled horribly with my father over my 
 dowry he wanted me to have more than either of 
 my sisters, though one married a Procurator and the 
 other a grandee of Spain. But my father is a gambler 
 too oh, such fortunes as are squandered over the 
 arcade yonder! And so and so don t turn, I im 
 plore you oh, do you begin to see my meaning?" 
 
 She broke off sobbing, and it took all his strength 
 to keep his eyes from her. 
 
 [ 305 ] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 "Go on," he said. 
 
 "Will you not understand? Oh, I would say any 
 thing to save you! You don t know us Venetians 
 we re all to be bought for a price. It is not only the 
 brides who are marketable sometimes the husbands 
 sell themselves too. And they think you rich my 
 father does, and the others I don t know why, un 
 less you have shown your money too freely and the 
 English are all rich, are they not? And oh, oh do 
 you understand? Oh, I can t bear your eyes!" 
 
 She dropped into a chair, her head on her arms, 
 and Tony in a flash was at her side. 
 
 "My poor child, my poor Polixena !" he cried, and 
 wept and clasped her. 
 
 "You are rich, are you not? You would promise 
 them a ransom?" she persisted. 
 
 "To enable you to marry the Marquess?" 
 
 "To enable you to escape from this place. Oh, I 
 hope I may never see your face again." She fell to 
 weeping once more, and he drew away and paced the 
 floor in a fever. 
 
 Presently she sprang up with a fresh air of reso 
 lution, and pointed to a clock against the wall. "The 
 hour is nearly over. It is quite true that my 
 father is gone to fetch his chaplain. Oh, I im 
 plore you, be warned by me! There is no other 
 way of escape." 
 
 [306] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 "And if I do as you say ?" 
 
 "You are safe! You are free! I stake my life 
 on it." 
 
 "And you you are married to that villain?" 
 
 "But I shall have saved you. Tell me your name, 
 that I may say it to myself when I am alone." 
 
 "My name is Anthony. But you must not marry 
 that fellow." 
 
 "You forgive me, Anthony? You don t think too 
 badly of me?" 
 
 "I say you must not marry that fellow." 
 
 She laid a trembling hand on his arm. "Time 
 presses," she adjured him, "and I warn you there is 
 no other way." 
 
 For a moment he had a vision of his mother, sit 
 ting very upright, on a Sunday evening, reading Dr. 
 Tillotson s sermons in the best parlour at Salem; then 
 he swung round on the girl and caught both her hands 
 in his. "Yes, there is," he cried, "if you are willing. 
 Polixena, let the priest come !" 
 
 
 
 She shrank back from him, white and radiant. "Oh, 
 hush, be silent !" she said. 
 
 "I am no noble Marquess, and have no great es 
 tates," he cried. "My father is a plain India merchant 
 in the colony of Massachusetts but if you " 
 
 "Oh, hush, I say! I don t know what your long 
 words mean. But I bless you, bless you, bless you on 
 [307] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 my knees!" And she knelt before him, and fell to- 
 kissing his hands. 
 
 He drew her up to his breast and held her there. 
 
 "You are willing, Polixena?" he said. 
 
 "No, no!" She broke from him with outstretched 
 hands. "I am not willing. You mistake me. I must 
 marry the Marquess, I tell you !" 
 
 "On my money?" he taunted her; and her burning 
 blush rebuked him. 
 
 "Yes, on your money," she said sadly. 
 
 "Why? Because, much as you hate him, you hate 
 me still more?" 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 "If you hate me, why do you sacrifice yourself for 
 me?" he persisted. 
 
 "You torture me! And I tell you the hour is past." 
 
 "Let it pass. I ll not accept your sacrifice. I will 
 not lift a finger to help another man to marry you." 
 
 "Oh, madman, madman!" she murmured. 
 
 Tony, with crossed arms, faced her squarely, and 
 she leaned against the wall a few feet off from him. 
 Her breast throbbed under its lace and falbalas, and 
 her eyes swam with terror and entreaty. 
 
 "Polixena, I love you !" he cried. 
 
 A blush swept over her throat and bosom, bathing 
 her in light to the verge of her troubled brows. 
 
 "I love you ! I love you !" he repeated. 
 [308] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 And now she was on his breast again, and all their 
 youth was in their lips. But her embrace was as fleet 
 ing as a bird s poise,, and before he knew it he clasped 
 empty air and half the room was between them. 
 
 She was holding up a little coral charm and laugh 
 ing. "I took it from your fob," she said. "It is of no 
 value, is it? And I shall not get any of the money, 
 you know." 
 
 She continued to laugh strangely, and the rouge 
 burned like fire in her ashen face. 
 
 "What are you talking of?" he said. 
 
 "They never give me anything but the clothes I 
 wear. And I shall never see you again, Anthony !" She 
 gave him a dreadful look. "Oh, my poor boy, my poor 
 love / love you, I love you, Polixena! 
 
 He thought she had turned light-headed, and ad 
 vanced to her with soothing words ; but she held him 
 quietly at arm s length, and as he gazed he read the 
 truth in her face. 
 
 He fell back from her, and a sob broke from him 
 *as he bowed his head on his hands. 
 
 "Only, for God s sake, have the money ready, or 
 there may be foul play here," she said. 
 
 As she spoke there was a great tramping of steps 
 outside and a burst of voices on the threshold. 
 
 "It is all a lie," she gasped out, "about my mar 
 riage, and the Marquess, and the Ambassador, and 
 [309] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 the Senator but not, oh, not about your danger in 
 this place or about my love," she breathed to him. 
 And as the key rattled in the door she laid her lips 
 on his brow. 
 
 The key rattled, and the door swung open but 
 the black-cassocked gentleman who stepped in, though 
 a priest indeed, was no votary of idolatrous rites, but 
 that sound orthodox divine, the Reverend Ozias 
 Mounce, looking very much perturbed at his surround 
 ings, and very much on the alert for the Scarlet 
 Woman. He was supported, to his evident relief, by 
 the captain of the Hepzibah B., and the procession 
 was closed by an escort of stern-looking fellows in 
 cocked hats and small-swords, who led between them 
 Tony s late friends the magnificoes, now as sorry a 
 looking company as the law ever landed in her net. 
 
 The captain strode briskly into the room, uttering a 
 grunt of satisfaction as he clapped eyes on Tony. 
 
 "So, Mr. Bracknell," said he, "you have been see 
 ing the Carnival with this pack of mummers, have 
 you? And this is where your pleasuring has landed 
 you? H m a pretty establishment, and a pretty lady 
 at the head of it." He glanced about the apartment, 
 and doffed his hat with mock ceremony to Polixena, 
 who faced him like a princess. 
 
 "Why, my girl," said he, amicably, "I think I saw 
 you this morning in the square, on the arm of the 
 [310] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 Pantaloon yonder; and as for that Captain Spa- 
 vent " and he pointed a derisive finger at the Mar 
 quess "I ve watched him drive his bully s trade 
 under the arcade ever since I first dropped anchor in 
 these waters. Well, well," he continued, his indigna 
 tion subsiding, "all s fair in Carnival, I suppose, but 
 this gentleman here is under sailing orders, and I 
 fear we must break up your little party." 
 
 At this Tony saw Count Rialto step forward, look 
 ing very small and explanatory, and uncovering 
 obsequiously to the captain. 
 
 "I can assure you, sir," said the Count in his best 
 English, "that this incident is the result of an un 
 fortunate misunderstanding, and if you will oblige 
 us by dismissing these myrmidons, any of my friends 
 here will be happy to offer satisfaction to Mr. Brack- 
 nell and his companions." 
 
 Mr. Mounce shrank visibly at this, and the captain 
 burst into a loud guffaw. 
 
 "Satisfaction?" says he. "Why, my cock, that s 
 very handsome of you, considering the rope s at your 
 throats. But we ll not take advantage of your gener 
 osity, for I fear Mr. Bracknell has already trespassed 
 on it too long. You pack of galley-slaves, you!" he 
 spluttered suddenly, "decoying young innocents with 
 that devil s bait of yours " His eye fell on Polixena, 
 and his voice softened unaccountably. "Ah, well, we 
 [811] 
 
A VENETIAN NIGHT 
 
 must all see the Carnival once, I suppose," he said. 
 "All s well that ends well, as the fellow says in the 
 play; and now, if you please, Mr. Bracknell, if you ll 
 take the reverend gentleman s arm there, we ll bid 
 adieu to our hospitable entertainers, and right about 
 face for the Hepzibah." 
 
 [312] 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 DEC 1 2 1966 7 6 
 
 no 1 1 W9 
 
 
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 RECEIVED 
 
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 JAN 
 
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 UL 1 187| 
 
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