AWJ 
 
 JUl 3 N GORDON
 

 
 OTHER NOVELS BY JULIEN GORDON. 
 
 Poppcea. 
 
 A Diplomat's Diary. A Successful Man. 
 
 Vampires, and Mademoiselle Reseda. 
 
 Two stories in one book. 
 
 I2mo. Cloth, $ i. oo per volume. 
 A Diplomat's Diary. Paper, 50 cents.
 
 A WEDDING 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER STORIES 
 
 J 
 
 u 
 
 " Poppeea" " A Diplomat's Diary " 
 "A Successful Man" "Vampires" 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 J. E. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1895, 
 
 BY 
 J. GRINNELL CRUGER. 
 
 ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.
 
 Contents 
 
 . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A WEDDING 7 
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 21 
 
 MORNING MISTS 108 
 
 CONQUERED 144 
 
 RAKING STRAWS 172 
 
 THE MOUJIK 230 
 
 222S355
 
 A Wedding 
 
 SHE used to keep him waiting a half-hour or more. 
 Then she tripped in, stumbling over her gown, a 
 pink, loose thing, drawn in by a silken cord about her 
 hips ; her hair piled up a trifle hastily, caught in its 
 blond tortoise-shell comb ; stretching her arms ; yawn- 
 ing under those white eyelids, a little swollen from sleep. 
 
 " Dear me ! oh, deary me !" she would say to him. 
 " I danced so late, so late !" 
 
 He, in the mean while, had sat at the piano in the 
 blue-and-gold ball-room, fuming, fretting, impatient, 
 with his great patience. The belated servants, always 
 taken unawares, always apologetic, hurrying : " Quick ! 
 quick ! shut the window ! Monsieur will be cold. 
 Miss will be down in a minute, sir. Quick !" A maid 
 at the open casement, staring at the street, would turn, 
 in deprecation. The man who made the fires would 
 come in with an armful of chips and papers, blowing on 
 his fingers, tightly grasping his burden. He would 
 kneel at the splendid grate, strike his match, and watch 
 for a moment the blue flame tremble upwards and as- 
 cend ; then he would shuffle out, on his carpet slippers, 
 returning directly with the huge logs. By and by a 
 warmth would glow, a redolent flame. Some fading 
 
 7
 
 8 A WEDDING 
 
 roses filled the apartment with a searching, sad fra- 
 grance, and the morning sun of a new day streamed 
 through the looped, rich curtainings, with its promises 
 and its forebodings. Sometimes there had been a dance 
 here the night before. There would be trailed debris 
 of lace or tulle, torn from a girl's floating dress ; a 
 flower fallen and crushed from a woman's bosom lying 
 still unswept on the floor's polished surface. The 
 memory of a lost waltz lingered ; a lamp half turned 
 out blinked forgotten ; drops of wax under the chande- 
 liers ; an empty wineglass on the mantel-shelf ; a torn 
 glove, hastily left on a chair ; a fan, half open, on a 
 window-seat. One could almost imagine one heard soft 
 whisperings, remnants of merriment, a sigh as of 
 youth. 
 
 By and by the butler would appear in the door-way, 
 correct, pompous, rosy from his ablutions, freshly 
 shaven : 
 
 "Miss Nina will be down in a moment, sir. She 
 bid me say, sir, she overslept." 
 
 Overslept ! He liked the word. She, Aurora ! She 
 who might well have touched the lip of Tithonus with 
 benign gift of immortality. Aurora ! late and a little 
 weary ! 
 
 He liked to think about those slumbers : that sweet, 
 fair face on the lace pillow ; those girlish hands a little 
 blue and red with cold, their skin a trifle roughened, 
 those hands over which Love had hardly breathed, had 
 never passed, Love the vampire which sucks the blood 
 away and leaves a pallor> 
 
 Once she had written him a note, and she had mis- 
 spelled a word, a pornmon, easy word she should have 
 known. Qh, adorable ! How dear is a weakness in 
 one we love ! So he had said to himself in the wretched
 
 WEDDING 9 
 
 garret he called his home, while he lighted his tallow 
 candle to read her message over and sipped his beer 
 and munched his beef and bread. 
 
 He hadn't many scholars. That was why he could 
 afford to wait for them they dallied with his time 
 cruelly why he could prolong his lessons long after 
 the hour, taking in each and all of his pupils a profound, 
 conscientious, individual interest. 
 
 He was a poor Polish Hebrew. He had a big nose, 
 small dark-blue eyes, and nervous lips. His clothes 
 were shabby, and he wore glasses, and his hair was 
 greasy and thick. He was about thirty years old. He 
 was getting along, but success had been tardy, nay, was 
 not yet here. He was very ugly, poor Grimowsky, but 
 he had a soul of fire. It awoke in his glance some- 
 times ; it shook his hands when he played. It seized 
 his listeners, such of them at least as had imagination. 
 
 It didn't say much to Nina. Nina hated music. 
 Nina was a very practical young woman. She liked to 
 go to the opera. There, sitting by her handsome 
 mother in the glare of the lights, in her white frock, 
 with a silver butterfly in her hair, she listened pensively 
 her eyes at least were pensive to the woes of Tristan 
 and Isolde, or laughed at the great dragon's mouth 
 which hurled its fumes on Siegfried's golden hair. She 
 would whisper behind her fan then to her boy admirers 
 that she ' ' adored Wagner. ' ' 
 
 But this was so different. This was a task. Mr. 
 Grimowsky was cross because she did not know her 
 lesson. She never knew it. They used to hunt all 
 over and about the piano for the book. It was always 
 lost. 
 
 " How can one learn when the book is lost?" 
 
 "The scales? Yes," she could play them. Then
 
 10 A WED DIN 
 
 she would begin, up and down, up and down, with 
 stiff fingers. 
 
 "Exercises? Oh, bother! Yes," she "remem- 
 bered the old ones." 
 
 By and by she would look up and at him : 
 
 "To-day, to-day you must play for me. The next 
 time I will do better." 
 
 Then in despair he would take her seat, open the new 
 sonata, cantata, barcarolle, say a few words as to its 
 motif, meaning, merit, while she listened with eyes on 
 the ceiling, absently. Then he would begin. 
 
 She liked this best because she could sit on the sofa 
 and think her own thoughts. What were they ? While 
 his heart beat to the pulsation of the measure, his being 
 vibrated to divine melodies, for was he not near her? 
 she remembered that Sally Graves was coming to 
 breakfast, and that she must be at her dress-maker's at 
 one o'clock, and that to-night there was the dinner and 
 
 the ball, and Oh, heavens ! she had forgotten to 
 
 tell her maid about her gray boots ; and she wanted to 
 wear her gray gown. What should she do ? what should 
 she do ? for the pink cashmere that rose and fell on 
 that soft, virginal breast hid no mystery and no dream. 
 
 So these two sat together for an hour, miles apart. 
 He had never a thought or a desire that could have 
 disturbed her maiden modesty, although he thought of 
 her always, and she thought of him no more than she 
 did of Sally Graves and the dress-maker, those neces- 
 sary adjuncts of an idle day. The dinner, the ball, 
 were autre chose. 
 
 Here crept in Vanity, with its flutter. She knew 
 herself to be charming in the gray tulle. 
 
 " 'Pon my honor," Larry Lathrop had said to her as 
 he took her hand in the cotillon, " you're a stunner in
 
 A WEDDING II 
 
 that gown." And Larry Lathrop knew what he was 
 about : all the women and the girls said that he did. 
 Nina had a large belief in public opinion. She was 
 conservative. It is a safe womanly trait. 
 
 One day Grimowsky, punctual to the appointed hour, 
 found an unusual stir and unrest in the house. At her 
 last lesson she had been more than usually indifferent, 
 starting at sounds, with a note in her breast and some 
 lilies in her lap, and the lesson had languished, and 
 he had shaken his head at her, and she had thrown hers 
 back and laughed. 
 
 ' ' You look so funny, cross, like that, ' ' she had said. 
 
 Then he, too, had laughed, but less merrily. There 
 was always a tear drowned somewhere in Grimowsky' s 
 laughter. How well I remember his smile, and his 
 shiny redingote, and his roll of music ! 
 
 Well, as I say, one morning there seemed to be some- 
 thing in the air, as the French say. The ball-room, 
 where the grand piano stood, opened on a library, a 
 sumptuous apartment, filled with its wisdom and its 
 luxury. Through the open door Grimowsky heard a 
 sound of voices and saw that there were several persons 
 gathered there, Nina's father, with his round geniality, 
 and her beautiful, graceful, stately mamma, a little lan- 
 guid, a little worn, not much, in the cruel, self-re- 
 vealing light of morn. Those traces of laughter and 
 of weeping that the years leave, that the day reveals, 
 the kindly night effaces. Often where the world claimed 
 them, Nina and her mother, people turned and asked, 
 "Sisters?" and the older woman's heart would swell 
 with satisfaction. " A little longer," she would think. 
 
 To-day the mother was alert, interested, almost eager, 
 while in the father's keen eyes shone a gleam of doubt 
 and of annoyance, and his forehead was puckered as if
 
 12 A WEDDING 
 
 with a suggestion of anxiety. This is natural. The 
 mother has her ambition, the father only his love. 
 
 There was Mr. Parks, the family solicitor, with his 
 assistant, and another lawyer was there, a German 
 Hercules with Americanized gutturals, and a heavy 
 voice, and a cold in his head. Every time he blew his 
 nose Nina's father frowned angrily. They were talk- 
 ing audibly, as well-bred persons do, with whom in- 
 feriors do not count, and whose motto is that the only 
 prudence is not to be afraid, a tenet as wise for the 
 drawing-room as for the battle-field. 
 
 Nina slipped into the room where Grimowsky sat 
 waiting. "I'll come directly," she said, with a wave of 
 her hand, and then swiftly moved to the library door 
 on tiptoe and listened, listened with avidity, and with 
 a gleam of curious wonderment. She came back just a 
 little breathless from what she had heard, and then 
 turn, turn, turn, and turn, turn, turn, and 
 
 "Oh, deary me! oh, deary me! I have forgotten 
 all I ever knew !' ' And her lovely lip quivered with 
 the wearisomeness of it all. 
 
 The next time he came, a strange thing had hap- 
 pened. Nina was in the room before him. Yes, in 
 the room, dressed not in the pink gown, but in a walk- 
 ing-costume and a velvet toque, and . . . she was not 
 alone. With her there was a man. Grimowsky looked 
 at him. He was the handsomest male creature he had 
 ever seen. They were sitting together on a stiff Louis 
 Seize sofa in front of the mirror, in which their two 
 heads were reflected, her brown and his yellow one. 
 He was leaning towards her. The sofa was a very long 
 one, and a couple of yards of its figured tapestries 
 stretched between them. He had his cane and hat 
 across his knees, and was bending forward with an ex-
 
 A WEDDING 13 
 
 pression half of admiration and half of amusement on 
 his regular, clear-cut features. She was looking down 
 at the point of her walking-boot, with a shy coquetry 
 furtively suggested in her attitude. He was speaking 
 earnestly, but when Grimowsky came in he stopped. 
 
 ' ' Do I disturb you ?' ' said the music-master. He 
 had a harsh voice which only to the ear of sympathy 
 revealed its note of pathos. 
 
 The stranger rose, bowed, said a few more words 
 very low over Nina's hand, twirled his golden mous- 
 tache, murmured, "A ce soir, mademoiselle," and left 
 the room. 
 
 As he backed out, not ungracefully, she called out 
 after him, 
 
 " He's got to let you wear your uniform, you know, 
 or I won't be present." 
 
 Nina took her lesson in silence. It was in the news- 
 paper the next morning, which he read on the ferry- 
 boat of the foggy, dirty river across which he came 
 daily to his scholars, that Mr. Grimowsky discovered 
 the announcement that the Baron Carl von Staube 
 
 would shortly wed the fair daughter of Mr. . It 
 
 was further elucidated that the young lady had danced 
 twice with the young gentleman at Hombourg the 
 previous summer, and that she had returned to Amer- 
 ica and thought of him no more, but that he had re- 
 membered and followed her. And then there was a 
 list of the bridemaidens, and that question of utmost 
 import as to whether the young gentleman's Emperor 
 would permit him to wear his uniform at his approach- 
 ing marriage, that gorgeous military plumage which 
 he sported on the other side of the water and before 
 which women succumbed. Everything must now be 
 in suspense until this momentous doubt was met. 
 
 2
 
 14 A WEDDING 
 
 f 
 Well, Grimowsky read, and he went on his way, and 
 
 he gave his lessons, and he played to his pupils, fer- 
 vently, despairingly ; and he stumbled home and up 
 his garret stairs, where we will not follow him. 
 
 When he went to her the last time she said a word 
 to him. 
 
 " It is next Thursday," she said, " next Thursday. 
 And here, I have brought you a card," and she 
 pulled a bit of pasteboard from her belt, " because, you 
 see, Mr. Grimowsky, I want you to have a good place. 
 Every one is going who takes any interest in me ; 
 everybody, the servants, even. They want to see. 
 There's going to be an immense crush. There will 
 be ten bridesmaids, and they'll wear pink veils, and 
 
 Car 1 mean Baron von Staube will wear his uniform. 
 
 The Emperor cabled. It was kind of him. It is su- 
 perb. And now," she continued, " if you will excuse 
 me, I will not take my lesson to-day. Good-by, good- 
 by ! Don't forget your bad, bad pupil. You will not, 
 will you ?' ' 
 
 He said, "No, I won't forget," and he took the 
 card from her hand. And then something came over 
 him, a great yearning, a sickness, and, for the first 
 time in his life, he lifted his eyes and they met hers. 
 
 What did she see in their melancholy depths? It 
 must have been something that shook her heart, for 
 even over that thin and flippant nature there blew a 
 faint intuition of pain, of a suffering so terrible, so 
 acute, so hopeless, that she moved uneasily a few steps 
 away from him, her lovely, candid eyes still resting 
 upon his. 
 
 " Don't you like ... to ... to come?" she said. 
 "I thought . . . I hoped . . ." 
 
 "Yes," he said, shortly, " I will come."
 
 A WEDDING 15 
 
 She sped across the parquet to the door. When she 
 reached its threshold, some impulse, forever unex- 
 plained, forced her back to him. He was standing as 
 she had left him, his arms hanging by his side, the roll 
 of music he had brought grasped in his knotty fingers, 
 and he looked so poor, so forlorn, so lonely, that the 
 girl felt a sudden pity rise and surge in her unawakened 
 heart. She faltered a minute, and then she came to him 
 quickly. 
 
 "Say good-by to me, monsieur," she said, gently. 
 ' ' Take my hand. ' ' 
 
 He took it in his own, and then his face was con- 
 vulsed with an expression which she had never seen 
 before on any countenance. The sunken eyes grew 
 sombre, the lips contracted, and the lines deepened on 
 those thin, pale cheeks. 
 
 Did Nina understand ? Who shall say ? She was a 
 woman. In a moment he had dropped her hand and 
 she was gone. 
 
 It was a brave affair. So said the tiptoeing crowd, 
 the smart ladies in their dainty finery, the ushers in 
 their frock-coats, with their gardenia flowers, my lady's 
 maid in the gallery and my gentleman's valet on the 
 stairs. And he, handsome Titan, wore the uniform, 
 with its epaulettes, its sword, and its casque. 
 
 His own feelings were mingled. He was bored to 
 death, and at the same time relieved. She was a dear 
 /little thing, and pretty ; and it was so much better to 
 be married in America, where Meline could not come 
 and make a fuss, mayhap forbid the banns or disturb 
 the ceremony. By the time they went back she would 
 have made up her mind. She had always been un- 
 reasonable and violent. He was well out of that. And,
 
 1 6 A WEDDING 
 
 then, this income. God ! what a comfort, to be able 
 to settle his debts at last, snub his creditors, hold up 
 his head at the club, and put a new roof on his leaky 
 paternal domain ! So, on the whole, he was well 
 pleased. And then there was the moral side. His 
 parents were enchanted. This gave him agreeable 
 titillations of virtue. They hadn't liked Meline. Ah, 
 yes, the moral. Morality was always excellent. 
 
 Who Meline was is not our business. She does not 
 belong to this narrative. Stern moralists will probably 
 consider it fortunate. 
 
 At three o'clock the young couple, deluged with rice 
 and slippers and flowers, pelted, tormented, kissed, and 
 wept over, waved their last wave through the carriage 
 window, James and Thomas shivering on the box, in 
 their furs, with an anomaly of white violets and ribbons 
 on their breasts. They started on that long journey 
 to which the priest had said to them that the grave 
 alone should cry, " Halt !" 
 
 But its first resting-place was nigh. They were less 
 than an hour in the train, and then a short drive 
 brought them to a secluded bower, the country home 
 of a near relative, where the honeymoon was to be 
 enjoyed. 
 
 There are various opinions as to the pleasures of a 
 honeymoon. There exist cynics who say, ' ' Peut-tre. ' ' 
 
 Everything here, however, looked very fair. The 
 bride so charming in her taut travelling-apparel, the 
 groom only a little less handsome and valiant in his ele- 
 gant, Astrakan-lined and -collared coat, than he had 
 been at the altar. His polished nails glinted as he 
 pulled off his driving-gloves to help his young wife 
 alight from the platform of the train. People looked 
 out at them and said, "They are beautiful."
 
 A WEDDING I? 
 
 A maid, sent on before in an earlier train, met her 
 mistress with the other servants at the house door, and 
 the young woman asked permission to ascend for a 
 moment to the room allotted her before she should join 
 her new master for a ramble in the grounds. The din- 
 ner would not be served for several hours ; there was 
 plenty of time for her to rest, to take breath after this 
 wonderful day. 
 
 He gallantly raised her fingers to his lips, lingered a 
 moment, lighted a cigarette, and they parted for the 
 first time since they had been made one. 
 
 "Miss Nina, I beg your pardon, madam," said 
 the English maid, blushing, ' ' I have got something to 
 give you that a messenger-man brought to-day. He 
 gave it to me, miss madam, and he said no one must 
 have it but you, and you must have it before evening." 
 
 She fumbled in the open mouth of a leather golden- 
 monogrammed travelling-bag, and brought forth a 
 small parcel. It was wrapped in a clean white paper 
 and tied with a piece of string. It was directed to 
 Baroness von Staube, and Nina read her new name 
 with pride and some excitement. ' ' How pretty !' ' she 
 thought. ' ' I am a married woman. How funny ! I 
 like it, though. But what can this be?" 
 
 Somewhat dazed and fatigued from the morning's 
 agitation, she dismissed her maid, saying she wished 
 to be alone and would rest by the window a half-hour. 
 She took off her hat and sank in a low arm-chair. In 
 the grate burned a bright fire. 
 
 And, because she had nothing better to do, she 
 began to untie the parcel indolently. It was a col- 
 lection of papers of various sizes on which a cramped 
 hand had traced many words. The first thing that she 
 read was this poem : 
 
 b 2*
 
 1 8 A WEDDING 
 
 C'est Vange envole que je pleure, , 
 
 Qui m'eveillait en me baisant 
 Dans des songes eclos a I 'heure 
 
 De I'etoile et du ver luisant. 
 
 Toi, quifus un si doux mystere, 
 
 Fanldme triste et gracieux, 
 Pourquoi venais-tu sur la terre 
 
 Comme les anges sont aux deux ? 
 
 Pourquoi, dans ces plaisirs sans nombre, 
 
 Oublis du terrestre sejour, 
 Ombre reveuse, aimai-je une ombre 
 
 Infidele & I'aube du jour? 
 
 She read at first curiously, then interested, and at 
 last ardently with parted lips and heaving bosom. 
 These are some of the words she read. They were all 
 in French, but we will give them here as best we can 
 in her own tongue : 
 
 " Those bitter-sweet grapes, thy lips, hang just above 
 me. I would not touch them if I could. It is enough 
 for me to divine the savor of thy breath, the red that 
 lies on the corner of thy mouth. Thy mouth ! Sweet 
 harmony, sweet wild flower, ripened for heaven's kiss. 
 Thy image floats before me like the mirage in a desert 
 land of silent woods and sleeping waters. Why hide 
 thyself in mists ? I know thee all. When thou sleep- 
 est I wake. 
 
 " I tremble drinking bitter delights. Oh, what agony 
 grasps my soul ! 
 
 "Thy beauty is like the sound of the hours at night 
 stepping softly, softly, masked in shadows. Let its 
 cadences lull thee to enchanted shores. Oh, cruel, 
 cruel, soulless child ! Will thy heart forever sleep ? 
 Have the gods no pity for tired things, that they so
 
 A WEDDING 19 
 
 wring my heart while thou art sleeping like an infant in 
 its mother's arms ? 
 
 ' ' I was trembling, dazzled, but you saw it not. I 
 cannot read your thoughts ; I am too dull, too old. 
 But, though I may be old with want and poverty and 
 despair, near you, mademoiselle, I have sometimes felt 
 like a god ; for the hunger to possess is animal, but the 
 thirst to be possessed is godlike. And this is all I ask, 
 that you should possess me. What madness to have 
 loved you so if I could not even know your thought ! 
 This evening I am thinking of thy laughter, shaken 
 from roses. How gay and joyous a thing it rings ! It 
 
 fills my poor room. Sometimes thy eyes are sad 
 
 or do I only fancy this ! Oh, beautiful eyes and soft 
 laughter, that come to me in my dreams ! 
 
 ' ' I played to you, and you listened. When I had 
 finished, mademoiselle, you said, 'Ah ! that is nice,' 
 and I had given you my soul. Was that kind ? Could 
 you find no better word ? none ? That was a cold word. 
 I know you are only a child pardon ! Do I really 
 love you? Ask the tides, the winds, the waves, the 
 storms. I cannot answer you ; for I am lost. How 
 weary the saved must be in that heaven where thou art 
 not, my beloved ! Oh, Nina, Nina ! I fear thy foot- 
 step, I fear thy hand, which I seek in the darkness. I 
 listen for thy voice which calls me. I have no courage. 
 Thy breath burns my cheek. It is not Death. It is 
 all-conquering love. But I would not harm or touch 
 thee, dear. I would not dare no, not a touch. Only 
 a sigh, a thought. Why do I live, Nina? I, ugly 
 worm, and thou so beautiful and fresh. Oh, thy 
 beauty !" . . . 
 
 And thus on more and more she read and she read, 
 this new Eve whom the serpent had found idling under
 
 80 A WEDDING 
 
 her boughs. And then there was a brisk step, and a 
 whistle, and a hand upon the door-knob. 
 
 "Well, my little birdling," he said, opening the 
 door with a vanquishing gesture half impatient and 
 half amused, "well, / wait." 
 
 But to Nina an unknown tongue had spoken. It had 
 spoken. She had listened. She thought it sweet. 
 For the first time she had been touched by the hidden 
 springs of passion. Her cheeks were aflame. 
 
 She thrust the papers into her bosom, turning angrily 
 at this disturbance. Who was this who dared invade 
 her privacy ? 
 
 Her young husband came forward into the room. 
 She looked up : she had forgotten him.
 
 The First Flight 
 
 MRS. HIGHTY TIGHTY rested from her labors. 
 She thought that they were ' ' very good. ' ' She 
 took a long breath and looked about her. Her real 
 name was Mrs. Hyatt Titus, but her husband's cousin, 
 Mrs. Hatch, who was humorous, had given her the 
 sobriquet. She had been assiduously occupied for 
 eighteen long years in bringing up Miss Hyatt Titus, 
 and now the rest was to come and the recompense. 
 Miss Hyatt Titus, or rather Miss Highty Tighty, was 
 "brought up." The birdling was fledged. The first 
 flight imminent. She was a graceful and pretty girl 
 with soft eyes and a fresh complexion. She played on 
 the piano and the zither to such audiences as had the 
 fortitude to listen. She drew noses and ears in crayon 
 every Saturday with a drawing-master. She spoke 
 French such French as it was she even managed a 
 little German with her governess and a dictionary. 
 Strangers knew nothing of this crutch ; but her cousins 
 the Hatches, those inconvenient cousins, knew it ; and 
 the German baron who accosted her in his own tongue, 
 having heard she was a polyglot, when he came up to 
 the Club on the lake, had been forced to suspect that 
 
 21
 
 22 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 she had not understood a word he had said to her. It 
 did not matter, because she was really pretty, and had 
 a knack of putting up her hair becomingly. But she 
 had herself been profoundly mortified. It had re- 
 mained one of the stinging memories of her youth. 
 
 The Highty Tightys were well off, and had only this 
 one little duckling. They lived on a lake where the 
 buckling had bathed and rowed and swum ever since 
 her babyhood. It was shallow, and when she grew 
 tired or frightened, if the tide was low, she could stand 
 up in the water and wade to the shore. It was a salt- 
 water lake which was fed by a creek from the open sea. 
 It was the same with her boating. There were no 
 breakers, no surprises. It was all very safe and easy. 
 The first steps of life are made easy for the young. 
 
 Miss Highty Tighty rode a quiet little cob twenty 
 years old that had the gait of a rocking-chair. Never- 
 theless her neighbors felt called upon to declare, par- 
 ticularly such as were under obligations to her parents, 
 that she was a bold and accomplished horsewoman ; 
 and, in fact, her figure did look well swaying against a 
 sunset sky. Once she mounted a prancing steed to 
 whose crupper one of the club men had swung her. 
 The horse kicked ; she fell on her face and scraped her 
 shapely nose. This was another memory which haunted 
 her with unpleasant persistence. The young man only 
 thought it was a pity about her nose. Such discomfit- 
 ures are of little importance to others, and only weigh 
 on us when we are very young. They appear cheap to 
 the callousness and effrontery of middle age. 
 
 Besides the house of Highty Tighty, which was well 
 ventilated, salubrious, large, extremely clean, and 
 wherein hung a few fine pictures purchased abroad by 
 Mr. Titus, and some comfortable though not very
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 23 
 
 artistic furniture purchased by his wife, there were two 
 other habitations on the lake, the house of Hatch, and 
 the Club. 
 
 The Hatches were second-cousins of the Hyatt Ti- 
 tuses, and not well off. It is difficult to be well off 
 when one has nine children. There were eight Misses 
 Hatch, of whom the eldest was twenty-two ; the 
 youngest-hatched of all, the son, was seven years old. 
 He was a dirty, freckled-faced little boy, who passed 
 his entire life in the lake and came out of it dirtier at 
 evening than when he went in. He used to be hastily 
 wiped off by a sister or two for a half-hour's dress- 
 parade before supper and his final nightly disappear- 
 ance. The rest of the day his family kept him at arm's 
 length ; he was always too wet to approach feminine 
 front-breadths. Mrs. Hatch had been a beauty and a 
 wit. She was no longer a beauty, except, indeed, in 
 the estimation of her husband, who thought her still 
 much handsomer than any of her daughters ; but her 
 wit had remained, and that certain Creole charm of a 
 rich, languid nature which Emerson says everybody 
 loves . 
 
 When Miss Hyatt Titus was expected there had been 
 a great upheaval, and Mrs. Hatch had been immensely 
 entertained. No royal infant's advent could have been 
 heralded by a keener anguish of expectant prophecy. 
 There was an early array of physicians on hand, and 
 of anxious exclamatory nurses. There were baskets, 
 blankets, sweet-smelling flannels, muslins, laces, rib- 
 bons, and powder-boxes, five cribs at least, and seven 
 rattles. The godparents and a clergyman had been 
 already secured for the christening. If Mr. Hyatt Titus 
 so much as looked in at the nursery door he was 
 dragged out by an array of unknown females who in-
 
 24 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 vaded his house and tramped about it for months be- 
 forehand. When the great day came it was met ex- 
 actly as it should have been. The baby arrived at its 
 appointed hour, and everything was ready and had 
 been ready a thousand times over. 
 
 Mrs. Titus had married somewhat late, when marriage 
 comes to be looked upon by a woman as a blessing, not 
 as a mere accident of fortune. She was just beginning 
 to be worried. She had been well brought up ; she be- 
 lieved that motherhood and wifehood were a woman's 
 province and sphere. She had not married in her first 
 youth, I say, and therefore, as is the case with spinsters 
 of a certain maturity, looked upon matrimony as a 
 career, not as an estate. We view with peculiar solem- 
 nity what has not happened to us. 
 
 Mrs. Hatch, on the contrary, had danced up to the 
 altar at seventeen, without much thought or care on 
 the subject ; simply pleased to have a handsome fellow 
 by her side and her first train two yards long at her 
 heels. When the first little Hatch came it was entirely 
 unexpected, and nothing was prepared. It was pinned, 
 however, into one of its mother's flannel petticoats, and 
 passed its first night on a book-case, propped up by 
 ' ' The Descent of Man. ' ' It rolled off the book-case 
 in the morning, and was then picked up and put away 
 more safely in an arm-chair until a suitable receptacle 
 could be contrived. 
 
 The rapidly-sequent little Hatches of course inherited 
 the lately-provided layette of number one, which re- 
 mained conveniently at hand, and, it must be confessed, 
 was in constant use for the first fifteeen years of Mrs. 
 Hatch's married existence. But Mrs. Hatch herself 
 felt about as much the importance and responsibility of 
 motherhood as did the pretty pink-and-white lady
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 25 
 
 rabbit which reared its offspring under the garden wall. 
 The family grew and flourished notwithstanding, and 
 though the children were not brought up like their little 
 cousin across the lake, they managed somehow to tum- 
 ble up and survive. The girls were all good-looking, 
 and some of them were very beautiful. They were all 
 bright, and some of them were clever ; and the boy 
 Crummy his name was Cecil Cuthbert Crumbar Cad- 
 walader was the idol of the house of Hatch, and de- 
 clared by each and all of his sisters to be possessed of 
 incipient genius. His mother had fewer illusions about 
 him. She was one of those delightful persons who are 
 inclined to think their swans are geese, and to laugh at 
 them. 
 
 Mr. Hatch p%re was considered a brilliant man. He 
 was something of a poet, an artist, and a philosopher. 
 He was, moreover, uncommonly handsome ; had large, 
 dreamful eyes, distinguished manners, and an elegant 
 address ; a man of parts, a man of thought, an accom- 
 plished gentleman, a charming conversationalist. He 
 had ornamented his own mind. In so far he was a 
 success. But . . . he had never been able to earn any 
 money. His talents, such as they were, remained fal- 
 low and unproductive in the ducat line, so that every- 
 body shook their heads and said that he was a failure. 
 Fortunately, he and his wife each had a small income 
 to depend upon, else they and the nine little Hatches 
 would undoubtedly have starved. He had been min- 
 ister abroad, and had once been in Congress, but these 
 things had led to nothing in particular, and the only 
 book of poems he had published had had a literary but 
 no general success. His cousin, Mr. Hyatt Titus, on the 
 other hand, who had religiously abstained from politics, 
 diplomacy, and literature, and who was short and plain 
 3
 
 26 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 and somewhat taciturn, had amassed a large fortune. 
 He had not been to college, and at school had been 
 called a dunce ; but he was in reality very able. As he 
 grew to man's estate he even became well-informed. 
 When he built himself a house he taught himself the 
 sizes and uses of girders, rafters, and supports, the 
 quality of brick, the density of mortar. When he set- 
 tled in the country he studied farming, and to some 
 available purpose. The varieties of soils were his de- 
 light ; fertilizers filled his horizons. When he turned 
 his mind to poultry his prowess was extraordinary. His 
 fat pullets took first prizes at all the county fairs. He 
 had a turn for natural history, and studied the legs and 
 horns of caterpillars for recreation, instead of writing 
 roundelays like the dreamy poet across the water who 
 knew everything except the useful. Mr. Hyatt Titus 
 entertained a secret contempt for his cousin Mr. Hatch, 
 although he admitted he was an agreeable fellow to 
 meet. But Mr. Hatch looked upon Mr. Hyatt Titus as 
 upon a bundle of wisdom, secretly deploring what he 
 called his own ' ' limitations. ' ' 
 
 The Hatches' house was situated on the very edge of 
 the lake, and their tiny sail-boat was moored at the 
 front door. There was another entrance, of course, at 
 the back, where carriages could drive up. On summer 
 afternoons there generally hung a Miss Hatch out of 
 every window, drying her hair after the salt bath. They 
 had hair of every imaginable length and color. When 
 visitors came the little ones and the older ones cried out 
 " Halloo !" and parleyed hospitably with the incoming 
 guests. The middle ones, such as ranged from twelve 
 to sixteen, were shy, and drew in their heads, giggling. 
 
 Mrs. Hyatt Titus deprecated this deplorable lack of 
 dignity. She always called Mrs. Hatch " Poor Mary,"
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 2^ 
 
 but why, it would have been difficult to say, for poor 
 Mary was quite contented with her eight harum-scarum 
 girls, her little Crummy, and her poet husband, im- 
 practicable as he might be. Mr. Hatch's affairs being 
 always in an unsatisfactory condition, he had plenty of 
 time to devote to his daughters, and he took a deep 
 interest in their education. They studied the classics 
 with him. He taught them the languages, in which he 
 was an adept, and he liked to see them dance and to 
 hear them sing. They were very well educated young 
 women, not having been repressed by the narrow influ- 
 ence of governesses and tutors. Two or three of them 
 were excellent musicians. But it was all a matter of 
 course ; there was no to-do about it. Where there are 
 so many there is no time for self-glorification, and all 
 these merits grow indistinct in the general struggle for 
 life. Miss Highty Tighty's feeble accomplishments 
 were autre chose. 
 
 Mr. Hatch's house was old and rather shabby in the 
 matter of paint and of modern improvements, but pic- 
 turesque and pleasant enough ; it was not in very good 
 repair or order, yet not altogether untidy. The library 
 was cheery and commodious, and filled with clever and 
 serious books, and it was always swept and dusted . . . 
 once a week. The piazza was vine-covered and de- 
 lightfully cool. Here Master Wace, the cat, and Laya- 
 mon, the dog, with his wife Berenice, sunned them- 
 selves half the day beneath the cyclamens ; here the old 
 pet bird, Genseric, who had the asthma, swung in his 
 cage and sang a husky ditty ; and here Mrs. Hatch lay 
 in the hammock with a bit of white lace on her auburn 
 hair, reading. She read very wise books, and she had 
 wise and amusing things to say of them at dinner to her 
 husband. And the children climbed the trees or rested
 
 28 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 in their shadows, sailed the boat, swam, dived, ate jelly- 
 cake, and devoured unripe fruit ; had eight little stom- 
 ach-aches and nine little colds, as the case might be, 
 and their mother smiled and said, ' ' Dear me !' ' and 
 was placid and adored. Over in the big house across 
 the water Mrs. Hyatt Titus was out of breath at all 
 moments, and all worn out every day running after and 
 dressing and combing and purring over her one little 
 duck that she thought the most marvellous of snow- 
 white swans. 
 
 I have said there was another house on the lake, and 
 this was the Club. It was a hideous white structure 
 with green shutters, hoisted up on high foundations 
 upon a white stretch of sand. It was surrounded by 
 slender pine-trees. It had a flat roof, and no piazzas, 
 and only a wooden porte-cochere under which carriages 
 drove. Some young men of fashion had a lien on the 
 creek, where they played at fishing in the autumn, and 
 they imagined that there was good shooting in the 
 woods in the neighborhood. The fishing and shooting 
 were, in fact, indifferent, but it was a nice place for a 
 "day off." There was fine sailing on the Sound, and 
 plenty of good wine in the cellar. All through the 
 summer parties of these gentlemen came up and down 
 and had a nice time of it eating, drinking, and making 
 merry with cards, truffles, and champagne. And they 
 walked, and rode, and pulled their boats, and some- 
 times managed to catch a glimpse of the Misses Hatch 
 hanging out between their window-shutters. Such as 
 were acquaintances were invited to come in. Tea would 
 be improvised under the maples, and what mattered an 
 earwig or two in the cream where there were such a lot 
 of jolly girls ? Even the mother and father were enter- 
 taining. Sans gne was the motto, and that is what
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 29 
 
 men like best. It is probably the secret of most mis- 
 alliances. 
 
 There was another abode near the lake, but not upon 
 it. About a quarter of a mile away there lived a young 
 orphan millionaire with his two maiden aunts. He had 
 been a rather weak child, and so had not been sent to 
 college. His mind, which was not over-brilliant, was, 
 therefore, not very well stored with knowledge. But 
 he had good horses and rode them pluckily, and he 
 could sail a boat, and was a pretty youth. He was 
 considered a desirable match by the mammas of the 
 neighborhood. Once Mrs. Hyatt Titus only once 
 had whispered to her spouse in the curtained sanctities 
 of the nuptial chamber that if Providence should so 
 arrange it if the young people should fancy each other, 
 perhaps, nay, who knew? stranger things had happened. 
 Their Violet was very lovely. Willie Truden had 
 probably remarked it. 
 
 Mr. Hyatt Titus took little interest in such matters ; 
 American fathers rarely do. But if his daughter were 
 to leave him at all I suppose he thought that Willie and 
 his millions might suffice. 
 
 That very day Violet Hyatt Titus and Mr. Truden 
 had sat for an hour together on the sea wall, and it had 
 entered into this demure maiden's breast to wonder if 
 he would "do." She had a keen appreciation of the 
 value of money. Her mother would have called it a 
 love of the beautiful. She also had a keen appreciation 
 of the pleasure of ruling others, and Willie could easily, 
 she decided, be ground to powder and taught to obey. 
 She talked to him all the time about herself and her 
 projects and desires, and he listened with his legs hang- 
 ing over the crumbling stones, now and then killing a 
 mosquito that lit on his nose. 
 
 3*
 
 30 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 " Can you not stop to dine?" asked the maiden. 
 
 "No," said Mr. Truden : "I promised to pass the 
 evening at the Hatches' . ' ' 
 
 A look of deep commiseration passed over the girl's 
 sweet face. 
 
 "They invited me," she said, "but really mamma 
 never liked me to associate with them much when I 
 was little, and now, as you can imagine, they are very 
 ... er ... uncongenial." 
 
 "They're fun," said Willie, laconically. 
 
 His companion turned and looked at him. "And 
 who would wish to be fun ?' ' said she. 
 
 "Well, I don't know," said Willie. 
 
 She turned and looked at him, as I say, and won- 
 dered for a moment if he might prove testy after all. 
 Would he be uneasy under the crushing and mangling 
 and ordering about to which her papa and mamma 
 submitted ? If there was anything she disliked, it was 
 obstacular people. She expected everybody to agree 
 with her. 
 
 " Of course I feel for the poor things," she sighed. 
 "I'm sure I don't know what's going to become of 
 them." 
 
 She had often heard her mother make this remark 
 with a wagging head. 
 
 ' ' They seem to be going along, ' ' said Willie. 
 
 As he crossed the lawn the lady of the manor darted 
 out at him from a lilac-bush. "Stay and dine," she 
 said, affably. 
 
 "Awfully sorry can't," said Willie. 
 
 Mr. Highty Tighty was hunting caterpillars in the 
 trees. When not in town pinned to his desk he devoted 
 himself to this pastime. He looked up and repeated 
 his wife's invitation with more cordiality than usual.
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 31 
 
 He preferred caterpillars to young men, not being of a 
 genial nature. But Willie was the son of an old friend, 
 and as such might be tolerated. 
 
 Willie, however, trudged off firmly, declining. 
 
 "She's got jolly eyes," he said to himself. " It's a 
 pity she's so infernally ..." But he did not conclude 
 the sentence. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE Hatch sail-boat, which was called the 
 "Lakshmi," and was painted dark blue, being the 
 presupposed color of this goddess of beauty, grace, 
 riches, and pleasure, came bowling across the lake in 
 the penumbra of a gray twilight. She made an odd 
 seething sound as she swung through the high grasses 
 or rocked and wavered with her keel half caught amid 
 the floating water-lichens. The lake was still and 
 smooth as a cloth of gray satin upon which one might 
 have skated ; here and there a pale rose shading on a 
 white and green reflection. There was something un- 
 decided about the evening. Its sigh seemed to portend 
 a change for the weary, to hold a whisper of impending 
 tumult, possibly of awakening storm, for the restless. 
 Who knew? perhaps after all the cloud would scatter 
 and pass to welcome the rising of a shimmering moon. 
 
 The sand beaches, hyaline, crystalline, lay mysterious 
 in the dumb gloaming, with glintings here and there 
 as of emeralds. Now and then a sharp gust brushed a 
 wave which rose and trembled upward in a brisk swell- 
 ing, its dark back and foaming mouth resembling some 
 feline creature at bay. Across the sands, far, far away, 
 gleamed the pale, phosphorescent stretches of an 
 anxious sea. 
 
 It had showered earlier, and the woods had been
 
 32 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 half drowned in the violent summer flood. The trees 
 were still bent under the weight of their wetting, and 
 sent out fine, keen odors of resin and maple juices, 
 which mingled with the nearer pungent smells of the 
 marine algae. 
 
 Across the sleepy waters breathed suddenly that 
 essence of quivering life, that instinct of vitality, which 
 was sure to agitate anything and everything possessed 
 by a member of the Hatch family. The Lakshmi flew 
 to meet the advancing night, catching each flaw and 
 puff", Muriel at the tiller, Audrey at the mainsheet, and 
 a very big fish in the bottom of the boat. 
 
 ' ' Halloo ? look out for your heads, ' ' cried Audrey. 
 
 " Ready about ! Port your helm," called out Muriel, 
 and whack ! went the low flying boom, grazing the 
 forehead of the frightened fish. 
 
 It was indeed a very big fish these young girls had 
 captured that afternoon, as well as a much frightened 
 one. He lay now on his stomach in the bottom of the 
 cockpit, wallowing, with one eye on the horizon and 
 one broad hand on the side of the tiny craft. His name 
 was Victor Arthur Lucan Humphrey George Draco, 
 Earl of Brownlow. He was stopping at the club-house 
 with some American fellows whom he had met the 
 year before while elephant-hunting in India , and he 
 had gone over with them to call and be duly presented 
 to the Hatches that afternoon. The others had walked 
 or ridden home, and the girls had volunteered to sail 
 him back as far as the club-house door. 
 
 He was young and big and red. He was also ex- 
 tremely shy. He had immense hands and yet larger 
 feet. His mouth was always open, displaying his front 
 teeth and a part of his gums. His teeth were extremely 
 clean, and his gums were fresh and healthy. He had
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 33 
 
 a heavy jowl, a drooping eye, and a gentle, affectionate 
 disposition. 
 
 The Misses Hatch had been caught as usual by their 
 visitors just ascending from their bath. They were 
 arrayed in rather tumbled cotton gowns, while their 
 locks escaped in little damp rings about their foreheads 
 and ears from under their blue Tarn o' Shanters. 
 
 Muriel was a lovely brown creature with blue eyes. 
 Her hands and throat were tanned. Audrey was less 
 beautiful, fairer, and extremely graceful. She looked 
 "chic" even in her night-gown or at least this was 
 the family tradition. 
 
 " I say," said the earl, "that's a nasty wind." 
 
 "Aren't you in the habit of boating?" asked 
 Audrey, letting out the mainsheet. 
 
 ' ' Not in anything so little, ' ' said the earl. ' ' My 
 father owned the Vanquisher. She's under repairs 
 now, but I'll have her on the Mediterranean next 
 spring." 
 
 " She's like an ocean steamer, isn't she ?" said Muriel. 
 " Don't come up, please. We're going to jibe." 
 
 The earl, with a moan, prostrated himself again, and 
 lay quite still. 
 
 "Aren't we nearly there ?" he asked after a while. 
 
 "You see," said Audrey, "the wind's skittish. I 
 think it is dying out. If it does we'll just run you in 
 at the light-house, and Jim, the keeper, '11 row you 
 ashore ?' ' 
 
 ' ' What will you do ?' ' asked the young Englishman, 
 turning over suddenly on his back. 
 
 "Oh, we'll swim back," said Muriel, a little con- 
 temptuously. ' ' We' re used to the lake. Ready about, 
 Audrey, and don't be such a poke." 
 
 As they neared the light-house, a solemn stone struc-
 
 34 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 ture which loomed up on the borders of the sand-spit, a 
 boat darted from under its flight of steps, and in the 
 boat sat Miss Highty Tighty, charmingly attired in 
 pallid gauze with puffed sleeves, and an aesthetic hat 
 poised upon her head, a gold girdle about her hips, the 
 oars in her hands, and an open book upon her lap. 
 
 She had timed the whole thing admirably. She had 
 seen the Lakshmi and its occupants from afar. She 
 had seen the big fish in one of his frenzied leaps from 
 side to side, and, recognizing that it was a male fish, 
 had concluded that it was worth angling for. She had 
 not yet entirely decided that Willie Truden would 
 " do," and in the mean while . . . 
 
 "What a darling girl !" said the earl, with one eye 
 to leeward. ' ' Introduce me !' ' 
 
 The Hatch ladies looked at each other and smiled 
 significantly. 
 
 "Why, certainly," they said. 
 
 "She's reading. She doesn't see us," said the 
 simple, naif Briton, much interested. 
 
 Muriel and Audrey again exchanged masonic glances, 
 but said nothing. The Lakshmi veered and grazed the 
 reader's light bows. 
 
 " Oh ! how do you do, mes cheres cousines ?" And 
 Miss Highty Tighty looked up duly astonished. 
 
 ' ' Thanks. We can just sit up and take a little 
 nourishment," said Muriel. 
 
 "Let me introduce the Earl of Brownlow," said 
 Audrey, majestically, settling her Tarn o' Shanter with 
 one hand and clutching the rope with the other. She 
 let the wind spill out of the sail, so that the boats lay 
 lazily swinging in the tide swell side by side. 
 
 Miss H. T. pouted with haughty unconcern, but con- 
 descendingly kept close to her cousin's prow.
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 35 
 
 "Look here," said Audrey. " Couldn't you row 
 him ashore?" and she indicated their captive with a 
 knot of the mainsheet held in her hand. "It's only a 
 quarter of a mile, and we're stuck. I'm going to get 
 Jim to give us a tow." 
 
 Miss Highty Tighty's heart leaped for joy. Her 
 life had been a pretty dull one so far. But she only 
 said, 
 
 " Oh, but is it permissible?" 
 
 "All right," said Audrey, shortly. "Jim can take 
 us all, then." 
 
 ' ' I say, ' ' said the earl, ' ' do row me home, now, 
 won't you?" 
 
 "If you insist," said Miss Highty Tighty, "I am 
 defenceless. ' ' 
 
 So the big male fish was deposited within a few feet 
 of the fair oarswoman. 
 
 " What book are you perusing, ma cousine ?" called 
 Muriel saucily after them, imitating her cousin's accent. 
 But the answer was swallowed on a recurring wave. 
 
 ' ' Why do you ask her ?' ' said her sister, laughing. 
 " Shall you read it too ?" 
 
 " No ; I want to avoid it." 
 
 "Shan't I pull you?" said the earl. 
 
 "Oh, no; I prefer to manage my boat myself," 
 answered his fair captain, whose life-principle was here 
 enunciated. 
 
 "You were reading," said the earl, with timidity, 
 very red with the exertion of the transfer. 
 
 " I live in my books," said Miss Violet. 
 
 " Dear me !" said the earl. He picked up the vol- 
 ume, which proved to be the correspondence of Carlyle 
 and Emerson. 
 
 "Which of the two men writers, I mean do you
 
 36 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 prefer?" asked Miss Highly Tighty, taking long but 
 very slow strokes : she had herself not read a line of the 
 letters. 
 
 Not knowing exactly what reply to make, the earl 
 screwed up his lips, fanned himself with the fluttering 
 book, and contented himself with 
 
 "He was a queer duffer." 
 
 "Duffer?" 
 
 "Yes. Isn't that good English ?" asked the earl. 
 
 " It may be," said Miss H. T., "but the expression 
 is hardly adequate. ' ' 
 
 " Oh ! I say," said the earl, "you're trying to get a 
 rise on me." 
 
 Miss Hyatt Titus opened her eyes widely. The earl, 
 like Willie Truden, thought them rather nice. 
 
 ' ' But which do you consider to be the ... er ... 
 duffer ?' ' she inquired, with an arched eyebrow. 
 
 " Oh, Carlyle, of course. I don't know much about 
 the other fellow. Who was he, anyhow?" 
 
 " What ! You never read any of Emerson's essays 
 and poems ?' ' cried Miss Hyatt Titus. ' ' Why, where 
 have you lived ?' ' 
 
 "At our place in Devon most of the year," said the 
 earl, humbly, " or in London when I run up, except at 
 deer-stalking, you know, when we go north." 
 
 ' ' And you never heard of Emerson ?' ' 
 
 "Oh, I may have heard his name," said the earl, 
 who was terribly truthful. " But I'm not going to put 
 on side with you, you know. I'm not literary." 
 
 " What do you like?" asked Miss Hyatt Titus. 
 
 " I ... I like being rowed by a pretty girl, ' ' said 
 his lordship, gallantly, and blushing furiously. 
 
 "The Hatches will row you daily, I don't doubt. 
 They're always paddling about."
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 37 
 
 "I think they're awfully handsome, and clever. 
 They're cousins of yours, aren't they?" 
 
 "Yes, . . . distant." 
 
 " Oh," said the earl ; and then the boat scraped the 
 bottom, the farewells were spoken, and the thanks ex- 
 pressed. 
 
 ' ' I shall be very glad to introduce you to my 
 parents," said Miss Hyatt Titus, with much propriety, 
 shoving off. 
 
 "Thanks, awfully," said the earl. 
 
 As he scrambled up to the Club through the pines 
 he said, half aloud, 
 
 "She's got nice sort of eyes and a pretty mouth ; 
 but I think the Hatch girls are nicer. That Muriel's 
 a splendid woman. She's so alive and so unpretending. 
 This little cousin . . . ' 
 
 But the wind carried away his criticism. 
 
 Miss Highty Tighty told her father and mother of 
 her encounter and her row. She spoke with some 
 emphasis. 
 
 "I wonder why it is," she said, "that it is always 
 the Hatch girls who introduce everybody to us. It 
 seems to me, with our advantages, it ought to be the 
 other way." 
 
 "Hoydens can always pick up young men," said 
 Mrs. Hyatt Titus, "and I don't much like what you 
 tell me. In my day . . . ' 
 
 "Your day isn't this," replied her daughter, with 
 considerable asperity and a heightened color, "and I'm 
 sick of being cooped up." 
 
 Her father and mother looked at each other across 
 their snowy table-linen. Her mother was a well-born, 
 well-bred, well-read woman. She had, to be sure, 
 rather abjured reading. How can a wife and mother 
 
 4
 
 38 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 read, unless, indeed, she be, like "poor Mary," 
 neglectful of these sacred, these hallowed trusts ? She 
 was one of those women who had always been a model ; 
 every one had approved of her ; yet now her only duck- 
 ling seemed inclined to question her absolute wisdom. 
 It was preposterous, extraordinary ! She could not 
 understand. 
 
 "My little girl," she said, "isn't everything done 
 for you ?' ' 
 
 "Nothing's done for me," said the little girl. "I 
 have been educated to death. But I am not half as 
 amusing as the Hatch girls, after all." 
 
 "Your cousins," said Mr. Hyatt Titus, with assumed 
 severity, ' ' are poor patterns for you, my child. Look 
 at your mother." 
 
 Violet looked at her mother. She saw a middle-aged 
 lady in a prim gray silk ; Mrs. Hyatt Titus belonged to 
 that type which is always middle-aged. She therefore 
 saw, I say, this middle-aged person, with some lace 
 fastened at her neck by a brooch, a likeness of her 
 daughter in babyhood, set in pearls, smooth, brown 
 hair, coiled at the back, a pair of somewhat pursed-up 
 lips, and two faded blue eyes. The contemplation 
 awoke no answering thrill. She shrugged her shoulders 
 impatiently. 
 
 "I want to come out next winter, in town," she 
 said, after a pause. 
 
 " I dare say your papa will take you out," said her 
 mother. 
 
 "Cousin Mary Hatch says nobody can bring a girl 
 out but her mother.' ' 
 
 ' ' I am afraid I should feel very strangely in a ball- 
 room," said Mrs. Hyatt Titus. " I have always shrunk 
 from the frivolous atmosphere of society. I should be
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 39 
 
 very sorry to have my daughter a mere woman of 
 fashion." 
 
 "Well, there's not much danger," said Miss Hyatt 
 Titus, tossing her head, " if we keep on this way." 
 
 "I think, my dear," said Mr. Hyatt Titus, "that 
 our little girl is right. You must exert yourself more 
 for her." 
 
 " What am I to do ?" Mrs. Hyatt Titus now wrung 
 her hands. The tears were almost in her eyes. Was 
 her husband, too, going to find fault with her ? 
 
 " You had better go and pay some visits to-morrow, 
 mamma dear. The Club's full of ladies. They've 
 passed a rule to have women there during the months 
 of August and September. Lawrence Larremore 
 brought up his wife last night. She's a very gay lady. 
 You visit all her family in town. You'd better leave a 
 card on her ; and why not give a dinner ?' ' After a 
 while he added, tentatively, looking at his daughter 
 with a smile, "We might ask this English gentle- 
 man." 
 
 "I've been thinking of a dinner," said Mrs. Titus. 
 
 III. 
 
 OVER her black lace gown Mrs. Hyatt Titus donned 
 a long gray silk cloak, and pinned a gray veil to her 
 bonnet, because the roads were dusty and she was going 
 visiting, and she hated dust. She decided to stop at 
 the Club first and then drop in at the Hatches' before 
 she paid two or three other ceremonial calls. She de- 
 scended from her victoria, making a modest display of 
 pearl-colored silk hose and of a chaste black shoe. 
 She asked for Mrs. Larremore, and was told by the 
 servant that Mrs. Larremore was at home.
 
 4 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 She had begged her daughter to accompany her upon 
 this pilgrimage, but the young lady had been rather 
 out of sorts and had snappishly answered that she had 
 other engagements. She had, in fact, dressed herself 
 that afternoon and the two preceding ones with peculiar 
 care, in the expectation that the Earl of Brownlow 
 would call, and the fact that he had not yet fulfilled this 
 common act of courtesy had awakened in her mind that 
 surprised and vague self-depreciation which now and 
 again came to mar the perfect belief she had always 
 been taught to have in herself. ' ' Was it possible he 
 hadn't really admired her?" Well, there was always 
 Willie Truden to fall back upon. He could be whistled 
 up at any time. But the defection of the earl was 
 bitter. 
 
 Mrs. Hyatt Titus was ushered through the hall into 
 a wide, cool ground-floor room paved with mosaic and 
 furnished in light-yellow chintz. There were two ladies 
 in the room and six gentlemen. The ladies were Muriel 
 Hatch and Mrs. Larremore. The former sat near an 
 open window which overlooked the lake. By her side 
 perched Willie Truden, and crouching at her feet on a 
 low stool the Earl of Brownlow. 
 
 "How are you, Muriel?" said Mrs. Hyatt Titus, 
 patronizingly, nodding to Miss Hatch. 
 
 "Brownie," said Mrs. Larremore to the earl, "fetch 
 a chair for this lady." 
 
 "Brownie," thus admonished, rose, shook himself, 
 and brought a chair. Mrs. Hyatt Titus sat upon its 
 edge, threw back her cloak, and unfastened her veil. 
 
 "It's very dusty," she said. 
 
 "Is it?" said Mrs. Larremore. "I haven't stirred 
 out from under these pines since I arrived." 
 
 Then she introduced the young Englishman.
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 41 
 
 " I think I know your daughter," he said, awkwardly. 
 
 " Yes ; she told me how she had rescued you from 
 the perils of our lake," smiling. 
 
 Then there was a dreadful pause. Mrs. Larremore 
 came to the rescue. " I am so sorry you didn't bring 
 your daughter to see me. I hear she's so pretty. Is 
 she in society yet ?' ' 
 
 "She's eighteen." 
 
 " I mean shall you launch her next winter?" 
 
 "I dislike the word," said Mrs. Hyatt Titus. "I 
 am rather afraid of society. I think it pernicious." 
 
 "Ah, well," said Mrs. Larremore, "how ever are 
 the girls to get husbands, then? How can the men 
 see them if they don't go out?" 
 
 ' ' Surely, Mrs. Larremore, you would not have a girl 
 go out looking for a husband ?' ' 
 
 "Well, I don't know. Ah ! here comes tea. Will 
 you have cream ? Yes ? And sugar ? Here, Brownie, 
 give me the sugar-tongs. I think they might be doing 
 worse things. Quiet girls nowadays don't seem to 
 have any chance. It's the frivolous ones who make the 
 good matches." 
 
 "I hope to keep my daughter," said Mrs. Hyatt 
 Titus, with dignity, "as long as possible." 
 
 ' ' I am sure she has only to show herself to be a suc- 
 cess," said Mrs. Larremore. 
 
 " She's a lovely girl," said the mother ; " or at least 
 we think so." 
 
 "She must come and see me," said Mrs. Larremore. 
 
 She leaned over as she spoke and reached towards a 
 rose-colored silk pouch or bag which lay near by, and 
 which she drew towards her. It was filled with tobacco- 
 leaf. By its side lay a lot of transparent leaves of rice- 
 paper. Deftly with her long, jewelled fingers she began
 
 42 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 to fill these with the herb, and then twisted them with 
 a charming jerk into little rolls. She blew upon the 
 folded edges, gave them a final pat, and, as she com- 
 pleted each cigarette, with a graceful gesture she threw 
 them at the different men who were present, and who 
 were drawn up about her tea-table. One cigarette fell 
 and splashed into a cup, and there was applause and 
 laughter. Mrs. Hyatt Titus, still sitting on the edge of 
 her chair, looked on. 
 
 " Won't you have a light?" asked one of the young 
 men, a handsome fellow with thick, curly brown hair. 
 
 " Thanks, yes," said Mrs. Larremore, and she began 
 to smoke. ' ' I suppose you have not this bad habit ?' ' 
 she said to Mrs. Hyatt Titus, smiling. 
 
 But Mrs. Hyatt Titus was voiceless, and her tongue 
 felt parched. She could only shake her head. 
 
 "Take some cake, do," said her hostess, passing the 
 plate towards her visitor. 
 
 "Help yourself first, Mrs. Larremore." 
 
 " I'm fat ; I can't eat sweets. I'm banting." 
 
 " Fat ! Why, you look to me unusually slender." 
 
 " Oh, that's only the result of force." 
 
 "Force?" 
 
 "Not my own ; my maid's," said Mrs. Larremore, 
 laconically. " She pulls me in." 
 
 "Are you not afraid of injuring your health ?" asked 
 Mrs. Hyatt Titus. 
 
 "There was a post-mortem the other day on some 
 girls, and their ... er ... livers . , . and hearts 
 . . . were quite out of place ; on the wrong side of 'em, 
 in fact," said the young gentleman with curly brown 
 hair, " all lop-sided. " 
 
 "Heavens!" said Mrs. Larremore. "I'll take a 
 reef out after dinner. You frighten me, Gussie."
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 43 
 
 Mrs. Hyatt Titus blushed. 
 
 " Talking of post-mortems," continued Mrs. Larre- 
 more, leaning back and blowing rings of light smoke 
 from between her pink gums and white teeth, "I see 
 the murdered man there's been such a row about was 
 cut open, and there was a lot of ground glass found in 
 his stomach." 
 
 "The question is," said the curly-headed youth, 
 "who put it there." 
 
 " It is impossible," said Mrs. Larremore, "to always 
 fathom how these foreign substances get into the 
 organism, but the lawyers say, and they think they 
 know everything, that there is no doubt the wife put it 
 there. Only fancy ! A woman one used to visit ! 
 Isn't it quite horrid !" 
 
 "The Times this morning," said the earl, "has it 
 she used to chuck his soup full of it." 
 
 " At any rate," said Mrs. Larremore, "it was there : 
 that is the important thing. And to think that woman 
 went to the bachelors' ball ! Of course we really must 
 draw the line somewhere ; don't you think so, Mrs. 
 Hyatt Titus ?' ' but this lady was still dumb. 
 
 She was beginning to think that there was a moral 
 and social disintegration in progress, of which she did 
 not hold the secret, the throbbing of whose pulses she 
 had as yet but feebly imagined. She was advancing 
 haphazard, without map or charts, into new, untried 
 deserts. Was her innocent child to be hurled into their 
 unknown and arid quicksands ? 
 
 Yet, strangely enough, these people, this woman, 
 these men, who spoke so lightly of such terrible things, 
 had a certain ease and poise about them that made her 
 feel herself inferior to them, unimportant, out of place. 
 Was this always the effect, she asked herself, of vul-
 
 44 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 garity over refinement ? It was pleasant to reflect that 
 she would by and by pay other visits to other neigh- 
 bors, as soon as she might effect an escape, where the 
 tone was never lax and her own superiority was recog- 
 nized. 
 
 She was rising to take leave, when, to her amaze- 
 ment, her husband was ushered into the Club drawing- 
 room. 
 
 ' ' I saw your carriage, my dear, as I passed returning 
 from the station," he said to his wife, apologetically, 
 ' ' and so I came in to pay my respects to Mrs. Larre- 
 more. I have long known your husband," he added, 
 addressing this lady. 
 
 They all sat down once more. Mrs. Larremore 
 threw away her cigarette. 
 
 Mr. Titus had a twig in his hand upon which an 
 obese green caterpillar was disporting itself. It had 
 round eyes and a face like a man. 
 
 ' ' This is the Polyphemus. I could not resist stopping 
 to pick it off the tree as I drove into the gate. It's a 
 fine specimen." 
 
 "What an odd fellow he is!" said Mrs. Larre- 
 more ; ' ' and how clever you must be to know all about 
 him !" 
 
 " He's a duffer," said the earl. 
 
 Carlyle and caterpillars were one to him. 
 
 The naturalist launched out into a lecture upon 
 butterflies, moths, and insects in general, to which Mrs. 
 Larremore listened luminously, in an absorbed and 
 rapt attitude. 
 
 ' ' You must come again and instruct us. We are 
 very dull about these natural wonders here. Would 
 that I might sit at your feet !' ' she said, and she looked 
 into Mr. Hyatt Titus' s fishy eyes with a tender beam
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 45 
 
 aslant her own half-shut lids. Then she turned and 
 addressed the young men : 
 
 "What loafers you are, to be sure," she said, "and 
 how ashamed you should be of your ignorance and 
 your indolence ! Why don't you go out and look for 
 ... er ... caterpillars?" 
 
 "What a beautiful and charming person !" said Mr. 
 Hyatt Titus when he was seated in the carriage next 
 to his spouse. ' ' She is really quite a goddess in ap- 
 pearance." His wife looked at him amazed. She had 
 never heard such a flight of fancy from his lips before. 
 
 "I thought her extremely flippant," she answered, 
 dryly. 
 
 ' ' She seems serious enough, ' ' said Mr. Hyatt Titus, 
 ' ' and evinces an unusual interest in the natural sciences 
 for a female. ' ' 
 
 " Before you came in she was quite flippant, quite, 
 and even worse," said his wife, belligerent. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, I'm afraid we're old fogies." And 
 that was all the consolation offered. 
 
 Mrs. Larremore and her friends were laughing 
 heartily. 
 
 ' ' Poor little lady ! How she swallowed my story 
 about lacing ! I wanted to astonish her, and I think I 
 succeeded. It was very wicked of me. As to that 
 nasty scandal, it completely paralyzed her. Well, it is 
 upsetting. But tell me, Muriel dear, how ever are you 
 and these prigs cousins ?' ' 
 
 The victoria rolled around the beach to the Hatches'. 
 Mrs. Hatch was sitting in the corner of a low divan, 
 and Mr. Hatch was lying upon it at full length, with 
 his head in his wife's lap. She was smoothing his hair 
 with her white fingers, that hair which had once been 
 so golden and was now dulling into grayness. Now
 
 46 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 and then he looked up at her lovingly, and she re- 
 warded him with one of those radiant smiles in which 
 there still lurked for him an element of fascination. 
 
 " Here come the Highty Tightys," she said. 
 
 "Oh, bother!" said Mr. Hatch, irreverently. 
 
 Then the cousins arrived and the greetings were ex- 
 changed. 
 
 "We've just seen your Muriel," said Mrs. Hyatt 
 Titus, settling herself. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hatch looked at each other and smiled. 
 
 ' ' Yes ; she went over to the Club to take tea with 
 Mrs. Larremore." 
 
 "A lovely woman," said Mr. Hatch. 
 
 "She's a great success," said Mrs. Hatch. "If 
 your girl's going out next winter you ought to culti- 
 vate her." 
 
 ' ' Do you ?' ' asked Mrs. Hyatt Titus, abruptly. 
 
 ' ' Why, Martha, how can we cultivate any one ? We 
 don't attempt much gaiety for the children. There are 
 too many of them. You know we leave them here 
 most of the year. But with your girl it will be dif- 
 ferent." 
 
 "She would only have to show herself," said Mrs. 
 Titus, repeating Mrs. Larremore' s words. 
 
 "I don't know," said Mrs. Hatch. "It is well to 
 have no illusions about these things. The big city is a 
 horrible maelstrom." 
 
 Just then Crummy gave a loud war-whoop. After 
 innumerable failures, he had at last succeeded in lasso- 
 ing the cat. He came up on the piazza leaving a trail 
 of wet mud in his wake, and dragging his victim behind 
 him. 
 
 "We're going to play at the French Relovution to- 
 morrow. There's to be an execootion, and this cat's
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 47 
 
 got to die, ' ' he explained. ' ' Sister May-Margaret says 
 she'll make me a gibbetine." 
 
 The cat spluttered and her eyeballs protruded from 
 their sockets, but when he released her, upon his 
 father's command, she came back for more, whining. 
 Master Wace would have been too wise, but this was a 
 silly feminine thing which had wandered over from the 
 next place. 
 
 ' ' How are you, Crummy, my dear ?' ' asked his 
 cousin Martha, suavely. She disliked him thoroughly 
 for an unmannered, unwashed, disagreeable little cub. 
 
 But Crummy, who was still practising his blood-cur- 
 dling lesson, did not deign to answer. 
 
 " Mummy, can I go in swimming ?" 
 
 "Why, you just came out," said his papa. 
 
 " How long ago did you eat ?" asked his mother. 
 
 "I had lemon pie at the servants' supper," said 
 Crummy. 
 
 He had read the story of Ananias and Sapphira, and 
 he was a God-fearing if a dirty little boy. 
 
 "Then you can't go in," said his mother. 
 
 Then Crummy set up a wail, and had to be consoled 
 and cajoled and given a puff-ball which belonged to his 
 sister May-Margaret, and which she had expressly 
 hidden from him under the piazza, trellis-work, but 
 which she now volunteered to bestow upon him if he 
 would only stop screaming and be a good boy once 
 more. 
 
 During this process of pacification Mr. Hatch, entirely 
 undisturbed, began to discourse on a new criticism of 
 Senancourt which he had just been reading aloud to his 
 wife. 
 
 "He breathed," said Mr. Hatch, "the air of high 
 mountains and fragrant forests. He escaped the heat
 
 48 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 and glare of practical day, and leads one to contem- 
 plative repose. So says this critic, and he is right. It 
 is a relief from that vulgaire des sages whose common- 
 places De Senancourt so abhorred, and from which he 
 was himself so free." 
 
 He wandered then to speak of the English poets of 
 the last generation, of Byron, that meteoric creature 
 consumed with the fevers of life, whose lot was cast 
 among spent activities, and he gave his visitors a disser- 
 tation upon his merits and demerits. 
 
 "Darling," whispered his wife, leaning against his 
 shoulder, ' ' I like to hear you talk. ' ' 
 
 " Now you must tell the cousins our news," said Mr. 
 Hatch, smiling at his wife, dismissing Senancourt and 
 Byron in a trice, as men of the world alone know how 
 to do. 
 
 "Yes, we have a great piece of news," said Mrs. 
 Hatch. 
 
 May- Margaret looked up from her occupation, that 
 of pulling Layamon's tail, and said, in her soft drawl, 
 
 ' ' Guess, Cousin Martha. It' s very interesting. 
 We're all wildly excited." 
 
 But Cousin Martha had no taste for riddles, and could 
 not guess. 
 
 Then they were told that Muriel was engaged to be 
 married to Willie Truden. 
 
 ' ' Martha is an admirable woman, even a strong 
 woman," said Mrs. Hatch, as the Hyatt Tituses drove 
 away, "but she has not the gift of sympathy. She 
 took our news coldly." 
 
 "And her girl's just like her," said Mr. Hatch. 
 " Notsimpatica, not to me, at least. They were born 
 hard." 
 
 Mrs. Titus thought life in fact rather hard as she
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 49 
 
 crunched off in her low, easy conveyance. Muriel ! 
 Was it possible ! Well, why not ? On their silent 
 homeward drive tacitly she and her husband ignored 
 the subject. But Mrs. Hyatt Titus realized that the 
 strength of a desire is not gauged until it has been frus- 
 trated. How rounded, how perfect is the wish which 
 has become hopeless ! It is the same with love. Its 
 frenzy lies in its denials. Fate is cruel ; and it is not 
 given to all to cry, " Though he slay me, yet will I 
 praise him." 
 
 Mrs. Hyatt Titus was a "wife and mother." Her 
 acquaintances were never left in doubt as to that fact. 
 But of the magnetic currents that sway the destinies of 
 men and women, of the blind forces that control them, 
 of the scars and jars and jangles of human motive, she 
 knew as little as the lively kitten which ran under her 
 rocking-chair to catch her ball of worsted, or as the 
 rows of splendid cabbages that adorned the kitchen- 
 garden behind the terraced walk. 
 
 She paid no more visits that afternoon. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Miss HYATT TITUS had on one of her most aesthetic 
 gowns, and was carrying a tinted cream-and-gold edition 
 of ^Eschylus in one hand, how she loathed it all, ex- 
 cept the binding ! as she stepped across the lawn to 
 meet Mrs. Larremore, who, followed by the Earl of 
 Brownlow, walked in at the gate. Mrs. Larremore was 
 flushed and rather tired. 
 
 Fighting fat was all very well, if one had the man of 
 
 one's heart beside one to tell one that it had been fought 
 
 to some purpose. But this lubberly Englishman, this 
 
 " Brownie," was not complimentary, not even amusing ; 
 
 c d 5
 
 SO THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 appallingly dull, in fact. When he opened his big 
 mouth at all to a woman it was generally to vaunt the 
 charms of some absent one. On this occasion his en- 
 thusiasm had found vent in extolling the loveliness of 
 Muriel Hatch. Mrs. Larremore was becoming a little 
 sick of it. She wondered how it would seem to belong 
 to that large and long-suffering class of women who ac- 
 cept this sort of pabulum as their every-day ration ; who 
 are talked to by men about other women's attractions, 
 who climb mountains with other women's lovers, are 
 rowed about lakes by sporadic males in flannel shirts, 
 simply as ballast and nothing more, fasten on other 
 girls' veils and bouquets de corsage for them, stand about 
 on side-walks while their friends pass on coaches, and, 
 what is worse, are sunk in such an apathy of dreari- 
 ness that they do not even fathom the horror of their 
 situation. 
 
 Miss Hyatt Titus invited them to sit under the trees 
 while she called her mamma, but Mrs. Larremore ex- 
 pressed herself surfeited with heat and glare after this 
 exercise imposed upon herself for the conservation of 
 her figure's lines, and said she would prefer to go into 
 the house. Here in a moment Mrs. Hyatt Titus joined 
 her, and the daughter of the house, looking coyly up 
 at the young Englishman from under her long lashes, 
 suggested to this gentleman a walk in the garden. 
 
 Mrs. Larremore, having been given a fan, had soon 
 regained her elegant composure in the dim freshness 
 of a pleasant drawing-room. Some glasses of lemonade 
 were brought in. 
 
 " Is there sugar?" asked Mrs. Larremore. "I must 
 take it very sour, on account of my banting." Her 
 heightened color only added to her beauty. 
 
 So thought Mr. Hyatt Titus, who, to his wife's sur-
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 51 
 
 prise, not only did not endeavor to escape, as was his 
 wont when visitors were announced, but came in and 
 established himself in a large arm-chair in close prox- 
 imity to Mrs. Larremore's skirts. 
 
 "This is the Luna moth of which I spoke to you," 
 said he, handing a tiny twig with a worm sitting upon 
 it to the "goddess." 
 
 "What an old idiot, with his Luna !" thought Mrs. 
 Larremore. But she smiled sweetly, and, leaning for- 
 ward, took the thing in her hands. 
 
 She was not afraid of worms or of mice or of men. 
 That sort of squeamishness has gone out of date. But 
 she did not care much for natural history, except, in- 
 deed, such as the realistic novelists afforded her. She 
 leaned forward and asked questions intently, as if the 
 Luna was the key-note of her aspiration, the long- 
 sought-for problem of a wasted career. 
 
 She did not twist cigarettes to-day, nor allude to her 
 tight lacing. Her movements were easy and rhythmical 
 in raiment of lace and mull which lent itself clingingly 
 to her plastic poses. Her converse, indeed, was soft 
 and seemly, and her manners, like her dress, perfect. 
 Yet Mrs. Hyatt Titus was uneasy in her presence. She 
 had that vague sense of disapproval which had haunted 
 her before, and which seemed to rob her of her powers 
 of speech. She found herself and she took pride in 
 speaking the purest English awkward in her words, 
 involved in her sentences, and even at times growing 
 ungrammatical. Mrs. Larremore's pervasive, nervous 
 vitality was simply too much for her own, and she 
 finally collapsed into long silences. 
 
 Her husband, on the contrary, seemed peculiarly ex- 
 hilarated. He talked incessantly, and, she noticed, 
 really appeared to very unusual advantage. He took
 
 52 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 Mrs. Larremore about to show her his pictures and 
 books, his museum of curiosities, the lady swaying 
 after him gracefully, trailing her delicate draperies. 
 ' ' Cleverly done ! Exquisite ! A fine bit of foreground ! 
 Most instructive !" she murmured, as the occasion 
 might warrant, while the hostess brought up the rear 
 in her short, round frock which the laundress seemed 
 to have stupidly overstarched for the occasion. And 
 by and by they stepped out across the lawn to see 
 the chickens, wonderful fowls that had won no end of 
 prizes and honorable mentions, and Mrs. Larremore 
 actually looked at and extolled them. 
 
 In the mean while the earl was being dragged by his 
 fair companion farther away over the Hyatt Titus 
 property, and as she dragged him she managed to 
 bother him a good deal about ^schylus. 
 
 ' ' He was fifty-three when he took his first prize for 
 the Persians, you know," she said. 
 
 "You don't say !" said the earl. "It seems rather 
 old, doesn't it?" 
 
 "It proves," said Miss Hyatt Titus, encouragingly, 
 "that it is never too late to improve one's self. One 
 may learn . . . one may succeed . . . late. ' ' 
 
 "I should say that was rather slow, though, eh?" 
 said the earl, with an attempt at jocularity, and falling 
 over at the same moment a concealed stump. He 
 picked up a large foot and began to nurse it. 
 
 "Take care you don't fall," said Miss Hyatt Titus. 
 "There are lots of these stumps in this pine copse." 
 
 "They're damned ... er ... I beg your pardon 
 . . . unpleasant, ' ' said the earl, again stubbing his toes. 
 "Why don't you have them ... er ... removed?" 
 
 "There's so much to be done on such a large do- 
 main," said Violet.
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 53 
 
 The place of sixty acres did not, however, seem to 
 greatly dazzle the Earl of Brownlow, who drove twenty 
 miles from his gate at Draco Towers to the portals of 
 his home, and who had several other estates of almost 
 similar proportions ; nor did the tiny glass houses 
 through which his young hostess propelled his bulki- 
 ness startle a young gentleman accustomed to miles of 
 graperies and palm -houses. He made no allusion, 
 however, to any of his possessions. But everything 
 that the girl had and knew, had not and did not know, 
 was made to dance in his honor. 
 
 When they returned to the house, Mr. Hyatt Titus, 
 who seemed in high good humor, again, to the amaze- 
 ment of his women, was cordial to the stranger, and 
 even invited him to come and pass a few days. 
 
 "Thanks awfully. I'm off for the Rockies," said 
 the earl. 
 
 "When you come back, then," said the man of 
 affairs to the man of pleasure. 
 
 "I'd like it immensely," said the earl. 
 
 Then Mrs. Hyatt Titus chimed in, and the time was 
 fixed for six weeks later. 
 
 "What in the world," said Mrs. Larremore to him 
 later on their way home, "possessed you to accept 
 that invitation? Those people would put me under 
 the sod in three days, with their ' culture' and their 
 chickens. Why will superficial undigested culture 
 always howl and roar when the real assimilated article 
 slips about silently and unobtrusively ? Did the child 
 drag you about to see the chickens, too ? My brother- 
 in-law raises chickens at his place. To me chickens 
 all look exactly alike. They're very tiresome. But 
 one can never tell about these things. He insists there 
 are enormous differences. It may be so. The girl's 
 
 5*
 
 54 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 picturesque," continued Mrs. Larremore, "but she's 
 disappointing. ' ' 
 
 ' ' She worries one awfully, ' ' said the earl. 
 
 " I can well imagine, Brownie, that the aesthetic 
 literary is not your type." 
 
 She did not ask him what his type was, nor look up 
 at him coquettishly. It was quite useless. There was 
 no use in wasting one's shot. Well, no matter. Con- 
 solation was coming up in the 4. 10 boat that night. 
 
 " I think the Hatch girls are jolly." 
 
 " There are a great many of them." 
 
 " I like Muriel," said the earl. 
 
 ' ' Ah ! Of course. You like Muriel, man-like, be- 
 cause she's mortgaged." 
 
 ' ' Do you think she cares for the fellow, Mrs. Larre- 
 more ?" Brownlow's face gloomed. 
 
 "Who can tell anything about girls?" said Mrs. 
 Larremore, sighing. And then she added, with that 
 distinct taste for mischief which possessed her, ' ' Why 
 don't you stay and cut him out yourself, Brownie ?" 
 
 The earl's heavy face brightened as he turned to 
 her. 
 
 ' ' Now you chaff, ' ' he said. 
 
 The Hyatt Tituses gave a dinner-party. It was in 
 honor of Muriel Hatch and Willie Truden. Miss Hyatt 
 Titus covered her cousin with congratulations, affection, 
 and flowers. Willie Truden was in high spirits. But 
 Muriel was silent. Her dark blue eyes had a sombre, 
 strange expression in their depths, and her laughing 
 mouth was almost stern. Arriving a little late, she ex- 
 plained, somewhat flustered, that the Earl of Brownlow 
 had come to say good-by to them all, and that she had 
 not noticed the hour. 
 
 "He's coming to stop with us when he returns," said
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 55 
 
 her cousin, in a disengaged manner, but with a secret 
 toss of triumph. 
 
 "That will be just in time for the wedding," said 
 Willie Truden. 
 
 ' ' Is it to be so soon ?' ' asked Mrs. Titus, suavely. 
 
 "Just as soon as ever Muriel's willing," said Willie 
 Truden, ardently. "I'll be on hand, you may be 
 certain. ' ' 
 
 But Muriel still said nothing. 
 
 It was just two weeks before the wedding-day that 
 the earl returned. He was landed with his traps, his 
 tub, his valise, his boxes, his bag, his shawls and his 
 umbrellas, his hat-boxes, his rifle, his fishing-tackle, on 
 the Hyatt Titus piazza, steps. One or two girls and a 
 couple of young men had been found and pressed into 
 service as a nucleus to the house-party invited to wel- 
 come him. But I may as well say at once that on this 
 visit, which lasted ten long days, the Brownlow es- 
 cutcheon did not cover itself with glory, this visit, for 
 which Miss Titus had provided herself with three new 
 frocks, four new hats, and, oh, with what dreamings ! 
 
 Very early every morning Draco carried himself, or 
 had himself carried, across the lake, and remained until 
 twilight fell at the house of Hatch. In vain Miss Hyatt 
 Titus asked him to join this or that picnic or party, or- 
 ganized before his arrival for his especial benefit, ramped 
 in fury up and down the length and breadth and silence 
 of her own bed-chamber, bullied her mother when she 
 caught her alone on the back stairs, or came down 
 smiling sweetly into the arena where women must meet 
 friend and foe alike with unruffled calm and accept mor- 
 tification with a serene front. 
 
 Once only did the earl consent to join one of these 
 excursions, and this was upon an occasion when Muriel
 
 56 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 Hatch was of the party. Hery?aw^ had gone up to 
 town that day to look to some final arrangements for 
 the wedding which was drawing nigh. 
 
 The excursion led them across the sand-spit. They 
 were to drive in half a dozen vehicles, then to embark 
 in various sailing-craft, and after an hour's sail the 
 pleasure-seekers would be landed upon a wild, lonely 
 shore. Here would be found lots of surf, sand, and 
 rock, and a wooden structure with a pavilion which 
 pushed itself seaward, and under whose green-and- 
 white awnings soft-shell crabs and roasted clams were 
 served up in specially toothsome fashion to such persons 
 as needed refection. 
 
 It was too soon for luncheon when they landed, so 
 the party scattered in twos and threes, mostly twos, and 
 wandered off to the rocks. Miss Hyatt Titus made a 
 dab for Brownlow as a matter of vanity, for she was 
 beginning to hate him. But, heavy as he was, he 
 managed to elude her rather cleverly, and was soon 
 walking off under the fluttering guidance of Muriel 
 Hatch's pink petticoat. She wore a jaunty sailor-hat 
 with a rose-colored ribbon about it. The wind was in 
 her wavy brown hair. She seemed very lovely and 
 very desirable to the young Englishman. He lounged 
 by her side through the damp sand which the receding 
 tides had left encrusted with shiny pebbles and gaudy 
 shells ; her narrow foot and his broad one left prints 
 behind them into which the water rose darkling. 
 
 " I say," said the earl, " aren't you tired? Let me 
 swing you up here. ' ' 
 
 So saying, he seized the girl's hands and drew her 
 up by his side on the ledge of rocks which they had 
 reached, and behind which they found the waves lash- 
 ing themselves into fervor.
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 57 
 
 "It's splendid here," said Muriel, drawing in her 
 breath quickly. ' ' I like this spray cutting my face. 
 It gives one courage." 
 
 "Is that what you want, courage?" said the earl, 
 looking at her very hard. "You're plucky enough, I 
 fancy." 
 
 ' ' I shall need it all, all the courage I have. But not 
 for what you believe," said Muriel. 
 
 ' ' I don' t know what to believe. ' ' 
 
 "Promise me you'll not think ill of me, whatever 
 happens." 
 
 ' ' How can I think ill of you, when . . . ' 
 
 Muriel put a finger on her lip. ' ' Take care, ' ' she said. 
 
 "I'm perfectly miserable," said the earl. 
 
 " I have a secret to tell you, my friend," said Muriel, 
 solemnly. " May I intrust it to your honor?" 
 
 "That's all right," said the earl, shaking his head. 
 
 "I shall never marry Willie Truden," said Muriel, 
 solemnly. 
 
 ' ' I say !' ' said the earl. 
 
 " Never, never ! It's been a horrible mistake. Hor- 
 rible ! You may as well know it, I'm going to run 
 away. ' ' 
 
 "Where shall you go? M eagerly, edging a little 
 nearer. 
 
 But Muriel drew away from him, keeping him at some 
 distance. 
 
 ' ' I know not ; probably to San Francisco, or perhaps 
 to Greece. I may try to get a place as a governess or 
 a type- writer, or something like that," said Muriel, " or 
 else I shall go on the stage. My family will hear of me 
 no more forever. I shall be lost to them." 
 
 "Oh, Muriel! take me with you," said the earl, 
 growing crimson, ' ' for I love you. ' '
 
 $8 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 "Oh!" said Muriel. 
 
 ' ' I adore you ! You' re the darlingest girl I ever saw. ' ' 
 
 ' ' That' s what you said of my cousin that first night 
 in the boat." 
 
 ' ' I said that of your cousin ? I never said it : I never 
 thought it. What ! That silly little girl ?" 
 
 " Yes, you did ; and she's never silly. That's what's 
 the matter with her." 
 
 ' ' I must have been thinking about you. I was crazy 
 then already, wretched. I didn't know what I was 
 about." 
 
 If this was one of those perjuries at which the gods 
 laugh, Muriel, being a mortal maiden, swallowed it. 
 
 ' ' Will you really help to save me from my revolting 
 fate ?' ' she asked, tragically. 
 
 The revolting fate was indulging in shrimps and a 
 glass of port at Delmonico's at that very moment ; con- 
 sidered as an epitome of an unhappy destiny, he cer- 
 tainly looked mild enough. 
 
 "I'll carry you off this very minute to the city and 
 we'll be married to-night by the first parson we meet, 
 if you'll only say you love me, Muriel." 
 
 4 ' I worship you !' ' said Muriel. 
 
 "Then Willie Truden can go to the devil," said the 
 earl. 
 
 1 ' As fast as ever he chooses. There are so many of 
 us ; I thought it would be a good thing for the others. 
 But ... I can't," said Muriel, a little wildly, inebri- 
 ated, no doubt, by the sharp air and her new lord's 
 bold methods. 
 
 " I found," she continued, raising her head and 
 looking at him, "that I liked you best." 
 
 " Oh, my beauty ! Give me your lips," said Draco, 
 with Homeric simplicity and fire.
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 59 
 
 " No," said Muriel. " Never. Here is my hand." 
 
 He took and wrung her thin brown fingers in his 
 pink ones. She had shaken off Truden's large diamond 
 she would have called it the insignia of her slavery 
 into her top drawer that morning, and wore for all 
 adornment on her littlest finger a jagged silver circle 
 cut out of a ten-cent piece by Master Crummy. 
 
 But, like Canute, the lover cannot stop the waves of 
 life, and a moment later their young lips had met and 
 clung. It was a salt caress, for the sea had kissed them 
 first, leaving behind its taste of ardent brine. 
 
 The first physical touch is the abyss in which many 
 an ideal has foundered. There are kisses that seal a 
 man's freedom, as there are those which rivet his bond- 
 age. Mary Hatch and her poet-husband had distilled 
 in the veins of their offspring some drop of flame, fused 
 of their own loving. It seemed all concentrated to-day 
 in Muriel's breath of roses. 
 
 "I'm the happiest man on earth," said the earl, 
 drinking of its sweetness with rapt fervor. "You're 
 just too perfectly lovely, you know." 
 
 "What will our . . . families say?" said Muriel, 
 settling her hat. 
 
 How horrid Truden had seemed to her ! She never 
 would sit and talk to him through their brief betrothal 
 unless her mother were in the room and the library 
 table between them, and here . . . ! 
 
 "Oh, hang the families ! I've only my sister, and 
 she's got nothing to say on the subject ; and as to 
 yours well, if they cut up rough we'll arrange it all 
 when . . . when we get back." 
 
 "Yes, ... let us forget everybody," said Muriel, 
 still a little intoxicated by the winds and waves of this 
 new sea, " it's so . . . so delicious here."
 
 60 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 "Yes," said the earl, "perfectly delicious." 
 
 "And I don't know why," said Muriel, "but it's 
 being wrong seems to make it nicer, sweeter, dearer, 
 doesn't it?" 
 
 Ah, Muriel ! daughter of Eden ! The hot sun 
 flooded their young hearts. 
 
 "It isn't wrong," said the young man, his brow 
 irradiated by his adoration. "It's the other thing that 
 was criminal, don't you see?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Muriel, who had inherited 
 analytical tendencies from her papa. " Can a thing be 
 wrong if the motive is a high one ?' ' 
 
 "That's rot, you know," said the more practical 
 Briton, decidedly. 
 
 "But," said Muriel, dreamily, "it's such a strange 
 experience of mine, when I do wrong I am not always 
 conscious of God's displeasure. I still feel as if he 
 loved me and would have a care for me in spite of all." 
 
 " Of course he loves you." 
 
 "I sometimes think," said Muriel, earnestly, "it is 
 quite impossible there should only be room in his sight 
 and his heaven for the narrow, tiresome, disagreeable, 
 dull people who are called 'good,' people like Cousin 
 Martha, for instance. Don't you suppose he likes the 
 others too, they that are wider and wilder, though 
 sometimes erring ? Think what heaven will be like if 
 the great and the brilliant, who are so often wayward, 
 are to be shut out of it forever and forever ! What do 
 you think ?' ' 
 
 " 'Pon my honor, I've never thought about it at all, 
 you know," said the earl. "There's a dear girl I 
 wouldn't bother." 
 
 A shadow fell over Muriel's beautiful face : it came of 
 the first perceived lack of sympathy. Muriel's was not
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 6 1 
 
 a nature to be filled easily. Her deep and restless heart 
 marked her d'avance as one of those women who are 
 to have a career in love and who are to be tossed on 
 many breakers. But Muriel was a fine and healthy 
 young creature who loved the sunshine with its glory 
 and warmth, and the moment now sufficed. 
 
 The earl blinked his eyes like a young owl, blinded 
 by the light in his own soul. On Muriel's horizon 
 arose fugitive palaces and shadowy gardens where 
 every dream and desire should be reached. 
 
 V. 
 
 HAVING failed to capture the earl, Miss Highty 
 Tighty had turned her mind towards smaller game. 
 There was the new young clergyman. He had arrived 
 to pay a parochial call, just as the battalion was wheel- 
 ing off, and had weakly yielded to the entreaties of 
 two somewhat neglected maidens, who brought up the 
 rear of the procession in a species of go-cart, to climb 
 in with them and join the procession. Miss Highty 
 Tighty had smiled and called out from the head of the 
 line, where she was marshalling her forces, that she 
 would be ' ' charmed' ' if he would do so. 
 
 It may be said here that this earnest young priest 
 was much torn between a distinct desire to do his duty, 
 to be ascetic, to be self-sacrificing, he advocated the 
 celibacy of the priesthood, and strong natural pro- 
 clivities to pleasure. He had a high appreciation of all 
 the joys nature proffers, and, above all, that of le haut 
 parfum feminin. This perfume was too much for him 
 on this lovely summer's morning, and he swung him- 
 self up behind the go-cart with more alacrity than he 
 would have cared to admit in the confessional. 
 
 6
 
 62 THE FIKST FLIGHT 
 
 It must be conceded, however, that persons who 
 incessantly sacrifice their tastes and desires to others, 
 and appear devoid of every form of egoism, have gen- 
 erally a low vitality, a certain lack of temperament, an 
 indifference to the interests of their own destinies, 
 which do not always spring from positively generous 
 purposes. A healthy love of life is naturally selfish ; 
 if all selfish effort were criminal, the ponderous wheels 
 of the earth's machinery would soon grow clogged. 
 Fortunately, we need have no fear in this matter. The 
 Father Damiens will remain forever exceptional creat- 
 ures, before whom a world may well stand uncovered. 
 
 The new country parish of the Rev. Clement Para- 
 chute was made up largely, nay, almost exclusively, of 
 city people, who had themselves driven up to the church 
 of a Sunday morning, in a variety of fine equipages, 
 dressed in smart summer bravery, they usually arrived 
 late, and left an empty treasury and vacant pews behind 
 them in the autumn. In this dispiriting atmosphere he 
 hoped that the Hyatt Tituses would be found a tonic 
 and a support. They were, he was told, the oldest 
 inhabitants, and the stanchest church people. They 
 were also the richest, which was more to the point. 
 The young lady was, therefore, doubly interesting to 
 him, not only as his hostess of to-day, but as a possible 
 ally in his work of to-morrow. He strongly believed 
 in attracting the younger and more ardent element. 
 He was himself both young and ardent. 
 
 He was a thin, deep-eyed, narrow-chested fellow, 
 burning with energy and ambition, a trifle reckless of 
 consecrated opinion, intelligent, even possessing some 
 talent, and of a romantic, warm disposition. Having 
 failed to impress the earl, Miss Hyatt Titus decided to 
 impress this ingenuous divine. Not being a young
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 63 
 
 person of much imagination or resource, nothing better 
 suggested itself to her than to "talk shop" to him, 
 in other words, to show the profoundest interest in the 
 church, in the parochial work, and the poor of the 
 neighborhood. A pretty girl with a mauve parasol, 
 who hangs on your words, and seems to consider 
 "slumming" the end of existence, is not often too 
 strictly analyzed by such a critic as the Reverend 
 Clement Parachute. How could he fathom the vexa- 
 tion of his fair companion at the defection of that ill- 
 bred lout the Briton, and the poignant resentment 
 which Muriel Hatch's indiscreet behavior was, for some 
 occult reason, stirring in her cousin's breast? "She 
 is a bad girl," she was saying to herself; the thought 
 was pleasant to her and pregnant. Undoubtedly the 
 house-fly, that commonplace member of every house- 
 hold, mistakes every spot on the table-cloth for an 
 eclipse of the sun. 
 
 When she leaned to him smiling, he saw only a 
 gleam of pretty teeth, and heard with pleasure her 
 assurances that she would slum with him any day he 
 might select or see fit ; that, in fact, literary pursuits 
 and "slumming" were the only occupations which 
 pleased and gratified her. If she made these as- 
 surances in a somewhat distraite manner, it eluded the 
 clergyman's spiritual perceptions. 
 
 Mrs. Larremore, in the mean while, was making the 
 most of the "Consolation," who, in a pair of white 
 duck trousers and a blue flannel jacket, was lying on 
 the sands at her feet. This lady had vouchsafed to 
 chaperon the party. She was passing a couple of days 
 at the Club again, and had provided her own enter- 
 tainment, with a proper degree of forethought. Mrs. 
 Larremore was one of those women who pass to have
 
 64 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 a worse bark than bite ; in other words, her laxity in 
 conversation was her protection. There are simple 
 souls who believe that still waters run deep. She 
 therefore, notwithstanding one or two rather hazy 
 moments in her career, always managed to emerge into 
 the light of day with an untarnished escutcheon and 
 flying colors. Her pulses were always cool ; the 
 sphygmograph would have been found superfluous to 
 count their throbbings. She was now engaged in per- 
 suading the young gentleman at her feet, who was 
 several years her junior, that it was advisable to marry 
 a woman much older than one's self. She could not 
 marry him now, because she was married already ; but 
 then one never knew what misfortune the future might 
 present ! "It is only the monstrous selfishness of the 
 male," she was saying, " that requires a young creature 
 to serve .his brain-softening processes. All women of 
 genius have treated themselves, late in life, to nice 
 young husbands, and I think it was a proof of their 
 wit. Even the dignity and certainty of talent requires 
 companionship. All superiority creates a vacuum about 
 it. Genius is isolation. Madame de Stae'l, the Duchess 
 of Albany, Miss Mulock, Miss Thackeray, George 
 Eliot, etc., clever women these." 
 
 ' ' But how great a difference do you think there 
 ought to be ?' ' asked the ' ' Consolation, ' ' anxiously. 
 
 ' ' What are years where there is ... er ... love ?' ' 
 said the lady, with her eyes in the azure. 
 
 ' ' Yes, yes, of course. ' ' 
 
 "To awaken the imagination, to touch the heart, 
 that is everything." 
 
 "Yes, of course," sighed the "Consolation," with 
 an elevated lyric eyebrow. 
 
 "Time robs us of all illusions, but establishes the
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 65 
 
 decisions of nature, its impulses, its magnetic currents" 
 . . . "hang it if I know what I'm talking about," 
 thought Mrs. Larremore, who was not devoid of 
 humor ; but her adorer seemed impressed. 
 
 "What a clever woman you are !" he sighed, look- 
 ing up at her. 
 
 ' ' Depend upon it, the highest forms of admiration 
 and of love are those gained in spite of something, 
 under protest:" . . . "that is better; there is some 
 wit in that," she reflected. 
 
 "I feel such a lout near you," said the "Consola- 
 tion." "I am like a stupid, sluggish, straight canal, 
 and you like a beautiful, sunlit, meandering river. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Rather meandering, that is a fact, ' ' thought Mrs. 
 Larremore. 
 
 ' ' I find you an attractive fellow, you know, ' ' she 
 said, brushing his hair with the lace of her sunshade. 
 His silly heart turned over in his breast with a leap and 
 a thump, and he leaned back and took a long look at 
 her eyes, which were probably delightful to men be- 
 cause they were always free from blame or counsel. 
 They could be pitiful, or flash with fun, but were rarely 
 reproving, which was comforting. 
 
 So, in idle babblings the day wore on, and by and 
 by the party, a trifle sunbrowned and dishevelled, a 
 little surfeited with winds and waves and each other, 
 met again, and mounted into their respective equipages, 
 and were driven homeward across the twilight. 
 
 But that evening there was a great cry in two house- 
 holds, for two of the party were among the missing : 
 one was the stranger within the gates, and the other 
 the pet lamb of a neighboring fold ! 
 
 With her hair secured on a single hair-pin, and a 
 fresh, crisp peignior over her modest night-gown, Mrs. 
 
 e 6*
 
 66 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 Titus sat on the edge of her daughter's bed, between 
 whose fragrant sheets this coy damsel had just intro- 
 duced herself. 
 
 "To-morrow," she said, sententiously, "to-morrow, 
 after luncheon, your father and myself will have our- 
 selves driven over to the Hatcheries. I must condole 
 with your unfortunate cousin Mary upon her daughter's 
 misconduct. I did not wish to intrude too soon." 
 
 1 ' She will be a countess, and they say his country- 
 houses are legion." 
 
 ' ' Such horrible publicity !' ' gasped the mother ; 
 "the marriage in all the papers already, to-night, with 
 frightful details ! Well, Willie Truden has had a 
 narrow escape." 
 
 ' ' He will marry Audrey now ; they are exactly 
 suited. Oh, they will keep him !" 
 
 ' ' I should think he would dread that family. ' ' 
 
 "They are not the kind that men dread," said the 
 girl, raising her head from her pillow, upon her white 
 arm ; ' ' and the sooner that is understood, the better. ' ' 
 
 Six months later Audrey did, in fact, lead her sister's 
 jilted millionaire to the altar ; and she has made him 
 pay for the fact of not having been his first choice by 
 the rapidity with which she assists him to scatter his 
 ducats, her equipages and toilets having become, I am 
 told, the talk of two continents. 
 
 Audrey is a thick-haired, strong-footed, muscular, 
 ambitious young person, with a fine figure. She sits 
 in a carriage regally. She is far better suited to Willie 
 Truden, who is not overburdened with brains, than the 
 pleasure-loving, easy-going Muriel could ever have 
 been.
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 6j 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE Reverend Parachute and Miss Hyatt Titus 
 started forth together on their errand of charity at 
 eleven o'clock the following morning. She mentioned 
 to the young clergyman a certain Mrs. Deams who was 
 supposed to be sufficiently poor and rheumatic to be- 
 come an object of sympathy. Poverty in this neigh- 
 borhood was a comparative term ; pauperism was un- 
 known everybody had jam and doughnuts for supper. 
 
 Mrs. Deams lived in a copse on the outskirts of the 
 town. They concluded to call upon her first. The new 
 young rector had Mrs. Deams down on his books, but 
 had not yet made her acquaintance. He found that his 
 fair comrade had dressed herself expressly for the ex- 
 cursion. She had replaced the usual aesthetic fine fabrics 
 of her choice by a gown cut from a material of dark 
 and serious aspect and rather antiquated as to its mode. 
 Her head was tied up in a bag of thick black veiling, 
 and a sombre sunshade was held down low over her 
 eyes. 
 
 They walked across the fields together, chatting a 
 little stiffly, and less than twenty minutes brought them 
 to the back of Mrs. Deams' s property. A hole in the 
 whitewashed fence could readily admit them into a small 
 poultry-yard which adjoined the pig-sty, whose odors 
 suggested that it had languished uncared for through a 
 hot season. Across this unsavory morass a narrow 
 footpath led to the well and up to the low front door 
 with its honeysuckled porch. Just as they cleared the 
 rail fence a man in the road spied Mr. Parachute and 
 begged him to step out and speak with him for a mo- 
 ment. Miss Hyatt Titus was, therefore, left for a few 
 minutes alone. She was standing undecided as to her
 
 68 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 next move, when a shrill voice accosted her from an 
 upper window : 
 
 "Oh, Mary Jane, did you bring the letter?" 
 
 To this she naturally gave no response. 
 
 "Oh, Mary Jane," persisted the voice, querulously, 
 " are ye going to answer me or no? Did ye bring the 
 letter?" 
 
 "I am not . . . Mary Jane," adventured Miss Hyatt 
 Titus. 
 
 " Lord ha' mercy on us, miss !" said Mrs. Deams. 
 ' ' You was dressed so plain. Who ever would ha" 
 thought you was a real lady?" And with this ejacula- 
 tion she drew her head into the house. 
 
 Our young lady's regret at the severity of her costume 
 was balanced by the pleasure she felt that Mr. Para- 
 chute had not overheard the remark. He now joined 
 her, and Mrs. Deams issued from the house. She was 
 a jagged person, very tall, and dressed in a nonde- 
 script calico garment, somewhat soiled, which fell away 
 straight from her sharp shoulders, innocent of shapeli- 
 ness or of belting. On her scant hair she wore a sun- 
 bonnet, from which protruded her gray, gaunt visage. 
 Its most salient trait was a walrus tooth protruding from 
 under her long upper lip. She hurried forward hos- 
 pitably, passing the back of her hand and arm across her 
 mouth ; then, darting at her visitor, she cast a sinewy 
 arm about her shrinking figure and imprinted a tusky 
 embrace upon her recoiling cheek. She then shook 
 hands for fully five minutes with a certain degree of 
 violence with the young priest, while the girl was 
 trying to reconcile herself to what was over, a philo- 
 sophic wisdom only acquired through long and severe 
 experience. 
 
 Mrs. Deams, having thus emphasized her welcome,
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 69 
 
 ushered her guests into her best parlor, with a " I hope 
 I see you both well." This apartment was not in very 
 excellent order, but Mrs. Deams had one attribute of 
 good breeding : she never cast discredit upon herself 
 by apology. She therefore made no excuses either for 
 her disordered rooms or for her negligent apparel. She 
 was evidently bent upon entertaining her guests, and 
 only wasted a few inevitable moments in remarks upon 
 health and weather. Almost immediately after they had 
 settled themselves she rose and went to the mantel- 
 piece, from whose encumberment she disengaged two 
 photographs. 
 
 "Them's my two men," she said. 
 
 One was the portrait of a rough-hewn farmer dressed 
 in his Sunday clothes, with a chin-beard and a shock 
 of heavy gray hair ; a man of about sixty. The other 
 was that of a much younger person, with a dare-devil 
 expression in his eyes, and broad shoulders. He looked 
 like a clerk in some small city store out for his holiday ; 
 such a young gentleman as the village girls call ' ' in- 
 teresting," with a pathetic inflection upon the " rest." 
 
 "That is my old man," said Mrs. Deams. "He 
 ain't pretty to look at, but he was a decent body for all 
 that. His forehead was kind o' wrinkled, and he had 
 bronkity, so as his voice sounded queer sometimes, as 
 if it come out of a tunnel. And that's my second, and 
 Lord ha' mercy on me for all the trouble he give me !" 
 
 " We heard you had to . . . er . . . ' 
 
 Here Mr. Parachute felt called upon to exhale a sigh. 
 
 "I hadn't been with him six month," said Mrs. 
 Deams, crisply, ' ' when up comes another woman ' ' 
 
 ' ' Dear me !' ' said Mr. Parachute. 
 
 "Yes, sir, that's so ; and I a decent woman who'd 
 always borne a good character and ain't a-going to
 
 70 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 damn her soul to please him or another. ' No,' says I, 
 ' no other woman for me, ... or him. I'm first an' 
 last an' th' only one, or I'll know it.' So I jest turned 
 him out and had him up for bigam' before you could 
 turn your hand. Yes, sir ! my papers is square, and 
 he locked up for a twelvemonth. But laws ha' mercy ! 
 for all that he was a clean fellow, and nice-spoken, and 
 I ain't a-going to say a word ag'in him behind his back. 
 Ain't he a pretty man ?" 
 
 It was very evident which of her two ventures Mrs. 
 Deams had found the most to her taste. She looked 
 lovingly at the face of her betrayer, and with a sigh 
 placed the two pictures side by side in front of the clock. 
 It was only her wholesome fear of hell-fire which had 
 driven her to the extreme measure of a separation. 
 
 And who shall deny the wholesomeness of fear ? Mrs. 
 Deams is not the only one it sways. The cultured, the 
 strong, the powerful, also tremble. Fear moves the 
 world, and it is well. In delicate souls it is that vague 
 premonition of loss, of being shut out, away from all 
 that made life sweet and good, that presage of a loneli- 
 ness that is in itself the doom of deterioration, that 
 sense of being cut off that wrings tears from the child 
 whose mother refuses to smile. We all grope in these 
 tenebra. Our welfare is the result of this one motor 
 which quickens more than it kills. Even a woman's 
 beauty is the result of her sacrifices. Watch her at ball 
 and supper. This draught of air will ruin her com- 
 plexion : she avoids it. This pate" will increase her 
 weight : " No, thank you !" The fear of consequences 
 arrests the cup at the man's lips, protects faltering inno- 
 cence. He who hesitates is generally . . . saved. He 
 who prates of virtue for virtue's sake prates and that 
 is all. Why does man work? Is it not in fear of
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 71 
 
 poverty and pain ? or at best to ease the restlessness of 
 a superfluous energy ? Why does he rest ? Is it not 
 in dread of those lapses of the brain, that thought of 
 its overwrought tension which whispers to him of 
 impending catastrophe ? Fear does more for us than 
 hope. To the unimaginative joy is pale. Few have 
 the temperament which tastes of it deeply ; of the 
 poignancies of happiness or of pleasure few know 
 aught. But some measure of suffering has been ac- 
 corded to all. We all know that God be praised 
 All hail, then, Our Lady of Suffering ! the Angel of a 
 Saint Teresa ! 
 
 Violet sitting on a hard-backed chair began to think 
 slumming a very poor sort of pastime. She asked 
 about Mrs. Beams' s rheumatism, which drew forth a 
 realistic account of this lady's diseases, treated with 
 that vigor and force which must always tend to diminish 
 the refinement and grace of life ; and pervading all was 
 the odor of the pig-sty ! But Mrs. Beams, being 
 American born, did not view her visitors' call as a work 
 of philanthropy. She insisted on opening a jar of her 
 best preserves ; she brought out some jelly-cake for 
 them, and thrust a bunch of honeysuckles into the girl's 
 hand. 
 
 Soon the slummers found themselves in the road 
 again. It was a dirty day, spitting rain ; the road was 
 muddy, and they concluded to put off their further evo- 
 lutions until another morning, for slum on her petticoat 
 did not suit this daughter of a New England mother. 
 They were just turning in at the gate when Tim, the 
 paralytic, came bowling along. He had been up to the 
 big house to get his weekly pension. He was blatant 
 as usual, and as noisy as a bull-calf at the sight of new 
 victims. He stepped directly in front of them.
 
 72 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 " Good-mornin' , miss ! Just seen your ma." 
 
 " Good-morning, Tim," blandly. " How are you?" 
 
 " Father's crosser'n cross," said Tim. 
 
 "I'm sorry to hear this, my good fellow," said Mr. 
 Parachute, deprecatingly. 
 
 "Well, you see," said Tim, with a one-sided smile, 
 " he ain't my father at all." 
 
 " Let us walk on," said Miss Hyatt Titus, hurriedly, 
 who had heard Tim's history before. "You know he's 
 quite silly." 
 
 But Mr. Parachute was on parochial duty bent, and 
 felt that this matter should be investigated. ' ' Have 
 you an unhappy home, my good fellow ?' ' he asked. 
 
 Now, it was very rarely that any one stopped long 
 enough by the wayside to hearken to poor Tim's 
 wrongs. He was a man of about thirty, with wild hair 
 and a useless hand which had swung at his side for fif- 
 teen years. He could just manage to drag his limbs 
 along. He spent most of his time upon the country 
 roads, covering during the week a number of miles, 
 back and forth, back and forth, from village to lake and 
 lake to village. People threw him a kind word and 
 gave him money now and then, but of listeners he had 
 few, and Tim loved to talk and talk of himself. Most 
 of his countrymen do, even when not infesters of the 
 highways or paralyzed in their lower limbs. Americans 
 strike the balance of their unselfish actions by the arrant 
 egotism of their conversation. 
 
 "You see," he now went on, overjoyed to have an 
 audience ; "he ain't my father at all." 
 
 "He isn't your father?" asked the candid rector, 
 with a surprised intonation. ' ' Why . . . ' 
 
 "Well, he ain't." Tim neared Mr. Parachute and 
 winked one of his bleared eyes with a painful contrac-
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 73 
 
 tion. "I'm a come-by-chance : that's what they calls 
 me." 
 
 He delivered himself of this cheerful announcement 
 as if it had been a light pleasantry. Mr. Parachute 
 flushed crimson under his wide-brimmed black hat, 
 while his companion took the mud-puddle at one leap 
 and hurried away under the dripping boughs. 
 
 ' ' Good-by, good-by, my good fellow, ' ' said the 
 clergyman, splashing after her. "Good-by. I'll see 
 you another day. I cannot stop now." 
 
 Slumming with a very young girl was distinctly im- 
 practicable. Mr. Parachute added this one to his life's 
 experiences. It is a pity that so many of our most 
 useful lessons have to be learned in company ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 MR. HATCH had followed his flying couple, and had 
 finally found them installed in what is called an up-town 
 hotel. They were sitting together on the marble centre- 
 table of their private drawing-room, eating buttered 
 toast and drinking lemonade ; upon their knees was 
 extended a map of the universe, and they were plan- 
 ning their wedding journey. Muriel made one leap to 
 the floor and in a moment had fallen upon her father's 
 breast. She buried her pretty face in his blond beard 
 and splashed a large tear there. Mr. Hatch had al- 
 ready assured himself that the Rev. Dr. Prendergast 
 had tied the knot irrevocably, the night before, in the 
 presence of two serious and competent witnesses. 
 
 "How could you so treat us, my daughter?" he 
 said, disengaging himself from her clinging fingers. 
 ' ' Have you ever had reason to think your mamma or 
 I would force you into a hateful marriage ?' ' 
 D 7
 
 74 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 To his son-in-law he was very cold, only nodding to 
 him distantly. The earl himself was extremely red and 
 sheepish. 
 
 Muriel hung her head. " No, papa," she said. 
 
 "Yet you have behaved as if you did. And you, 
 sir, how dare you so basely repay our hospitality ? It 
 was abominable !" 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry, I'm sure," said the earl. " But 
 you see . . . ' 
 
 " Dear papa," said Muriel, " forgive us ! I did think 
 it was so romantic. ' ' 
 
 Then her father tried to look very savage, but his 
 girl, who knew him well, fancied she detected a gleam 
 of amusement in his eyes, and the little imp was not 
 slow to take advantage. An hour later the three were 
 breakfasting together, and Mr. Hatch's appetite was 
 better than that of the lovers. 
 
 It was upon his return, and just after a long com- 
 munion between himself and his wife, when all had 
 been explained, discussed, adjusted, accepted, that 
 Cousin Martha whirled up to the door upon her visit 
 of condolence. 
 
 It was Saturday, and Crummy had been tortured 
 into a clean shirt which he had visibly outgrown, and 
 was standing at his mother's knees in the drawing- 
 room, committing his Sunday-school lesson to memory. 
 
 ' ' ' And the Lord opened the mouth of the ass, and 
 she said unto Balaam, What have I done unto thee ?' ' 
 
 "And the Lord opened the ear of the ass," repeated 
 Crummy, with a wandering window-ward eye. 
 
 ' ' My son, will you pay attention ?' ' said his mamma. 
 " If you do not you will have to be severely punished." 
 
 " And the Lord said there's a carriage and pair," 
 
 said Crummy.
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 75 
 
 In a moment Mrs. Hyatt Titus had crossed the 
 threshold. ' ' How are you, Mary ? How do you do, 
 Crumbar ?' ' 
 
 "Thank you, I am pretty well," said Crumbar, 
 delighted with the interruption. Then he took the 
 opportunity of delivering himself of what was upper- 
 most in his mind. 
 
 "Sister Muriel's skipped off with the Englishman," 
 he said. 
 
 Cousin Martha closed her eyes and opened them 
 again very slowly. She looked significantly at Mrs. 
 Hatch, as much as to say, "Shall you not send this 
 child away, or at least reprove him ?' ' 
 
 But Mrs. Hatch was one of those women who rarely 
 respond to expectation. She aggravatingly did neither. 
 
 She did release him, however, from his lesson, and 
 he found his way to the window, where he amused him- 
 self killing mosquitoes, enlivening this ferocious occu- 
 pation with frequent war-whoops of triumph. 
 
 "Your daughter's misconduct ..." began Mrs. 
 Hyatt Titus 
 
 "We will not talk of it, please," said Mrs. Hatch, 
 rather sharply. 
 
 ' ' I am glad, dear Mary, that you can dismiss it. 
 There are people who rally more quickly than others 
 from such blows." 
 
 " I don't think I understand you," said Mrs. Hatch. 
 
 "A marriage begun under such auspices seems to 
 have so little promise of solidity, is such a poor prepa- 
 ration to the wife and mother. Where principle does 
 not enter into a tie which is the most sacred . . . ' 
 
 "Oh, fol de rol !" said Mrs. Hatch. 
 
 "Why! why! Mary!" 
 
 "I say ' fol de rol !' " said Mrs. Hatch. " To be a
 
 76 THE FIRST FLIGHT. 
 
 wife and mother is all very well ; but one must be one's 
 self first." 
 
 ' ' Oh, of course, if you can joke about it I have 
 nothing further to say. We have felt the deepest sym- 
 pathy, but I imagine it is misplaced." 
 
 " Who is joking ? Any one would suppose, from the 
 way you talk, that our Muriel was a lost girl. She has 
 some individuality, that is true." 
 
 Cousin Martha again closed her eyes. It seemed this 
 time as if her lids would never rise again. 
 
 "I heard that Dr. Prendergast, of course I had 
 heard that Dear me, Mary ! how shocking !" 
 
 ' ' What is so shocking ?' ' 
 
 1 ' Why, why, the things you accuse me of, and your 
 ideas of marriage too. I must say, Mary, you and I 
 don't agree on these matters." 
 
 4 ' It is not necessary that we should." 
 
 " These Englishmen are so fond of sport, of pleasures 
 in which a truly feminine woman cannot join." 
 
 ' ' Fond of pleasure ? Well, if he wants pleasure I 
 hope my son-in-law will get it. There's nothing so 
 good for the digestion. ' ' 
 
 ' ' You laugh at everything. To me there is nothing 
 more beautiful than a union entered into with proper 
 seriousness : two persons going down the hill of life 
 together, with mutual interests, hand in hand . . . ' 
 
 "Really! To me married middle life always looks 
 a little bit bleak. I tell Hatch it is almost time we were 
 not seen so much together. He is always for hanging 
 to my skirts. When one begins to roll down a hill, 
 don't you think, Martha, it's better to take opposite 
 sides? It gives one more breathing-space." 
 
 The lady addressed pursed her lip. ' ' Oh, of course, 
 if you refuse to be in earnest ..."
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 77 
 
 ' ' Never was more so in my life. I am thinking of 
 dividing the children into parts and making Hatch a 
 present of the half of them. I'll take the little ones. 
 They're less trouble for an old woman. What does a 
 man want an ugly old woman about for ?' ' 
 
 "What's this you are discussing?" inquired Mr. 
 Hatch, looming in. 
 
 He came over and kissed his wife's fingers. " Take 
 her away," she managed to whisper to him. 
 
 Mr. Hatch contrived to patch up some kind of a 
 truce. He suggested that they should adjourn under 
 the trees. The tea was there already getting cold. 
 May-Margaret perched upon the wall, and by her side 
 sat Mr. Parachute. The blue evening was in her hair, 
 paling its gold ; her features had taken on tints milky 
 as alabaster. Under her feet was the lapping water. 
 The wavelets shimmered limpidly through their mosses' 
 fringe of tangled verdure, like gentle eyes beneath 
 trembling lashes. They made a delicious symphony, 
 soft as a refrain of the langue d' Oyl : 
 
 Ceste est la belle Aliz ; 
 
 Ceste est la flur, ceste est le lis. 
 
 May-Margaret was devouring a piece of cake, eating 
 as prettily as Madame Eglantine. A bird overhead 
 was executing a foolish trill in the flame of the dying 
 day. A last sun-ray fell on the girl's forehead ; the 
 night lay beneath her eyelids. Her breath was as sweet 
 as the spring woods. She was a beautiful pagan image 
 of health and youth, one of those maidens who, one 
 felt, might develop into a woman of exquisite caresses 
 and redoubtable angers. 
 
 The Hatch girls were not "plain sailing." This 
 was positive. It was borne in upon the young priest 
 
 7*
 
 78 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 thirsting for sacrifice, for ascetic renunciation, for great 
 and transcendent aims, upon his fervent soul whose 
 only bride should have been the altar. Yet this mys- 
 tery of feminine loveliness was it forever to remain 
 a mystery to him? Should he never quaff it, make 
 it his ? never ? never ? There stirred within him that 
 vague longing to taste of that double existence, of 
 that new thing, so full of doubts, of dangers, of sus- 
 picions, yet also of ineffable sweetness and pardons. 
 Yet he would not for the world have touched her 
 hand. 
 
 And that other maiden, pretty but prim, who had 
 ' ' slummed' ' with him, had awakened not one of these 
 dreams and these fantasies. When she had left him he 
 had been cold : why ? May-Margaret sitting on her 
 stone wall, eating her cake, and declaring that she hated 
 slumming and never went into the poor man's cot, 
 seemed to him far more alluring. 
 
 Having finished her cake, she fell again to pulling 
 Layamon's tail, which seemed her favorite pastime of a 
 summer's afternoon, but she did it with so much vivacity 
 and elegance that the young clergyman was convinced 
 that even a dog's tail might be pulled to some purpose. 
 
 Mr. Hatch, under the influence of his tea, was dis- 
 coursing genially: "Of course high virtues are the 
 most natural sources of our admiration. Yet all gran- 
 deur arrests us. The splendid conqueror, even the 
 daring conspirator, of whom we do not approve, charms 
 and holds our imagination. What one reveres is force, 
 contempt of public opinion, of selfish interest, of danger, 
 of death." 
 
 Here Crummy and a large boulder became detached 
 from the top of the wall and fell twelve feet into the 
 water. There was a cataclysm. Crummy yelled, strug-
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 79 
 
 gled, righted himself, and was extricated by Mr. Para- 
 chute, with the aid of an opportune fish-pole. He 
 came up riding the pole with a hurrah, covered with 
 black mud-slime, and had to be immediately banished, 
 not before, however, he had enthusiastically kissed his 
 mother's cheek and left his mark upon its edge. He 
 left his mark, indeed, all the way up the stairs. 
 
 "What appeals to the imagination," said Mr. Para- 
 chute, ' ' is, of course, not only beauty and grandeur in 
 action, but all novelty." 
 
 " I care not for feature, I'm sure to discover 
 
 Some exquisite trait in each new one you send ; 
 But the fondness wears off as the novelty's over : 
 I want a new face for an intimate friend," 
 
 hummed May-Margaret. 
 
 "Ah ! strength ! strength ! That's what one craves 
 now in art, in literature, ' ' continued Mr. Hatch, follow- 
 ing his train of thought, "another cup of tea, dearest, 
 that is what the world asks to-day ! And the public 
 is, after all, the supreme judge to which our last plea 
 must be taken." 
 
 "Surely the public itself is often very perverted," 
 ventured Mrs. Titus. 
 
 " The public has a lot of common sense," said Mrs. 
 Hatch, ' ' and that must always be applied to a judgment 
 even of the arts. When I say the public I mean the 
 intelligent people : I don' t mean the mob which howls 
 and pelts what it cannot understand. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But surely their taste must be elevated, educated ?' ' 
 
 "I don't know. Yes, perhaps, but not too highly. 
 The hypercritical are so tiresome. You talk of strength, 
 dear," said Mrs. Hatch, turning to her husband, "but 
 strength of fist, which used to make a reputation for
 
 80 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 chivalry, methinks nowadays would only lead a man to 
 the gallows." 
 
 "What do you call taste, Mr. Hatch?" asked Mr. 
 Parachute. 
 
 ' ' Why, of course, the power of judgment. Genius 
 alone executes. How few have either ! To touch the 
 heart ; that is alone the secret of the applause of a large 
 public. There is nothing like the crude but vivifying 
 efflux of the multitude. I call it the essence of human- 
 ity. I like that large heartiness whose savor we breathe 
 only in the crowd." 
 
 "Yes," murmured Mrs. Hatch, "that is the secret 
 which pleases all ages : kinship of the heart." 
 
 The clergyman's confused revery kept up its under- 
 current through the superficial converse. It struck a 
 diapason whose tones and semi-tones were full of puz- 
 zling thoughts, arresting problems, and May-Margaret 
 so sweetly near ! 
 
 "And to think," mused Cousin Martha, "that I 
 came here to condole with these people !" 
 
 She got herself up at last, humiliated . . . for them. 
 Frivolous they were, disgustingly so. As to Mr. Para- 
 chute, she would not have believed him capable of such 
 reprehensible waste of time, had she not seen it with 
 her own eyes. Driving away, she felt half inclined to 
 go back and warn him. Of what? And here her 
 horses shied, and so she did not formulate her counsel. 
 
 He watched the retreating wheels and the flying 
 leaves behind them, and almost wished that he might 
 follow them into their exile of safety. 
 
 There was something pathetic about his black figure 
 against the twilight. May-Margaret knew that he was 
 a lonely fellow. He had lately lost his mother. He 
 had no one to care for him, no one. He had been telling
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 8 1 
 
 her about it before the others came, and she had fallen 
 somehow to pitying him. Pity ! Divine sister of 
 Love, which no soul knoweth that cannot also love and 
 console ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 MRS. LARREMORE sat in her boudoir the following 
 winter with her feet towards the andirons, her eyes on her 
 own fair reflection in a low mirror opposite. She wore 
 a garment of pale satin, bound about the hips like a 
 touloupe, and opening upon floods of light palpitant 
 laces. She held in her hand a sheet of paper and a 
 pencil. Near her, in voiceless and contemplative ec- 
 stasy, sat a young woman to whom she had lately ac- 
 corded her friendship and patronage, and whose present 
 extreme happiness may have sprung from the insecurity 
 of Mrs. Larremore' s affections. So insecure did she 
 feel, indeed, that her very laughter had as it were the 
 humidity of a tear in it. For who knew at what turn 
 of Fortune's wheel this lady's fickle fancy might play 
 her new friend a trick and hurl her back into oblivion ? 
 Mrs. Larremore had called in young Mrs. Crawford to 
 assist her in making a list for an impending "function." 
 It is needless to explain that Mrs. Crawford was a social 
 aspirant. 
 
 Mrs. Larremore was herself five nay, let us be gen- 
 erous and say eight years old. Eight years ago she 
 had herself been very "new," but she was a precocious 
 child and made strides with phenomenal rapidity. Her 
 one day had been, as it were, the Biblical thousand 
 years. She was very handsome, well dressed, extremely 
 amusing, fairly good-natured, and had cart-loads of 
 money. She was not distinguished, but, as she herself 
 would have asked, who is ? The number to which this
 
 82 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 descriptive adjective may be applied does not, in fact, 
 multiply and cover the earth. Mrs. Larremore, never- 
 theless, had a keen appreciation of distinguished people 
 and their desirability, and managed to gather such as 
 were feasible and possible at her house. Unlike the 
 generality of persons who have risen, she was genial 
 rather than snobbish, and had no especial desire to push 
 and kick down those who were making their very pain- 
 ful and breathless ascent, that ascent upon the upper 
 rung where she sat so proudly secure. That she had 
 "arrived," not even her most malignant detractors 
 could deny. 
 
 To-day she had sent for little Mrs. Crawford, first be- 
 cause she lived near her and was easily get-at-able, and 
 secondly because she liked her. It was possibly one of 
 the secrets of her success that she had dared to have 
 preferences ; and now that she could impose upon and 
 impress others it insured a certain solidity to her own 
 position. There is a degree of suppleness which must 
 be deprecated in vertebrated animals. With all Mrs. 
 Larremore's faults, and she had a colossal share, she 
 had a streak of stubborn honesty. She had been too 
 honest to discard all of her old friends, and had actually 
 pulled one or two up after her. Of course these had 
 been such as would and did help themselves. ' ' Lumps' ' 
 and ' ' frumps' ' who would not lend themselves to being 
 assisted had of course to be left to their fate. If people 
 prefer to wallow they must be left to their wallowing. 
 Mrs. Larremore's shoulders were strong, but she could 
 not carry the whole world on them. On the whole, she 
 had been amiable. 
 
 Mrs. Larremore generally had a mild love-affair 
 it were better to call it a robust flirtation in progress, 
 and during the process of this personal enchantment,
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 83 
 
 which absorbed a certain amount of her superabundant 
 vitality, she was apt to be peculiarly kindly. She even 
 drove out an ugly girl or two in her victoria or her 
 sleigh, and had once been known to ask a country 
 clergyman's widow to dinner. These heart-affairs, as 
 she grew older, were more violent at the commence- 
 ment, but less sustained. After thirty the emotions 
 are far stronger than in youth, but less patient. There 
 is not the time. In fact, when her new admirer, who- 
 ever he might be, had seen her in her charming house 
 at its best, found her reclining in an attitude of studied 
 discomfort under a rose-bush by a shaded lamp in 
 her dim drawing-room, after she had dazzled him in 
 most of her gowns, after he had leaned over her white 
 shoulder at the opera or held her hand a moment in 
 the cold, unmagnetic contact of the dance, she gen- 
 erally grew very tired of him, and liked him only when 
 others were present. Nothing is so distressing as a 
 t$te-d-tte in which there lingers the vague promise 
 of a tenderness whose claims shall remain forever un- 
 fulfilled. 
 
 At such times, as I have said, she was good-natured. 
 Probably on the whole she was not much worse than 
 her neighbors, and there was no great harm in her. 
 When she was disengaged, however, from all heart- 
 entanglements she was apt to be rather cross. Fortu- 
 nately for her husband and her children, the occasions 
 had been rare. Her husband, who was never cross, 
 adored her, in his way, an adoration without jealousy 
 and without reproach, mild, possible, and lenient. He 
 was a clever man of business, and was very fond of 
 sport, to which he was addicted within limits. He 
 was reputed to be indifferent to all women except his 
 wife, his two passions being his business career and
 
 84 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 fishing. He angled for trout, and she for men. The 
 difference, after all, is insignificant. Both fish are easy 
 to kill when one has time. 
 
 Of Mrs. Crawford it may be said that she was one of 
 those young married women whom other women call 
 "sweet." This means a person devoid of all dazzling 
 allurement either of mind or of person, an immense 
 advantage in the social struggle. To rouse no rivalries 
 is to be acceptable. She had a splendid ball-room, just 
 re-decorated for the fourth time. Mr. Crawford, a little 
 thin man with a head the size of a fall pippin and with 
 a chronic cold in it, owing perhaps to the fact that the 
 painters were always in his house, and the windows 
 wide open, had a great desire to assist her in piping, 
 if only dancers could be forthcoming ; nay, they were 
 both delirious pipers ; and yet so far there had been 
 but scant waltzing to their music. Mr. and Mrs. Craw- 
 ford lacked a certain amount of push and social talent 
 to meet the exigencies of their situation. Mrs. Larre- 
 more had decided that she must herself give out from 
 her overflowing cruse into her neighbors' empty cup. 
 Their advantages made it worth while. Now the two 
 ladies were engaged in making a list for a ball. 
 
 "They are of an excellent family," said Mrs. Craw- 
 ford, whose leisure moments for the last two years had 
 been passed in studying genealogies. 
 
 ' ' Bosh ! Fiddle-faddle ! Who cares for family ?' ' 
 
 "I thought ..." 
 
 ' ' My dear, you are not called upon to think. I 
 know. Trust me." 
 
 ' ' Mrs. Lawrence told me Mrs. Hyatt Titus was very 
 well born . . . ' 
 
 " She's a horrid bore : that's what she is ; and so is 
 the old man. But the girl's nice-looking ; therefore,
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 85 
 
 here goes ! Besides, she's a cousin to Lady Brownlow, 
 and Muriel's the rage." 
 
 "Ah ! Lady Brownlow, is she here?" 
 
 "Yes, just on the wing. They sail the next day. 
 Have you met her?" 
 
 ' ' No. I passed her in driving. ' ' 
 
 " My dear, you must do more than that. That won't 
 suffice. She would help you immensely in London 
 next spring ; and then ' Brownie' is such a dear !' ' 
 
 Mrs. Crawford's eyes sparkled with excitement. Her 
 gloved fingers closed convulsively over her little 
 thumbs. 
 
 " What can I do ? Could I leave a card ?" 
 
 "We'll go there, if you like, this afternoon. She's 
 stopping at the Lawrences'. She's very nice," said 
 Mrs. Larremore, nonchalantly. 
 
 " How lovely you are, and kind to me ! Why is it?" 
 
 "I like you." 
 
 " I wonder why !" 
 
 "You are not aggressive." 
 
 " I have sometimes thought that was my misfortune." 
 
 ' ' It is, in a way. ' ' 
 
 "I can't fight." 
 
 "Yes, I know. It's slower, but I've sometimes 
 thought in the end it was safer. It's so easy to come 
 down, to get a cropper." 
 
 " I wouldn't like to come down." 
 
 "Well, my dear, I'll attend to that. But the fact is 
 you must go up first. I like you because you never 
 interfere with my methods. A cleverer woman must 
 always have her say, her opinions, her ideas, and spoils 
 everything by insisting on having her finger in her own 
 pie. In a handsomer one vanity is always on the alert ; 
 takes umbrage and offence at nothing ; has to be fussed 
 
 8
 
 86 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 over and coddled at every turn. It is complicating, 
 exasperating, and tiresome. You're sweet, and that's 
 just what we want. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Crawford accepted Mrs. Larremore's frankness 
 without wincing. In these stormy crises of fate trifles 
 are put aside ; there is no use in grimacing. 
 
 "Of course you'll wear white," said Cousin Martha 
 to her debutante, they were now settled in their city 
 home for the winter, "white, with clover-blossoms ; 
 that has always been my idea for a first party. I hope, 
 my child, you will not allow the atmosphere of worldly 
 pleasure and emulation to turn your head or enervate 
 your intellect." 
 
 "I hope not, mamma." 
 
 ' ' I did not much fancy that Mrs. Larremore. Her 
 influence might be, I think, a pernicious one upon 
 very young people. Your papa considers her intelli- 
 gent ..." 
 
 "She does not take the trouble to be pernicious. 
 She's thinking of herself." 
 
 "Of her husband and her children, I hope, and of 
 making their home happy." 
 
 Her daughter laughed, but said nothing. She had 
 given up explaining things to her mamma ; she was 
 dimly beginning to unravel them for herself. It is a 
 curious experience when a child first perceives the 
 feebleness of perception or judgment in a parent. 
 
 The drive to the ball was somewhat constrained. Mr. 
 Hyatt Titus' s lavender gloves and white choker seemed 
 too much for his content. Mrs. Hyatt Titus had dis- 
 covered at the last moment, to her great dismay, that 
 the body of her gown was . . . immodest. Five layers 
 torn hurriedly from a white lace flounce had been care-
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 87 
 
 fully pushed in and pinned across a bust upon which no 
 evil eye should peer with wicked intent. Her heels 
 were higher than she usually wore, and she had stood 
 about upon them so long during this readjustment, this 
 tribute laid upon the altar of long-proved and spotless 
 conduct, that she had a cramp in her left foot which 
 caused her now and then to emit a muffled cry of 
 agony. 
 
 The younger aspirant to social preferment was so 
 agitated that a nervous irritability possessed her. She 
 was thinking of her coming triumphs, which seemed to 
 render peculiarly tame the progress of the carriage 
 through the slippery streets. A frantic unrest filled 
 her. 
 
 " Promise me," said her mother, "that you will not 
 dance every dance. Your cousin Mary, who was very 
 foolish when she was young, once contracted a bad 
 congestion from overheating herself in this way and 
 then standing near a window." 
 
 " Oh, let her dance," said the father. "Why, bless 
 me, didn't you go to dancing-school, my dear?" 
 
 ' ' Perhaps no one will ask me, ' ' said Miss Highty 
 Tighty, coyly, trying to catch a glimpse of herself in 
 the square of the window-pane. " Cousin Mary said I 
 ought to have been presented at home first." 
 
 "Mrs. Larremore will, of course, attend to the 
 young girls getting partners," said this unsophisticated 
 mother, " and your dress is most becoming." 
 
 The dressing-room presented to our ladies a sea of 
 faces which were principally strange ones. Miss Hyatt 
 Titus' s gown seemed somehow suddenly to shrink upon 
 her, to become a little too scant in the back, and her 
 mother noticed in sudden alarm that there was a sad 
 crease in the sash-ribbon. It was, nevertheless, fresh
 
 88 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 and pretty, and she looked charming. So said Lady 
 Brownlow to her an hour later as she swept past the 
 trio, whose fear of being overheated seemed to have 
 been effectually chilled. 
 
 They were huddled together in one of the door-ways 
 when Lady Brownlow passed, herself a radiant vision, 
 with a rose at her girdle and a diamond star in her hair. 
 She was gentleness itself to her cousins, bending for a 
 moment from out the rich prestige of her own effulgent 
 glory, without one shade of superiority in either her 
 manner or her speech. She was full of life's new wine, 
 bubbling over in graciousness. 
 
 She found her little cousin laughing a great deal in a 
 sort of forced way, looking about her tremblingly as 
 she detained a youth very young, very slender, and 
 with a muddy complexion, by a hand slipped through 
 his crooked arm-sleeve. His mere presence seemed to 
 have galvanized the girl into a febrile gayety. He was, 
 in fact, her first partner. She was beginning to fear 
 that he would be the last. At the moment Lady Brown- 
 low addressed her she was trying to induce him to offer 
 his services for supper. There was a distant murmur 
 that this terrible ordeal was at hand. The cotillon was 
 to follow, and our little debutante was not engaged for 
 either. She did at last persuade her youth to take her 
 down. They joined her father and mother and a liter- 
 ary couple, a certain Mr. Pickabone and his wife, a man 
 and woman distinguished from the environing crowd by 
 a strange unfitness in the matter of costume. The gen- 
 tleman's hair was long and the lady's short. Mrs. 
 Pickabone wore a scant sky-blue brocade cut high over 
 the shoulders, but whose V-shaped aperture was zig- 
 zagged by ten yards of ascending cotton laces. A 
 safety-pin held these across a defiant collar-bone as if
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 89 
 
 to defend a siege ; while a large bunch of natural smilax 
 served as an abatis. Around her thin, dark throat, 
 which had the look of a moulting parrot's, was fastened 
 a necklace of cockle-shells set in silver. 
 
 In the general mttlee poor Mr. Titus carried in this 
 gaunt lady, while his wife brought up the rear with the 
 author, her husband. They found a table behind a 
 door, and here were served to them the same delicate 
 viands and wines which the more fortunate were con- 
 suming. 
 
 "John Salisbury's chief work, my dear," said the 
 litterateur ; helping his wife to a glass of claret, " is a 
 treatise, in eight books, on the frivolities of courtiers 
 and the footsteps of philosophers. This scene and its 
 heterogeneous assemblage remind me of the interesting 
 medley I was perusing this morning. Here we meet 
 all, all in one." 
 
 1 ' Who are those guys ?' ' whispered Mrs. Larremore 
 as she passed in, upon a distinguished foreigner's arm, 
 among her guests. 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know," replied Mr. Larremore. 
 " How on earth can I tell? I didn't see your list. I 
 don't know half the people here." 
 
 ' ' Oh, I remember now. It must be the man the 
 Gallaways asked for ; that man who lived in Samoa, 
 and writes about it. I had to send them a card to please 
 Aunt Kate. Who would imagine the wife would come 
 too? She's quite dreadful. That's all one gets for 
 being unselfish." 
 
 The advent of a fair divorcee, whom she knew by 
 sight, at an adjoining table caused the Samoan lady to 
 break forth in lamentations at the present looseness of 
 the marriage tie. 
 
 " Marriage is the force, the order, of life, its health 
 8*
 
 90 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 and dignity. What, will you tell me, are we coming 
 to, if men are to be so easily released from their obliga- 
 tions?" she said, shaking her head until the smilax and 
 cockle-shells trembled. 
 
 "I," said the Samoan, " I, for one, am of IngersolFs 
 way of thinking. I would make our divorce laws even 
 easier than they are. Old prejudices must not paralyze 
 progress Terrapin, my love? Now, in Samoa, Mr. 
 Hyatt Titus, you have no idea what strange views they 
 hold about marriage." And he went on with great 
 prolixity giving these views, which were certainly as- 
 tounding. 
 
 Miss Hyatt Titus passed the hour of the cotillon in 
 the dressing-room. When her mother came later to 
 her bedchamber to assist her in disrobing, she found 
 the little girl lying sobbing on the floor, whose hardness 
 was not more cruel than that of the world which had 
 ignored her. She rolled over and looked up at her 
 mother's frightened face. 
 
 "Why didn't you know," she said, angrily, "what 
 I had to expect, mamma? Older people ought to 
 know about these things. I never danced once ; and 
 then to sup with those queer, horrid-looking people ! 
 It was too humiliating ! As to Mrs. Larremore, she 
 never noticed my existence." 
 
 Poor Mrs. H. T. wrung her hands, feeling for the 
 first time that the duties of a wife and mother were 
 greater than she could perform. 
 
 "That pretty girl from the lake seemed to have 
 rather a heavy time, my dear," said Mr. Larremore to 
 his wife. 
 
 Their splendid rooms presented the curious appear- 
 ance of a wind-swept desert which follows the last steps
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 91 
 
 rX 
 
 of departing guests. The candles hugged their sockets, 
 now and then giving forth a snapping sound when a 
 lump of falling wax dropped to the parquet floor. This 
 was strewn here and there with straggling debris of 
 tulle, the wrenched-off bit of a lace balayeuse, a scrap 
 of gauze from the blue or rosy cloud which had en- 
 veloped some dancing nymph. The flowers drooped 
 from mantels and chandeliers, giving forth an almost 
 sickly odor from their hot, crushed petals. The potted 
 plants, stronger to resist the demands of an exhausted 
 atmosphere, stood out dank and dark against the light 
 green of damask panellings. Through the loopings of 
 a dozen portieres could be seen now and then the 
 aproned form of one of the under-men hurrying to un- 
 charge the rich banqueting-table in the distant dining- 
 room of its salads, wines, and fruits. 
 
 The click of the rattling glasses or the crack of a 
 dropped plate, accompanied by the rather thickly uttered 
 anathema of the head butler, whom copious draughts 
 of champagne had rendered peculiarly unrelenting, 
 came muffled through the heavy curtains. In the 
 overhanging gallery the sleepy musicians were putting 
 their instruments to bed in pantalettes and shirts of 
 chamois leather, and the occasional squeak of a recal- 
 citrant fiddle struck back sharply on the silence of the 
 empty halls. Their dark bearded faces peered down 
 through the white and gold balustrade at the master 
 and mistress of the mansion, who were flitting about in 
 broadcloth and satin, with that restless sleeplessness of 
 the host and hostess after a crowded and successful en- 
 tertainment. 
 
 Mrs. Arthur Crawford stopped at the door, half-hidden 
 in her voluminous fawn-colored plush coat, from whose 
 fox-furs emerged her fair head and white throat, like a
 
 92 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 Dresden-china umbrella-handle. She lingered for a 
 moment to say good-by on the stairs to a long-necked, 
 faded dude who was flitting before her, in a vain search 
 for his fur-lined coat and silk neck-scarf, which some 
 other gentleman had carried off, leaving in their stead 
 a pair of soiled galoshes and a torn handkerchief. 
 
 ' ' What girl, from what lake ?' ' Mrs. Larremore was 
 asking her husband, standing before a Louis XVI. 
 mirror, and arranging her pearl coronet, which had 
 fallen a little awry. 
 
 ' ' Why, that girl from the lake pshaw ! you know. 
 I think you should have done something for her." 
 
 ' ' Oh, her mother ought to have introduced her 
 properly," said little Mrs. Crawford at the door- way, 
 ' ' before she ventured into the big world. I know from 
 my own experience how cruel and cold it can be. ' ' She 
 could afford to be frank now, her own evening having 
 been a wild success. 
 
 " What do you think I ought to have done, Larrie?" 
 
 " Introduced some men to her." 
 
 "My dear, you can bring horses to the trough, but 
 you cannot make them drink. That girl is doomed 
 socially. I knew it from the first. I knew it would be 
 futile, so I just gave it up." 
 
 ' ' She is mighty good-looking, ' ' said Mr. Larremore. 
 
 ' ' Yes, at home, in the morning, in the country. Not 
 in a ball-room. She makes no effect ; and then she 
 has no magnetism." 
 
 " How can you tell ?" 
 
 ' ' I can see it in a woman two blocks off, when she is 
 going along the street. I take a man's view." 
 
 "Her mother should have given a tea," ventured 
 Mrs. Crawford, tentatively. " I did feel for them." 
 
 " A tea ! Eleanor, are you insane ! Why, don't
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 93 
 
 you know that a tea will swamp any girl now, unless 
 she is a tearing beauty, or has at least been jilted once 
 by a foreign nobleman ? Twenty-two teas wouldn't put 
 that little girl on her legs. I doubt if even a small 
 dance, which is her only hope now, would help her 
 much. I saw her supping with those creatures from 
 Samoa. She had better take to literature. There is a 
 wide field, which requires no teas, no dances, no men, 
 no gowns : such things are superfluous there. In that 
 life there must be peace." 
 
 " Nonsense !" said Mr. Larremore. "There is noth- 
 ing of the kind. The jealousies of artists are prover- 
 bially more bitter and more acrimonious than those of 
 rival belles." 
 
 ' ' I wonder why it is, ' ' said Mrs. Larremore, ' ' that 
 those literary people make such guys of themselves." 
 She spoke of the genus as if it had been a species of 
 ape. 
 
 "The only literary people I ever met," said Mrs. 
 Crawford, ' ' instead of talking to me of their work, or 
 of their higher aspirations, were trying to impress me 
 with the fact, all the time, that they were in the ' smart 
 set,' or could be if they chose, that they once had 
 dined with you, dear Mrs. Larremore, or had been en- 
 tertained at your step-mother's sister's cousin's aunt's. 
 I confess I was surprised, because, with it all, they af- 
 fected immense contempt for mundane matters, which 
 they said were most frivolous and belittling." 
 
 Mrs. Larremore yawned. ' ' The race of fools is not 
 yet extinct, and it is not confined, I find, to any par- 
 ticular orbit. But when those Pickabones get invited 
 here again they'll know it. They had better do all 
 their bragging before my next affair."
 
 94 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 IX. 
 
 WHEN Miss Highly Tighty rose from her reclining 
 attitude she went to her desk, sat down before it, and 
 began to compose a sonnet. It was called ' ' A World's 
 Blindness." 
 
 She wrapped it carefully in tissue-paper, the next 
 morning, tied it between two pieces of cardboard torn 
 from an old ribbon-box, fastened it together with a scrap 
 of pink lutestring, and directed it to the editor of a 
 well-known magazine. As she tied it up she said to 
 herself, ' ' Genius !' ' Her fingers trembled with excite- 
 ment, and two crimson spots burned on her soft cheeks. 
 She wrote a line, giving her own name and address, 
 begging that a speedy acknowledgment of this contri- 
 bution to contemporaneous literature be sent to her. 
 She also requested to be furnished with a detailed 
 analysis of its merits and its chances of speedy publica- 
 tion, and inquired, in a postscript, whether she ought 
 to write on ruled paper. She said to herself that she 
 was conferring a favor. She would stoop to no chi- 
 canery : all she desired was to soar. A special messen- 
 ger boy was charged with this precious package ; and 
 Violet entered, a few hours after his departure, into a 
 condition of anxiety that every footfall and every ring 
 of the bell increased almost to agony. The blind and 
 cruel world which had failed to recognize her power 
 would now, she told herself, be forced to pause at the 
 fulminations of her contempt. She saw herself a gifted 
 author raised to a pinnacle of fame, in a province 
 where even her successful cousins would be forced to 
 own themselves beaten. She decided, however, as it 
 were, in parenthesis, to avoid smilax and cockle-shells 
 in the matter of personal adornment, and already began
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 95 
 
 to plan a fitting costume in which she would arise to 
 dazzle the universe. 
 
 It was not until the fourth day that she received by 
 mail an official envelope, bearing on the outside the 
 name, in large red letters on a dark disk, of the maga- 
 zine she had addressed. She was entertaining a girl 
 friend at the time that this missive was placed in her 
 hands, and, finding her visitor inclined to a lingering 
 loquacity, dismissed her with a mysterious shake of her 
 pretty head. 
 
 " My dear Jane," she said, " I must ask you to leave 
 me. Some day I will tell you all, all. To-day I may 
 not speak to you, I may not explain." 
 
 Jane was greatly impressed. She scented a love- 
 affair, which must be allowed to take its course if its 
 future was to be piquant, and, hurrying into her black 
 fur cape, got down into the street. The author, re- 
 leased, flew two steps at a time up to her rose-colored 
 bedroom, closed the door, pulled the bolt, and sank 
 panting into her chair. She felt disappointed to find 
 the letter extremely brief, written in type, and signed 
 by some illegible, unreadable person, evidently not the 
 editor. It simply stated that her note and package 
 had reached their destination and would receive re- 
 spectful attention. 
 
 Eight days of extravagant hopes and fears, of poig- 
 nant, merciless expectancy, had to be lived through. 
 Our bright little friend grew pallid and languid, dragged 
 her limbs wearily, and lost her appetite. She hung 
 from the window or flew into the antechamber every 
 time the postman's whistle broke the monotony of the 
 well-ordered household. She refused two girls' -lun- 
 cheon-parties, and positively declined to take the 
 slightest interest in an entertainment her mother timidly
 
 96 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 suggested giving for her, receiving the proposition 
 with the silent shrug of one who has long since done 
 with such small things. 
 
 On the eighth day she called her maid Josephine, 
 donned a becoming hat and coat, and despatched But- 
 tons furtively for a cab, her mother was out shopping 
 in the brougham, gave the cabman, in a voice of sup- 
 pressed agitation, the address of the tardy editor, and 
 was soon on the way to his lair. 
 
 She told her maid her errand ; she was dying for a 
 confidante. 
 
 "You're so rich, miss," Josephine said to her, "I 
 don't see why you should be bothered with writing. 
 Them as is poor ought to write the books." 
 
 "Rich!" Miss Highty Tighty's eyes rolled to the 
 cab's horizon. "Rich! I write for fame, Josephine. " 
 
 "Well, I guess it ain't wuth it," said Josephine. 
 
 "Oh, of course you cannot comprehend," leaning 
 back with a sigh. 
 
 "Well, miss, if I was rich I guess I'd take it easy." 
 
 ' ' I am afraid yours is a sordid soul, Josephine. 
 What would you do if you had money, pray?" 
 
 "I've got no friends except my mother, miss, and 
 God Almighty," said Josephine, quite cheerfully, evi- 
 dently thinking ' ' sordid' ' meant something flattering, 
 "and I guess if I was rich I'd have a plenty of them. 
 I'd buy the little cottage down by the East Lake, miss, 
 for my mother, so she could have a place of her own, 
 and I'd put my sister Maggie with her ; she's kind of 
 sickly to work hard as she's doin'." Thus Josephine's 
 sordidness declared itself. 
 
 At this moment they arrived. Violet entered the 
 large book-shop which faced the street with that same 
 mysterious, swift, almost guilty movement with which
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 97 
 
 she had impressed her friend Jane on a previous occa- 
 sion. Josephine, in a gray ulster and brown bonnet, 
 brought up the rear. The young mistress attracted 
 that mild form of attention which is accorded to femi- 
 nine charm by the weary and harassed clerk of a fash- 
 ionable shop. Pretty girls were not rare, and their 
 entrance aroused little curiosity or excitement. Never- 
 theless a red-headed youth left abruptly a wearisome 
 old gentleman who was fumbling querulously over some 
 volumes, and accosted her with a certain degree of 
 alacrity. 
 
 ' ' Can I show you anything, miss ? New novels, 
 eh? Here is 'The Acrobat's Inquiry,' the great suc- 
 cess of the season, by a society woman, Mrs. Plum, of 
 Louisville, Kentucky. ' ' 
 
 "Thank you," said Miss Hyatt Titus, loftily. "I 
 desire to see Mr. Carper, the editor, in person, on 
 special business. Is he here, and at liberty ?' ' 
 
 The clerk stared, surprised. ' ' Certainly, miss. Step 
 this way." 
 
 "Josephine," with a wave of her hand, "follow 
 me." 
 
 Josephine followed with round eyes. They were 
 ushered between the book-laden counters, through a 
 gloomy passage, into a long, narrow room fitted with a 
 table and two sofas. Upon its walls were hung a variety 
 of sketches and photographs, apparently portraits of 
 authors, signed in bold autographs. Some of them 
 were large and conspicuous, and represented well-known 
 women writers. One or two of these ladies wore low- 
 necked gowns, had assumed poses of more or less pic- 
 turesqueness, and looked out with intellectual challenge 
 from under masses of shaggy or frizzled hair. 
 
 Josephine sank resigned into a chair near the door, 
 E g 9
 
 98 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 and it was during this mute contemplation that a panel 
 was pushed away with a jerk, and a man's head emerged 
 from a neighboring room. After peering in cautiously 
 for a few seconds, he stepped across the threshold. He 
 seemed to be about thirty, and was distinctly hand- 
 some. He wore a suit of gray rough morning cloth, 
 was a six-footer, broad in the chest, robust, and carried 
 himself more like an English sportsman than like a 
 litterateur. 
 
 " How do you do ?" he said, a trifle awkwardly. 
 
 " I came to see you on ... on ... business," 
 said Miss Highty Tighty. ' ' Are you the ... er ... 
 editor?" 
 
 " I am Mr. Carper. Won't you sit down ?" 
 
 She sat down. Her throat felt a little dry. ' ' I sent 
 a poem a sonnet here, some days since," she said, 
 "but they don't write me about it. I don't seem to 
 hear anything. ' ' 
 
 "Ah! What was its name?" he asked, looking 
 with evident admiration at the fair girl before him. He 
 seated himself near the table, crossing his legs, and 
 toying carelessly with a paper-knife which lay under his 
 hand. 
 
 She gave her name and that of her performance. 
 
 "I think you are mistaken," he replied, still staring 
 at her admiringly. "There hasn't been any such poem 
 sent here. It hasn't come under my notice. To be 
 sure, I only landed from Europe last night, so that I 
 don't know very much about it." 
 
 "Who does know, then?" asked the girl, her eyes 
 filling with angry tears, and not without a slight as- 
 perity of voice. ' ' Some one wrote me it had been re- 
 ceived. Would they have thrown it away ?" she asked, 
 with quivering lips.
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 99 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ! of course not ! You understand we 
 can't always send back rejected pieces. We couldn't 
 undertake it, don' t you know ?' ' His smile jarred upon 
 her nerves. "Here, French, come in here. Here's 
 
 a lady has sent a sonnet Ah ! you are looking 
 
 up at Mrs. Plum's portrait, I see ! Wonderful, that 
 woman ! Two hundred thousand copies of her ' Acro- 
 bat,' and the sale still booming. Whew ! There's a 
 book for you ! I don't know as we'll ever get another 
 like it. She's a jewel, Mrs. Plum, but she's a little 
 devil, too, I tell you ! Why don't you write a novel, 
 instead of wasting your time on sonnets ? They don' t 
 pay, anyway. Ha ! ha !" And he laughed. 
 
 She didn't say to him, as she had to the maid, that 
 she wrote for fame. Fame seemed just then a fickle 
 goddess, and this man's hopeless commonplace was not 
 the lost key to her inconstant favor. 
 
 Mr. French now came in. He was a short, spare 
 person, with a shock of yellow hair, which stood up in 
 waves from a high, pale forehead. He threw the lapels 
 of his coat back, as he entered, with the back of his 
 thumbs, jauntily, and stuck his tongue into his left 
 cheek. 
 
 " I am the author of ' A World's Blindness.' I have 
 come to learn if it will suit you for the magazine, ' ' said 
 Miss Hyatt Titus, rising proudly, with head erect and 
 quivering nostril, but with a heart of lead and cold, 
 shaking fingers. 
 
 With a spasmodic, nervous movement the short 
 man looked helplessly at Mr. Carper and remained 
 speechless. 
 
 "Did you read it, French, eh?" asked the latter, 
 smothering an evidently continued inclination to hilarity 
 under a stern frown and severe voice.
 
 100 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 French scratched his head. "Ye-e-e-s," he said, 
 ' ' I read it. I remember it. ' ' 
 
 "Well?" said the girl, eagerly. 
 
 "Well," said Mr. French, "you see, miss, our 
 magazine's made up for a couple of years or more 
 ahead. By the time your poem came round, the pub- 
 lic demand for sonnets never very pronounced might 
 be ... er ... as it were in abeyance. So that . . . 
 so that ... we wouldn't like to pledge ourselves to 
 anything. ' ' He looked helplessly at Mr. Carper ; but 
 this gentleman refused to come to his rescue, and con- 
 tinued to glare and frown, keeping his left eye fixed 
 meanwhile upon the profile of Mrs. Plum which swung 
 upon its nail above him as upon an segis of safety and 
 of refuge. His attention seemed to be wavering. 
 
 He took up a volume. ' ' Do you know Larkins ? 
 eh ? and his work ? No, I presume not. That man's 
 pluck ! Well ! publishes a novel yearly ; pays for the 
 plates himself; falls dead as a door-nail ; goes straight 
 on. We're about sick of it ; but you can't stop him ; 
 he's wound up as tight as a kite. Seems as if he had 
 no sense, ha ! ha !" 
 
 " Of course," said Mr. French, now a trifle impatient, 
 "if Mr. Carper says so, your ... er ... poetry can 
 go into the magazine to-morrow. Something else can 
 be thrown overboard. It all rests with our editor. It's 
 all one to me." But Miss Hyatt Titus had risen and 
 was making for the door. "You can return it to me," 
 she fulminated, sweeping by Josephine with a glance 
 whose warning caused this young woman to start to her 
 feet like a Chinese mandarin from its spring toy-box. 
 
 A rustle of garments made her look up as she tripped 
 across the corridor, followed by her maid. A tall per- 
 son, with a crushed-strawberry scarf wound about her
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT IOI 
 
 serpentine figure, came quickly forward from some 
 dark embrasure, and, throwing her attenuated arms 
 about Violet, saluted her fervently. ' ' Dearest Cynthia !' ' 
 she cried. 
 
 " But I am not Cynthia." 
 
 "Ah, you cannot deceive me," said the tall lady, 
 shaking her mane. "The author of 'A Woman's 
 Wail' has found repose, nay, shelter, on this breast !" 
 and our would-be poet was again pressed with violence 
 against a wish-bone of peculiar sharpness. ' ' Such 
 talent, such fire, pathos, passion . . . oh !" cried the 
 female editress in a fine rhapsody. 
 
 " But you are mistaken." 
 
 A ray of light pierced the gloom as Mr. French's 
 retreating figure was absorbed into a back office. 
 1 ' Bless me !' ' said the lady, winking a pair of small, 
 deep-set eyes, and waking from her frenzy. ' ' I was 
 expecting Cynthia. I'm sure I beg your pardo- miss." 
 
 X. 
 
 IN the spring there was another wedding in the Hatch 
 household. This time it was no runaway, like Muriel's, 
 no mending of a lacerated heart, like Willie Truden's 
 compromise with Audrey ; but two bright and ardent 
 young souls, with the parental blessing and the world's 
 approval, stepped forth together, fresh to their new 
 existence. For some occult reason best known to her- 
 self, the fair May-Margaret, who was nothing if not 
 wayward, developed a pronounced desire for a spice of 
 the world's frivolity, as well as of its sanction, at her 
 nuptials. She made an extensive list of the people she 
 wished invited, sitting on the floor at her mother's feet. 
 And first and foremost upon this list were the names of 
 
 9*
 
 102 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 Mrs. Larremore, of the Arthur Crawfords, and of a lot 
 of people whom she knew at best but very little, and 
 her reverend adorer not at all. 
 
 " If he thinks I am going to mope because I marry 
 a clergyman," she said to her mother, "I had better 
 get him out of that idea at once. I intend to make 
 him a bishop, and these people may be important. 
 This is the first step. We'll have to give dinner-parties 
 when he is a bishop, and he's got to learn now." 
 
 To all of this the Rev. Parachute, when he was ad- 
 mitted to the conclave, listened in frightened ecstasy. 
 It was evident that May-Margaret was ambitious. He 
 told himself that there were flowers, like the girofle'e, 
 meant to climb, and whose calyx only reached perfec- 
 tion when leaning over the abyss. The sons of God 
 were ever prone to see the daughters of men, that they 
 were fair. 
 
 A delicious ravishment robbed him of speech. Some- 
 times at night, kneeling before his crucifix, he implored 
 forgiveness for this deadly sin of loving one of God's 
 creatures overmuch. He prayed that it might not be 
 imputed as sin for him to have chosen as his cherished 
 companion one who was so full of earthly fascination. 
 He felt sure oh, so sure ! that she was also good and 
 gentle. 
 
 Mrs. Larremore, whose winter had on the whole 
 bored her, she almost wished there were fresh ladders 
 to mount : what blissful days those of the breathless 
 ascent ! and Mrs. Arthur Crawford, who was in excel- 
 lent spirits because of her own attainment, volunteered 
 to chaperon a party of young people up from town. 
 They thought it would be amusing. 
 
 Lady Brownlow, who had crossed the seas expressly, 
 had arrived at the lake the day before, accompanied by
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 103 
 
 her husband, a couple of handsome Englishmen, two 
 maids, a valet, and twenty-seven boxes. These gallant 
 Britishers, with a neighbor or two, and a dude from the 
 city, were impressed into the service as ushers, pre- 
 ceded by Crummy in a starched ruff and a little Henry 
 III. blue velvet jacket, made out of his mother's first 
 married ball-gown. Crummy was omnipresent, under 
 everybody's feet, still freckled, still troublesome, still 
 noisy, but clean for once, and bursting with importance. 
 
 Lucille and Lillian Hatch, the twins, pretty, flower- 
 like creatures of sixteen summers, were to be bride- 
 maidens, with two other girls, one of whom was im- 
 ported from a distant town, to represent the Parachute 
 clan. And then, besides these, there was our poet. She 
 had never been invited to be a bridesmaid before, and 
 even aesthetic and literary young women are human. 
 She was pleased. She expressed herself, however, 
 condescendingly, alluding to the fact that, having 
 entered the field of literature, how Mrs. Hatch 
 laughed ! her time was not now fully at her own 
 command. 
 
 The fact was, Miss Hyatt Titus, after nursing for two 
 months her baffled ambition with thoughts of revenge, 
 had once more taken up the pen. This time she had 
 been practical. She had taken Mr. Carper's advice. 
 She had done with sonnets. She was writing a novel. 
 Its name was " Novensides." She didn't know what 
 it meant, but she decided to find out when the book 
 was finished. As she had only written a chapter and 
 a half, there seemed to be no immediate haste. She 
 now spoke openly of her literary labors. It sounded 
 well, or at least she thought so ; and the smiles and 
 nods of her acquaintances were taken for the expres- 
 sion of astonished admiration. One girl had indeed
 
 104 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 been somewhat offensively inquisitive as to what she 
 had already published, and had given vent to a slightly 
 mocking titter when told that the publication of a thing 
 was of little moment, if only there was the talent. 
 This lack of sympathy Miss Hyatt Titus attributed to 
 the jealousy always awakened in small and mediocre 
 breasts by impending success. 
 
 She had decided upon at least two characters in her 
 story. One was to be a thinly-veiled Mrs. Larremore, 
 represented as a malignant, malevolent, mischief-brewing 
 being, given over to all manner of wickedness, slyness, 
 and deceit ; attractive within limits but doomed to 
 ultimate perdition in this planet and the next. The 
 other was a polished villain . She had first intended to 
 portray him as an English duke, who should inveigle 
 into his toils and decoy to her destruction a village 
 maiden. Unfortunately, having imparted this portion 
 of the plot to her friend the mocking girl, this young 
 lady had giggled again, and this time more provokingly. 
 "Why, yes," she had said, "do! That would be so 
 new !" And somehow Miss Highty Tighty had sus- 
 pected the girl's words to convey hidden satire. Could 
 it be possible ? 
 
 Then when she had essayed to portray the Earl of 
 Brownlow the nearest approach she knew to an Eng- 
 lish duke she found herself embarrassed, Draco, or 
 "Brownie," as Mrs. Larremore called him, was so far 
 from her preconception of the polished villain, such 
 polished villains as she had seen upon the stage, 
 gentlemen invariably dressed, whatever the season, in 
 light summer overcoats, high gray silk hats, and dia- 
 mond scarf-pins . ' ' Why do polished villains always 
 wear a gray silk hat ?' ' she asked herself, pondering, 
 doubting, depressed.
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT 105 
 
 The heroine of " Novensides" was an ethereal, ex- 
 quisitely dressed, misunderstood by friends and family 
 . . . genius. Her face and figure were described with 
 close minutiae, described so conclusively to represent 
 herself, that she grew frightened at the last minute, 
 and threw in a mole under the left ear. She decided 
 she could change the hair later, if the publisher thought 
 it wise. She remembered that Homer only tells us 
 that Achilles was blond, and that somehow we see him, 
 and wondered why this girl, so elaborately detailed, 
 remained elusive, intangible, and unreal. She even 
 had shed a few tears over this. She had grown tired 
 and fretful. She had inked her best frock. Could it 
 be possible that Homer or Achilles or somebody was 
 cleverer than she? But this was only a momentary 
 weakness, such as she had experienced after her first 
 visit to Mr. Carper, when she had felt humbled in spite 
 of herself, and had sighed for wisdom. 
 
 Yes, it would be a rest and respite from this arduous 
 career to dance at her cousin May-Margaret's wedding. 
 
 What a lovely day it was, to be sure ! and how hand- 
 some Papa and Mamma Hatch looked, she in her lilac 
 silk and he with his boutonniere / 
 
 The Rev. Parachute was very pale, as if he had 
 passed a night of vigil, but May-Margaret, who had 
 slept soundly for twelve hours, and had eaten a capital 
 breakfast, was gay and rosy, and seemed to view the 
 whole affair as an immense frolic. She gave her hand 
 a moment shyly to her lover, on the stairs, and blushed 
 under her orange-blossoms at some word he whispered 
 to her of her beauty. 
 
 The Countess of Brownlow caused a profound sensa- 
 tion as she swayed up the aisle of the country church, 
 upon the arm of one of the English ushers, in a won-
 
 106 THE FIRST FLIGHT 
 
 derfully fitting gown of satin and lace. There was 
 almost as much tremor when Mrs. Larremore, in a 
 cloud of Nile-green chiffon, was whirled half-way to 
 the altar, at the Earl of Brownlow's elbow. Having 
 ensconced his charge in a prominent pew, he left her, 
 lumbering up, with his awkward gait, to join his beau- 
 tiful wife. 
 
 Then afterwards, at the Hatcheries, there was a 
 festive gathering indeed. All were here except the 
 Trudens, who were travelling far away in the Greek 
 Islands and cabled their message of affection across 
 seas, oceans, and archipelagoes. 
 
 Even Cousin Martha unbent for the occasion, and 
 was most affable to Mr. Hatch, who buried the hatchet 
 and took her in to breakfast. Mr. Hyatt Titus, who 
 sidled up to Mrs. Larremore with a broiled bird on the 
 end of a fork, and a glass of champagne between his 
 thumb and index, was rewarded by a melting smile. 
 And his daughter drew the ring out of the bridesmaids' 
 cake which was given her by her groomsman. This 
 groomsman was a timid, callow young man, the son of 
 a gentleman reported to own the greater portion of a 
 Western Territory, and a fabulously productive gold- 
 mine. He also had been imported by Mr. Parachute 
 from his far-away province, as being a distant relative. 
 This gilded youth trembled when Miss Hyatt Titus 
 looked at him. He thought her the very embodiment 
 of fashion, elegance, and distinction. The author of 
 ' ' Novensides' ' wondered if to be understood and dei- 
 fied one must indeed revert to distant and imported 
 worshippers. She wondered if gold-digging in remote 
 regions might not afford solace to a wounded spirit. 
 She dazzled him so completely, before the day had 
 drifted into the twilight and the rice and slippers had
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT. 
 
 107 
 
 been hurled at the departing Parachutes, May-Marga- 
 ret's hat being generously trimmed by a beading of the 
 Mascote grain, that her own foolish heart fluttered 
 with a longing half assuaged. Her vanity had found 
 aliment at last. She had made her first conquest.
 
 Morning Mists 
 
 " /~~*OME down for a couple of nights, old man, and 
 
 V^x we' 11 have some tennis. ' ' So said Bruce, swing- 
 ing his long, calfless legs from the top of my dining- 
 table, in my new chambers, across the square. 
 
 "All right," said I, " I'm yours." 
 
 I was very proud of my new rooms, proud of living 
 at last in the metropolis which had long been the El 
 Dorado of my reveries. My college days were over. 
 I felt very important at being admitted in the law office 
 of a great firm, and had distant visions of partnership 
 and of honors. Oh, the brave illusions of the young ! 
 
 At home I lived in a suburb, a breezy one, far enough 
 from the town to catch a near breath of salt sea smells, 
 a more distant one of sweet-scented meadow-grasses. 
 
 The promise now of a day or two in the country was 
 alluring to me. Dimly, nature was pulling at my heart- 
 strings. For, although I looked very commonplace 
 and practical, and affected a certain deliberateness of 
 speech and manner, I had, I think, in these early days, 
 an ardent and dreamy soul. I don't fancy any one else 
 would have imagined it, for my appearance has never 
 been romantic. My mother has always told me I was 
 108
 
 MORNING MISTS 109 
 
 very plain. She was herself an elderly person, whose 
 expiring effort of maternity, after many more success- 
 ful performances, had produced . . . me. But I was 
 well-made enough, and brown and strong ; and there 
 was a certain freshness about my mouth and lips that 
 women liked ; at least, so they have told me since, but 
 they had not told me then. 
 
 My idea of motherhood always presented to me a 
 picture of scrupulous housekeeping, a considerable de- 
 gree of self-immolation, and an occasional dose of 
 castor-oil. Mothers seemed to me a sort of benevo- 
 lent, beneficent, care-worn, anxious, foolish race who 
 scolded gently, administered medicines when one was 
 ill, and were to be dealt with kindly and indulgently, 
 and to be deceived as to all minor details of one's ex- 
 perience. 
 
 Bruce had invited me before to his paternal acres, 
 but, somehow, I had never gone. We had only been 
 very intimate during our last year in college, when a 
 boat-race won in unison had cemented a nascent liking. 
 As his conversation was always devoted to the merits 
 and demerits of various departments of athletics, he had 
 never entertained me about his home and its inmates. 
 I knew he received letters from a mother who, he once 
 told me, was a "darling old girl," and that he had a 
 step-father and a little half-brother. His own father 
 had died when Bruce was a baby. At twenty the family 
 pipe is soon smoked out and thrown aside, and Bruce 
 was not yet twenty. I was a year his senior. We had 
 both entered college very young. 
 
 There were signs of elegance about Bruce which led 
 us to suppose him to be very rich. He spent money 
 liberally, dressed rather extravagantly, and hinted that 
 at twenty-one his supply of funds would be even more
 
 no MORNING MISTS 
 
 generous. Although not over-bright, he was a good 
 fellow, and a great favorite. 
 
 Having accepted his invitation, and been told to put 
 a dress-suit in my valise, "Mamma is fussy about such 
 things," he had said, we started up the river together, 
 in the pink glow of a departing sun : the river, the only 
 one to us who live in the Middle States. 
 
 When our steamer creaked up to its rough pier it 
 was quite dusk. It was early in November. The 
 autumn had been unusually mild. The leaves, not yet 
 fallen from the trees which bordered the road, crowned 
 them with russet and crimson, and cast athwart the 
 steep ascent lengthening shadows. One felt that a storm 
 might rise at any moment, shake them wind-swept from 
 their boughs, and, lo, the winter would have come ! 
 
 A smart tilbury met us close to the dock. Bruce 
 seized the reins, the liveried groom sprang up behind 
 us, and we were soon bowling up the hill. After a 
 short half-mile, we turned abruptly from the main road 
 into a narrow lane, passed under an embankment, 
 through a stone archway, and entered what seemed to 
 be a species of park. 
 
 "This is the big house where my grandmother lives," 
 said Bruce, touching up his horse and pointing with his 
 whip at a great pile of pale marble which rose up from 
 amid sombre evergreen hedges. " And here," he said, 
 a few moments later, as we crunched the gravel in front 
 of a more modest construction, ' ' here is our own 
 house. ' ' 
 
 It was a low, rambling, old-fashioned cottage, literally 
 covered and smothered in vines and roses. It was long 
 and wide, and looked very attractive to my eyes. A 
 man-servant came out from under the porch to take my 
 valise, and preceded us into the hall, which was narrow
 
 MORNING MISTS I" 
 
 and almost dark. The domestic murmured that he had 
 not expected us quite so early, or he would have lighted 
 the lamps. He raised a heavy curtain which concealed 
 a door-way on the right, and ushered us into a small 
 drawing-room. This in turn opened into two other 
 rooms, affording us a vista which seemed to me one of 
 rare charm. In fact, I can recall nothing more grate- 
 ful than the sudden change from the gusty chill of the 
 evening outside to the rich warmth and comfort of this 
 cosy apartment. 
 
 There mingled, I remember, the fragrance of violets 
 with a pervading smell of wood fire. There was, in 
 fact, a large bowl of these delicate, refined flowers on 
 the table, adding their puissant aroma to my first im- 
 pressions. A fire of large logs on the hearth crackled 
 brightly. Near it was drawn a small tea-table covered 
 with some rich Oriental embroideries, where the silver 
 kettle was already giving forth a buzzing, hissing sound. 
 This table was illumined by two wax-lights discreetly 
 tempered by silken shades, and their fitful blaze, with 
 that from the hearth, alone lit up an otherwise mys- 
 terious gloom. 
 
 In a distant boudoir two lamps were veiled in silks 
 and laces, hiding modestly their brilliancy, as a fair 
 woman her charms. Their rays rested upon a variety 
 of objects of artistic grace, vivifying their beauty. The 
 walls were draped in dim stuffs suggestive of a French 
 chateau of the old regime. The golden frames of a 
 few fine pictures of tender coloring made a glowing 
 background to the bits of antique furniture, rare carv- 
 ings, bric-a-brac, and bibelots which rose up against 
 their glinting surfaces. 
 
 There was such a hush and reposefulness about these 
 fairy-like rooms that Bruce' s " Hang on here, old fel-
 
 112 MORNING MISTS 
 
 low ; I'll run up and find the mother," rang harshly on 
 my drugged senses. 
 
 "Mrs. Pryor told me to tell you, sir," said the ser- 
 vant, who had returned with some cream and a small 
 plate on which were disposed slices of thin bread-and- 
 butter, he addressed Bruce, "that she drove late, 
 and was just dressing, but she would be down in a 
 minute, to make the tea for you and the gentleman ; 
 but that if you wanted it at once, sir, I could make it 
 for you." 
 
 "No, I'll run up," said Bruce, and vanished. The 
 servant, after disposing of his trayful, also disappeared, 
 and silence fell again upon the house of Pryor. It was 
 a silence absolute. No, for now and then a log got dis- 
 placed, and fell forward, emitting a sort of smothered 
 sigh ; while the kettle continued to whiff and puff with 
 intermittent jerks and snorts. Outside, now and then, 
 a riotous vine, whose dim reflection I could vaguely 
 catch through the low curtained window, scratched 
 along the narrow pane. 
 
 I buried myself in a deep, low, cushioned chair, close 
 to the grateful heat, crossed my legs, leaned back my 
 head, and gave myself up to pleasant reflection. Its 
 meshes were as confused, as uncertain, as the dimness 
 which environed me. Having so lately attained the 
 freedom of a newly acquired loneliness, the aspiration 
 of my boyhood independence in the direction of am- 
 bition, there was a momentary lull of thought ; in that 
 of the emotions all was as yet unawakened. . There was 
 restlessness, no more. I was as innocent in sentiment 
 as when the nurse had announced me to the languid 
 curiosity of an eighth accouchement, " It's a little boy." 
 My boyhood had been engrossed in manly exercises, 
 out-of-door life, and study ; my college days with feats
 
 MORNING MISTS 113 
 
 of prowess, in which I had won some reputation for 
 skill and strength, and more study. The men liked 
 me, a few with enthusiasm. The girls said I was a 
 ' ' nice sort of a boy, ' ' but I noticed that they left me 
 severely alone. I was timid ; I dared not molest them 
 much ; I feared to be importunate. I have since learned 
 that women resent this form of delicacy. I have tried 
 to make amends. 
 
 Well, the kettle was just beginning to steam at the 
 spout, and to promise a speedy inundation, when a light 
 step touched the parquet flooring. I turned and rose 
 to my feet, for a lady had crossed the door-sill. A 
 sudden flare of flame caught her in its embrace, and 
 exhibited her to me, for a moment, in a picture which 
 nothing will ever efface from my memory. 
 
 "Is it Mr. Innes?" she asked, in a grave, low voice. 
 
 I explained that I was Mr. Innes, and that I was 
 waiting for Mrs. Pryor. I felt vexed with Bruce for 
 not having warned me that there were to be goddesses 
 about. I thought I had left these deities definitively 
 behind me, with my now dusty classics, on my book- 
 shelves. One did not want to find them here again, at 
 once, under one's feet. This was hardly fair. I felt 
 myself grow very hot and very red as the vision begged 
 me, with a nonchalant movement of the hand, to keep 
 my seat. She herself neared the tea-table, and, draw- 
 ing a tapestried chair close to it, said, "While Mrs. 
 Pryor makes her toilet, suppose we make tea. Do you 
 take sugar and cream? Yes? Well, here!" And 
 she deftly poured out the fragrant drink with splendid 
 jewelled hands, and handed me a cup, and then some 
 bread- and-butter. 
 
 She was tall, even very tall, and what one would call 
 a large woman, although there was not an ounce of 
 h 10*
 
 114 MORNING MISTS 
 
 superfluous flesh to mar the symmetry of her perfect 
 proportions. There was a sort of force in her move- 
 ments which held me in a spell of wonder and of pleas- 
 ure bordering on excitement. Her wealth of dark hair 
 seemed to crown her as with an empress's coronet. 
 Her wide eyes were of a peculiar electric bluish-gray. 
 She was very pale ; her pallor, however, did not sug- 
 gest ill health. It was warm and creamy in hue. Her 
 mouth, which was small, was like a crimson blossom. 
 From her garments, as she moved and talked, there 
 breathed a fragrance as of life and joy. I had not been 
 near her ten minutes, and already the blood from my 
 heart was coursing through my boy's brain and veins 
 with pulsations of a strange exhilaration. Yet her 
 presence caused me a certain anxiety which was almost 
 anguish. 
 
 I was so busy noting her personality that I can hardly 
 remember what we talked about. Afterwards I was 
 tortured by the thought of what a piteous part I had 
 played in the conversation. I remember she asked me 
 almost immediately if I had an evening paper. I told 
 her I had left one in my overcoat pocket, and went out 
 in the hall to find it for her. 
 
 When I brought it she turned it over impatiently, 
 and leaned towards the light to find something in it, 
 whatever it might be, with avidity. "Ah!" by and 
 by she murmured, ' ' I wanted to see if Mrs. Drummond 
 had obtained her . . . separation. I see that she has 
 done so, and that she has come out of her ordeal . . . 
 with honors." 
 
 " There are no honors in all this publicity," I said, 
 stupidly. "I, for one, think it is horrid. A woman 
 must have lost her self-respect to do such a thing." 
 
 She turned her head a little in my direction, and, ex-
 
 MORNING MISTS US 
 
 tricating a blonde tortoise-shell lorgnon which she had 
 stuck in her bosom, took a long look at me through its 
 lens. 
 
 ' ' You are from . . . er . . . the neighborhood of 
 Boston, are you not?" she asked. 
 
 There was certainly no disgrace in being from the 
 neighborhood of Boston ; but somehow, as I bowed my 
 assent, I felt that I was criminating myself. Her tone 
 had managed to make me extremely uncomfortable. 
 Her inquiry seemed to hold a stigma. 
 
 "And in Boston, or in your ... er ... village, 
 . . . they don't have such dreadful happenings?" she 
 asked, with an amused inflection. 
 
 ' ' I don' t live in a village, ' ' I stammered. My feet 
 seemed suddenly to look queer and large, and I noticed 
 that one of my shoes had moulted a button. I tucked 
 the offender under my chair, and in so doing almost lost 
 my balance and dropped my teacup. 
 
 ' ' Will you have some more ?' ' she asked, suavely. 
 " Is your seat uncomfortable ? You seem so restless." 
 
 I declined the tea, tremblingly put down my china cup, 
 and assured her that my seat was all that I could desire. 
 
 "The marriage relation," she went on, "is so intri- 
 cate and profound that we have not yet solved it here ; 
 but I dare say with you it's all made clear, and that 
 personally you understand it perfectly." 
 
 I fumbled for an answer. She was evidently laugh- 
 ing at me ; yet her tone was so grave it seemed hardly 
 credible. I began to feel, however, that slovenly talk 
 and breathless opinions had better be avoided. 
 
 ' ' And are you hard at work ?' ' she asked by and by. 
 ' ' Bruce was speaking of you to me. I wish you could 
 persuade him to be more attentive to his studies. He's 
 a dear fellow. I often wonder if it was wise for him to
 
 Ii6 MORNING MISTS 
 
 enter the mining-school. I doubt if engineering is 
 really his taste and vocation. But idleness is deplor- 
 able for young men, and I sometimes regret for him 
 that he will have money, and therefore no incentive to 
 work." 
 
 ' ' Fame is sweet, ' ' I now ventured, determined not 
 to appear the fool she must be thinking me. ' ' Surely 
 money need not prevent us from its pursuit." 
 
 " Poverty is a force," she said, laconically. 
 
 Her dress to me looked like a sort of veiled softness, 
 falling away transparent and shimmering from her el- 
 bows and white wrists. There was a full-blown, yellow- 
 hearted rose near her throat, above the vague outline 
 of her queenly breast. The bust was firm, not large, 
 and her gown fell from beneath those half-globes of 
 ivory, caught in a quaint Eastern turquoise clasp. 
 
 ' ' So, ' ' she said, after a short pause, ' ' you think 
 Lina Drummond has made a fool of herself?" She 
 had left the tea-table and had come over to a sofa near 
 me. 
 
 "I don't take much interest in such things," I mur- 
 mured, "and I dare say I don't understand them ; but 
 I believe, when a woman's married a man, she had 
 better stick to him through thick and thin." 
 
 "And this would be your advice in all cases?" 
 
 I stared at her blankly. ' ' My advice ?' ' 
 
 "Why, yes : are you not a lawyer?" 
 
 I began again to wonder why this strange young 
 woman was making persistent fun of me. " A budding 
 one," I answered, blushing and laughing. 
 
 "And so this budding lawyer does not approve of 
 . . . Lina?" 
 
 " I have not followed the case," I said, with labored 
 dignity, ' ' but what I have read proved to me pretty
 
 MORNING MISTS 117 
 
 clearly that Mrs. Drummond had not been guiltless, to 
 say the least, of ... imprudence." 
 
 " Mrs. Drummond is a friend of mine." 
 
 " I am sure I beg your pardon," I answered, a little 
 irritated. How could I tell that she was even an 
 acquaintance ? 
 
 ' ' And so you disapprove of ... imprudence ; you 
 consider it quite heinous. You are a severe moralist, 
 Mr. Innes. I trust your own conscience is clear, 
 since it is so harsh a judge. Well, perhaps you are 
 right. I am certain there are women who must have 
 anchorage even if it be in mire ; but Lina is not of 
 these." 
 
 " Don't you think you are a little unkind to me?" I 
 asked, smiling. 
 
 ' ' Perhaps when you know me better you may think 
 differently." 
 
 ' ' Shall I ever know you better ?' ' I was surprised 
 at my own temerity. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, because," I continued, boldly, although my 
 tongue and utterance were thick with agitation and 
 embarrassment, ' ' I have not now the slightest idea 
 whom I am addressing ; but I feel sure that if I knew 
 your name and your address it would give me no clue 
 to you yourself, that no one could ever know you 
 well." 
 
 " Is it at college that you learned to say such delight- 
 ful things ?' ' she asked, taking another long glance in 
 my direction, as if she found amusement in observing 
 me. People of discernment are fond of such studies. 
 I was a willing sacrifice. 
 
 "No," I answered, " I have learned within the last 
 fifteen minutes."
 
 Il8 MORNING MISTS 
 
 1 ' You must be very intelligent, then ; it would be 
 almost worth while to undertake your education. But, 
 as you say you don't know me, and you think that no 
 one ever could, would not you who are so wise shrink 
 from drinking at a spring whose source you have not 
 found and fathomed? Would it be quite . . . pru- 
 dent?" 
 
 " Not prudent or wise," I said, rashly, still astonished 
 at myself, ' ' but . . . but . . . sweet !' ' 
 
 ' ' Really ? imprudent and dulcet ! A pleasant com- 
 bination. I wish you would stay here, and let me teach 
 you more things : it would occupy me, for, entre nous, 
 it is but a dull place." 
 
 " I suppose," I said, dropping my voice into a lower 
 and more familiar key, ' ' that if you are all alone here 
 with General and Mrs. Pryor, it may be stupid for you, 
 being so much younger, and Bruce here so little. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Yes, the Pryors are not amusing, and I am devoured 
 with ennui. But you don't know anything about that ; 
 you are too young. Ennui usually follows great desires 
 or emotions ; it is very uncomfortable, a species of 
 disgust, hardly a pain. Neither pleasure nor occupa- 
 tion suffices to it. It craves rapture, and this is just 
 what it shall not find. Even its melancholy is colorless. 
 Of ennui is born the taste for the singular and the 
 unique, which attracts and arrests, sometimes, as much 
 as greatness. Now, I, for instance, am only ennuyte, 
 and people call me eccentric. It comes to us when all 
 our dreams of joy are over and there is no further hope 
 of remedy. But, as I say, you are so young, you have 
 not yet reached that dreary level of monotony." 
 
 Had I, in fact, been thirty I would have understood 
 the diabolic coquetry of this tirade ; but, being twenty, 
 I felt my heart rise and almost choke me in revolt and
 
 MORNING MISTS 119 
 
 pify for this lovely person who was evidently the toy of 
 some cruel destiny. I know not what declaration of 
 this sort I should have been idiotic enough to make, 
 had Bruce not returned at the moment when some im- 
 becility on my part was imminent. I felt it coming on 
 as one does a fit of the ague. 
 
 " Halloo ! my darling," he said, taking the tall lady 
 in his arms, "have you and Innes been making friends ?" 
 He kissed her under her chin and rubbed his hands on 
 her hair, pulling her this way and that. And then I 
 knew that this divine being was no other than my 
 friend's mother. She laughed very heartily at my 
 discomfiture, and so did Bruce, and I joined in their 
 laughter, albeit less effusively. 
 
 "You were so perfectly unconscious," she said, a 
 little later, laughing again from her full, round throat. 
 ' ' It was so absurd. ' ' 
 
 The tte-&-tte thus rudely broken was not to be 
 resumed that night. A few moments later General 
 Pryor and his little boy, a pretty child of eight, joined 
 us. He was one of those ' ' show ' ' children, such as 
 I could never have been at any age, picturesquely clad 
 in velvet and lace bravery, with a pair of soft eyes, and 
 bright hair adown his shoulders. 
 
 The lady of the house returned to her low seat at the 
 tea-table, and proffered to her husband and eldest son 
 a steaming cup, while she gave Ruthven this was the 
 child's name a bit of cake and a taste of milk. 
 
 Ruthven and I became fast friends in those few days 
 that I spent near him. He used to play with my watch 
 while I made paper boats for him, and little men and 
 women out of my pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 On this evening, sitting about the tea-table, I had 
 ample time to contemplate the family group. It was
 
 120 MORNING MISTS 
 
 certainly a striking one. General Pry or was a man 
 of about fifty. He had a dark, red-brown moustache ; 
 his hair was gray. He was tall and stout, with a 
 pleasant blue eye and regular features. Towards me 
 his manner was genial, courteous, even cordial. He 
 was an uncommonly handsome man, but the expression 
 of his face, I noticed almost immediately, was one of 
 profound melancholy. He stood now against the mantel- 
 piece, toying with his spoon, sipping his tea, looking 
 down on the heads of his wife and little son smilingly, 
 but his smile did not reach his eyes. The boy had 
 seated himself on the floor, at his mother's feet, and 
 was playing with the head of a huge wolf-skin which 
 lay under her feet ; while Bruce, from his usual favorite 
 vantage-ground, the table, did not for a moment lose 
 that air of distinction which so markedly characterized 
 him. Wherein distinction lies has always baffled me ; 
 it baffles the world. That Bruce possessed it no one 
 will gainsay. 
 
 Looking at this happy family picture, I felt isolated, 
 a little left out in the cold ; and then I was still smarting 
 from the blunders I had so innocently committed. I 
 felt cross with Bruce and with myself. 
 
 This, then, was a mother too ! Great Caesar' s ghost ! 
 She belonged to a type that was not familiar to me, 
 nor common from whence I came. She was a mother, 
 and had even been twice a wife. It seemed impossible, 
 incomprehensible, almost unpleasant. What ! the mor- 
 bidezza of that smooth skin, the unwrinkled marble of 
 that haughty brow, at once so tender and courageous, 
 the cool limpidity of those wide pupils, had passed 
 through all this experience ? 
 
 I would not believe it. 
 
 Then as ever afterwards this lady remained for me
 
 MORNING MISTS 121 
 
 the enigma which even an CEdipus must needs have 
 died to unravel. 
 
 Had I not with a curious prescience told her in that 
 first half-hour that she was unknowable ? 
 
 II. 
 
 BEFORE the dinner two or three guests, country 
 neighbors, lingering, like the Pryors, late from their 
 city homes, arrived. I believe that one of these guests, 
 a young married woman, was extremely pretty, and 
 that the men were as agreeable as the average diner- 
 out. To me they were absolutely insignificant. Mrs. 
 Pryor received them in a simple white toilet. If she 
 had looked young in the fire-light, she looked still 
 younger now, albeit her type of beauty was not the 
 girlish one. General Pryor did the honors with hospi- 
 table good breeding. Now and then I noticed that he 
 looked athwart the flowers, which separated them, at 
 his wife, and that his eyes rested upon hers with a 
 peculiar solicitude, I can find no other word to de- 
 scribe an expression whose meaning eluded me, and 
 each time he did so I remarked the sadness in his other- 
 wise calm, impassive face. She spoke to him lightly, 
 gayly, as I had heard often other wives speak to other 
 husbands ; and with Bruce she was affectionate and 
 playful. She appeared in excellent spirits, and was the 
 life of the banquet, an exquisite little feast whose every 
 detail breathed of her own delicacy. 
 
 I was very silent, partly through an unconquerable 
 shyness which possessed and well-nigh overpowered 
 me, silencing my tongue and paralyzing my nerves ever 
 since the afternoon ; partly because I could not shake 
 off the memory of Mrs. Pryor' s last words of our tte-
 
 122 MORNING MISTS 
 
 d,-tete. But the ennui and disillusion of which she had 
 then complained seemed to be alike lost sight of to- 
 night. 
 
 A respite, after coffee and a chasse were served, was 
 passed by the men in smoking, and by the ladies in 
 conversation. When we rejoined them, Mrs. Pryor 
 and her two neighbors, young married women, were 
 about the piano, in the more distant boudoir. They 
 were looking over some music and pressing Mrs. Pryor 
 to sing to them. She refused decidedly at first, but 
 suddenly relented. She seated herself at the piano, 
 and, accompanying herself, began a barcarolle in that 
 pretty Venetian dialect which seems created for the 
 mouth of children : 
 
 Coi pensieri malinconici 
 
 No te star a tormentar ; 
 Vien con mi, montemo in gondola, 
 
 Andremo in mezo al mar. 
 
 Ti xe bella, ti xe zovane, 
 
 Ti xe fresca come un fior ; 
 Vien per tutte le su' lagreme, 
 
 Ridi adesso e fa 1' amor. 
 
 When she had finished she sighed. "Oh, Italia," 
 she murmured, " I was happy then !" 
 
 Her contralto voice was, like everything else about 
 her, peculiar. It floated through the room like the 
 plaintive farewell of a heart lost in space. This is the 
 way it impressed me. I only record the feeling ; I 
 make no comment upon it. I was young and ingenu- 
 ous, and to my ears was given a keenness which has 
 since been dispelled. It is possible, however, that my 
 friend's mother may have sung like a hundred other 
 women, or even less well. She decisively refused to
 
 MORNING MISTS 123 
 
 give us more, replying to the urgency of her guests 
 that she was "not in the mood." She seemed, how- 
 ever, in the mood for talk. To me she appeared very 
 brilliant ; yet, although she said striking things, I have 
 often asked myself since if Mrs. Pryor was really clever. 
 I do not know. 
 
 A statuette of Canova's led the conversation to him, 
 to his art. Mrs. Pryor told us about a sojourn she had 
 once made in the valley of Pausanio, a fit abode of 
 genius, she said. She had often wandered where the 
 poor boy must have wandered, and pictured him look- 
 ing over that Italy which was so regally to crown him. 
 What were the boy's hopes and fears ? Did he already 
 see before him in his dreams the nude beauty of a Pau- 
 line Borghese ? She told us of the temple of Canova, 
 that exact reproduction of the Roman Pantheon, but 
 which the frosts, alas ! had already injured. She 
 thought the group at Christ's tomb his coldest thought, 
 the least inspired. " I am afraid," she said, turning to 
 the Cupid and Psyche, " he was a pagan, after all." 
 
 She spoke of modern art and its fantastic quality, its 
 want of color, and its note of unhealthiness. Ah, well, 
 she for herself thought that there was nothing like a 
 life free from all ambitions, all desires. " I don't wish 
 it for my sons," she added, "but for me . . . it suffices. " 
 Her little entourage listened to her words like people 
 accustomed to do her homage, enthralled, a little as- 
 tonished. 
 
 When she spoke of herself I instinctively turned to 
 look at her husband, but found that he had left the 
 room. I saw his tall form, now and then, passing and 
 repassing a window, as he paced the long piazza 
 smoking in the cold moonlit night. 
 
 After the guests had gone and the good-nights had
 
 124 MORNING MISTS 
 
 been exchanged, Bruce and I indulged in a cigarette 
 up in my room, where a wood fire dispensed its genial 
 welcome. Bruce, in those days, was in love ; and for 
 the hundredth time a certain letter which his beloved 
 had written to him was parleyed over, weighed, dis- 
 cussed, dissected, and I was bidden discover hidden 
 meanings of which, I confess, the writer was probably 
 as innocent as I was. The girl was a certain Tessie 
 Vaux, considered a belle and wit in the university town 
 where we had won our laurels. She was, in fact, what 
 college belles are apt to be, an ordinary young person, 
 with a good deal of aplomb and an excellent opinion of 
 herself. Her pristine innocence had somewhat suffered 
 in a series of rather coarse love escapades with two or 
 three roughly adoring students. She was fairly pretty, 
 "made eyes" indiscriminately, laughed a great deal, 
 and wzisfaa/e, but Bruce insisted that he loved her. I 
 think he was trying to assure himself that he did so. 
 We go on saying a thing of ourselves long after it has 
 ceased to be true, from the force of habit ; and Bruce 
 had been insisting upon this with unnecessary vehe- 
 mence for more than a year. 
 
 I remember this evening, when I was called upon to 
 sympathize with the violence of his passion and to be 
 revolted at the depths of the young lady's perfidy 
 which I was expected to combat I became conscious 
 of an extreme mental lassitude. I even felt inclined to 
 agree with him that he had been extremely ill-used ; 
 which was not at all what he had come to my room for. 
 The love-confidences of the immature form one of the 
 most dispiriting, fatiguing, and absurd of all life's ex- 
 periences. I had, however, not yet reached the age 
 when one would walk ten miles to escape them. The 
 thing itself is so foolish ! And one has to look so
 
 MORNING MISTS 125 
 
 grave ! As a woman once said to me of her growing 
 sons, "And oh ! those terrible love-affairs !" 
 
 Suddenly now Bruce' s passionnette seemed to have 
 dwindled into tedious and trivial insignificance. I found 
 that I was forcing myself to listen to the oft-reiterated 
 story with ill-disguised restlessness and wavering atten- 
 tion, until my good-natured companion, evidently not 
 finding the usual responsiveness, rose, and said, "Well, 
 old fellow, I guess I'll turn in now." 
 
 He glanced, as he moved towards the door, at a 
 portrait of his step-father which hung over the mantel- 
 piece. ' ' He' s devoted to my mother, ' ' he said. ' ' He' s 
 splendid !" And with those words, picking up his 
 letters and photographs, he got himself off. 
 
 It was very late. I prepared to seek my bed ; but I 
 had fallen into the bad habit of nocturnal reading, and 
 looked about for a book, a novel which I had heard 
 much discussed, and which I thought I had left upon 
 my table. I did not find it, however, and suddenly 
 remembered that it was down-stairs, in Mrs. Pryor's 
 boudoir, where I had held it for a moment in my hands. 
 I therefore decided, as sleep seemed not imminent, to 
 descend in search of it. I stepped softly, not to dis- 
 turb the slumbering household, carrying my candle 
 aloft in my hand. When I reached the hall a gust of 
 wind from an open window blew it out. The servants 
 had extinguished the lamps. I found myself, except 
 for one moonbeam which fell across my feet, in almost 
 entire obscurity. I crept, however, to the boudoir 
 door, which was ajar. I pushed it open and closed it 
 gently behind me, thrusting, as I did so, my fingers in 
 my pocket in search of my match-box. But as I 
 looked up I become aware not only that I was not in 
 total darkness, but that I was not alone. The apart- 
 
 11*
 
 126 MORNING MISTS 
 
 merit in which I stood was itself deserted, but through 
 the curtain which half concealed the door-way the light 
 of a lamp streamed, and voices came distinctly to my 
 ears. I made a step forward to announce myself. It 
 was not in my character or traditions to sneak or hide, 
 even less to be an eavesdropper. Why was it, then, 
 that I found myself powerless to move, stir, or speak ? 
 That curious shyness which had invaded me at the 
 table overcame me once again, and I found that I could 
 only count narrow, immediate, and personal expedi- 
 ency. The ultimate of a false position had to be ac- 
 cepted, drowned, in the mauvaise honte which dissuaded 
 me from boldly stepping forth into the light. I should 
 be importunate, ridiculous, grotesque, and a pair of 
 ironical, derisive if beautiful eyes would not be slow in 
 making me aware of the fact. Something whispered to 
 me, ' ' Beware of the high, and hold on to the safe !' ' 
 I "held on," and remained concealed. 
 
 The other room was bathed in light and revealed 
 clearly its occupants ; they were General and Mrs. 
 Pryor. I can still see them in detail, minutely, like 
 two photogravures imprinted on my retina and brain. 
 Curiosity sapped what was left to me of honor ; I stood, 
 I heard, a prey to a mutinous impatience, yet soon 
 breathless with a first revelation of life's unseen, un- 
 guessed abysses. 
 
 In the first triumph of wrong-doing right suffers 
 discouragement. Let those who blame me for having 
 remained lift up their hands, question their own hearts, 
 and be sure that their hiding-places flash not upon 
 them to reveal terrible hypocrisies. 
 
 The lamp shone keenly upon my host and hostess. 
 She was leaning against the mantel-piece, her back to 
 the flame, while he, confronting her, was a few paces
 
 MORNING MIS TS 127 
 
 nearer to me. Her elegant silhouette was brought into 
 strong relief against the background of the fire. The 
 mantel-shelf behind her was heaped with roses. 
 
 Her husband's stern profile was projected against the 
 draperies of a rich, dark curtain. 
 
 III. 
 
 FIVE seconds had not elapsed when I became per- 
 fectly aware that I was assisting at no commonplace 
 interview between these two people. 
 
 It was Mrs. Pryor who was speaking : "A first mis- 
 take may be a youthful folly, born of inexperience ; a 
 second one is a crime." She spoke in trembling ac- 
 cents, and did not raise her eyelids. 
 
 ' ' But why a mistake ?' ' said General Pryor. He 
 spoke quietly, but there was a note of agitation in his 
 tone. ' ' What do you desire ? What do you ask of me 
 that I can give, that I have not given ? You bade me 
 leave the army ; it was the career of my choice, the 
 only thing I was good for, made for. I gave it up to 
 your caprice." 
 
 "You do well," she said, bowing her head on her 
 breast, "to remind me of your sacrifices." 
 
 " I do what I can ; I am but human." 
 
 "You were a god to me, I know, ... at first," she 
 faltered. 
 
 "No, I was no god; I am a man." He moved a 
 step nearer to her. 
 
 She raised her head quickly, darting a look as of 
 fear into his face. ' ' What will you have me to do ?' ' 
 she asked, clasping her hands together and wringing 
 them. 
 
 " Ah !" he cried, "love me a little."
 
 128 MORNING MISTS 
 
 Her head fell forward again upon her breast, and she 
 remained speechless. 
 
 " You were not always so passionless," he continued. 
 " Do you remember the evening . . . ' 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I remember." And I thought 
 that she shivered : it may have been my fancy. 
 
 "Have you anything to accuse me of?" She did 
 not answer. 
 
 He moved to her and took one of her hands. It 
 seemed to lie lifeless and limp in his own. He leaned 
 over it, looking at it curiously. Then he drew from 
 the fourth finger a diamond ring which he slipped on 
 one of his own. There was another circlet left upon 
 her hand, however, a plain gold one. He pushed it up 
 and down two or three times along her long white 
 finger ; and as he did so he gazed at her keenly. 
 ' ' Why do you still wear it ?' ' he asked. 
 
 "I am Ruthven's mother." 
 
 "And my wife, mine; do you hear? This hand 
 is mine, mine!" He crushed and wrung it. "And 
 you are my child's mother ; so, do what you will, a 
 link binds you to me, a bondage if you will, but your 
 fate. Resist it as you may, you cannot escape it." 
 He looked at her almost fiercely ; his lips trembled, 
 his breath came quickly through his dark moustache. 
 
 "You would not take the child from me?" she said, 
 in a frightened whisper. 
 
 He dropped her hand as if it were a snake that had 
 stung his. "My God!" There was a long pause; 
 then, turning from her, "Good-night," he said, and 
 left her alone. I heard him go heavily up-stairs two 
 flights, and then, in the silence, turn a lock, enter a 
 room, and close a door. Its bang shook the windows 
 of the old house, resounding and echoing through the
 
 MORNING MISTS 129 
 
 sleeping corridors ; so ... only Mrs. Pryor and I 
 were left. I was now so fearful that she would know 
 of my presence that my very heart-beats were a pain 
 to me, and I held my breath almost to suffocation. She 
 flung up her arms over her head, and gave an exclama- 
 tion which seemed full of ineffable weariness. She then 
 turned and laid her cheek upon the mantel-shelf, among 
 the white roses which were not more pale. I do not 
 know how long we both remained immovable, I still 
 watching her from my dark hiding-place. After a little 
 while she gave another smothered sigh, and murmured, 
 "This infinite, raging heart-hunger, and nothing, 
 nothing !" Then, passing her fingers over her brow, 
 she advanced to the burning lamp, turned it out sud- 
 denly, and vanished in the darkness. Again I heard 
 the ascent, this time of a light, womanly step, the swish 
 of draperies, a moment's pause upon the landing, a 
 door pushed open and closed. 
 
 I felt that what I had done was sacrilegious, but it 
 was too late. I waited only a few moments, then fur- 
 tively sought once more my apartment. 
 
 The next morning Bruce and I had our coffee served 
 to us in his study, a pleasant little room which adjoined 
 his bed-chamber. At ten o' clock we were already on 
 the tennis-ground. General Pryor, I was told, had 
 taken an early train to West Point, to meet some old 
 army friends of his who were there for a day or two. 
 Mrs. Pryor had not appeared. At about eleven, how- 
 ever, she came across the lawn to join us. She called 
 out to me, " Oh, Mr. Innes ! Will you drive with me 
 in fifteen minutes ? I have ordered the village cart, and 
 will take you over to the Sawmill valley. ' ' 
 
 My heart gave a thump ; I threw down my bat 
 and hurried to her side. ' ' I can be ready directly, ' '
 
 130 MORNING MISTS 
 
 I said, mopping my forehead, "and I will be de- 
 lighted." 
 
 ' ' Very well ; in a quarter of an hour please meet me 
 on the porch." And she passed quickly on to speak 
 to her son. 
 
 It was only when seated in the carriage beside her 
 that I could take another look at her. Why is it that 
 wifehood and motherhood, these mysteries of life, seem 
 to leave no trace upon some women ? Nay, their pain 
 and trouble, transports and joys, alike pass over them, 
 leaving a certain virginity of soul which can be felt, not 
 described. Mrs. Pryor was one of these. I could not 
 now possibly picture her in any of those intimate mo- 
 ments when Proteus would have cried to her, 
 
 And I remember that on such a day 
 
 I found thee with eyes bleared and cheeks all pale, 
 
 And lips that trembled to a voiceless cry, 
 
 And that thy bosom in my bosom lay. 
 
 For of last night not a trace, none. I asked my- 
 self if it were not all a chimera, a dream born of fevered 
 unreality. Yet, albeit she had about her this curious 
 aroma of the unapproachable and not proven, by a 
 strange paradox never was the sense of sex so strong 
 as when in Mrs. Pryor' s vicinity. There detached itself 
 from her broidered vest a subtle fluid which pierced my 
 being with a pang. I sat close to her skirts, in a state 
 of admiration and subserviency, at once mute and 
 amazed. Our way lay for a short distance on the main 
 road or highway, but in a few minutes we had turned 
 into a quiet cross-lane. In summer it must have been 
 luxuriant of shadow. Even now it was sheltered by the 
 trees whose trunks were half hidden under the shining, 
 verdant, vagrant laurels. The freshness, the perfume, 
 the melodies of nature linger in the Indian summer
 
 MORNING MISTS 131 
 
 days, filling the veins with keen, sensuous delights, 
 tinged as these last hours of autumn are with mortal 
 languor. The haze lay like a veil upon the dark valley, 
 and the nearer low hills covered with brown furze and 
 brushwood. Their russet hues made a trenchant con- 
 trast to an indistinct gray sky. I looked at my com- 
 panion, and for the first half-mile I could find no word 
 to say to her. She had her hands full with the spirited 
 sorrel mare she was driving, and did not seem herself 
 inclined to much conversation. 
 
 The relief of thought is action. I found mine in 
 speech : it was terribly young. ' ' How beautiful you 
 are !' ' I said to her. 
 
 She laughed : she was evidently not displeased. "An 
 old woman like me," she said, touching the mare's 
 neck with her whip. ' ' Why, I am thirty-eight !' ' Last 
 evening her eyes had seemed to me profound wells in 
 which death might lurk. They glanced at me now 
 coquettishly and almost merrily. 
 
 ' ' One may ask a woman' s age, ' ' I said, flushing, 
 "but a goddess is immortal." 
 
 " Very prettily said," she replied, still smiling, " but 
 I assure you that I am no goddess ; only a good, ordi- 
 nary person, devoted to my household and its interests, 
 my husband, my son, my baby, jogging on to middle 
 life, content and happy. How can you make a heroine 
 of mef" 
 
 "Because," I replied, "you are not only a goddess, 
 but you are the first woman I have ever met." 
 
 "And you like the sensation, eh?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "What is it like, pray?" 
 
 " It is like . . . like . . . dying !" 
 
 "Oh, dear me !" Then, after a pause, "And didn't
 
 132 MORNING MISTS 
 
 the girls at your college make you feel like . . . like 
 . . . dying?" 
 
 " I didn't even know any of them." 
 
 " Oh, then you can't tell." 
 
 "Yes, I can ; they were rag dolls." 
 
 "And I am not a rag doll. Much obliged for the 
 compliment." 
 
 "Mrs. Pry or?" 
 
 "Mr. Innes." 
 
 ' ' Which do you think we are punished for the most 
 in this world, our follies or our crimes ?' ' 
 
 She gave a little jerk to the reins and looked at me 
 narrowly, but I managed a stout front. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I want you to take an interest in me, to 
 give me advice." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "Anything you like ; I need it about everything." 
 
 ' ' I will answer your question : I think what we are 
 punished the most severely for is doing our duty. Ah ! 
 the limits of correctness of conduct are so soon reached, 
 so easily set for us by others ! I never did my duty 
 but once, and I have been persecuted ever since." 
 
 ' ' Where I come from the ' moral sense' is pre-emi- 
 nent, duty is a big thing. Then you advise a fellow to 
 let duty slip?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ; I was thinking of women. If I 
 had a daughter, she should not know the meaning of the 
 word. With sons it is different. Boys must be whipped 
 into shape. Mine adore me ; that is the essential. ' ' 
 
 I confess I was somewhat aghast. These were not 
 the tenets of my bringing up. "Most children," she 
 went on, ' ' hate or fear their parents and constantly de- 
 ceive them. Mine love me, and have no secrets from
 
 MORNING MISTS 133 
 
 me. Bruce has even told me all about the Vaux girl ; 
 she is quite dreadful, is not she ?' ' 
 
 I admitted that to me she was ' ' dreadful. ' ' 
 
 " Bruce is all over it," she said. " He only thinks 
 it well to keep up the whimper." 
 
 " I don't want to talk about Bruce." 
 
 " Whom do you want to talk about?" 
 
 "You." 
 
 ' ' Pshaw ! I gave you the epitome of my career. 
 Tell me something about yourself." 
 
 "I am the youngest and ugliest of my mother's 
 eight children. That is all there is to tell." 
 
 ' ' You are ugly, but decidedly I like your appearance. 
 You are broad-shouldered, and you look honest." 
 
 I felt inclined to tell her that I was all hers, my legs 
 would run to do her errands, my arms were at her ser- 
 vice to do her bidding, but I had a second attack of 
 timidity, which I had lost only for a moment. 
 
 " No," she continued, after a moment's pause, 
 " there is only one thing you must guard against : don't 
 miss your life." 
 
 "Why, . . . naturally!" 
 
 ' ' I mean in its emotional side, its affections. That 
 is the great miss ; all the rest is nothing. The world 
 doesn't belong to cold hearts, don't you believe it. 
 That is a fallacy. Dare to feel, to express it : that is 
 everything." 
 
 " It is my nature to be reticent." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! I am sorry to hear it : it is that which has 
 ruined many lives. I am reticent too : it has ruined 
 mine." 
 
 ' ' We' 11 stop and see my mother, ' ' she said by and 
 by, when we had turned to come home. We neared 
 the broad mansion, hidden amid its trees, before whose 
 
 12
 
 134 MORNING MISTS 
 
 marble portals the grass-sward still remained mossy and 
 green in spite of the late season. We were ushered 
 through two or three elegant drawing-rooms into the 
 presence of Mrs. Durant, Bruce' s grandmother. We 
 found this lady alone by the fire, with an elderly gen- 
 tleman whom she and her daughter called "Admiral." 
 He looked like a well-preserved Frenchman, vivacious, 
 polite, polished, and sawed the air with one hand when 
 he spoke, as if keeping at bay some invisible enemy, 
 possibly old age. 
 
 Mrs. Durant seemed almost as youthful as her 
 daughter in figure and movements. There was a strange 
 bloom upon her cheeks, which my naivet& at first ac- 
 cepted as the remains of a departed youth, and which 
 seemed to lend lustre to her dark eye. When she ac- 
 companied us to the door, however, its cruel revela- 
 tions suggested that the color of her complexion, and 
 also that of her hair, was somewhat apocryphal. She 
 was extremely animated, almost febrile in her vivacity, 
 in contrast to Mrs. Pryor's extreme repose ; but she was 
 not devoid of a certain grace and dignity, as of a woman 
 accustomed to the world. 
 
 After having just touched her lips to her daughter's 
 cheek, ' ' Shall you not go to the reception for the 
 French frigate?" she asked. "The admiral is per- 
 suading me to arrange a party." 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Pryor, " I shall not go." 
 
 ' ' Why not, my daughter ? It is absurd the way you 
 mope. Try," she said, "Mr. Innes," turning to me, 
 ' ' to persuade Bruce to insist that his mamma goes down 
 with me. I shall ask the Laurences, the Gardiners, 
 and some men. I am sure," said Mrs. Durant, laugh- 
 ing, " I often wonder how you are a daughter of mine at 
 all. At your age I was always in everything. I never
 
 MORNING MISTS 135 
 
 was content unless on the crest of the wave. You are 
 an oddity. You must shake yourself up, Claire ; you 
 have got no ambition." 
 
 ' ' No, ' ' said Mrs. Pryor. ' ' I have none. ' ' 
 
 "Mrs. Pryor has 'arrived,' " said the admiral, gal- 
 lantly. "She has attained everything." 
 
 "Thanks," said Mrs. Pryor, smiling, albeit a little 
 coldly. 
 
 "Yes," continued the admiral, "Mrs. Pryor may 
 say, with Sardou's heroine, ' Oh, monsieur, I was 
 already discovered !' that is done." 
 
 The visit was a short one, and then we drove home- 
 wards. It was only a sixth of a mile, and there were 
 but two or three words said. "You look," she said, 
 "as if you had been well brought up. I am sure you 
 have a good mother." 
 
 "Yes," I said, "she is, in fact, very good." 
 
 "And I," she murmured under her breath, "have 
 had no mother." And just then I looked at her, and 
 our eyes met, and I felt that I wished I might die for 
 her ; but, as my eyes are small, fishy, and opaque, I 
 doubt if she read in them these interesting announce- 
 ments, or fathomed the intensity of my emotions. She 
 would probably have thought them absurd ; I myself 
 realize that they were insensate. 
 
 Well, I remained only two days longer, but when I 
 had bidden farewell to my friend's mother I was des- 
 perately in love with her, and I think she knew it. I 
 think she was a person who had the energy of exact 
 conclusions. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THERE can be nothing particularly edifying in a de- 
 tailed, minute record of the extraordinary passion which
 
 136 MORNING MISTS 
 
 for many long months consumed me. I have always 
 remembered it with astonishment, but never with shame. 
 Nothing could have been less shameful. If its senti- 
 ments shook my senses and fired my imagination, the 
 aliments which these received were so meagre, the diet 
 was so strict and lean, that the veriest ascetic could not 
 have begrudged me its strange hallucinations. It did 
 little harm to anybody else. I must confess, however, 
 that while it lasted it ravaged me. The Pryors moved 
 into their city home in good season. My career was a 
 serious and arduous one, while Bruce was a butterfly 
 of pleasure. He dropped soon into a gay, rollicking set 
 of fellows, who spent more money than I could have 
 commanded, and whose tastes and habits were not my 
 own. I had no taste for dissipation, was always some- 
 thing of a plodder. Bruce' s friends seemed to me 
 foolish and wild ; they thought me dull and slow. We 
 were supremely uncongenial. 
 
 Mrs. Pryor I met occasionally, twice at the opera, 
 once at a ball. Once I dined at her house. When I 
 called afterwards she was not alone. I went again. I 
 became a frequent visitor at her house, but I usually 
 found her surrounded by friends. Of course it was 
 impossible that a lady of her engagements and occupa- 
 tions should pay the slightest attention to me. She in 
 fact paid very little. I think I was a great amusement 
 to her friends. I sometimes noticed that the men who 
 surrounded her exchanged enigmatic glances when I 
 entered. I used to ring her door-bell at five o'clock, 
 and be ushered into the dainty drawing-room, which 
 seemed pervaded with her strange personality. Some- 
 times I brought her flowers. She used to nod her 
 thanks and lay them upon the table. I think she for- 
 got them directly. When half the winter was over I
 
 MORNING MISTS 137 
 
 began to suspect that she was very tired of me. I am 
 quite sure now that it must have been so. I suspected 
 it with shame and pain. I used to resolve that I would 
 not go again for a very long time. I would count the 
 days ; then at last, weakly, I would go once more. 
 She was never alone, never once. It was the same at 
 the opera ; she would extend three gloved fingers over 
 the shoulders and heads of others who flocked into her 
 box, smile at me, and that was all. Yet I lingered in 
 her box, standing about blocking the door-way, awk- 
 ward, intrusive, stupid, miserable. It did not matter ; 
 every time I entered her presence she exerted upon me 
 the same bewildering sorcery. Every time her garments 
 brushed me I felt myself more and more her slave. 
 
 She seemed to hold a little court of her own, but she 
 was not one of those women who are called social 
 leaders ; I think it would have wearied her. I think 
 everything wearied her. Mrs. Pryor was a little tired. 
 Towards the end of the season her smile became more 
 and more perfunctory, still soft, but colder. She prob- 
 ably thought that I had no tact. After those first two 
 or three days, now so distant, spent at her country- 
 house, she had ceased to be coquettish with me ; her 
 attention wandered when I spoke to her. She seemed 
 always distraite, preoccupied. 
 
 What was the enigma of her life ? I do not know ; 
 I never knew. When I think of her now I hardly feel 
 sure whether she was as beautiful as I imagined her. I 
 once heard some women speak of her beauty slightingly; 
 I once overheard some men say that she was foolish. 
 They may have been right ; but in those days I had 
 but one thought, " Oh to see her alone once more !" 
 What should I have said to her? Probably nothing. 
 Yet I knew I had much to tell her, oh, so much ! 
 
 12*
 
 I3 8 MORNING MISTS 
 
 everything, everything which the months, the years 
 had stifled and held back on my heart. 
 
 One evening I escorted her to her carriage, at the 
 theatre. The night was stormy ; a gust from the 
 banging lobby door shivered over her. Mrs. Pryor 
 shuddered and complained of being chilly. Two days 
 later I received a hurried note from Bruce. ' ' Dear old 
 fellow," he wrote, "we are in great trouble. Come 
 round and see me." I hurried into my coat and hat, 
 and was soon at the Pryors' door. The summons had 
 sent a painful presage through my boy's heart. I rang 
 and asked for Mr. Bruce. The servant said, ' ' Directly, 
 sir." He looked grave. He went up-stairs hurriedly, 
 and left me standing in the hall. A brougham and an 
 open gig stood outside in the street ; their horses were 
 being walked up and down in the snowy night. An 
 awning was stretched across the sidewalk from the house 
 next door. There was a dance in progress there. I 
 could hear the music. It shook the thin partition walls. 
 
 While I stood in the hall-way I heard a voice from 
 some subterranean channel say, " Don't make no noise, 
 that's a little dear !" and the next moment a child's 
 head appeared at the pantry door. He came out. It 
 was Ruthven. He held a piece of bread in one hand 
 and a glass of milk in the other. He stopped under 
 the landing, put his provisions down on the floor, and, 
 clambering up into a high, antique, carved chair, began 
 to pull off his boots. When he had done so he sprang 
 out of the chair, took up his supper, and began to 
 creep slowly up in his stocking-feet. The hall was 
 large, wide, dim ; he did not see me. His round, short 
 face with its tangled frame of light hair rose from out 
 his flannel dressing-gown like a flower. The garment 
 hung loosely from his narrow shoulders, enveloping his
 
 MORNING MISTS 139 
 
 little, thin, flexile child's body. There was something 
 inexplicably pathetic in the unconscious little figure 
 picking its way carefully on the thick velvet of the 
 Axminster carpet ; and the child' s action had shot 
 through me with a swift terror. ' ' Ruthven !' ' I cried, 
 in a loud whisper. 
 
 He turned, saw, recognized me, and slowly and with 
 a grave dignity came down the stairs again cautiously. 
 He extended his thin hand. ' ' How do you do, 
 Mr. Innes?" he said, with his quaint, old-fashioned 
 courtesy. 
 
 ' ' What has happened ?' ' I asked. 
 
 "Dear mamma is ill," said the child. " Mary was 
 busy, so I went down myself to fetch my supper." 
 
 1 ' Is your mamma very ill ?' ' I said to him. 
 
 " I don't know," he answered, vaguely. " I cannot 
 tell." 
 
 ' ' Are the doctors with her ?' ' 
 
 " They have a ... consolation," he said, gravely. 
 "They are in the parlor. Papa is with them." 
 
 I could not help smiling. ' ' A consultation, you 
 mean," I said. "Ah! then they will find out some- 
 thing that will do your mamma good." 
 
 ' ' Is that the watch that has the face on it ?' ' he asked, 
 eagerly, as I seated myself and drew him between my 
 knees, "the one your grandpapa gave you?" This 
 old time-piece had been a constant source of delight 
 and wonder to him during my visit of the autumn 
 days. 
 
 " No," I said ; "it's another one." 
 
 "Has it a face too?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 ' ' Let me see for myself. ' ' And he pulled it out and 
 began to turn it over. Just then the servant returned
 
 140 MORNING MISTS 
 
 and begged me to come up ; Mr. Bruce wanted to see 
 me in his room. So I left Ruthven and followed the 
 man. Bruce met me at the door ; he pulled me in ; he 
 was weeping. " Dear old fellow !" he said, "you are 
 good to come. I wanted you. Those other fellows 
 don't understand. You see, I'm all broken up. I 
 had no one else in the world but her and the kid. I 
 hate my grandmother worse than poison, and now . . .. 
 now . . ." 
 
 "Now?" 
 
 Then he came forward, threw one arm about my 
 neck, his head rolled on my shoulder, and he burst 
 into loud sobbings. " Oh, my darling mother ! my 
 darling mother !' ' he said. 
 
 "Try and be a man and control yourself. Hush, 
 hush ! she may hear you. She is strong, she is 
 young. ' ' 
 
 He shook his head. ''They come three times a 
 day," he sobbed, "three times !" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Pneumonia. She caught cold at the theatre ; she 
 had a chill, and then . . . oh, my dear little mother ! 
 Oh, my ! oh, my ! she was so sweet. What shall I 
 do? I tell you what, Innes, it's rough." 
 
 "Yes," I said. 
 
 Mrs. Pryor died that night. 
 
 Three days afterwards I sat in a dark corner of the 
 great city church, and I saw her coffin borne up behind 
 the white-robed choristers, and as they walked they 
 sang. It was covered with a dark purple pall, and on 
 it were a great many flowers. Behind, alone, walked 
 General Pryor, erect, with set lips, his face livid, but 
 he was calm. Behind him came Bruce, with round 
 shoulders, weeping, leading his little brother Ruthven
 
 MORNING MISTS 141 
 
 by the hand. The baby face looked up bewildered, 
 frightened, from its black jacket. 
 
 Then came others, women in long veils, and men 
 with sombre mien. And lastly some young girls flut- 
 tered up in rather jaunty black hats, looking about. I 
 suppose they were relatives. 
 
 But I was not of them. Of course I had been noth- 
 ing to her, nothing; her son's schoolmate, nothing. 
 Had she known ? Did she know now ? I felt that if 
 she had been happy I might have better spared her. 
 But ' ' she was not happy, she was not happy, ' ' I kept 
 repeating to myself. And her life and its sorrows would 
 forever remain unknown to me. Oh, God, she had suf- 
 fered, suffered ! Was she happy now ? Then I prayed 
 fervently, ardently, with bowed head, ' ' God make her 
 happy now ; by the still waters, in thy green pastures, 
 give her peace !" In those days I still had kept my 
 boyhood's faith. 
 
 It was the next May that I sought her grave. It was 
 an odd thing to do. I remember I first went to a florist's 
 and bought a bouquet of white lilies. They tied them 
 up for me with a bit of white paper about them, and I 
 carried them thus in my hand. Then I took a train 
 and travelled for an hour. At the station I met some 
 fellows who chaffed me about my parcel. "Isn't he 
 fresh ?" they said. "They're for his girl." 
 
 When I reached my destination I was told the ceme- 
 tery was up the hill. It was a lovely spring day. The 
 landscape was mellow and sweet, not sublime. To 
 mediocre minds like my own a country hedge-row is 
 enough. Genius craves the open, wide, wind-swept 
 plains, an illimitable ocean. I am content sitting in a 
 hay-field, under a rick. 
 - The full summer splendor was not yet awake. The
 
 142 MORNING MISTS 
 
 verdure had a languishing tint, but there were some 
 blossoming shoots on the saplings. A gray silvery haze 
 lowered from the heavens' blue solitude. The great 
 woods from the crest of the rising ground looked like 
 black smoke on a reddish sky. On the wide avenues 
 and narrow lanes a few dead leaves of the last autumn 
 were still piled close to the fences. There they had 
 lain all winter, under the harsh frosts, imprisoned. 
 The oblique, glad sun-rays seemed to bring their brown 
 surfaces into a new radiance of color. They were like 
 a dead love illumined again to a spasmodic life by the 
 tone of remembered voices, by the melody of some old 
 refrain wafted from the past. The bell of the little 
 church at the cemetery gate was swinging out the 
 hour. Its tones vibrated like pearls of ice through the 
 limpidity of the pure atmosphere. A purple steam 
 rose here and there, from unseen house-tops, straight 
 and slow in the sleepy breezes. 
 
 The man at the gate explained to me the way. 
 They were mowing the grass. There were men at 
 work on some of the graves, but the plot which I 
 sought was silent and lonely ; it already looked a little 
 neglected. I knew her grave-stone at once, it was so 
 clean and white. The grass was uneven, dank, and 
 wet. I thought of her pale loveliness, of her hands, 
 of her star-like eyes. I remembered her, erect and 
 elegant, singing to us the Venetian song. 
 
 Ti xe bella, ti xe zovane, 
 
 Ti xe fresca come un fior ; 
 Vien per tutte le su' lagreme, 
 
 Ridi adesso e fa 1' amor. 
 
 I threw my lilies on the earth. 
 
 Are there a good and an evil angel who breathe on
 
 MORNING MISTS 143 
 
 this organ of life, the heart? If it is but a sponge 
 dipped in blood, whence then come its sudden aspira- 
 tions, its cries, its anguish? Why do certain words, 
 certain sounds, certain shadows on a wall, wring the 
 soul with such strange agony ? From the foot of the 
 valley, like a spiral melody, rose her voice in a long 
 sob to my ear. There seemed to be in it an echo of 
 reproach. I said to myself, "It is the south wind." 
 In fact, it was only the wind, but it woke in me a feel- 
 ing of detachment from all else. What I experienced 
 was at once sweet and terrible. I was alone with her 
 . . . once more . . at last.
 
 Conquered 
 
 w 
 
 i. 
 
 HEN Mrs. Trevor died, there were many omi- 
 nous waggings of the head. The gossips said 
 she had at last given her husband an excellent chance 
 to disgrace himself. What particular form of divaga- 
 tion it would be that this injudicious gentleman would 
 now visit upon the unoffending heads of his anxious 
 relatives found no formula in expression. 
 
 " Disgrace" is a good enough every-day word to fling 
 about. It is appalling and conclusive. There is no 
 doubt about it that Mr. Trevor had been a target for 
 calumny. Why he should be so, was difficult to de- 
 termine ; possibly, because he was so very good- 
 natured. 
 
 Such stigma, however, as may have rested upon Mr. 
 Trevor senior's reputation for respectability there was 
 a young Mr. Trevor, who had a handsome wife re- 
 mained vague and obscure. Some aspersions had been 
 cast upon his morals, now and then, as they are in- 
 evitably on successful people, who have aroused rival- 
 ries and therefore enmities. They had generally been 
 quickly stilled. Like every rich man, he was credited 
 with certain foibles and follies which might or might 
 144
 
 CONQUERED 145 
 
 not have facts behind them. His wife did not appear 
 to be greatly disturbed by them. She was an intel- 
 lectual woman, and she was highly educated ; her hus- 
 band, although a man of ability, was not. From her 
 earliest married years, she had treated him indulgently, 
 as one does a child or an inferior, with a care, how- 
 ever, not to strain this attitude of leniency too far. 
 She desired to inspire him with a certain wholesome 
 awe. She was authoritative. The love of material 
 blessings was not entirely left out, however, of Mrs. 
 Trevor's composition, and she seemed, notwithstand- 
 ing her lofty ideals, to fully appreciate all the good 
 things that were provided for her. 
 
 There were those that said Mr. Trevor was neglectful 
 of his wife. In her early life, however, this neglect 
 could not have been pronounced. The lady had borne 
 her lord a family of sons and daughters, of which 
 feat she spoke with pride. They were now all married. 
 Mrs. Trevor was one of those persons who command 
 everybody's respect, the admiration of a few, but are 
 not beloved. It had never been supposed that her hus- 
 band entertained for her a large degree of affection. 
 If she suffered from this, she made no sign. Pity is 
 the scourge of proud natures. Mrs. Trevor was proud. 
 She had made no confidences. She had seen that her 
 sons were prepared for college, being herself fully 
 equipped for this task ; that her girls were taught to 
 dance and sing and paint, were well dressed, knew the 
 right people, and were thus fitted for social honors. If 
 she had choked their impulses with the sterile sands of 
 egotism, had made them a little hard and selfish, they 
 were at least well-mannered and distinguished. She 
 looked upon her husband as an unconquered, untamed 
 remnant of natural man, and had imbued his children 
 G k 13
 
 146 CONQUERED 
 
 with a certain undisguised contempt for "papa." She 
 had always seen to it, however, that his table was prop- 
 erly set, his friends properly received, that he was 
 properly fed and warmed and skilfully nursed when he 
 was ill. She attended regularly to her church and 
 charities, and was met at such functions as society ex- 
 acted from her position and her wealth ; yet, if this 
 lady's loving kindnesses were hardly " cruel, " they 
 were certainly not gentle. There had been a degree 
 of rigidity in her attitude, of aggressiveness in her 
 sacrifices. 
 
 When she was dead, it was almost a relief. The 
 community drew a long breath. It is just possible that 
 her lord was a little relieved, too. 
 
 His daughter Mattie undertook to console him in his 
 bereavement. Mattie was full of faults, but she had 
 somehow escaped the family failing of selfishness. She 
 was very human, and she was fond of her father. 
 
 A young gentleman, whose advances to this youngest 
 and favorite daughter (the Mattie in question) Mr. 
 Trevor had discountenanced, said in the club, one even- 
 ing, shortly after Mrs. Trevor's funeral, 
 
 ' ' The old goat will marry Jessie Fallon now ; he has 
 been after her ; now she will be after him." 
 
 Jessie Fallon was a young woman who danced a cer- 
 tain eccentric dance and sang a still more eccentric song 
 at a popular concert-hall. She was reputed to be al- 
 luring and clever. She never wasted any time on the 
 impecunious ardors of early youth. She was, at any 
 rate, extremely good-looking. 
 
 This remark wandered down the club steps and up 
 the avenue, and flew in at open windows near which 
 fair matrons sipped their cups of tea in the soft airs of a 
 languid spring. It grew and increased, and waxed por-
 
 CONQUERED 147 
 
 tentous, until there was much clacking of tongues. 
 " It would be so horrid for Mattie !" 
 
 Mattie lived at home. She had been a spoiled and 
 wilful girl, had made an unworldly love-match, and 
 had found it convenient to remain in the parent- nest. 
 Her unprosperous husband, who was a poet, thought 
 the Trevor mansion sufficiently comfortable. He was 
 one of those beings whom nature seems to have essen- 
 tially fitted for the rdle of son-in-law. He was making 
 of it a career. When he was not in the travail of com- 
 position, he ran errands for his wife or for his wife's 
 mother, answered notes for the head of the household, 
 and played head-nurse to the baby in moments of do- 
 mestic upheaval, when necessity demanded. In return 
 for this exemplary conduct, he was given a sumptuous 
 bed-chamber and study in the third story, and had ex- 
 cellent things to eat and drink at his command. The 
 poems were supposed to pay for his clothes. Mattie 
 alone knew that they did not. Mr. Trevor pretended 
 not to suspect it. His worst enemy had never called 
 him ungenerous. 
 
 A year passed and found Miss Jessie Fallon no nearer 
 reaching the goal of her ambition, which was said to be 
 the securing unto herself of a wealthy and a la -mode 
 husband. She still sang and pirouetted, chalked her 
 nose and rouged her cheeks, and kicked and shrieked, 
 and stood on her head at the concert-hall over the cafe, 
 while Mr. Trevor still wore black crape on his hat, and 
 did not yet discard his sombre hose and gloves. 
 
 A few months after his wife's death he had joined a 
 quiet card club, consisting of about five married couples 
 of his acquaintance, persons he liked well enough, but 
 whom, under happier circumstances, he rarely met. 
 Mattie had persuaded him that he could not go with
 
 148 CONQUERED 
 
 propriety to men's dinners under twelve months, much 
 less to ' ' mixed' ' ones, as she called feasts which women 
 grace, and that he must not be seen at the opera of 
 which he was fond until his term of mourning should 
 have expired ; so . . . he had consented to play cards 
 once a week with these quiet friends, as a distraction to 
 his grief, when he had any time to waste away from his 
 club. 
 
 There was a retired army officer and "his lady," as 
 the hotel clerks have it ; a middle-aged banker of 
 Knickerbocker ancestry, with a whimsical wife, at whose 
 house the reunions took place ; a broker of sixty-five 
 and his unmarried daughter of forty ; two or three 
 other men of leisure or affairs, as the case might be, 
 persons who did not go into the world, yet whose eyes 
 and ears were open with sufficient alertness to its per- 
 formance. To these people Mr. Trevor was a coveted 
 and desirable acquisition. He was their only man of 
 fashion. He had the prestige of a certain usage of the 
 world, with an easy joviality which pleased. The rumor 
 that he was a black sheep, which had reached the mem- 
 bers of the card club, but enhanced the self-approba- 
 tiveness of their own white consciences. They con- 
 gratulated themselves on having a catholic spirit, on 
 being men and women of the world, who, so long as a 
 man conducted himself with propriety while in their 
 midst, would not put him to any crucial test of private 
 behavior. 
 
 Ah ! . . . there is just one person I have forgotten 
 to mention, who glided in silently and unobtrusively 
 every Saturday night, and took her seat at one of the 
 card tables. The whimsical wife of the banker soon 
 managed that it should always be at the same one with 
 Mr. Trevor, an arrangement which the maiden of forty
 
 CONQUERED 149 
 
 looked upon with some disfavor. The hostess was a 
 woman of charm, through a certain graceful and mis- 
 chief-loving humor. If her physical attractions, which 
 had been of no mean order, were now somewhat 
 dimmed, her humor had not deserted her. Was it not 
 a drop of this quality which lurked in her manoeuvre ? 
 The guest whom she managed to thus assure as vis-cL-vis 
 to Mr. Trevor was a lady, by name Mrs. Gardiner Fen- 
 ton. Everybody, of course, knew the Gardiner Fen- 
 tons. The name was enough, no introduction was 
 necessary. Mrs. Fenton's daughters had been belles 
 of two successive winters, and now that they were both 
 married, were still reigning beauties. When one looked 
 into their mother's face, it was not difficult to fathom 
 whence they had drawn their comeliness. I say that 
 Mrs. Gardiner Fenton needed no introduction ; yet, 
 curiously enough, Mr. Trevor, although he had seen 
 her daughters in the world, had not met her before. If 
 her daughters had inherited their beauty from their 
 mother, the reader need not therefore imagine that at 
 this moment of her life Mrs. Gardiner Fenton was, 
 strictly speaking, beautiful. She was not. If Julie de 
 Ke'camier Diane de Poitiers and Ninon de 1'Enclos 
 drank of the fountains of eternal youth, and were fondly 
 loved and desired at ages when other women are con- 
 tent to be grandmothers, certain it is that their peculiar 
 secrets were unknown and unpractised by Mrs. Gar- 
 diner Fenton. She was fifty, and she looked it. She 
 even acknowledged it. She exclaimed one day, over 
 the game of euchre that was in progress, that the fol- 
 lowing Saturday would be her fiftieth birthday, and 
 that she should be greatly offended if her hostess did 
 not provide a cake with fifty candles to welcome her. 
 She was taken at her word, and fifty wax lights greeted 
 
 13*
 
 150 CONQUERED 
 
 her soft eyes on the occasion. Mr. Trevor had been 
 gallant and had sent a magnificent nosegay of red roses, 
 which she found lying upon her chair. She buried her 
 face in its fragrance, and rewarded the donor with a 
 faint smile. Their eyes met ; she blushed. At fifty, 
 Beatrix Fenton could blush like a young girl. In 
 many things she was one still. There are women who 
 have kept at seventy a certain virginity of soul ; others 
 have lost it at eighteen. Possibly it was this retained 
 innocence which made her sons so fond of her. Had 
 she been a saint or a Madonna, they could not have 
 given her a more worshipful affection. Of sons, she 
 had two, now men, launched in life, and then there 
 were the daughters of whom I have spoken. She lived 
 in her beautiful home in New Jersey, where she owned 
 ancestral acres, and she only came to town to pass her 
 Sundays with her daughters. The Saturday card party 
 was her one dissipation. 
 
 Since her husband's death, which had occurred twenty- 
 three years before, she had never been to a ball, and 
 she had never worn a color. A gay aunt had chap- 
 eroned her girls. At the wedding of her daughters 
 she had indeed compromised by appearing in white and 
 mauve, and her elegance had then been commented 
 upon. Striking she certainly was. She was tall and 
 stately, with a full and rounded figure, which, in girl- 
 hood, had been called willowy, although it was so no 
 more. She did nothing, however, to enhance its fine 
 outlines. Her gowns only fitted moderately well, as 
 she was too indifferent to try them on often, and was 
 therefore the despair of the dressmakers. She usually 
 wore high-necked black silk or velvet, with the addition, 
 on certain occasions, of white lace and pearls. She 
 rarely showed her arms or her bosom. When she did
 
 CONQUERED 151 
 
 so, it was very moderately ; they were seen to be of 
 dazzling fairness and still fresh and firm. The throat 
 was devoid of that dark circle which the years usually 
 dig beneath the larynx ; but, as I say, persons rarely 
 saw aught but her face and her hands ; these were 
 delicate and white. Her hair was worn in an old- 
 fashioned ripple, down close on each side of her tem- 
 ples, and fastened in a knot at the back of her head. 
 It was of a very light silky brown, and still thick. 
 There were few gray hairs among its natural waves, 
 but some there were. She wore them neither with 
 coquetry nor vexation ; she had hardly noticed them. 
 Her forehead was high and spiritual ; her eyes were 
 large and expressive, rather tender and gentle than 
 brilliant. Her nose was superb, straightly and nobly 
 chiselled. Her mouth was sad, the lips a trifle worn, 
 turned up a little at one corner when she smiled. This, 
 with the tremolo of her low voice, gave an inexpressible 
 pathos to her rare laughter. Her soft cheeks were not 
 as rounded as once they had been ; a pale pink rose 
 sometimes burned on them, but, like her smile, was 
 fugitive. Withal that time had treated her so kindly, 
 Mrs. Fenton looked nearly, if not fully, her age. Her 
 manner, her aspect, was that of one who has long since 
 ceased to wish to attract. The wish had never been 
 emphatic. She had at no age been what is called a 
 man's woman. She was not very clever and she was 
 not fascinating. It is to be supposed that her husband 
 had loved her. His had been her first offer and her 
 only one. Since her widowhood, no man had dared to 
 say a word of love or even of admiration to her. They 
 instinctively felt more like uncovering or kneeling be- 
 fore her than making love to her, if they felt anything 
 at all. To most men she was simply the mother of
 
 15 CONQUERED 
 
 children ; an admirable lady, refined and virtuous. Yet 
 that girlish timidity which lay in her character did not 
 stamp her as eminently the mother. 
 
 It is even possible that her children loved her more 
 warmly than she did them. She met their affection, 
 particularly when it was demonstrative, with a certain 
 protesting gratitude. Hers was not an intense temper. 
 She was placid and serene, fulfilling all her duties with 
 regularity, but with a certain nonchalance. Small 
 natures, whose egotism asks too much of life, turn sour. 
 She had indulged in no vivid or exaggerated dreams, 
 and so the dregs of her nature, when stirred, were 
 sweet. She had never asked too much of fortune or 
 of men, hence she did not dislike humanity. She took 
 little interest in public affairs. The motives and con- 
 vulsions of empires and republics, diplomatic combina- 
 tions, the clash of arms, the slaughter of men, the 
 shock of ideas, left her without curiosity or emotion. 
 The forum, the camp, the mart, were mere words to 
 her. It is probable that Thucydides's description of the 
 final destruction of the Athenian host would have left 
 her cold. She read little, only a few novels, and, in 
 periodicals, such articles as might while away and amuse 
 an idle hour. She could speak lucidly of what she 
 read, but with no marked critical acumen. Neverthe- 
 less she had opinions. She was one of those women 
 whose household is well ordered. She had taste ; she 
 loved her flowers and her garden. Nurtured in luxury, 
 she was more simple than extravagant. All her pleas- 
 ures had been innocent. Mrs. Fenton was not given 
 to speech ; in fact ; she was usually silent. A good 
 listener, she was interested, but hardly sympathetic. 
 She lacked the imagination requisite to this last quality. 
 She pitied suffering, because she was essentially womanly,
 
 CONQUERED 153 
 
 but she did not strongly realize its throes. With men 
 she was reserved and even shy. In her intercourse with 
 them she was perfectly natural, absolutely free from all 
 artificiality. She had escaped the half-kittenish, half- 
 humiliated challenge of the middle aged woman who 
 will not abjure conquest. This painful exhibition of 
 moral weakness has doubtless often driven serious men 
 from drawing-rooms. Was it this entire absence of 
 vanity in a woman of his world which first piqued and 
 then enchanted Mr. Trevor ? 
 
 II. 
 
 CERTAIN it is that upon the evening when she blushed 
 such a white-rose pink and looked up at Mr. Trevor 
 with her little half-smile on the corner of her pure lip, 
 the man felt the strangest thrill traverse his heart. It 
 left him shaken as if a knife had struck and pierced 
 right straight into his breast. He had not known such 
 an emotion for many years. It worried him all the 
 way home. He was six or seven years older than 
 Mrs. Fenton, but he had all the vanities of a much 
 younger man. He dressed youthfully ; he not only 
 followed, but led all the newest fashions. He chose 
 for his friends men twenty years younger than him- 
 self, and, in the world, affected to devote himself to 
 extremely young women. He was secretly annoyed if 
 at dinner-parties he was placed between two dowagers, 
 preferring the youthful crudity of brides and maidens 
 of eighteen to the prestige of important and command- 
 ing personalities. If the idea of a second marriage had 
 presented itself to him, he would have instantly selected 
 a woman of the age of his youngest daughter. It 
 seemed, therefore, incredible to him that the slightest 
 attraction of sex could exist in a woman who had just
 
 154 CONQUERED 
 
 acknowledged herself half a century old. It was pre- 
 posterous, even unpleasant. He drove away the mem- 
 ory ; yet it returned to haunt him. He dreamed of 
 her at night, of those deep eyes in whose soft and quiet 
 depths one might find peace and pardon, nay, conso- 
 lation for a misspent and frivolous past. 
 
 On the next Saturday he met her again. He found 
 himself unexpectedly and unaccountably agitated. She 
 was not in the room when he arrived. He hoped she 
 would not come. But when she did not, he could 
 hardly repress his sorrow and his dismay. He told 
 himself he was a great fool, mourning or no mourning, 
 to make an old fogy of himself with these bores, and 
 the only person who was worth coming to meet evi- 
 dently tired with the entertainment herself! She did 
 come, at last. . . . And when his eyes were again 
 raised, it was in fear lest hers should not be kind. They 
 were neither kind nor the reverse. The unconscious 
 object of his week's reveries had been sublimely forget- 
 ful of his very existence, and she looked at him now 
 very much as she looked every morning at the gray cat 
 that came to get its milk at her white hands. The par- 
 ticular animal which Mr. Trevor represented to her had, 
 in her estimation, a somewhat undesirable complexion. 
 
 She had heard things said against him, and, as an 
 intelligent and wicked cynic has told us, ' ' Calumniate 
 boldly, for some of it will stick ;' ' some of it had been 
 sufficiently bold and had in this case "stuck." She 
 considered him a foolish sort of fellow, affecting the 
 airs of youth, given to foppery and to other less inno- 
 cent pursuits. She decided that his early success in 
 affairs had been more the result of chance than the 
 fruits of character, which shows that she was, in fact, 
 not clever. There are few chances in the course of
 
 CONQUERED 155 
 
 events, and those who seize them to their own advantage 
 are the able ones of earth. On the whole, however, 
 she had thought of him very little. 
 
 Mr. Trevor did not relish being treated and looked 
 at in this way. It vexed his spirit of charmeur, for it 
 must be said that if there were those who, through 
 envy or malice, laughed at him, he had laid successful 
 sieges, in his day, to feminine hearts, and was still quite 
 capable in such investment of victory. He was good- 
 looking, elegant, a prince with money, full of sympathy, 
 and had that species of vitality which, in spending itself, 
 seems to bring cheer into dulness, life into lethargy. His 
 faults, such as they were, had been more harmful to 
 himself than to others. 
 
 One morning Mrs. Gardiner Fenton was sitting alone 
 on her veranda, with a book idly lying upon her knees. 
 Visitors were scarce at any time in her secure retreat, 
 under her trees, and at this hour almost unheard of. 
 Her son, a rising architect, the only one who still lived 
 at home, had gone into the city, as he did daily. Her 
 household cares had been dismissed for the day ; she 
 had ordered her carriage, to pay some visits in the 
 afternoon. Now she was debating whether she would 
 go into the garden and look after her flower-beds or 
 stay quietly and finish her novel in the shade of the 
 flapping awning. It was a warm morning, so warm 
 that she had ventured to sit out. There was a sugges- 
 tion of approaching summer in the breeze. 
 
 Suddenly a hack from the neighboring station rolled in 
 at the gate. It appeared and disappeared several times 
 through the shrubbery, until it finally drew up at the 
 steps. A man sprang out. The butler hurried through 
 the hall. From her place of vantage she could see them 
 both. She recognized her visitor. It was Mr. Trevor.
 
 156 CONQUERED 
 
 A moment later he stood beside her. He murmured 
 something about being in her neighborhood ' ' on busi- 
 ness." Now, Mr. Trevor had long since retired from 
 active affairs. This perfunctory explanation was ac- 
 cepted, however, without comment. Mrs. Fenton re- 
 mained unflustered and undisturbed. She did not run 
 in for a veil, smooth her hair, ring for a lace parasol. 
 She stayed exactly where she was, with a streak of 
 harshly revealing sunlight falling on the part above the 
 fine texture of her pale forehead and playing havoc 
 with such loveliness as time had left to her. The fret- 
 work of lines about the bistre orb of her large eyes 
 darted out in bold relief. Her eyelids were heavy and 
 a little red ; her cheeks were white. After a while, the 
 warmth of the sun, or perhaps some other warmth, she 
 wotted not, brought into them that glow which his 
 roses had first left there, and which, to Mr. Trevor, 
 seemed ineffably pathetic. Whence sprang that mys- 
 terious blooming, whose roots lay somewhere in the 
 soul ? In his ? or hers ? No fresh and peach-like bloom 
 upon a child's young face ; no rich, bright promise of 
 dawning maidenhood ; no burning tell-tale flush of 
 passionate womanhood had seemed to hold for him one- 
 half the majesty, significance, and fascination of the lost 
 color on this faded lady's cheek. 
 
 Lost ! lost ! And did it not come back for him, and 
 would he not find, nay, fix it there forever? As he 
 looked at its fluctuation, at the tired eyelids, and bathed 
 in the reposeful lull of that strange influence which she 
 alone exerted over him, there arose in the man's heart, 
 to choke and strangle him, a curious sensation. His 
 hands trembled, his ever ready flow of verb and ad- 
 jective, of exclamation and compliment, expired in the 
 utterance. He felt a sudden longing to fall at her feet.
 
 CONQUERED 157 
 
 What should he say to her? The question clove 
 him. It acted upon him like a cold douche. He pulled 
 himself together, and talked of the weather, the news 
 in the morning World, for which its editor had paid his 
 thousands, while she invited him with cold formality to 
 stop and breakfast. 
 
 ' ' No, I will not intrude longer upon you, I only 
 stopped in passing forgive the intrusion. Pray, accept 
 these violets." 
 
 He detached, as he spoke, his large boutonniere, and 
 gave it into her hands. 
 
 " I am off to the train I shall breakfast at my club 
 when I arrive. Good-by farewell." 
 
 She urged him no further, and they parted. She 
 expressed no surprise at his sudden invasion. To him 
 her reticences seemed more pregnant than words. They 
 made her sublime to him. She had no fussiness, no 
 assertiveness, none of the woman's tormenting and 
 excessive desire for talk, argument, parlance. Had 
 she felt annoyance at his visit? In vain he racked 
 himself as he thundered home over plain and ditch in 
 the smoky, stuffy train. 
 
 Had she? 
 
 When he left her, she remained for some time with 
 her hands folded together in her lap. The wind blew 
 her hair about. In her mind was this thought : "I 
 knew he would come, but hardly fancied that it would 
 be so soon." And then she rose and went into the 
 house. 
 
 So Beatrix had guessed her power. She had seen 
 that he trembled. Did she like it? After a while a 
 frown gathered in two sharp lines between her eyes, 
 " One wouldn't like to be made ridiculous," she mur- 
 mured, as she moved about her room. But she did
 
 158 CONQUERED 
 
 not, as nearly every woman would have done glance 
 into the mirror, no, not once. 
 
 He, in the mean while, found himself continually pos- 
 sessed by her image. She seemed to him like that 
 sister of Alcina and Morgana who taught Ruggiero to 
 master the hyppograff with book and horn. Ah ! won- 
 drous potency ! And when he remembered Jessie 
 Fallen, it was with a shiver of mingled disgust and 
 shame ! If she should know, even guess what his 
 life had been ! She, his only friend ! He thought 
 of her thus, as a friend, ay, a divinity, at whose 
 altars one might long to bring an humble offering 
 and to pray. 
 
 His daughter Mattie was surprised on the following 
 Sunday when her father suggested driving with her to 
 church. He continued to attend in the family pew 
 regularly after this. It had been a source of regret to 
 his woman-kind that ' ' papa' ' had ' ' no religion ;' ' but 
 now he became suddenly devout and asked odd ques- 
 tions upon theology and the ritual, questions which 
 rather 'bothered the young woman herself. He remem- 
 bered that his mother had had him confirmed when he 
 was twelve years old, and it was with some compunction 
 that he turned away from the altar and joined the out- 
 going crowd upon the day of communion. 
 
 About this time the lady whom I have called whimsi- 
 cal, and whose name was Mrs. Urquhart, dropped in to 
 see Mr. Trevor's daughter one afternoon. During this 
 visit she led the latter to understand that her father was 
 a frequent visitor at Mrs. Fenton's place. 
 
 " You had better look out for your papa, my dear," 
 she said. ' ' He is quite infatuated. ' ' 
 
 Mattie was greatly amused. But when the report 
 took shape and substance, and rolled up, and every-
 
 CONQUERED 159 
 
 body began to talk about it, she ran around to see her 
 married sisters. 
 
 "Well, I don't know what we are expected to do 
 about it," said young Mrs. Fothergill. "It is better 
 than it might have been ; she is a lady ; but, of course, 
 it is all nonsense." 
 
 "A lady?" said Mrs. Gregory Gray. "I, for my 
 part, think she is disgracing herself. ' ' 
 
 "Why, I don't suppose, sister, that such an idea has 
 ever entered her head. She is the quietest poke of a 
 woman," said Mattie. To her, her father's future was 
 of more importance than to her sisters. 
 
 ' ' Pshaw, they are the worst when they get going, ' ' 
 said Mrs. Fothergill ; ' ' I hear that papa heaps her with 
 flowers and things." 
 
 ' ' She must be encouraging him frightfully, ' ' said 
 Mrs. Gregory Gray. " I should think Mary and Lola 
 would be just furious." These were Mrs. Gardiner 
 Fenton's daughters. 
 
 "She is probably a designing woman," said Mrs. 
 Fothergill, decidedly. 
 
 They had been brought up to the view that all 
 behavior was right or wrong, correct or incorrect, as 
 if it were not much else beside these ! Have not rare 
 flowers of exquisite breath sprung up in wretched soil ? 
 Have not gracious things thriven out of disorder ? 
 
 1 ' All Lola and Mary care about is amusing them- 
 selves," said Mrs. Fothergill. 
 
 "Why, she must be nearly a hundred," said Mrs. 
 Gregory Gray. 
 
 "She is a lovely-looking woman for all that," said 
 Mattie, ' ' and father is most changed ' ' 
 
 " Changed ! Fol-de-rol," said the others in concert. 
 
 " He was always good enough for me," said Mattie,
 
 160 CONQUERED 
 
 a little hotly. "I never thought dear mamma under- 
 stood him." 
 
 The sisters parted with a certain consternation. 
 
 That very day a man and woman were walking slowly 
 beneath the shadows of a leafy arbor ; she was leaning 
 lightly on his arm ; he had a rapt look ; they were in 
 earnest conversation, or at least he was speaking. It 
 was always he that spoke, and she that listened. This 
 listening had become unconsciously to herself a part of 
 her life. Mr. Trevor had continued his visits. The 
 plea of business had soon been dropped from these 
 strange love-trysts. Sometimes he stopped only an 
 hour, sometimes half the day. They breakfasted then 
 en tete-a-tte, took a quiet drive across the fields, or 
 sat in the garden together. He never spent a night ; 
 he was not asked to do so. He sent gifts of flowers, 
 books, bonbons. She thanked him, no more. She 
 never wore the flowers ; they were disposed in vases in 
 her drawing-room where all might see and enjoy them. 
 She was a woman who did not seek herself even in this 
 homage that was poured so lavishly at her feet. 
 
 III. 
 
 TO-DAY he was as usual pouring out his heart to her. 
 " It was the most curious thing," he was saying, "the 
 effect produced upon me that very first night that we 
 met, by your lightest word. You had the queerest in- 
 fluence over me. I wanted to weep. When with you 
 I feel as if I were in church ; that is why I have begun 
 to go to church again ; it brings you near. Why, I 
 haven't prayed since I was a child." 
 
 She sighed and remained silent. 
 
 ' ' I want to tell you everything, but I dare not. I
 
 CONQUERED 161 
 
 fear to revolt and disturb you. My dear creature, you 
 have no idea what you have done for me. Why, my 
 life was worth nothing to me, and you have lifted me 
 right up. You just looked across the table at me and 
 spoke some gentle word, and I was aghast at myself, 
 at the world. Am I boring you ?" 
 
 He paused, hesitating. She shook her head. 
 
 ' ' My poor wife was an excellent woman, excellent ; 
 immensely clever ; a great woman. But there was no 
 sympathy between us ; we could not pretend to it." 
 
 Then he uttered this cry : "Ah, why didn't we meet 
 before, you and I !" 
 
 " It is surely not too late for us to be very good 
 friends, ' ' she said to him softly and lightly. 
 
 His fingers sought and closed over her own. 
 "Friends, Mrs. Fenton? Shall it never be more?" 
 
 "Would you render me absurd?" 
 
 " Absurd !" He flushed to the roots of his forehead. 
 " This is all my feeling means for you absurdity ?" 
 
 " It means,'' she said, "more than you know." 
 
 " My God ! Dear, dearest, will you not put this 
 dear little hand in mine forever, then ? Will you not 
 marry me?" 
 
 " I shall never marry again." 
 
 "And is this your last word?" 
 
 "My last word." 
 
 ' ' What do you mean to do with me, then ?' ' 
 
 He looked so forlorn, with a sort of boyish discomfit- 
 ure so incongruous in a man of his years and assurance, 
 that the ghost of that fleeting smile which spoke to him 
 a language none other should ever read he liked this 
 monopoly rose to her mouth. 
 
 "Why, why," she faltered, " I am not the arbiter of 
 your fate." 
 
 / 14*
 
 1 62 CONQUERED 
 
 "Are you not?" 
 
 "You frighten me." 
 
 "What a child you are !" 
 
 Then they both laughed, she a little mournfully. 
 
 "Indeed, indeed, by what right, Mr. Trevor, do you 
 put this responsibility upon me ?' ' 
 
 "Dear, let me tell you; it just came; I cannot 
 explain it. But it is true what I say, that you seem 
 a child to me ; you are not in the least the sort of 
 woman I ever admired before. I must always tell 
 you the plain truth ; I must be frank. If any one had 
 
 told me that I should love a saint But that is just 
 
 it. I hate now every woman who is not just like you ; 
 and there are none, so, you see, I am your slave." 
 
 "Hush." 
 
 c ' Can I come again next Monday ?' ' It was usually 
 on a Monday that he came to see her. She gave him 
 no answer. 
 
 "Let me come, let me come! Do not drive me 
 away ; see, I will not tease you ; I will do you no 
 harm," he said, with heat. 
 
 "Yes, come, then." 
 
 ' ' Will you take my arm to the end of the walk ? 
 Lean on me ; it cheers and comforts me a little bit." 
 
 He guided her with tenderest homage and respect to 
 her own door. 
 
 " Au revoir" He waved his hat to her and he 
 walked away. 
 
 "Good-by." 
 
 It was almost a weariness to her, this excitement. 
 And yet, and yet, she did not break with him, not 
 entirely. She told herself that she was very weak. 
 
 Her daughters spoke together of " mamma's adorer," 
 and asked her once some questions. Her son wrote to
 
 CONQUERED 163 
 
 his brother in the West : ' ' Old Trevor is sweet on 
 the mimmy ; sends roses and such like. What a 
 comedy !" 
 
 He viewed the whole affair as a vast joke ; he cer- 
 tainly could not take seriously the thought that his 
 mother was indulging in a flirtation, and as to marriage, 
 the mere idea would have sent him into uproarious 
 laughter. 
 
 Nevertheless, Mr. Trevor continued to come. He 
 looked thin in these days, and worn ; his appetite was 
 gone. One day he complained of feeling poorly, of 
 palpitations. Mrs. Fenton ministered to him ; made 
 him a warm draught herself ; arranged a pillow on the 
 sofa behind him ; hovered about him as women do on 
 such occasions. 
 
 Her breath, sweet as an infant's, touched his hot 
 brow. 
 
 When he left that day, he pressed her hand in his at 
 parting. Did he feel a slight, very slight pressure in 
 return ? 
 
 All the way home he tortured himself with the ques- 
 tion : Had she really pressed his hand, or was it all 
 imagination? Being pessimistic, where she was con- 
 cerned, he was inclined to think himself the dupe of 
 his desire. With all the beautiful, sparkling and even 
 naughty young women whom he had known in his life, 
 he had felt none of this self-distrust. It had been left 
 to this woman of fifty to make him humble. He lived 
 in constant fear of shocking her delicacy or of disturb- 
 ing that soft serenity which he revered. He remem- 
 bered the sensitive lines of her face, the reserve of her 
 manner, and wished he might go back and look up for- 
 ever into those sweet, sad eyes. 
 
 He liked to be teased about her ; he laid traps for
 
 1 64 CONQUERED 
 
 such teasing to his daughter. When Mattie asked him 
 if he had been to Mrs. Fenton's, he would answer 
 enigmatically, like a very school-boy proud of a first 
 love-affair. His other daughters maintained a cold 
 silence with him on the subject, and an attitude of 
 marked disapproval ; but Mattie was beginning to sym- 
 pathize. Who knows? perhaps Mattie had fathomed 
 under the flippancy of her father's exterior, the un- 
 spoken tragedy of a lonely heart, a heart bursting with 
 affection and constantly rebuffed, craving happiness in 
 the emotions and fighting blindly to satisfy them. 
 
 If it is hard for a rich man to penetrate into heaven, 
 and we have high authority for the assertion, it is 
 equally difficult for him to conquer love for himself and 
 not for the benefit which he may confer. Mr. Trevor 
 may have guessed this. Hand seeks hand ; heart pants 
 for heart. This desire for requital cannot be sinful, since 
 to the human the human was given. The answer to 
 inan's cry of loneliness was the incarnation. 
 
 "She does not care for him, poor papa," thought 
 Mattie, and she felt sorry. She had always been prone 
 to think of him as "poor papa," why, she could not 
 have made clear. He was so different now. Mattie 
 was penetrating the hidden motor of this change. Even 
 the beloved club was almost abjured. He still dressed 
 scrupulously, but with less dandyism ; and his jovial 
 manner had gained a certain dignity, more becoming a 
 man of his age. She did not think, however, that he 
 looked well in health, and she spoke of this to her 
 sisters. 
 
 Two days after his last visit, some flowers came by 
 express addressed to Mrs. Fenton ; they were still wet, 
 as though with dew ; among them lay, in a tiny en- 
 velope, a card. Upon it was written :
 
 CONQUERED 165 
 
 "To the sweetest woman on the earth, from her 
 grateful and devoted servant." 
 
 She read it over two or three times. 
 
 " It is extraordinary, ' ' thought she ; then she added, 
 after a pause, ' ' What a perfect gentleman he has been 
 to me !" 
 
 She began to ponder over his visits and to wonder, 
 if they were discontinued, how greatly she would miss 
 them. With a certain unexplained presage of loss, " I 
 should miss them," she thought. Her sudden appre- 
 ciation of her dependence on him was not expressed 
 in dramatic phraseology. Perhaps it was no less forci- 
 ble. Dithyrambs belittle. 
 
 The lamps were brought in. One of the servants 
 came with the mail. She turned indifferently to the 
 evening paper ; she would have time to scan its head- 
 lines before her boy arrived, and it should be the hour 
 to dress for their dinner. 
 
 A name on the first page arrested her hand ; her 
 eyes closed, and then opened, dilating in swift terror. 
 It only took her a moment to scan it all. Mr. Trevor 
 the announcement was made duly sensational had 
 fallen dead, of the heart, at his club that afternoon, as 
 the journal she held was going to press. His body still 
 lay there, unclaimed by his family, in one of the upper 
 chambers. There were various hideous details upon 
 which the paper gloated. 
 
 She seemed to see the awful loneliness of the figure 
 on this club bed. She could realize its stiffness under 
 the sheet with which they had covered it. She remem- 
 bered the warm clasp of his hand upon her own. How 
 did it look now ? 
 
 Her son arrived. He kissed her. He spoke of Mr. 
 Trevor's death. He gave her a few more particulars.
 
 1 66 CONQUERED 
 
 "You will miss his visits, mother," he said, kindly ; 
 " he seemed awfully fond of you ; he wasn't half a bad 
 fellow. Let me see, he can't have been sixty ; he was 
 a vigorous-looking man. Bless me ! did he send you 
 all those roses to day ?' ' 
 
 She said, "Yes," and then her son left her. She 
 threw a lace scarf over her hair, a wrap about her 
 shoulders, and went out into the dark. 
 
 The twilight was over. The moon was rising ; it 
 shone rayless, opaque, between the trees, like some 
 great ball of blood-red brass. There were driven 
 clouds in the sky, but the wind made no sound ; over 
 all lay the brooding stillness of the creeping night. 
 The air was a little chill, and she drew the lace up 
 closely under her chin. She hurried down the leafy 
 alley, where they had walked so often, he pleading his 
 suit, she listless, saying nothing, often cold, hardly ever 
 really kind, always thinking of her position, her chil- 
 dren, the possible advent of a neighbor, the certain 
 espionage of her servants ; of what was ridiculous in 
 the situation ; of everything, in fact, except that a 
 human soul had cried to her, and that she had an- 
 swered its demands in so niggardly and miserly a 
 fashion. 
 
 Chained, as are women of her type, by prejudice and 
 custom, she remembered all the chivalrous devotion 
 which, now for two long years of a life which was so 
 quickly ebbing, he had lavished upon her. He, a man 
 whose name a hundred women would have been glad 
 and proud to bear ! Then suddenly she thought, 
 
 "I will be nicer to him next Monday. I will 
 explain " 
 
 Then a swift pang shot through her veins, and she 
 knew that the Monday would come, and then another,
 
 CONQUERED 167 
 
 and yet another, but that no Monday, now or ever 
 hereafter, would bring her friend and lover back to her 
 side, never, never, never again. A sudden anguish 
 she could not account for, a sense of something irrev- 
 ocable, final, bottomless, hopeless, inaccessible, held 
 her in its grip, and a voiceless, smothered cry rent her 
 breast. Tears gushed from her eyes sad, bitter waters 
 which fell upon her hands and seemed to wither 
 them. 
 
 To her children, no doubt, she was valuable and 
 dear. Her Western son wrote to her of his ventures 
 in cattle and horses, of his new granges for wheat, of 
 the sheep, their shearing, their health and diseases, of 
 the fresh tracts of land he wished to add to his already 
 increasing acres. He had asked her to advance money 
 to him for this purpose. Her daughters told her of 
 their pleasures ; she was a constant witness of their 
 happiness and prosperity. When she went to their 
 homes, she found them full of plans and projects ; 
 they had hardly time to listen to her own. One of 
 them was building a house ; the other was soon to be- 
 come a mother. These things filled the whole horizon 
 of their world. Her youngest son, when not engaged 
 in the ardent pursuit of his career, was quick to seize 
 the latch-key and hurry to a neighboring country-seat, 
 where a pair of bright eyes fascinated and held him, 
 so late, sometimes, that his mother, tossing wakeful, 
 feared some harm had come to his horse and himself 
 upon the lonesome highway. 
 
 Yes, she was precious, no doubt, to these, as we are 
 prized by those to whom we listen patiently, claiming 
 no great return of sympathy and interest. Her few 
 relatives, her neighbors, had for her a mild regard. 
 She was to them a habit, a pleasant one perhaps.
 
 1 68 CONQUERED 
 
 She knew that they discussed her faults together, with 
 an insistence not devoid of a pleasurable note. She 
 knew it, as we know certain things intuitively, knew 
 that they said she was lazy, devoid of proper ambitions, 
 lacking in hospitality. 
 
 The world she had allowed to pass by. To it she 
 was indifferent, and, therefore, it was beginning to 
 ignore her. She had been a little surprised to find 
 herself once or twice uninvited to some great function 
 at which, when her daughters were still with her, she 
 would surely have been bidden. To-night, in the 
 midst of this emotion, the memory of this slight arose 
 and stung her. Was she being forgotten, forsaken, 
 left out ? 
 
 Demosthenes tells us that old and insignificant sprains 
 and wounds revive to give us pain when some new 
 malady befalls us. 
 
 There was no doubt of it, then, to the world ; yea, 
 even to her children, she was, after all, but an old 
 woman, to be cared for, no doubt ; to be loved within 
 limits. To the latter she would soon become a cause 
 of solicitude, who knows? perhaps an incubus. But 
 she knew that to him she had seemed young and beau- 
 tiful. He had craved her companionship beyond all 
 other. In it he had been invigorated and elevated. 
 He had held her hand in his, and its touch had given 
 him strength. 
 
 For the first time in her life, despair fell upon Mrs. 
 Fenton, such despair as she had never reached before ; 
 no, not at her husband's grave had her lament been so 
 irremediable. Then she had still possessed the pro- 
 tecting affection of a mother, and her own children had 
 been dependent and helpless. She herself, in those 
 days, had been young and strong. The loneliness of
 
 CONQUERED 169 
 
 age came forth and stood and looked at her now with 
 hungry, eager eyes. It pulled at her skirts, blanched 
 her cheek, laid its chill upon her forehead. To the 
 man who was dead her very presence had brought a 
 benediction. He had never forgotten her. To him 
 she had been most lovable, and, if she had seemed 
 young to him, in his presence she had indeed felt so. 
 She thought if he were only near now, she would lean 
 just for one moment upon his breast and cry, ' ' Forgive, 
 forgive, forgive !' ' and at least thank him once for loving 
 her so much. 
 
 But she would never so speak to him, because he was 
 dead. He had thought that he owed her gratefulness, 
 but she knew now all he had given to her and how little 
 she had given to him. He had often asked her child- 
 ishly, she had then thought to call him by his Christian 
 name, and she had as often refused, moved by that con- 
 ventionality which had always been the main-spring of 
 her every action. Now she suddenly kneeled upon the 
 damp grass and with streaming eyes called him by his 
 name, first in a whisper, then more loudly, nay, by 
 every tender appellation that a loving woman can in- 
 vent with which to invoke an absent loved one whom 
 she has wronged and pained. She leaned her head 
 against a tree-trunk, and it was here, in desolation, that 
 she sobbed forth to him a last farewell. 
 
 She did not appeal at dinner, and her son did not 
 intrude upon her privacy that night. 
 
 In the Trevor household there was great confusion. 
 Hurriedly summoned, young Mr. Trevor and his hand- 
 some wife, Mrs. Fothergill in her rich dinner dress, 
 Mattie with her hair upon her shoulders, Mrs. Gregory 
 Gray in a tea gown, were gathered together where the 
 
 H '5
 
 1 70 CONQUERED 
 
 father lay. A physician and nurse were undressing the 
 lifeless body, which an ambulance had, by special per- 
 mission, been allowed to remove to the dead man's 
 home. 
 
 "There's some hard substance here against the 
 heart," said the physician. 
 
 "Why, it is a picture !" said Mattie's husband, with 
 foolish surprise. 
 
 Mrs. Fothergill, frowning, took it from her brother- 
 in-law's hand. It was a photograph of Mrs. Gardiner 
 Fenton. It represented her as many years younger 
 than she now was, sitting on a balcony, in a somewhat 
 strained and sentimental pose, for which the artist, not 
 the model, was evidently responsible. Mrs. Fothergill 
 made a slight grimace through her tears : 
 
 "It is that . . . that woman ; what shall I do with 
 it?" 
 
 " Give it to me," said Mattie. 
 
 Upstairs, the poet, a few hours later, was sitting in 
 his pajamas at his desk, writing an "Ode to Death." 
 He had penned the first two lines, but could get no 
 further. His bare feet, which were thrust into the same 
 slipper, were cold ; his brain vacuous. 
 
 "The critics," he reflected, bitterly, "no doubt think 
 an Ode to Death a very easy thing to throw off ; but 
 I'll be hanged if it is as much of a joke as they imagine. 
 If it is, I wish they'd just come on and do it them- 
 selves." . . . "And I'm nearly frozen, too," he mut- 
 tered, after a pause, under his breath. 
 
 He hoped that Mattie would not come to the door 
 and find him there. She might think him heartless. 
 At such a moment he could hardly make her under- 
 stand the extreme coyness of his muse and that he
 
 CONQUERED 171 
 
 dared not discourage her advances when she was in the 
 least amiable. 
 
 But Mattie was not thinking of her lord. At mid- 
 night, when the lone watcher, whose duty it was to be 
 wakeful, had fallen into a doze, the young woman stole 
 in on tiptoe, looking like a ghost in her long, white 
 peignoir. She neared the bed where lay her dead 
 father, and, quickly opening the shirt which covered his 
 heart, she thrust the photograph again upon his silent 
 breast, under the flowers which already profusely cov- 
 ered it. The hastily procured waxen tuberoses and 
 violets filled the apartment with their cloying sweetness. 
 
 "There, dear, you shall have her," she said, in a 
 tone with which one would grant a favor to some fret- 
 ful and indulged child ; and, as she spoke, she laid a 
 tender hand upon those sunken eyelids which never 
 more would flutter at her approach.
 
 Raking Straws 
 
 i. 
 
 SHE was a pretty little girl, quiet of speech and ges- 
 ture, seemingly fond of order, systematic in her 
 studies ; but there were those who said that when she 
 did romp which was seldom she romped to wildness. 
 After these infrequent ebullitions she relapsed once more 
 into absolute calm. She was reputed to be silent ; 
 hence great surprise, on one occasion, when she arose 
 to justify an accused companion, and indulged in a burst 
 of eloquence that cleared the unjustly criminated cul- 
 prit, and covered herself with blushes and glory. 
 Weary Miss Bell, who taught us good English and high 
 art, came down from her "form" and passed a gentle 
 finger over Madeline's hair ; and Monsieur Pallain, the 
 French professor, wept, blowing his nose loudly on his 
 purple cotton handkerchief. ' ' She has a generous 
 heart," he said, snuffling, " and the dramatic instinct. " 
 This last suggestion bore fruit in a remarkable per- 
 formance of Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar." En- 
 veloped in sheets draped to represent togas, some worn 
 rakishly, with the "loose girdle," commemorative of 
 172
 
 RAKING STRAWS 173 
 
 the hero himself, we assumed the roles of the Roman 
 conspirators. One young lady brandished the kitchen 
 poker loaned by the cook, Mrs. Lemon in lieu of a 
 dirk, while she rent the air and our souls by her ad- 
 jurations to "Friends, Romans, Countrymen !" The 
 said Mrs. Lemon, it must be admitted, did not rise to 
 the occasion, but tittered audibly and frivolously from 
 a neighboring door- way, where a number of maids were 
 heaped up and gaping. In the mean while, Madeline, 
 pointing tragically with her little rosy thumb to the 
 flaunting red of a tattered table-cloth, hissed in piercing 
 accents which thrilled the expectant audience, while 
 her girlish face was drawn like that of a young faun in 
 pain : "See what a rent the envious Casca made !" 
 
 Once more Madeline covered herself with laurels, 
 relapsing the next day into her usual repose. 
 
 Monsieur Pallain had been greatly impressed : he 
 predicted that, if she should make the stage her career, 
 Rachel's successes would be but a shadowy intimation 
 of Madeline's fame. ' ' She subjugates !' ' he said. ' ' She 
 appeals to the heart. This appeal has no year, no 
 period, no fashion. A mere representation of modern 
 society that is ephemeral. We must touch the human- 
 ities. They have no age. She is a great tragedienne" 
 Some girls who did not like Madeline declared that 
 Monsieur Pallain was prejudiced. They concluded that 
 a verdict upon all achievement, as upon beauty, must 
 be something higher than the expression of mere per- 
 sonal predilection or distaste. 
 
 It was difficult, after such amusements, to put our 
 minds upon our lessons. Julius Caesar had demoralized 
 us a way of his with women, Suetonius tells us. A 
 lecture on archaeological research, given to us by a 
 well-known professor of history, we found somewhat 
 
 15*
 
 174 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 archaic. He told us about twelve thousand mounds 
 and six hundred excavations which had recently been 
 made. He gave us most interesting information con- 
 cerning the abodes of dwellers in the stone age, their 
 artificial and natural grottos, and the money which 
 they used. He threw in the periods of iron and brass ; 
 but I fear we were extremely inattentive. We found 
 him tame. 
 
 There is no doubt that Madeline had risen to con- 
 siderable importance. She was criticised, but sought 
 after. Feminine creatures never slight or neglect the 
 rival of whom they are really afraid. Alva Greene, 
 who was the most beautiful, the most spoiled, and the 
 richest girl in the class, did her the honor of inviting 
 her to a clandestine party in her room, to eat sponge- 
 cake and Japanese persimmons, at four o'clock. The 
 product of this small but fruitful bush met with great 
 favor. Madeline, who was usually a gourmet, con- 
 victed herself, on this occasion, of being a gourmande ; 
 she devoured eight of the juicy fruits, and was ill in 
 consequence. But she recovered. To be hurt is not 
 to be injured. The persimmons were not intended to 
 prove fatal. 
 
 These divagations and tendencies to extremes are an 
 index to character. Later, I remembered them, pon- 
 dering over the small and tiny rills from which great 
 waters are compressed into dangerous floods. Child- 
 hood is sweet and pallid as April, and its memories 
 must needs be of trivial things. 
 
 I remembered Monsieur Pallain's words to Madeline 
 still more vividly when I heard that she was contem- 
 plating going on the stage. This was a mere rumor, a 
 ripple from her world to my own. Several years had 
 elapsed since we had left Miss Bell's school. We lived
 
 RAKING STRAWS 175 
 
 in different cities ; we had drifted apart. It was said 
 that this desire on her part had caused a quarrel with 
 her family, that her father had died, cutting her off 
 from all share in his fortune. He belonged to that old- 
 fashioned school of parent who considers that any form 
 of restlessness or ambition in a female thing marks her 
 as a Delilah. As such, therefore, he saw fit to adver- 
 tise her to an ungenerous world. 
 
 Then came a brief silence about her, until we read 
 one morning in the papers that she had suddenly mar- 
 ried a naval officer, and gone with him to the South 
 Pacific, or the North pole, or some other equally dis- 
 piriting region. She drifted into port once more, about 
 five years later, her sails a little wind- worn, her anchor 
 a trifle rusty, her rigging somewhat strained, in other 
 words, she came back and was "talked about." The 
 naval officer had proved a poor investment. People 
 said he had been coarse and intemperate ; at any rate, 
 Madeline had found him so. There had been unhappi- 
 ness, an unhappiness not untinged by a breath of scan- 
 dal. Madeline had lovely eyes. It seems that the 
 commander's first lieutenant had told her so ; and it 
 was while she was repudiating the charge that her hus- 
 band entered her presence, they said, and brandished a 
 revolver. It had all ended in ridicule cast upon him- 
 self. It had been proved that there was nothing what- 
 ever, except that he was very drunk. And in a wild 
 debauch, shortly after this, he went to his reckoning 
 and left her free. 
 
 I heard she was passing through New York eighteen 
 months afterwards. I went to see her. It was then 
 she told me she had never loved the man, her husband ; 
 but she had pitied him. She was stopping in two 
 modest ground-floor rooms in a lodging-house on a
 
 176 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 quiet street, and there I found her one damp afternoon. 
 She told me she thought she should stay all winter. 
 When I was announced, she was sitting by the fare, 
 alone. Her little dog, who had just come in, and smelt 
 of the rain, was warming himself on the hearth-rug at 
 her feet. I recall perfectly how she came forward to 
 meet me with outstretched, welcoming hands, and her 
 fair hair and her winning voice. She made upon me a 
 strong impression of charm. When I had been with 
 her a half hour, I was convinced that she was the most 
 innocent of women, and the most wronged. Her family 
 had been unkind to her. They had disliked her thought 
 of the stage, and they had disliked her marriage ; she 
 laughed and said, "After the manner of families." 
 And then, just when they had forgiven her, there was 
 the trouble with her husband, and a second quarrel with 
 her relatives ; and this time she was herself less easily 
 placated. ' ' I will let them alone !' ' she said, with a 
 vibration of anger in her voice. " There's room enough 
 in your big town for my obscurity and my insignificance. 
 Let them give me peace ; that is all I ask." 
 
 She admired me very much ; what she was pleased 
 to call my beauty, the tones of my voice, my pretty 
 gown, my furs, in fact, everything that I wore. She 
 stroked my hands and said singular and flattering 
 things to me. Her manners were dignified and gen- 
 tle. When I rose to depart she ran to the table, and 
 took some red carnations from a vase, and tied them 
 into a nosegay for my corsage. " It was a queenly 
 thing for you to do, to come to me so soon," she 
 said. ' ' Tell your husband I must see you now and 
 then. It can do you no hurt ; it would be life to me 
 in my dulness. I have very little money, you know, 
 although the commander did, in the end, leave me
 
 RAKING STRAWS 177 
 
 something. But it is not enough for me to attempt 
 your world, even if I would." As I approached the 
 table, offering her my handkerchief to dry the stems 
 of the dripping flowers, I noticed a photograph which 
 reposed under her lamp, in a handsome gilded frame. 
 It looked familiar to me. I stopped to examine it, and 
 uttered an exclamation of surprise. It was the portrait 
 of Templeton Vane, a young bachelor and intimate 
 friend of my husband's, and a sufficiently good friend 
 of my own. It was not until I got into my brougham 
 that I wondered why Mr. Vane himself had never 
 spoken to me of his acquaintance with Mrs. Avery. I 
 remembered talking of her in his presence once, at our 
 table, and that he said no word. I had made the re- 
 mark that Mrs. Avery seemed to me to possess one of 
 those profound and moving natures that attach and that 
 are rarely forsaken, and that I believed her reserved for 
 some favorable turn of fortune. To this he had replied 
 nothing. I had not insisted. He was not one of those 
 who inspire us to discuss characteristics. His was a 
 keen but vulgar intelligence. His sympathies, if he 
 possessed any, dwelt for me in inaccessible places of his 
 soul. He was of an insouciant, generally amiable 
 humor, egotistical without pronounced vanity, self-sat- 
 isfied without anxieties or revolts of temper. Of a 
 superb health and physique, he was not one of those 
 highly organized beings in whom sensation becomes, 
 in its extreme, pain. Like Montaigne, he was capable 
 of going to sleep on the pillow of doubt. He was con- 
 ceited about his taste, thought his ideals in art high, 
 because he had been disappointed in Venice, and dis- 
 illusioned by the pyramids, which, he said, "were poor 
 work after all." 
 
 This is a long parenthesis. When I saw his photo-
 
 1 78 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 graph on Madeline's table, I asked her point blank 
 where she got it. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Vane gave it to me." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "He was on the ship with me from Savannah, last 
 year," she said, vaguely. 
 
 "And you see him ?" 
 
 "O comme ca now and then. He has called." I 
 scanned her narrowly. She flushed. I felt like apolo- 
 gizing. I did not ask her what she thought of him, 
 but I remembered his mamma, and wondered if a 
 warning to her, to him, or to somebody, were not my 
 duty. 
 
 I mentioned all these facts and my last dilemma to 
 my adoring husband, on my way to a ball that night. 
 
 "Hum ! Hum !" flowed this fountain of wisdom ; 
 ' ' I should think much the best thing you could do was 
 to keep out of the whole concern. A woman with a 
 shadow on her ; Mrs. Vane, a regular old dragon ; and 
 Templeton, the best hearted fellow in the world, but 
 selfish through over-petting by the women." 
 
 I took up the cudgels violently for my old school- 
 mate. ' ' A shadow on her ! Are you not ashamed ? 
 What ! A drunken, miserable husband, a horrid, nasty 
 family, and now poverty and loneliness ! And you 
 want me to drop her ? Never, never, never ! Temple- 
 ton is selfish, I know it. She'd have the worst of the 
 bargain. As for him, he'd have good luck to get such 
 a pretty wife." My husband pricked up his ears at 
 this last remark. To the male a pretty woman is always 
 a pretty woman. For a loving woman there is but one 
 man living her lover. For men the horizon is less 
 contracted. 
 
 "Why don't you ask her to dinner? You were
 
 RAKING STRAWS 1 79 
 
 complaining that married dinners were so stupid. A 
 widow slips in conveniently in a party of twelve." 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 "Well, what?" 
 
 " I thought you didn't want me to play with her." 
 
 " Did I say so? You put the words in my mouth, 
 dearest. ' ' 
 
 "Don't say 'dearest' in that glib tone; it annoys 
 me. I thought you promised when we married to 
 avoid conjugal platitudes. You are getting the marital 
 whine." 
 
 " No doubt, I am a very ordinary man. You took 
 the gentleman who loved you for a great personage, as 
 every other woman has done since the world began, and 
 now that your sentiment has changed you are disap- 
 pointed." Then we kissed each other. 
 
 Later he said, "There's matter for quite a drama in 
 this thing, if there's anything in it at all. Mrs. Vane 
 would be furious. She expects Templeton either not 
 to marry at all, or to get a prize, like Alva Greene, for 
 instance." 
 
 ' ' Alva Greene ! . . . You call that a prize ?' ' 
 
 "What is the matter with Alva Greene?" 
 
 "Alva Greene is a serpent," I said, decidedly. Then 
 we discussed the social era and politics, and drew up to 
 the door of the palace, where the ball was already in 
 full swing. 
 
 II. 
 
 FINDING my husband willing to be conciliated by my 
 pretty friend, I drove to her lodgings one afternoon, to 
 see if I could persuade her to dine with us. She ex- 
 pressed the determination of leading a retired life, and 
 declared herself content with books and music, and a
 
 I So RAKING STRAWS 
 
 few friends. Of Vane we did not speak again. I had 
 seen him only in the world and respected his reticence. 
 When I reached Mrs. Avery's door I was told that she 
 was out. " She's out," said the Swede who opened it, 
 "and she didn't left no word." But the landlady 
 emerged from a distant corridor and contradicted him. 
 She told me that orders had, upon the contrary, been 
 left, that if I came I was to be asked to wait for a mo- 
 ment, as Mrs. Avery would be at home at five o' clock. 
 I would find fire and light within. It was now only 
 half-past four, but -I determined to wait. I found a 
 bright wood fire in the grate, its odor mingled grate- 
 fully with that of a huge bowl of hyacinths which orna- 
 mented the table. The lamp was lighted. I began to 
 fumble over her books ; a modern one upon the days 
 of the Roman republic attracted me. I adore those 
 calm antiquities ; they lift up to us the torches that 
 light the centuries ; they rescue us from the poverty 
 and meanness of our modern tinsel. I was soon lost in 
 the enticing pages, drawing draughts of delight from 
 the breath of those mountain summits of the past 
 which, if criminal, at least were great. I became a 
 pagan. I sang the song of early Italy. The cold 
 fogs of my northern blood rolled away. I bathed in 
 the amphitheatre's sunshine, and steeped myself in 
 that turbulent life, so curiously crystallized upon the 
 page. 
 
 Just then there was a creaking of the door, a wave of 
 the portiere which shrouded it. A man stepped across 
 the threshold. Templeton Vane entered. I threw 
 down the book which had so engrossed me. ' ' I was 
 just learning to fly," I said to him, "and your arrival 
 clips my wings. I was reading about living creatures, 
 women with bodies and men with brains, and no
 
 RAKING STRAWS 181 
 
 morals. I was reading the truth. Truth is immoral. 
 Don't ask me how I liked the ball. There were only 
 stuffed dolls present." 
 
 He laughed. "Do you think feeling died out in 
 Nero's time?" 
 
 "How can I tell?" 
 
 He took off his coat, and seating himself at the 
 table, began to play with the paper-knife. "I've a 
 great mind" after a moment's embarrassed silence 
 ' ' to make a confession to you, since you are here, and, 
 while we wait for Mrs. Avery." My heart gave a jump. 
 I scented a love-affair. It seemed to promise piquancy. 
 "I am very unhappy," he began, "perfectly miser- 
 able " 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it." He laughed again ; 
 he had certainly an agreeable, gentlemanly laughter. 
 Then I looked up at him with a certain archness which 
 my husband has commended, and asked him abruptly, 
 " Won't she smile on you?" 
 
 "We're attached to each other," he said, shortly. 
 
 "Ah ... then ..." 
 
 ' ' That should be sufficient, should it not ? And yet 
 it isn't. She is the most extraordinary woman. You 
 can't think. She says she cares for me, but feels we 
 don't suit each other, that I couldn't understand her, 
 that nobody ever has, God knows what ! I don't. 
 She can't love me. Why ! for a week of her I'd risk 
 an eternity of wretchedness." I was amazed. I had 
 not suspected him of so much fire. ' ' She is the 
 daintiest little creature, the most adorable, heavens ! 
 you can't fancy how lovable she is. Since I met her I 
 have never budged, never seen another woman. I 
 don't know they exist; and here, here she says 'I 
 love you,' and yet insists she can't marry me that she 
 
 16
 
 1 82 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 is different from what I imagine her to be. It's all 
 damned nonsense !" 
 
 "And your mother?" 
 
 "Oh, my poor mother! You know what she has 
 been since my father's death. She shuts herself up 
 with a lot of old cronies, she sees so few people. I 
 am everything to her, and " 
 
 ' ' Have you told her ?' ' 
 
 He hesitated a moment, clearing his throat. ' ' No, 
 I haven't. Where's the use, until it's all settled?" 
 
 I shook my head. Our eyes met. He smiled a 
 trifle whimsically. "Of course," I said, "there is 
 going to be opposition." 
 
 " I suppose so," he answered, laconically ; " but, of 
 course, my own mind is made up." 
 
 "And you are quite right, but how ?" 
 
 " Yes, I know what you are going to say. It's a 
 wretched business a man of my age being entirely de- 
 pendent on a woman having to ask her for every six- 
 pence I draw. But when I marry something must 
 be settled definitely, or else or else I must go to 
 work." 
 
 I looked at him. Somehow his words did not bring 
 conviction. I didn't believe in his "going to work." 
 With his mother's enormous income it seemed unneces- 
 sary and improbable. "You might enter politics or 
 diplomacy," I ventured. 
 
 " Yes, I should like that diplomacy a foreign ap- 
 pointment. My mother's fond of travelling. She 
 likes Europe. She could come to us." And it was 
 just here that Mrs. Avery, with her eloquent shoulders 
 draped in her Henri IV. cloak, and her wide hat tipped 
 over her soft eyes, came in. 
 
 She greeted us cordially. She had been to a mati-
 
 RAKING STRAWS 183 
 
 n&e at the opera house, with some friends, and ap- 
 peared to be full of it. At least she began at once 
 to tell us about it. She had just seen "Carmen." 
 She was extremely enthusiastic about Don Jose", whose 
 rdle had been confided to a certain Signor Valeric. 
 "When he first came on," she said, as she loosened 
 her wrap, and threw off her hat, ' ' his physique indi- 
 cated a lack of fitness for the part ; but I knew at once 
 that he was full of dramatic feeling, of sentiment, 
 and I was not mistaken. He was marvellous in the 
 last act. His portrayal of the enslaving power of pas- 
 sion was entirely free from Campanini's robust animal- 
 ism. Oh, a masterly performance, no doubt, Campa- 
 nini's ; but this was all intensity, dignity, pathos, and 
 imagination. It awoke a higher sympathy. He was a 
 small man, slightly made, and he had the good taste 
 never once to overreach himself, in voice or gesture. 
 Where a part levies such a tax upon fierce expression, 
 and where nature has denied powerful muscles, an ath- 
 letic figure, it exhibits consummate skill to express 
 emotion and not degenerate into hysteria. This tenor 
 has won his laurels. He is very remarkable." It 
 seemed to me she was talking to conceal embarrassment. 
 Her utterance was rapid, somewhat breathless. 
 
 "You seem quite captivated," said Templeton Vane, 
 looking annoyed. 
 
 " Oh, you know I am art mad. Give me perfect art, 
 then I am at peace. People prate of morals in art, as 
 if all high art were not morally our teacher. It elevates 
 because it detaches, like the lonely moorland, the far- 
 off horizon, the wide expanse of the heavens, the 
 sea." 
 
 "Certainly," I answered, carried away by her en- 
 thusiasm, " we do not ask their lessons of these ; they
 
 1 84 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 can be felt but never spelled. I am entirely of your 
 opinion. After hearing beautiful songs, or seeing fine 
 pictures, or conning a clever book, I realize that feeling 
 of detachment from the paltry and the trivial. Then 
 these things shake us up from our lethargy. They 
 strengthen us, make us serene and disdainful of trifles. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, it ought to be enough for a life," said Mrs. 
 Avery, drawing her chair up to the fire, and putting 
 one foot out towards the flame, ' ' to have been brushed 
 by a breath of it across the lips ! Now, Mr. Vane," 
 she said, turning to him lightly where he stood a little 
 forlornly near the mantelpiece, watching her, he had 
 risen as she entered, "ring the bell, and let us have 
 some tea, for after music the best one can offer is tea 
 and cakes." The tea was brought, and there was a 
 little more talk of music, and then Vane came forward 
 not ungracefully, and taking her hands, ' ' I have told 
 Mrs. Leigh everything," he said. " Dear Madeline, 
 let her congratulate us ; tell her it is true. Tell her 
 that you will care for me a little !" 
 
 She looked up, crimsoning. ' ' You are not fair to 
 me," she said. 
 
 "My child," I murmured, stepping quickly forward, 
 " life is uncertain. Take a present joy ; the future will 
 care for itself. ' ' He leaned over her, just touching her 
 hair ; never have I seen two creatures more intoxicated 
 by each other's presence. I wished to leave them ; 
 they were too wrapped up in each other for my intru- 
 sive presence. After ail, it was the old picture, the 
 sweet unravelled labyrinth called love. Such a tableau 
 was enough ; why seek conclusions ? I said so to them 
 as I donned my furs. It was she who detained me. 
 
 "Dear," she said, turning to him, " I am yours, and 
 Olga is witness to my pledge. I knew last night it was
 
 RAKING STRAWS 185 
 
 all over with my struggle. In the hours of the dawn I 
 lay vanquished. So, now, be a good boy, and leave us 
 for an hour. I have to speak with her. You may 
 come back to-night. Now, go." 
 
 He whispered to her a moment, then obeyed her, 
 radiant. Once alone with me, she passed her hand 
 several times over her forehead, and then she came and 
 sat herself down upon a low cushion close to my feet, 
 nestling to me caressingly. I thought I had never seen 
 her look so alluring. I laid one arm about her shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 " I am a poor match for him," she said. 
 
 " But why, dear ? Everything was explained . . . ' 
 
 "You don't comprehend," she said; "it is the 
 things I can't explain not what has happened, but 
 what I am that will make it difficult." 
 
 ' 'What you are?" 
 
 She smiled. "Don't look alarmed; I have not 
 broken all the laws. It is my character. He doesn't 
 read me aright ; he doesn't know me." 
 
 ' ' He says you are the gentlest, the sweetest . . . ' 
 
 "Did he say that?" She frowned as if in pain, 
 biting her lip. 
 
 " Yes, much more. He is so loving." 
 
 " No ; he is not loving." 
 
 1 ' Why, what do you mean ?' ' 
 
 ' ' I mean I mean that I am fevered, wild, fierce, 
 ungentle : and it is only one who is very loving very 
 do you hear? and very, very deep, who would 
 see me as I am, love me all the same, and make me 
 happy. Oh, happy ! To be happy ! Shall I ever 
 know it ? And my heart not only hungers for it, but 
 I want to give it. I know that I could give it ! But 
 to be given it must be understood." 
 
 1 6*
 
 1 86 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 " Why," I asked, speaking lightly through a certain 
 uneasiness her words awoke in my breast, ' ' what is this 
 peculiarity of yours that a lover or a husband must 
 fathom to gain delight ?' ' 
 
 " My asperity, my jealousy, my exactingness, I give 
 so much, too much ! Olga, I adore him ! Look at 
 my arm!" She pulled up her sleeve. "It's thin 
 with fretting and pondering. Bah ! What a tragedy 
 queen you must be thinking me !" 
 
 "Why don't you tell him all your fears, speak 
 out?" 
 
 ' ' Every time I do we quarrel. This is what frightens 
 me. He hates the truth. He wants everything to be 
 smooth and calm. He cannot understand any other 
 sort of affection, and I am afraid." 
 
 "I don't wonder you are afraid of his mother," I 
 said, making up a grimace. 
 
 " If she is in the least kind, there will be no trouble." 
 
 "And if she isn't?" 
 
 " If she isn't, and Templeton lets me tell him the 
 truth about her, I shall survive, and do her no harm. 
 My only fear is that, with his peculiar nature, he would 
 repel my confidences." 
 
 ' ' Do you know that you used to seem very quiet at 
 school? Your soft manner deceives." 
 
 " I am not ; I must have expression or die." 
 
 ' ' Why not ? Who hinders you ?' ' 
 
 ' ' Ah, but with me it is a torrent ! When it comes 
 it alarms people. My family never could understand. 
 If I had had a talent for writing, I think it would have 
 been a safety-valve ; it would have eased my heart. I 
 had the dramatic element strongly latent ; but they 
 opposed that, naturally, no doubt, it was against all 
 their traditions. So I hurried, in pique and anger, into
 
 .RAKING STRAWS 187 
 
 that miserable marriage, which meant for me only degra- 
 dation. Oh, what I have suffered ! But I bore that 
 bravely enough." 
 
 ' ' Yes, dearest, you were always eloquent. Do you 
 remember your appeal at school for little Mary Janvier, 
 and how you gained her pardon ?' ' 
 
 She had risen from the floor, and was facing me, 
 wreathing her two arms behind her head. ' ' That was 
 one of those moments when I had to speak. Injustice 
 makes me insane." 
 
 " Oh, you are sane enough?" 
 
 ' ' Sane like the engine when its steam is not stifled. 
 Have you ever watched the machine getting ready for a 
 start ? how it snorts and trembles, how it cries in tra- 
 vail and pain? Then, when it moves off shivering, 
 slowly, slowly, the relief, the tension relaxed, the power 
 let loose, the sigh ; and off it goes, majestic, through 
 the pleasant, sunny fields, with that beautiful cloud of 
 vapor behind it, marking its hidden track. Oh, that 
 white cloud of its pathway, what dreams it gives to 
 one ! But imagine it, instead, compressed and heated 
 to bursting, no rosy vapor then, no fair journeyings, 
 but blackened ashes, shivered iron, ruin, death !" 
 
 Her eyes shot forth flame as she spoke. Her slender 
 body swayed, electrified, and I, borne on her words, 
 could only clasp my hands and ejaculate, ' ' Monsieur 
 Pallain was right ; you are a second Rachel !' ' 
 
 " Poor Monsieur Pallain !" she said, changing her 
 tone in a moment to the colloquial, and helping herself 
 to a macaroon, which she munched with gusto. " Do 
 you remember his purple handkerchief? What a beau- 
 tiful man he was, with his white teeth, his pink cheeks, 
 his splendid curls, and those ridiculous eyelashes an 
 inch long !"
 
 1 88 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 1 ' A clever head, too. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Yes, but his appearance condemned him. He was 
 absurdly good-looking. ' ' 
 
 ' ' And Templeton ?' ' I asked, smiling. "Is he ab- 
 surdly good-looking ?' ' 
 
 " He seems god-like to me." 
 
 "What do you mean, then, by saying he is not 
 loving?" I was devoured with curiosity about these 
 two. 
 
 " I can't explain. Don't ask it. He is in love with 
 me, of course, in his own fashion, without perception. 
 Oh, I am sane with it all ; you are right. But, sink or 
 swim, the die is cast. I am his for ever." 
 
 III. 
 
 IT was about two weeks later that I sat in my boudoir 
 chatting with two friends, when Mrs. Vane was ad- 
 mitted. She came in with that somewhat supercilious 
 stare which characterizes her, taking an inventory of 
 the room, its furniture and decorations, its occupants, 
 and, lastly, of myself and my personal adornments. 
 She knew my visitors : they were Mr. Ackley and Mr. 
 Atherton. The former commended himself to her snob- 
 bishness. The latter was a man too unqualifiedly de- 
 sirable to demand explanation, upon the same principle, 
 possibly, that une jeune femme d la mode, as Mme. de 
 Girardin informs us, notwithstanding all her caprices, 
 all the chagrins she may inflict upon us, is never un 
 paquet. 
 
 Mr. Ackley is a bachelor of uncertain age, clever, 
 well-read, polished. When his temper is roused he has 
 a natural frankness which his enemies call brutality. 
 This naturalness, which is but the outgrowth of a rugged
 
 RAKING STRAWS 189 
 
 soul, is to my mind, on the whole, his chief attraction. 
 It has lessons to teach which are not easily forgotten. 
 He likes young men and young women, and his advice 
 to them is tinctured by a caustic wisdom tinged with a 
 beneficent philosophy. Himself an example of high 
 honor, his precepts have no alloy of baseness. His 
 good-natured satire is never ignoble. He is always a 
 welcome guest in fastidious drawing-rooms. 
 
 My other guest was a widower of forty-eight, a man 
 of independent fortune, and of leisure, who has for 
 many years filled what in his own mind, at least, is the 
 envied rdle of a man of fashion. He has two daugh- 
 ters whom he has piloted through the intricacies of 
 the social arena with considerable tact and skill. He 
 has made them, though not comely, belles. Not bril- 
 liant, he has taught them that esprit de conduite, 
 which is a better guarantee to social success than the 
 most acute intellect and the most regular features. 
 He saw to it that they were always well chaperoned, 
 well dressed, well turned out, and that their com- 
 panions, of both sexes, were desirable not only in 
 poise, not only in morals, but in the more delicate 
 shadings of that social prestige which he deemed of 
 paramount importance. This entirely feminine con- 
 cern of small moment to the average man was partly 
 the result of having been forced into a mother's 
 watchfulness, and in this aspect, pathetic, partly 
 born of a violent pride, whose only expression under 
 Republican institutions was the fostering of an ex- 
 alted exclusiveness. Of New England parentage, Mr. 
 Atherton was imbued with that large share of Phil- 
 istine conservatism which had, in his worldly environ- 
 ment, assumed the form of a supercilious disgust for 
 everything . . . outside. This disgust was reflected
 
 1 90 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 upon features which were in themselves peculiar. Mr. 
 Atherton's enemies often said that he resembled an 
 angry blonde lap dog. It is certain that at moments he 
 had the petulance of a luxurious pet. Yet, although 
 physical beauty was denied him, although his face was 
 irregular, and his figure angular and nervous, his per- 
 son was not devoid of a certain distinction. Self- 
 conscious, he was too intelligent to be an egoist, 
 and if his address lacked ease it was never uncivil. 
 Scrupulously formal, he did not appreciate that a prince 
 of the drawing-room can enter the presence of kings 
 upon four paws and be instantly imitated. With all 
 this, Mr. Atherton was not a fool. He was a man of 
 more than average intellect. And under all, far down 
 in the recesses of his being, there beat a heart full of 
 an intense melancholy. This man had a craving for 
 affection. It was his heart more than his intellect which 
 spoke now and then, and shivered the frail fabric of his 
 poor ambitions with a shock of self-contempt and a 
 moment's derision. He was not devoid of a pale 
 humor. 
 
 His conscience, which he had never lost, smote him 
 for his idleness. His sensitiveness, which had crystal- 
 lized into false pride, made of him an extremely un- 
 happy man. He looked about him on a desert world, 
 as Lermontof's demon upon the fleeting heights of 
 Caucasus, telling himself that he had lived in vain, that 
 his life was arid and futile. He was certainly uneasy 
 and unsatisfied. His daughters felt for him a mixture 
 of respect and fear, but little affection. They dreaded 
 his displeasure, which was generally directed against 
 some small social dereliction. He was too reserved to 
 probe their minds and souls. Yet their lack of confi- 
 dence secretly wounded him. He thought them un-
 
 RAKING STRAWS 191 
 
 grateful for the many useful things that he had taught 
 them. Had he not taught them to distinguish between 
 a high-bred slight taken or given, or the rudeness of 
 ignorance and crude Bohemianism ? Had he not 
 taught them the gift of silence, telling them that ele- 
 gant women never chatter ? How to snub their country 
 cousins under a well-bred affability? How to flatter 
 their important relatives without a suspicion of toady- 
 ism ? Yet they remained cold ! 
 
 He pitied his own lonesomeness in those silent cham- 
 bers that each of us carries within himself, but which 
 none reveals. 
 
 It was with these interesting men that Mrs. Vane 
 found me. They did not remain very long. It was 
 evident that the older woman had come for a tte-(i-tete. 
 She 'made it evident. The moment we were alone 
 together, she broached the subject which was upper- 
 most in both our minds. She drew her high-eared 
 chair close to my reclining one, and immediately gave 
 vent to an exclamation of woe. "Oh, Mrs. Leigh, 
 will you tell me what is to become of me !' ' I opened 
 my eyes and feigned astonishment, murmuring that I 
 did not seize the situation. ' ' You seize it perfectly ; 
 you know what I mean. You know of Templeton's 
 infatuation for that that woman." 
 
 " If you mean Mrs. Avery," said I, " I do not accept 
 that phrase applied to a personal friend of mine. ' ' 
 
 " Why, what do you know of her?" 
 
 ' ' I have known her all my life, ' ' I answered, im- 
 patiently, ' ' and I see no reason why a person who has 
 been unfortunate should be branded as evil-minded." 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 "Yes; there is the whole matter, she was unfor- 
 tunate."
 
 192 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 ' ' I heard stories. ' ' 
 
 " And believed them, which is more to the purpose." 
 
 ' ' I detest women who give cause for scandal. ' ' 
 
 "There has been no scandal." I was surprised at 
 my own stanch ness. 
 
 "No ? I will take your word for it ; this is a relief." 
 There was, however, no relief in her tone, but rather 
 a note of disappointment. Yes, unmistakably, Mrs. 
 Vane wanted a scandal ; she had called for it. Women 
 dislike to be so cheated. 
 
 "No," I went on, "I am romantic. I believe in 
 love. If they care for one another, then, that is every- 
 thing. ' ' I became very bold, chafing under the ray of 
 her empty eye. "And how do you know your son 
 will give her happiness, that which she has missed 
 before ? You have spoiled him, Mrs. Vane. I fear he 
 is selfish." 
 
 She dropped her hands and could only again exclaim, 
 "Well!" 
 
 "Yes, yes," I continued, quickly, "I know it is 
 always the man's welfare that is considered in these 
 matters ; but it takes two to enter such a partnership, 
 and I want my poor little friend to find joy. Ah, Mrs. 
 Vane, be kind to her !" 
 
 ' ' Why, the way you talk, one would think I was an 
 ogress !" I looked at her delicate hand she had 
 drawn off a glove laden with its beautiful rings, at 
 her thin, white throat, at the line of her faint lips, at 
 the fading oval of her yellow cheek, at the high, aristo- 
 cratic brow, over which her lace veil was drawn up, 
 dividing it like a knife with its sharp black line. I 
 gazed upon the vertical wrinkle which lay under the 
 rippling softness of her gracefully-brushed gray hair, 
 and at her large vacant blue eyes ; and I asked myself
 
 RAKING STRAWS 193 
 
 if, indeed, she might not be an ogress, one of those 
 terrible ones which dispatch their victims silently, crunch- 
 ing their bones swiftly and noiselessly, so that they shall 
 make no cry or moaning. Yet she was only a good- 
 looking, middle-aged lady, gentle of birth, soft of 
 speech, and with a purr in her well-bred tones. ' ' To 
 me," she went on, "it is all quite dreadful. What, 
 will you tell me, is to become of me when w Templeton 
 is married ?' ' 
 
 "You must have expected it." 
 
 "Not now ; and then, who could have imagined he 
 would make such a choice? Were there not enough 
 lovely young girls, that he had to give himself to a 
 widow ?' ' 
 
 So that was the trouble, the fresh, unsullied 
 purity of Templeton Vane was not to be breathed 
 upon ! I laughed in my sleeve. ' ' Widows are pro- 
 verbially dangerous," I said. 
 
 ' ' I never was, ' ' said Mrs. Vane. 
 
 I believed her. 
 
 " I have always had a horror of flirtatious widows," 
 she continued ; ' ' but, of course, what can you know 
 of such sentiments ? You are not a mother, you are a 
 sort of goddess, dear Mrs. Leigh, a Diana. Yes, 
 really, you look like like the statues. You sail se- 
 renely. What can you know of our poor human con- 
 flicts and weaknesses?" 
 
 I murmured faintly that even the superb daughter of 
 Latona, whom I could not aspire to resemble, had one 
 day awakened to the fact that she too had a woman's 
 breast. Then, after a pause not in my character of 
 an immortal, but moved by a very practical human 
 curiosity " Have you seen her?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes, I have seen her," she sighed. "I suppose I 
 in 17
 
 194 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 was angry prejudiced. I felt a sense of crime in her 
 very clothes !' ' 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "I don't want to be disagreeable," this was evi- 
 dent, "I admit I am a foolish mother. This has 
 nearly killed me." She drew out a cambric handker- 
 chief and began to cry softly. ' ' You are right ; he is 
 selfish. You are not a mother. You don't understand 
 these things." 
 
 I had my own doubts as to the future of the lovers. 
 I had almost wished they might be persuaded to part ; 
 but this visit was fast making me their ally and cham- 
 pion. 
 
 1 ' She angled for and caught him ! There can be no 
 doubt of that." 
 
 I flushed. ' ' In this you are unjust ; for only yes- 
 terday she was telling me of her own grave misgivings. ' ' 
 
 "Misgivings !" 
 
 "Yes ; he has pursued her, and she has yielded, but 
 not at once." 
 
 "Oh!" said Mrs. Vane, "of course, young men 
 will be young men. They will pursue the woman who 
 holds the dragte haute. She is clever, I don't dispute 
 the fact, cold, clever, and calculating." 
 
 "Now, do you know," said I, " I should imagine 
 her passionate and generous." 
 
 "She has thrown dust into your eyes." 
 
 "Would you have him marry an idiot?" 
 
 " Alva Greene is not an idiot ; and you know, Mrs. 
 Leigh, I can disinherit him if I like. It is in his father's 
 will." She drew from her muff a document tied with 
 a red string, and began unfolding it. She had brought 
 her husband' s will ! ' ' Let me read you the fifth clause. ' ' 
 Then she read there, in fact, that if her son should make
 
 RAKING STRAWS 195 
 
 a marriage distasteful to her, she could leave the entire 
 property of his father in other channels. 
 
 "Ah, but," I said, "you wouldn't do this. You 
 wouldn't be so cruel !" 
 
 " I am distraught. I don't know what I should do. 
 I shall consult my lawyer." 
 
 I told myself, when she finally rose to depart, that a 
 man's hate is feeble to a woman's, if man's love, while 
 it lasts, burns with a steadier flame. Which would 
 triumph, her love or her hatred ? For, after all, if she 
 was a mother she would not persecute her child. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I WAS ill prepared by the events of the foregoing 
 chapter for the exquisite peace, content, not to say 
 hidden rapture, that I found upon the burning faces of 
 my lovers when I met them again, three months later, 
 as man and wife. They had then been married a few 
 weeks only. I talked with them together ; I talked 
 with them singly and in pairs ; and each could only 
 dwell on the perfections of the other. But in such 
 matters what people say to us is of small value ; what 
 radiates from their presence is paramount. They both 
 looked superbly. They seemed filled to the lips with 
 the upbubbling wine of life. 
 
 I found them occupying a handsome suite of rooms 
 in a hotel, whence they were shortly to sail for Europe. 
 After which Templeton vaguely spoke of returning to 
 America and entering the field of politics or of affairs. 
 
 " I am ambitious for him," said Madeline, smiling up 
 at him. ' ' I want him to stand on his own merits to 
 snap his fingers at the world." She spoke a little trem- 
 ulously.
 
 196 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 He glanced at me and then at his wife, indulgently. 
 ' ' She imagines her pet crow to be an eagle !' ' he said, 
 not without fatuity. 
 
 "You don't know, he has been an angel to me !" 
 she whispered in my ear. "His mother ..." 
 
 "Ah, yes, is she still hostile?" 
 
 ' ' There is an armed truce, ' ' said Madeline, laughing, 
 "which we hope to change into a permanent peace 
 when we visit her on the other side. Don't you think 
 she will forgive us when she sees us so happy lay 
 down her weapons of defence and of offence? We 
 shall go to her directly." 
 
 ' ' There is nothing to forgive. ' ' 
 
 ' ' No, you are right. I am not meek by nature ; I 
 am proud. But one must be reasonable. She had 
 other hopes ; I blighted them. I must take time to 
 win her to me to us." Then she seized my hand and 
 squeezed it, until the tears sprang from my eyes. 
 
 " Oh, God, I am so happy ! You don't know it is 
 heaven ! He is everything to me," she repeated. " I 
 have often cursed my intellect, as it pleased God to 
 give me one. I have thought that women who had 
 only senses and hearts were the happiest ; for they are 
 slavishly devoted, and in this find satisfaction. With 
 me there was so much to be satisfied. But there seems 
 sympathy between us, yes, really." She gave out a 
 faint smile. ' ' We have talked and talked ; there was so 
 much to tell each other, such a flood of words after all 
 these years that we were nothing to one another. 
 There is hardly time left for loving, with all that we 
 have to say." She spoke in a whisper to me, like one 
 alarmed, eager to wrest from destiny a fugitive and 
 fearful joy. ' ' He has been so tender, so manly, and 
 then, he never makes me jealous."
 
 RAKING STRAWS 197 
 
 I listened to all that she said, as we do to the prattle 
 of invalids or children. These vagaries of passion are 
 as legitimate as law. 
 
 He accompanied me to the door. It was much the 
 same story, if there was less poetry in his effusive- 
 ness. " Don't you find Madeline improved, looking 
 handsome eh? She is the sweetest creature ! Don't 
 you think my mother must love her?" 
 
 "I don't know!" 
 
 ' ' How could any one help it ? if if she shows 
 tact." 
 
 "Who, your mother?" 
 
 "No, Madeline. She tells me she is quick-tempered. 
 I see no evidences of it ; she is a seraph. But my 
 mother is peculiar. It will need patience. As to pecu- 
 niary matters, she is keeping a sphinx-like silence which 
 is most exasperating. My allowance continues, and 
 that is all I know about it. I shall do as Madeline sug- 
 gests come home in a year and make myself inde- 
 pendent. This dependence on woman's whims is a 
 cursed nuisance. You know she wouldn't come to our 
 wedding. She left just before." 
 
 I commended his decision. 
 
 " If Madeline were mediocre, mother would have 
 liked her. It is her superiority that provokes her. 
 Everybody gets some praise. Blame only comes to 
 people who are envied. Why, look at it in art ! Who 
 ever parodies mediocrity? You women are down on 
 another when she is superior in charm. Why, she 
 could have married anybody, and she took me !" He 
 was full of that passionate partisanship which infuses 
 and increases affection. A champion is an idolater. 
 It was quite delightful. Love, flying past, had tipped 
 his arrow and left it here. I was surprised, because I
 
 198 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 had looked upon Vane as a somewhat self-indulgent 
 young gentleman, and had feared this might be but the 
 whiff of a new caprice, a desire, common to man, for 
 sweetmeats ; sweetmeats placed just out of reach, and 
 behind an altar that must be jumped over to get to 
 them. 
 
 V. 
 
 IT was eighteen months later that I met them again, 
 this time at a European watering-place. I had been 
 persuaded into a wild mountain trip by a party of ad- 
 venturous spirits, had worn narrow cloth gowns, tanned 
 my nose (my best feature), neglected the roseate tips 
 of my finger-nails, sprained an ankle caracoling over 
 glaciers in high heels ; and then had had them ampu- 
 tated the heels, I mean, and hobbled about with 
 the tread of a dragoon or a British old maid ; and now 
 I was longing to find my boxes again, to array myself 
 in soft garments, to put a diamond in my hair and a 
 rose in my bodice. I began to realize the usefulness of 
 conforming heart and intelligence to artificial institu- 
 tions. We all have these swinging reactions. And 
 then my lord and master was to meet me in this spot. 
 A letter from Madeline Vane had informed me that she 
 had a villa there, for a month, and they had begged me 
 earnestly to pass it with them. I compromised with 
 the promise of a three days' visit. 
 
 When our train pulled up it was already night. A 
 man-servant spoke to my courier and told him Mrs. 
 Vane was awaiting me in her carriage. I did, in fact, 
 find her reclining in a pretty victoria, under the first 
 rays of a benignant moon. It lighted up a captivating 
 person in the form of my hostess. She sat erect, 
 charmingly dressed, in a majestic attitude I had not
 
 RAKING STRAWS 199 
 
 recognized in her before. Her greeting was affectionate, 
 but reserved and composed. She impressed me like a 
 person who was learning to stand on her feet. She 
 had lost the liquidity which had once been a part of her 
 loveliness. There was less impulse, possibly a shade of 
 hardness. Yet, when I took my seat beside her, some- 
 thing about her was suggestive of inward agitation. 
 The finest artificiality may convey an impression of un- 
 expressed strength, of something underneath dormant, 
 if you will, but alive. I know not why, in that short 
 drive from the station, I was imbued with the idea that 
 Madeline Vane was acting a part. Women's intuitions 
 need no further basis of belief. They are ; that is suffi- 
 cient. She told me of the gayety of the place, of its 
 cosmoramic revels, of the glitter and the bluster of the 
 masquerade. There were foreign princes of wealth and 
 of lineage, flaunting their feathers for applause and 
 effect. There were impoverished noblemen in search 
 of wealth and beauty ; fair Western heiresses, flirting 
 with titled adorers, and Eastern business men, who took 
 the baths for their livers, and read the New York Herald 
 all day, tilting their chairs at their banker's, or sunning 
 themselves under the hotel arcades. She wafted me 
 agreeably through a gallery of character and situation. 
 
 When we reached the villa the moon was splendidly 
 lighting its Grecian portico. It looked like a dream of 
 Athens. It lay half-hidden in its fecundity of blossom. 
 There was nothing of the middle-class or commonplace 
 in the nest my friends had chosen. It stood apart 
 in silence and grace. 'Twas a fitting asylum for lovers. 
 Here, too, a Socrates might have sat under quiet trees 
 to indulge in restful reveries, nourishing himself on the 
 pleasures of fine irony. 
 
 Within, the villa was equally attractive. The bro-
 
 200 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 cade which hung the pretty room into which I was led 
 from the antechamber was not too new. It had the 
 delicacy which such things gain when they are a little 
 faded. The tea-table was drawn close to the wax lights, 
 and the roses of the portico wafted their scent through 
 the windows. The hearth was filled with flowering 
 plants. The suite of salons was redolent of. perfumes, 
 of soft and refined luxuries. 
 
 I was rather tired from my journey, yet not tired 
 enough to disturb that recipient frame of mind which, 
 possibly, in an active brain is best engendered by a 
 slight fatigue of the nervous centres. Two women who 
 have a great deal to say to each other, who are charged, 
 as it were, burdened with topics, are apt to interfere 
 with each other, if both are equally aggressive in speech. 
 I sank back upon a lounge with a sense of delicious 
 languor, breathed a little sigh, placed a cushion under 
 my head, stretched out my feet and prepared to listen. 
 My luggage had not yet come ; it could not be here for 
 an hour ; it was not yet ten o'clock. Here was a chance 
 for a woman-talk. Mrs. Vane told me almost immedi- 
 ately that she was quite alone, as her husband had gone 
 up to Paris to see his mother. This lady, she added, 
 had telegraphed to him that she needed his immediate 
 presence. ' ' Why, ' ' she said, ' ' I know not. It is, I 
 presume, one of her childish whims." I raised an in- 
 terrogative eyebrow. " Oh," she went on, " I may as 
 well tell you, dearest, that it has been even worse than 
 I expected, yes, worse. She received me with cruel 
 coldness, and all my efforts at conciliation have proved 
 ineffectual. I thought the only people who could not 
 be pardoned were the perfect ones ; but it seems that 
 even my imperfections do not commend me to my 
 mother-in-law.' '
 
 RAKING STRAWS 20 1 
 
 " Tell me about it," I said, comfortably settling my 
 hand under my cheek. La Rochefoucauld was right ; 
 other people's troubles have their piquancy. 
 
 "There isn't much to tell. She is edgy and inelastic. 
 She lives in a small, narrow round, and can see nothing 
 beyond. She belongs to that large class of women, the 
 whole framework of whose virtue seems to consist in 
 unjust severity towards their own sex. To men they 
 are always lenient, to women harsh and uncompro- 
 mising." I nodded my head. "I know them," I 
 said. 
 
 ' ' What will you have ? She is still regretting Alva 
 Greene's ducats. She is a lady, that I must admit. 
 Sometimes she makes me feel that I am not one. I 
 must have made some terrible mistake. Perhaps I 
 tried too hard to please her. You see I I love him 
 so much !" 
 
 Ah, the touch of nature ! I had her hand. 
 
 1 ' It was such a foolish thing I can hardly speak of it, 
 the matter of a pearl pin, and this with my tumult 
 of spirit ! Ah, she has none of that to repress !' ' The 
 cry was genuine. ' ' I went out and bought it for her ; 
 a poor little thing ; but she suffers from cold, she wraps 
 herself up. I thought it would have been useful to 
 hold her shawl. I meant well." She paused ; I pressed 
 her fingers in eager sympathy, ' ' I went there ; it was 
 the third time I saw her. I had it in my breast. I was 
 actually trembling. She had been so icy, but not in- 
 solent, not actually insolent, and then " 
 
 "Then?" 
 
 ' ' Well, she just waived it aside. ' Keep it for your- 
 self,' she said to me. ' I have no use for the thing.' 
 And then then she added, ' You had better not waste 
 your husband's money on such follies.' "
 
 202 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 " I thought you said she was a lady?" 
 
 ' ' She is, in a way. When she says things like that 
 it is in a low voice, and she is never vulgar. No, it is I 
 who became vulgar." 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing then, nothing until night, when Tem- 
 pleton came home. He had been out hunting. Then 
 I just lay in wait for him " 
 
 "And?" 
 
 "Ah !" she said, and her eyes gleamed with a sud- 
 den flame, ' ' this is the awful part of it, I forgot myself. 
 I gave him no chance no chance before he could 
 speak, he adores his mother I criminated myself, 
 made myself the most unforgivable offender." 
 
 ' ' I don' t understand. ' ' She spoke so quickly, with 
 eager breath and dramatic intensity, that I rose from 
 my reclining position. My heart was beating. 
 
 " Yes, yes, that is the misery. It has made the most 
 dreadful trouble." 
 
 "Why, what?" 
 
 ' ' I was in fury. I pounced on him. I denounced 
 her." 
 
 " But what did you say?" 
 
 "He spoke of her invalidism. He was in good 
 humor. He had had fine sport. He didn't get angry 
 at her a bit, not a bit ; but rather found fault with me 
 for being sensitive. Then it was I cried out that dread- 
 ful thing. I said, ' No wonder she is ill. She lives on 
 stimulants. There was but one excuse for her. She 
 had taken too much wine.' ' 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 ' ' You see you yourself are shocked. ' ' 
 
 "Not in the least, my dear; I should have beaten 
 her!"
 
 RAKING STRAWS 203 
 
 "Oh, yes, you are. It was terrible, for he made a 
 rush for me, and he took me by the shoulder. Of 
 course, he was not rough at first, until I had talked on 
 and on and infuriated him ; and then he became as one 
 blind, and he shook me and threw me from him, and 
 gave me the lie, and I hurt my foot against a chair ; 
 and when I cried he didn't seem to care, he wanted to 
 hurt me." 
 
 "Was it a lie?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, of course ! I knew not what I 
 said." 
 
 ' ' But if he loves you ?' ' 
 
 ' ' Yes ; he loves me. ' ' 
 
 "Why, then, it is all forgiven 1" 
 
 " No," she said ; "it is not forgiven.' 
 
 "By him?" 
 
 "No; by me." 
 
 "You think he should always take your part?" 
 
 "No; it is not that." 
 
 "It was his touching you roughly?" 
 
 ' ' No, no ; I have pardoned that. I know what pas- 
 sionate pity means. He pities his mother because she 
 is alone and old and ill, or thinks that she is. But 
 he should have let the stream have vent. There are 
 characters like that ; they must speak or die. Then 
 comes exhaustion, and all is over. After it I was re- 
 lieved. I could have gone back to her, the poor lady, 
 on my hands and knees, slaved for her, cared for her, 
 served her ; but he wouldn' t let me. Oh ! he is hard, 
 hard. He will scarcely let me approach her now." 
 
 "It isn't hardness," I said, decidedly j "it is a lack 
 of intelligence." 
 
 "Intelligence?" 
 
 " Exactly. That I could have told you.
 
 204 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 She shook her head. ' ' I always felt that he lacked 
 perception, but this is so frequent in men. You think 
 it is this, and not coldness of heart ?' ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " He says he hates scenes, and that I make them." 
 
 "Do you often?" 
 
 "Why, no ; I am placid as a lake every day. But 
 there has been one other, one since we were married, 
 one big one, oh, dreadful !" 
 
 "Tell it to me ; it will comfort you." 
 
 " There isn't much comfort in it, but I will tell you 
 about it. This time it was jealousy." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! You must have imagined it." 
 
 "No, listen: I have an enormous hold on him. 
 There was no present jealousy ; this was about the 
 past." 
 
 "Oh, my dear! if you propose to make yourself 
 miserable about men's past, you had better go into a 
 convent and become a religieuse at once. ' ' 
 
 "Why, wouldn't you worry about a man's past?" 
 I squirmed ; the subject was not pleasant. " I will tell 
 you. And first, you know, jealousy is mere jealousy 
 while it feeds on doubts, because it is doubt. When it 
 becomes certainty it becomes anger. That is why the 
 past has such a power, we know its pictures to be 
 real." 
 
 "Not always." 
 
 1 ' This was real, at any rate horrid !' 
 
 ' ' I feel sure you exaggerate. ' ' 
 
 "I couldn't not what I suffered suffer still when 
 I think of it." 
 
 " Don't tell me then." 
 
 "Yes, I will. You don't know, it may save me." 
 
 "Save you?"
 
 RAKING STRAWS 205 
 
 " Yes ; from more misery. It will be a safety-valve." 
 
 "Go on then." 
 
 ' ' I was fussing over some papers of his in an old 
 portfolio. It was there I found those letters." 
 
 "Dear me!" 
 
 "Yes, from her, that awful woman! Don't laugh. 
 If you knew you do know ; you have seen her. You 
 know her name. If she had only been pretty, or 
 young, or anything !' ' 
 
 "I am not sure." 
 
 " No ? Well, perhaps not ; but it is knowing a per- 
 son that is the worst. We know there has been a past, 
 I have had mine, God knows, and so he reminds me, 
 sometimes. But when it is vague it is bearable. It is 
 knowledge that kills. I had seen her in the world. \ 
 knew how she did up her hair ; how she held her hands, 
 walked, spoke ; how she would behave under certain 
 conditions. I had been close to her over and over, 
 talked to her. I knew the shape of her ears. That is 
 why one would be more miserable if it were a friend 
 than a stranger that they had loved or cared about. 
 Imagination has its limits. When you give it food it 
 runs riot. Mine did. How could he ? If you knew ! 
 She has a long nose . . . she is really . . . ancient." 
 
 "And the letters?" 
 
 "Wild love-letters from her to him. I read them." 
 
 " Was he angry ?" 
 
 "Oh, not at that. Any woman would have read 
 them. Why, there they were disgracefully evident, 
 indecently get-at-able ! He thought them destroyed." 
 
 " How shocking ! She must, indeed, be shameless," 
 I said, although unable to conceal a smile. 
 
 "You may say it." 
 
 "Well, but it is all over?" 
 18
 
 206 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 "Oh, yes, seven years ago." 
 
 "Ah, but then " 
 
 " She is still alive !" 
 
 ' ' Where is the creature ?' ' 
 
 "Travelling !" this with a tragic stress. " Gone to 
 Lapland, I hear, on an expedition." 
 
 " Let us hope the sea-lions will devour her !" 
 
 " They couldn't digest her. She's plain, my dear, 
 there is no doubt of that, and ill-shapen. But she has 
 a good skin, although her nose is so pronounced." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You admire her skin, then ?" 
 
 " No, dear, I said ' yes' about the nose." 
 
 ' ' All this would not have mattered if I had not made 
 the most awful fuss." 
 
 " I suppose fuss is hardly the word." 
 
 "Hardly. I just died." 
 
 ' ' And made a row ?' ' 
 
 " I ranted all night. I insulted him." 
 
 "How did he take it?" 
 
 "Mildly at first, as he always does, and at last 
 furious." 
 
 " He did not touch you?" 
 
 "Oh, no ! never never never but that once about 
 his mother. He is the soul of gentleness." 
 
 "Don't you think, then, that you do try him, that 
 you are too exacting, that you ought to control your- 
 self?" 
 
 ' ' Ah !' ' she said, pushing the cushion at my feet on 
 which she sat closer to my knee, and resting her chin 
 upon her palm, looking up into my eyes : ' ' That is 
 just what I wanted to tell you ; that is the sum of all 
 that I am confiding to you. I am controlling myself. 
 I am controlling myself, and it isn't a success. Olga,
 
 RAKING STRAWS 207 
 
 you know how I love, love, love and worship him ! I 
 have made a god of him. He is not my husband, but 
 my lover, my idol. Oh, I was so lonely and so forlorn 
 when he took pity on me ! Oh, my poor hungry heart! 
 One must have waited suffered to know what his love 
 meant for me. He will never know how I have loved 
 him." 
 
 ' ' Loved ! Do you speak in the past tense ?' ' I felt 
 suddenly as if I was commonplace ; that there was not 
 enough storm in me to understand her nature. 
 
 She stirred uneasily : ' ' Why do you imagine I love 
 him less?" 
 
 "Who can say?" 
 
 1 ' What makes you think I should love him less ?' ' she 
 persisted, with a note of insistent anxiety in her tone. 
 
 ' ' I cannot tell your own word. ' ' 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, suddenly, springing to her feet. 
 ' ' You have touched that terror, you have told the truth 
 the truth : I shall love him less if I control myself, if 
 I stifle it all, keep it all in. Why, only last week there 
 was a passing misunderstanding ; all might have been 
 explained. But I feared my own impulse, I feared a 
 ' scene, ' as he calls it. I let it pass. I held my peace. 
 But every time every time that I do, there is some- 
 thing seems to snap within me to loosen. I feel that 
 I am drifting away from him, to indifference, to to 
 despair. I wake in the night, the cold drops upon my 
 forehead. I have dreamed that I wanted to speak and 
 could not." Her words and manner impressed me 
 strongly. 
 
 "Why don't you explain all this to him, make a 
 clean breast of your peculiar nature, give him its key ? 
 How long is it since you have held your peace, avoided 
 scenes, as you say, and kept your own counsel?"
 
 208 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 1 ' Several months. ' ' 
 
 ' ' And you are less happy ?' ' 
 
 "I was in heaven when I felt free with him, when 
 the scene was over ; and they were so rare, so very 
 rare. Don't imagine that we haven't lived in peace 
 together. It was peace nearly always. But now that 
 I keep something back, always, always, he doesn't get 
 all of me, as he used. And the most dreadful thing is 
 he doesn't seem to see it, and I am miserable." 
 
 "And you tell me he is better pleased, more con- 
 tent?" 
 
 "Apparently. Only the other day he took my hand, 
 and after admiring it (he likes my hands), he compli- 
 mented me on my increased tact. He said, ' You are 
 learning to understand me, to make me the existence I 
 desire. I am so grateful, I do so detest quarrels !' and 
 do you know, at that moment when I looked at him, I 
 never liked or loved him less !" 
 
 " What did you say ?" 
 
 She sank down again upon the cushion at my feet, 
 with a discouraged gesture, and her voice fell to a 
 dispirited monotone. ' ' What was there to say ? I 
 expressed gratitude, and told him I was glad he was so 
 content. ' ' 
 
 Before we parted, she made me promise I would on 
 no account speak to him. " He would imagine," she 
 said, ' ' that I had complained, and oh, he is all that I 
 have and want !' ' When I went to my room my heart 
 felt oppressed. I told myself that here were two beings 
 drifting apart, tossed and perhaps wrecked forever 
 through a nervous idiosyncrasy of the one, a trick of 
 temper or of health, and a wilful folly and blindness of 
 the other. I decided, notwithstanding my promise, 
 that if I had the opportunity I would say a word to
 
 RAKING STRAWS 209 
 
 her husband, guardedly of course, and diplomatically. 
 I also decided that life was quite too impracticable, 
 except possibly to peasant women who have no time for 
 introspection, only enough to carry their fagots, stir 
 their soup-pots, and bear their little ones. 
 
 VI. 
 
 LIFE seemed, however, less impossible on the follow- 
 ing morning. It was a bright, pleasant day, and my 
 hostess came down to meet me, looking youthful in her 
 white costume, and with cheeks like ripening peaches. 
 After breakfast we took a short drive ; a band of music 
 lured us to the promenade, where we deserted our 
 low phaeton, and wandered under the trees, to join 
 a group of friends. Mr. Atherton detached himself 
 from among them and came forward with his alert, 
 angular, gentlemanly movement, to join us. One of 
 his young daughters' eyes followed his retiring figure 
 from a neighboring kiosk with an air of evident relief. 
 There was a young man with her, and the measure 
 of cordiality of her smile seemed to change in a per- 
 fectly distinct ratio with the number of steps her father 
 took. 
 
 " I wish Mr. Atherton had a dissipated son," I said, 
 watching Miss Atherton with keen amusement. 
 
 "And why, pray?" 
 
 ' ' To make him appreciate his good little girls. De- 
 pend upon it, dissipated sons have their uses ; they are 
 a discipline to their parents. Parents are unreasonable. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Yes. Do you remember the Nordhoffs ?' ' 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " How kindly they received the gardener's daughter 
 their second son married ?' ' 
 
 o 18*
 
 210 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 " How was that, with all their pride?" 
 
 ' ' Why, the eldest, you see, had married an advent- 
 uress. ' ' 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 Mr. Atherton was at this time paying assiduous court 
 to a young married lady of irreproachable ancestry, 
 position, and morals. She had deserted Newport for 
 six weeks, and had come here, accompanied by her 
 husband and little son, to take mud-baths for her com- 
 plexion. He had followed her. It was to be supposed 
 that she was now steeping herself, since Mr. Atherton 
 had a moment to give to us. 
 
 This lady was celebrated for extreme discretion in 
 discouraging the pursuit of over-warm adorers, without 
 making enemies of them. The women said it was her 
 laugh. Now, there are all kinds of laughter : there is 
 the laugh that is challenging, there is the laugh that is 
 promising ; but Mrs. Remington's was pointed by no 
 challenge and charged with no promise ; it was simply 
 disarming. A certain gentleman of American birth, 
 but foreign breeding, had been frowned down by the 
 young women because of too much boldness of man- 
 ner. This they decried in the heated conclave of their 
 drawing-rooms, and yet inconsequently countenanced 
 by asking the culprit to dine on the following day. 
 He was once, it was said, punished by a peal of this 
 searching, soul-cleansing, purifying laughter, and went 
 forth a wiser, if a sadder, man. 
 
 Mr. Atherton' s present flirtation was a fortunate 
 source of conversation for the perambulant American 
 on this summer's morning. 
 
 "I cannot see the fun of it," said a young widow, 
 who seemed annoyed that so eligible a parti should 
 waste his forces on an already mortgaged person.
 
 RAKING STRAWS 211 
 
 "They sit together for hours; I often wonder what 
 they find to talk about." 
 
 ' ' Oh, my dear, nothing very reprehensible, I will 
 wager," said I. 
 
 ' ' Reprehensible !' ' She sunk her eyes and puckered 
 a shocked lip. 
 
 "Well, what?" 
 
 ' ' Mrs. Remington is a pink of propriety, as well as 
 of elegance ; faultless in conduct as in dress. ' ' 
 
 " I saw her once in a cab with Atherton, crossing the 
 Rond Point," said Alva Greene, from under her 6cru 
 lace parasol. "Was that good taste? I cannot see 
 why a married woman who flirts finds such incon- 
 ceivable delight in abandoning her sumptuous equipage 
 to drive about in dirty cabs with strange gentlemen !" 
 
 "What will you have? It is a morbid appetite," 
 said Singleton Ackley, who had just taken a seat beside 
 us. "The cab, mesdames," he went on, "is the 
 modern gondola " 
 
 "And, therefore, a fit trysting-place for lovers?" I 
 asked. 
 
 ' ' It seems to play its part even with crown princes 
 and royal personages," he answered, smiling. 
 
 " Therefore amen !" 
 
 "Every one is thirsting for joys that life does not 
 hold," sighed the widow. 
 
 "Look at Mrs. Remington's bonnet," said Miss 
 Greene. "There is a joy that life does hold." The 
 lady in question had loomed on the promenade. 
 
 ' ' She has a new one every hour ; one cannot cope 
 with her." 
 
 "Extravagance makes trade," said Singleton Ack- 
 ley, lighting his cigarette ; " it is only a form of benev- 
 olence."
 
 212 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 "The men adore her." 
 
 "She is not too clever," said Singleton: "this is 
 the reason. Intellectual women are frightful bores." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 ' ' They expect to be listened to. ' ' 
 
 "What were women made for if not to be listened 
 to?" 
 
 ' ' A woman ought to be handsome and well 
 groomed." 
 
 " It costs such a lot," said the widow, sighing. 
 
 ' ' Of course, it costs a lot, ' ' said I ; " and so the in- 
 genuous blue-grass cousin finds out when she wanders 
 eastward, imagining that two new gowns will solve the 
 problem." 
 
 " One must be able to discard the failures, and out 
 of ten gowns four or six are always failures," said Miss 
 Greene, decidedly. 
 
 "Yes," said the widow, "and there are the shoes, 
 and the boots, and the stockings, and the lingeries ; the 
 laces and the furs, the sachets and the parasols ; the 
 soaps and creams ; the violet-scented hair-washes ; the 
 dainty, delicate drop upon the handkerchief; the per- 
 fumed bath, the nail-powders. Why, a smart woman 
 has to spend hours among all these things, and the in- 
 nocent suppose that it is all child's play, and no ex- 
 pense !" 
 
 ' ' I would like to see women always splendid, like the 
 Roman empresses," said an impecunious youth with a 
 thin moustache ; "no tailor-made woman for me. I 
 like satins, velvets, jewels." 
 
 ' ' Half the women in the world are slatterns, ' ' said 
 Mr. Ackley. "They make a grave mistake." 
 
 " Surely you do not think low physical attraction the 
 only one !' '
 
 RAKING STRAWS 213 
 
 "It is very strong the charm of an exquisite per- 
 sonality, physical neatness, and sweetness. Depend 
 upon it, Cleopatra's little hand smelt good." 
 
 "Tolstoi says it is all a snare," said Alva Greene. 
 
 " Physical perfection," said Mr. Ackley, "haunts the 
 mind like melodious music and the odor of summer 
 roses. The senses have their memory." 
 
 ' ' After all, it is temperament that attracts, ' ' said Mrs. 
 Vane ; ' ' otherwise women are but like water-flowers, 
 cold to the touch and scentless." 
 
 "Ah, well," said Mr. Ackley, "there is room on 
 the earth even for the scentless ones, it seems. For- 
 tunately, variety is everything everything. Why ex- 
 pect the camellia to be the water-lily, or the sweet-pea 
 the geranium ? No flower and no person can give us 
 every attribute. Look at it in literature. ' She has 
 written a pretty book,' one says, 'but why a novel, 
 when it might have been an essay ? why a song, in- 
 stead of a dirge? why a sonnet? why not a madri- 
 gal ?' I grow so sick of this ' Why, why, why ?' How 
 half-witted is the world ! Let everybody be himself. 
 Give of your best, that is all I ask. People say, ' She 
 gives good dinners, but is not a loyal friend. ' I say, 
 ' Eat her dinner then and lay no claim on her loyalty.' 
 One man is faithful, another sets an excellent table. 
 There is room for both. Society is nothing but a step- 
 ping-stone ; why ask of it religious graces and tran- 
 scendent virtues ? The earth is a very good place. I 
 don't want springs ; I am content with taps. I do not 
 expect to stand on heights, with immensity above me 
 and eagles at my feet. I like comfort, and this place 
 suits me very well." 
 
 And here Templeton Vane drove to the edge of the 
 grass, in his T-cart, threw the reins to his groom, and
 
 214 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 ran up across the grass. He had just arrived from the 
 train. He stopped and kissed his wife's hand. She 
 flushed with a furious pleasure at his unexpected return. 
 ' ' I telegraphed an hour ago to James to meet me, ' ' 
 he said. ' ' I could not keep away from you any longer, 
 dearest ' ' I heard him whisper to her. 
 
 It was with intention that I said a word to him later, 
 when we returned to the villa. He wandered down 
 across his flower-beds, to where I sat under the plantain 
 tree, and he was the first to speak of his married life. 
 ' ' I am very happy, ' ' he said, 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 ' ' Yes ; very much more than at first. Madeline is 
 beginning to understand me better. ' ' 
 
 " Did she not at first?" I asked, secretly impatient. 
 
 1 ' The dear girl was inclined to make a fuss about 
 things. Do you know, Mrs. Leigh, I often think it is 
 your influence that has been so admirable. ' ' 
 
 "My influence!" 
 
 "Yes ; you are a woman of the world, a woman of 
 so much wisdom. Madeline had very little. It was 
 the only defect of an otherwise most lovable char- 
 acter." 
 
 1 ' You always said she was lovable. ' ' 
 
 ' ' And I was right ahem ! More so now than ever, 
 that I have ... er ... trained her, as it were, to 
 suit me." 
 
 "She suits you then, now ? She understands you ?" 
 
 "Yes, lately, perfectly." 
 
 "And you," I said, turning round and fixing his 
 amiable, clear eye with my own, sharply. " And you? 
 Do you suit her ? Do you understand her ?' ' 
 
 He shifted his position and opened his mouth ; his
 
 RAKING STRAWS 215 
 
 jaw fell and he remained speechless. ' ' Tell me !' ' I 
 leaned forward clasping my hands. He had a puzzled 
 line between the roots of his hair and his shapely nose. 
 ' ' Why do you ask such an odd question ?' ' he said to 
 me after a short pause. 
 
 "Oh, idle curiosity, no more. It cannot be true, 
 can it, that between two hearts that have won each 
 other, there is sometimes a wide chasm that nothing 
 can bridge?" I felt indignant with the man and pro- 
 voked at the fetters of my promise to Mrs. Vane. I 
 rose. He sprang to his feet and seized one of my 
 hands. "Why do you say this to me?" he asked, 
 frowning. 
 
 "If you are an artist," I answered him, "who has 
 undertaken to play on a difficult instrument, be sure 
 beforehand that you are strong and skilful. Nothing is 
 so pitiable in that line, my dear friend, as a poor per- 
 formance. If you are a man of action, who has sworn 
 to vanquish at all costs, why do not fail, like Napoleon 
 at Waterloo. And now I am going in to rest." I felt 
 that I had been enigmatic ; but what could one say 
 to a man so sunk in the contemplation of his own 
 sagacity ? 
 
 On the following day I left them standing side by 
 side upon their porch, as they waved their adieux to 
 me. She clung to me a little at parting, and she whis- 
 pered a word in my ear with a blush. I had suspected 
 her secret, and kissed her tenderly, not, however, with- 
 out a sudden unaccountable anxiety in my soul. There 
 was a wistful look in her eyes and a tear, as I drove 
 away. I saw her turn and look up appealingly at her 
 husband, putting out her hand towards him, as if seek- 
 ing his to clasp. But he was giving an order to a ser- 
 vant, who was coming up the pathway, and he did not
 
 2l6 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 notice her gesture. His back was half turned to me, 
 and his own hands were thrust into the pockets of his 
 short, admirably-fitting morning-coat. He drew it for- 
 ward thus over his comfortable hips, clearly defining 
 the lines of his fine, stoutish figure. He looked a per- 
 fectly self-satisfied human being. 
 
 VII. 
 
 WE had a quiet sea and azure heavens all the way 
 across the waters. A commercial traveller who had 
 squared himself into his camp-stool, on the first morn- 
 ing, with a groan and a "whatever way you look at 
 it, it's aweary ride !" had taken heart of grace. He 
 smoked his pipe assiduously, and played at nine-pins 
 with the betting men who infested the deck of an after- 
 noon, as if he, on the whole, rather enjoyed the dreaded 
 tedium, which meant to his ceaseless activity seven days 
 of rest. His heavy laugh came ever and anon, wafted 
 across the gaping red mouths of the ventilators, whose 
 greasy breath puffed out above me where I crouched 
 with sea-sick smiles. I used to watch these distant 
 revels, in which my husband occasionally took a digni- 
 fied part. When weary of this I chatted with Dr. 
 Elsworth. He was a man whom I knew slightly in 
 New York, but rarely met there. He was an eccentric 
 person of about fifty, reputed to be a scholar and a 
 student. He had served in the army during the war, 
 and had kept the habit of displaying his bulky form 
 in a military cloak ; and of covering his locks with a 
 wide sombrero, which he seemed to imagine the casque 
 of a war-god. Shy, retiring, with the reticence which 
 passes for modesty, he was, in fact, intensely vain. 
 He longed for appreciation, and begged for it on all
 
 RAKING STRAWS 217 
 
 occasions. He was handsome, with a broad, ungraceful 
 comeliness. He had a mild eye, kindly lips, a large, 
 benevolent, guileless brow. Without one spark of 
 natural genius or even of spontaneous talent, he had 
 risen to a sort of unproductive eminence, through an 
 appalling devotion to detail and to study. Just now he 
 had a fine medical frenzy upon him. Although he had 
 graduated in his youth an M.D., he had never practised. 
 He had lately attended a convention of medical men in 
 Germany. He was full of their ideas and his own, and 
 we talked one day about the theories of a celebrated 
 physician, an alienist, who had lately delivered a bril- 
 liant course of lectures. We were discussing the fact, 
 so often stated, that every one is more or less insane. 
 
 "Professor Lay," said the doctor in his monotone, 
 ' ' makes a physiological classification. His principle 
 is that an order of morbid phenomena in insanity is 
 identical with that of health phenomena modified. The 
 ancients thought and wrote much on these subjects. 
 Aretaeus recognized mania and dementia. Dr. Ar- 
 nold classifies ideal, notional, and pathetic insanity. 
 Esquirol, the pupil of Pinel, tells us that monomania 
 is the disorder of the faculties limited to one of a small 
 number of objects, the predominance of a gay expan- 
 siveness being one form, while the most common is 
 grandiose monomania." 
 
 While he spoke I rebuked my husband for a lack of 
 indignation at the carelessness and want of neatness of 
 one of the deck-stewards, and finding it impossible to 
 excite his wrath, I flung at him my usual accusation, 
 ' ' You are phlegmatic !' ' 
 
 "Hold! hold! my dear lady," said Dr. Elsworth. 
 " Nobody really is phlegmatic." 
 
 ' ' Why, what do you mean ?' ' 
 K 19
 
 2l8 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 "Exactly this: one person screams and cries out, 
 and is relieved. The other holds his peace and gets 
 neurosis. ' ' 
 
 "Why, what an odd idea !" 
 
 ' ' Depend upon it, there is something in it. I have 
 been studying these theories." 
 
 As he droned on, somehow my thoughts reverted to 
 Mrs. Vane. He was still talking upon these matters, 
 when the stars came out in the black-blue heights of 
 the serene dome over our heads. I wondered if I my- 
 self had not done injustice to some of the silent sufferers 
 about me, to my good husband, for instance, who was 
 always tranquil as a god. But one hates to be pinned 
 to acknowledge one has been wrong, to make any 
 concessions. Right or wrong, one does like to stick 
 to one's convictions. I still felt inclined to believe 
 that a heart that could not overflow in speech or action 
 was too feeble for emotion. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE next time that I heard of Madeline it was at a 
 dinner party. I had gone rather unwillingly to this 
 banquet. When we returned to the drawing-room after 
 dinner I found myself in a group of young women not 
 especially pleasing or congenial to me. One of them, 
 indeed, I knew but slightly, and perhaps on this account 
 admired. I might have found her sufficiently interest- 
 ing to detain in conversation, had she not almost in- 
 stantly withdrawn from the rest of us, to look at a case 
 of miniatures which stood at the farther end of the 
 apartment. She was ostensibly examining these por- 
 traits, which dainty trifles were exhibited in a wide or- 
 molu cabinet ; but I think that we probably bored her.
 
 RAKING STRAWS 219 
 
 We were all married women except one maiden of 
 thirty-two summers, who was herself shortly to enter 
 into the coveted privileges of the madame. She had 
 been extremely handsome, and still dressed and posed 
 for a beauty ; but it was said of her beauty that a num- 
 ber of vicissitudes of the heart had left scars upon it. 
 I have already mentioned her name : it was Alva 
 Greene. 
 
 She was recounting to a somewhat restive listener 
 the culminating experience of her lot, and the perfec- 
 tions of the happy suitor she was about to bless. ' ' There 
 is no question about it," she was saying, "and you 
 know if I am credulous he simply never looked at 
 another woman." 
 
 ' ' Really ?' ' The lady she addressed, a sharp-eyed, 
 thin-lipped brunette, glanced at her with that profound 
 distrust with which one woman views the passion that 
 another inspires. 
 
 "Never!" (this aggressively.) "It gives one such 
 security, such peace." Miss Greene thought the best 
 defence was to be herself the attacking party. 
 
 ' ' I have heard he was devoted to his first wife, ' ' said 
 the brunette, ' ' which is always an excellent guarantee 
 of the future." 
 
 There was a moment's painful silence. " Devoted 
 is a mere word," said Miss Greene, irritably. " Kind, 
 of course, he was. He is the soul of honor and gen- 
 tlemanliness. She was a puny, fretful invalid. He had 
 her looked after, of course. ' ' 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 The ripe maiden blushed and smiled coyly. " But 
 when he saw me, it was at the Greshams dance, you 
 know, last year " 
 
 " I remember it."
 
 220 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 "It was a thunderbolt instantaneous. He never 
 had felt love before. ' ' 
 
 " Fancy !" The ejaculation savored of a slight 
 irony. Surely such confidence deserved a better 
 faith. 
 
 " His has been a life singularly free from ... I 
 mean exemplary in every respect. No women at all, 
 no complications of that sort. First, his career, and 
 then exercise. It is wonderful, with such an intellect, 
 his love for manly sports." 
 
 "How old is he?" asked the other lady, abruptly, 
 stirring nervously in her chair, and propping up her 
 long chin upon a tanned Suede hand. 
 
 " Forty-nine." 
 
 "Only that?" 
 
 ' ' Why ? doesn' t he look much younger ? Every- 
 body says so." 
 
 " He varies." 
 
 " Ah, he is true, true and pure." 
 
 "Oh, my dear ! Of course, one's lover is all these 
 things, always like one's mother," and the lady 
 laughed rather unpleasantly. 
 
 " Do you think me easily duped ?" asked thejfg8&, 
 in an offended whisper. 
 
 "My dear, why do you ask me such a quaint 
 question ?' ' 
 
 " You seem to think ..." 
 
 ' ' I should suppose, being so beloved, you would 
 not care what people thought. I should be quite 
 indifferent if I had the luck to inspire such senti- 
 ments." 
 
 ' ' Of course, you understand that a woman of my 
 charm and accustomed to such a lot of attention would 
 refuse to put up with another woman's leavings."
 
 RAKING STRAWS 221 
 
 "Why, of course, my dear ! Only you know peo- 
 ple are so nasty, they never will think or say what we 
 want them to." 
 
 The virgin raised her eyes and looked at her friend 
 with a gleam of resentment. ' ' They may say what 
 they like. I never saw such mad devotion. His 
 pursuit was simply terrific, although, of course, always 
 full of respect and even of formality," she added, 
 apologetically. 
 
 " I should think you would have been frightened." 
 
 ' ' Well, almost, at first ; but now, of course, he is 
 calmer :" this with another coy shiver. 
 
 ' ' Yes, naturally ; the approach of marriage is always 
 a sedative. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I suppose persons judge from their own experi- 
 ence." Resentment is accumulative. 
 
 ' ' My own experience tells me that it is effectively 
 calming." 
 
 ' ' That depends on how one begins. Now I do not 
 intend to make a mess of my husband's life." 
 
 ' ' Of course not ; you have had such a nice long time 
 to make all your plans. / was married extremely 
 young." This was too much, and the bride-elect rose 
 hastily and joined me and a doll-like little lady who was 
 recounting the bewildering fascinations of her first-born 
 infant. " He has such a fat little leg you can't im- 
 agine ! and he crows so, and shuts up one eye. He is 
 the very image of Theodore, just his father's nose. 
 Don't you remember that dent between the nostrils? 
 Isn't it odd that children should resemble their father? 
 It is inconceivable. I asked the doctor about it. He 
 says there is some scientific reason. He explained it as 
 best he could ; it was most instructive. He is exactly 
 like his father, too, in character, in everything, the 
 
 19*
 
 222 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 same strong will and tenacity of purpose, with self- 
 respect, ambition, dignity." 
 
 "How old is he?" I asked, quoting the question 
 which had lately been put on the other side of the 
 lamp-shade, across the palm-tree. 
 
 "Eight weeks." 
 
 ' ' And all these traits already developed ! Why, he 
 must indeed be a marvel of precocity !" 
 
 1 ' Yes. Crumpet, the English nurse, says it is an 
 unusual case ; she never saw anything like it before." 
 
 I commended Crumpet' s sagacity and insight. 
 
 ' ' She is excellent, and so cheery, and likes the place. 
 We took her from Lady de Horton. Lady de Horton's 
 baby was called James John De Courcy Peveril of the 
 Peak Drummond." 
 
 "Poor baby!" 
 
 "He was never allowed cow's milk, although his 
 mother ..." 
 
 I had kept one ear upon the dialogue across the 
 lamp, and now, seeing the betrothed making a double- 
 quick advance in my direction on the points of her 
 high-heeled satin shoes, I took refuge behind a screen, 
 and sank on a sofa, beside a lady to whom I had been 
 presented by our hostess on my arrival. The latter had 
 since informed me, in a voice tinged with acute suffer- 
 ing, that this . . . person . . . was the widow of 
 ' ' dear Charlie Lomax, you know, who was killed at 
 Snake's Creek, in an Indian engagement," and that 
 the said Mrs. Lomax was inconveniently in town from 
 Snakeville, Oregon, and had been crushed in at this 
 dinner, at the last moment, and under protest. " He 
 married her out there, you know," she added, as she 
 looked across at her relative, with a tormented eye. 
 " Would you mind saying just a little tiny word to her,-
 
 RAKING STRAWS 223 
 
 by and by? She doesn't know a soul, and the women 
 are so horrid to strangers !" She stopped to take 
 breath, and I noticed that she had a good deal more to 
 say, but that, after an instant's reflection, she concluded 
 it was not well-bred to criticise a guest. She had grace- 
 fully glided on. I good-naturedly promised to devote 
 myself, after dinner, to the Snakeville widow, and now 
 proceeded to win my spurs. I approached the fair 
 unknown with a somewhat patronizing manner, and 
 laudable purpose of affability, but she did not meet 
 my advances with the embarrassed delight which my 
 civilities should have commanded. 
 
 " It's awfully hot in this parlor !" was her first greet- 
 ing, in a tone in which there lurked a certain combative 
 quality. I offered her my fan. "Thanks; I've got 
 one myself." She had early in the evening attracted 
 my attention by her extreme prettiness, the youthful- 
 ness of her appearance, and the peculiarities of her cos- 
 tume. It is needless to say that all the other women 
 were in full dress, and some of them even in diaphanous 
 ball-gowns, crowned with flowers, intending to be driven 
 straight from the dinner to an early dance, without 
 change of raiment. But Mrs. Lomax was not in a ball- 
 gown. It would have been indeed difficult to determine 
 for what peculiar function her accoutrement had been 
 constructed. She had on a species of loose shirt or 
 blouse, which met a skirt fulled at the hips with a wisp 
 of gold. It was as shapeless as a domino, or the petti- 
 coat of a dancing dervish. It was made of some flimsy 
 summer fabric, and was of a faint green color. As she 
 moved, one had an uncomfortable sensation that she 
 had possibly forgotten to put on her underclothes, and 
 one hoped the draught from the door would not convert 
 this half-acknowledged fear into certainty. The shirt,
 
 224 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 which reached her creamy throat, was fastened by a bit 
 of white lace, and a large round seed-pearl brooch. 
 
 Her hair, profuse and golden, was cut short, and 
 curled all over her head. It stood straight out like a 
 halo or arch, from one small ear to the other, thus 
 framing her high, pale forehead. It was generously 
 decked with a scattering of seed-pearls. On her feet 
 she wore light-green stockings and black velvet slippers 
 with large buckles. The tender tone of her com- 
 plexion, which was of a soft ivory tint, was rudely dis- 
 pelled by a color on each cheek-bone, so distinctly 
 unnatural that one felt thankful the shaded lamps 
 blended the effect with merciful discretion. But the 
 scarlet curves of her moist young lips were genuine. 
 She wore very tight lavender seamless gloves, not en- 
 tirely drawn on at the ends of the fingers, and from a 
 ring and chain on her little finger there depended a lace 
 pocket-handkerchief, trimmed at its edge with a wide 
 lace flounce. 
 
 Notwithstanding her remarkable outfit, and in spite 
 of it, she was the handsomest person present. Her pro- 
 file had the regularity of a carved cameo. Her wide, 
 deep eyes, with their curled lashes, were singularly ex- 
 pressive. Her face offered the mixture of types repre- 
 sented by Greek art and the more piquant modernity 
 of the French masters. Her eyes, at present, were filled 
 with infinite disdain. I asked her, to make conver- 
 sation, if she had seen our host's collection of minia- 
 tures. 
 
 She bit her lip. ' ' I looked at them for a while, 
 before dinner, ' ' she said. ' ' They are awful. I can do 
 better than that myself." 
 
 ' ' Have you studied art abroad ?' ' 
 
 ' ' Bless me, yes ! I took three years in an atelier in
 
 RAKING STRAWS 22$ 
 
 Paris, first on still-life, then from the nude. I can do 
 very well in oils, and those little heads, too. ' ' 
 
 "Have you travelled much?" I asked, suavely. 
 
 " Oh, yes. I have been everywhere ; I went around 
 the world with my brother ; he was engineering. Why, 
 it was in Russia I met the colonel." I presumed the 
 "colonel" was her dead lord. "Yes," she went on, 
 ' ' we got engaged at Tsarkoe S61o, in the grotto they 
 call Caprice." 
 
 This was unusual, romantic, and I said so. 
 
 "Ah," she sighed, "yes! It was romantic. I've 
 had a lot of that in my life. When you've travelled 
 round and then been on the plains and at army-posts, 
 and hunting buffaloes, a place like New York seems 
 awfully tame. I kind of pity you all here !" 
 
 I agreed that we were, in fact, very tame, chimney 
 sparrows, house-flies, tepid and insignificant, hopping 
 about hopelessly in search of entertainment. 
 
 "I've led a queer life," she went on, "and had a 
 lot of trouble ; but it was not dull a bit. What a horrid 
 smell those lamps make !" she added, widening the 
 delicate nostrils of her perfect nose. 
 
 ' ' We think these French things an improvement on 
 gas ; but I see one is turned up too high." 
 
 ' ' We only use the electric in Snakeville ; we consider 
 these oils offensive. But, then, the residences there 
 are so large." 
 
 Residences ! I knew Snakeville. I saw it. I knew 
 that no one got up there, and no one went to bed ; but 
 that every one "rose," and every one "retired," and, 
 in fact, that the most trifling detail of life was enacted 
 with august and solemn elegance. No one lived in 
 Snakeville ; people " resided." There were no houses, 
 but "palatial residences." 
 P
 
 226 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 "This is a charming drawing-room don't you think 
 so ?" I said, lowering my voice, lest our hostess should 
 overhear our criticisms. "Don't you find this Louis 
 Seize room admirably carried out?" 
 
 " It seems mighty small to me," said Mrs. Lomax ; 
 "why Senator Packer's is a regular castle, all white 
 marble and an onyx staircase, with a gold railing to it. 
 They have got a gallery a hundred feet long, with the 
 most splendid pictures, Meissoniers and G6romes and 
 all that. His wife, Mrs. Packer, is a very fine woman ; 
 did you ever chance to meet her? She's very dressy. 
 I happened to call on her once when she was retiring. 
 She had me called to her room. She had on a brocade 
 night-gown covered with crystal drops ; it was made in 
 Paris. Did you ever meet her ?' ' she repeated. 
 
 I had never met Mrs. Packer, and so I informed her, 
 adding that the Snakeville ladies must indeed be very 
 superb if they went to bed encrusted with crystals. 
 Whether she thought my remark impertinent, I cannot 
 tell ; but she flushed and frowned. 
 
 "When we retire to our bedchambers," she an- 
 swered, ' ' we are not in the habit of receiving company ; 
 but Mrs. Packer is always very dressy, whether she is 
 at parties or on the street. I have seen nothing here 
 that came up to her," and her regard rested with ill- 
 disguised contempt upon Miss Greene's severe satin. 
 
 My amiable intentions of condescension having been 
 rudely quelled, and finding myself strangely uncom- 
 fortable and ill at ease, I ventured timidly to inquire if 
 she considered Miss Greene handsome. 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Lomax, shaking her yellow curls ; 
 "at least, she wouldn't pass for such out in Oregon. I 
 reckon out there she wouldn't get much attention, not 
 at her age. She's fady-looking, but I think all the
 
 RAKING STRAWS 227 
 
 New York women look that way, sort of frayed out." 
 I involuntarily cast a furtive glance at myself in a 
 neighboring mirror ; she was right ; we were ' ' frayed 
 out ;' ' I felt it coming on like a fit of ague. 
 
 "And what do you think of our men? Do they 
 please you better ?' ' I asked. 
 
 Her scarlet cheek turned quickly to my question. 
 ' ' I think they are dreadfully dumb all those I have 
 met, at least." 
 
 " Are the gentlemen in Snakeville so eloquent?" 
 
 She laughed; yes, she was very lovely. "They 
 know a handsome woman when they see her, and how 
 to make her realize it," she answered. "That is some- 
 thing more than the men here seem to fathom." 
 
 " They tell her so ?" 
 
 "Well, they are not backward." 
 
 " I am sure, then, you must have had many such 
 declarations." 
 
 "Oh, my share, when I was a girl! I have only 
 begun to go out again lately, since I took off my black 
 for the colonel." 
 
 "Has any one heard anything more about Mrs. 
 Vane ?' ' a voice spoke on the other side of the screen. 
 
 "Why?" asked I, emerging startled, "what is there 
 to hear about Mrs. Vane?" 
 
 " Why, don't you know?" said the others in chorus ; 
 "we thought you were her intimate friend." I had not 
 heard and told them so. 
 
 "Well," said the first speaker, in a distrait tone, one 
 eye on the door, from which shortly would emerge a 
 pair of broad shoulders she was supposed to be waiting 
 for, ' ' her baby was born too soon, and she has gone 
 mad." 
 
 "Mad?" I started, shaken to the heart.
 
 228 RAKING STRAWS 
 
 "Well, no, not exactly that, but a sort of melan- 
 choly. They cannot rouse her." 
 
 " I heard it was monomania." 
 
 "Why, what?" 
 
 * ' That she fancies she must not tell something that 
 is on her mind, I know not what. Lillie Lawton saw 
 her says it is so sad." 
 
 "It was a miserable match for him," said Alva 
 Greene ; ' ' she had not a sou. His mother tried to 
 break it up, but he would not listen. There were stories 
 about her before, were there not?" 
 
 " Oh, lots of them ! Her husband drank." 
 
 ' ' Do you call that a story about her ?' ' 
 
 "You can't tell; she may have driven him to 
 it." 
 
 "But that is only a surmise." 
 
 " His mother did not wish him to marry one of those 
 women about whom there are . . . surmises." 
 
 " Naturally. Wasn't there some story about a man 
 in love with her ?' ' 
 
 ' ' Since when is it a crime for a woman to have a man 
 in love with her ?' ' 
 
 ' ' My dear, you are not aware that at that time she 
 was a married woman ?' ' said Miss Greene. 
 
 ' ' Pshaw ! If she was fascinating, she couldn' t help 
 herself!" 
 
 " She was fascinating, to men." 
 
 " Lillie Lawton says it's quite shocking, she looks so 
 dreadfully, and never will speak, never opens her lips. 
 He is in despair, sits all day outside her door, listen- 
 ing, listening. The most awful thing is . . . ' 
 
 "Outside her door?" 
 
 "Yes. She has taken a violent dislike to him, and 
 shrinks from him as if she feared him."
 
 RAKING STRAWS 229 
 
 " How lamentable, when he broke his mother's heart 
 to marry her, and heaped everything upon her !" 
 
 " But wasn't she always rather queer ?" 
 
 "I don't know; she was awfully attractive, yes, 
 queer, I think ; no doubt eccentric. She posed for a 
 femme incomprise" 
 
 ' ' Perhaps she was one, ' ' said a quiet voice. It was 
 that of the lady whom I admired, and who had sat 
 apart over the miniatures. 
 
 And I, who loved Madeline, rose quickly and hurried 
 towards her, lest the others should see my tears. 
 
 20
 
 The Moujik 
 
 OUT of the dusk they stepped together, out of 
 the dimness of smoking incense and swinging 
 lamps, of grim ikons and white-robed choristers, of 
 chanting priests and bowed worshippers. They were 
 the nearer to each other because they were both strangers 
 in that far land of snow and ice whose splendor and 
 coldness had shot its mystic chill into their hearts. 
 Together, I say, they came out of the deep, warm 
 cathedral into the pallid glow of the winter's evening, 
 into the vagueness of the snowy street, into the lonely 
 stillness of the deserted square ; and those strange 
 anthems of an immortal melancholy seemed to pursue 
 their hurrying, belated feet. Yet her eyes were full of 
 sunshine as she swayed like a shadowy lily, tall and 
 elegant in her rich furs, against the western light. 
 
 Under the sleeping Neva sighed the tides, and the 
 birds calling to each other were fleeing fast. She smiled, 
 but he was grave, and they spoke of many things to- 
 gether. He taught her of this curious nation, with its 
 poverty and its riches, its ignorance and its insight, and 
 of that superstitious rite whose hush was still upon 
 them. " It is a sublime caprice," he said. 
 
 Just then, passing from pavement to pavement, a 
 230
 
 THE MOUJIK 231 
 
 plaint reached them, a child's plaint, loud and passion- 
 ate, borne on the wind-gust that brushed them with its 
 wing. They looked up. Leaning against the railing, 
 where the white drifts had massed themselves in waves 
 of a strange loveliness, stood a little boy. He was 
 weeping bitterly, wringing his hands, filling earth and 
 air with his distress. Swiftly they moved to where he 
 stood. By his side lay a broken image, a small, white, 
 plaster thing, such as Italian venders carry on their 
 heads and sell in the thoroughfares of great cities. She 
 stooped and spoke to him : 
 
 ' ' So you have broken it, my little lad ? What was it 
 worth?" and her companion began to unbutton his 
 military coat, fumbling in his breast for his pocket-book. 
 
 " Dvar rublf:" sobbed the child. 
 
 He was a dirty little moujik, with a round face roughed 
 by the weather. His eyes gleamed large and dark under 
 his greasy old fur cap. His miserable touloupe was 
 caught about his strong young loins by a wisp of hemp 
 rope. 
 
 In a moment the sum he named, with a generous 
 surplus, was pushed into one of his icy hands. Then 
 instantly, with a piercing cry of joy which rent the 
 twilight mists, the little fellow fell on the snow at their 
 feet. He lay face downward, and three times his head 
 rose and fell. 
 
 ' ' What has happened to him ?' ' said the lady, 
 frightened. 
 
 But in a moment she had seen. His lips were moving; 
 he was beating his hands upon his heart and crossing 
 himself with vehemence. When he sprang once more 
 to his feet he was still praying, nay, giving his thanks 
 to Heaven ; there was a rapt look on his face. To his 
 benefactor he accorded only one timid upward glance
 
 2 3 2 
 
 THE MOUJIK 
 
 of gratitude. Then, gathering his poor garments about 
 him, he ran away quickly and disappeared in the falling 
 gloom. 
 
 "Ah," said the lady, "my friend, where shall we 
 find again, you and I, the beautiful faith of this child 
 soul?" 
 
 "If it be folly, it is a divine one," said her com- 
 panion. 
 
 She remained silent, and they walked onward, saying 
 no more words. But upon her eyelashes a tear had 
 frozen.
 
 AUTHORS AND THEIR 
 
 WORKS OF 
 
 Fiction. 
 
 
 
 Selected from the Catalogue of 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 
 i 
 
 COMPLETE CATALOGUE SENT 
 UPON APPLICATION. 
 
 H
 
 Authors and Their Works. 
 
 JULIEN GORDON. 
 
 "Now and then, to prove to men perhaps also to prove to 
 themselves what they can do if they dare and will, one of these 
 gifted women detaches herself from her sisters, enters the arena 
 -with men, to fight for the highest prizes, and as the brave Gotz 
 says of Brother Martin, ' shames many a knight S To this race 
 of conquerors belongs to-day one of the first living writers of 
 novels and romances, Julien Gordon." 
 
 FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN. 
 
 Poppsea. 
 
 A Diplomat's Diary. 
 A Successful Man. 
 Vampires, and Mademoiselle Reseda. 
 
 Two stories in one book. 
 larno. Cloth, $1.00 per vol. 
 
 "The cleverness and lightness of touch which characterized 
 'A Diplomat's Diary' are not wanting in the later work of the 
 American lady who writes under the pseudonyme of Julien Gordon. 
 In her former story the dialogue is pointed and alert, the characters 
 are clear-cut and distinct, and the descriptions picturesque. As 
 for the main idea of ' A Successful Man, ' the intersection of two 
 wholly different strata of American life, one fast and fashionable, 
 the other domestic and decorous, it is worked out with much skill 
 and alertness of treatment to its inevitably tragic issue." N. Y. 
 World. 
 
 J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.
 
 Authors and Their Works. 
 
 ANNE H. WHARTON. 
 
 Through Colonial Doorways. 
 
 With Number of Colonial Illustrations from Drawings specially 
 made for the Work. 
 
 1 2 mo. Cloth, $1.35. 
 
 "It is a pleasant retrospect of fashionable New York and 
 Philadelphia society during and immediately following the Revo- 
 lution ; for there was a Four Hundred even in those days, and 
 some of them were Whigs and some were Tories, but all enjoyed 
 feasting and dancing, of which there seemed to be no limit. And 
 this little book tells us about the belles of the Philadelphia 
 meschianza, who they were, how they dressed, and how they 
 flirted with Major Andr' and other officers in Sir William Howe's 
 wicked employ." Philadelphia Record. 
 
 Colonial Days and Dames. 
 
 With Numerous Illustrations. 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 
 
 "In less skilful hands than those of Anne Hollingsworth 
 Wharton's, these scraps of reminiscences from diaries and letters 
 would prove but dry bones. But she has made them so charming 
 that it is as if she had taken dried roses from an old album and 
 freshened them into bloom and perfume. Bach slight paragraph 
 from a letter is framed in historical sketches of local affairs or with 
 some account of the people who knew the letter writers, or were at 
 least of their date, and there are pretty suggestions as to how and 
 why such letters were written, with hints of love affairs, which 
 lend a rose-colored veil to what were probably every-day matters 
 in colonial families." Pittsburg Bulletin. 
 
 The Colonial Library. 
 
 Through Colonial Doorways and Colonial Days 
 and Dames. 
 
 Two volumes in a box. I2mo. Cloth, $2.50. 
 
 J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.
 
 Authors and Their Works. 
 
 AMELIE RIVES. 
 
 The Quick or the Dead? 
 
 1 2 mo. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " To me her novels are of the greatest interest and value : they 
 have suggested new trains of thought ; given me new ideas ; opened 
 up new vistas in fact, their reading has been not only pleasurable, 
 but profitable." New York Herald. 
 
 The Witness of the Sun. 
 
 1 2 mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 "The wide discussion created by Miss Rives's 'Quick or the 
 Dead?' has caused a great demand for her new work, which, in 
 several respects, is superior to her first novel. The dramatic situ- 
 ations are stronger, the characters are more carefully drawn, and 
 there is less luxuriousness of expression." Norristown Herald. 
 
 Barbara Dering. 
 
 A Sequel to "The Quick or the Dead?" i2mo. Paper, 
 50 cents; cloth, $1.25. 
 
 "Many of the people who objected to the character of her work 
 before will object again ; but, on the other hand, many men and 
 women will be deeply impressed by the new story, will own to 
 themselves, if not to others, that she has spoken the truth, that 
 her characters are true to life ; will agree with her conclusions, and 
 some will thank her for having done a good deed. The book is 
 brilliantly written from the stand-point of a young woman of ob- 
 servation, experience, feeling, and strong convictions, and will 
 'strike home' in the hearts of many readers." St. Paul Dispatch. 
 
 J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.
 
 Authors and Their Works. 
 
 MARIE CORELLI. 
 
 Barabbas. 
 
 A Dream of the World's Tragedy, 
 lamo. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " A book which aroused in some quarters more violent hostility 
 than any book of recent years. By most secular critics the au- 
 thoress was accused of bad taste, bad art, and gross blasphemy ; 
 but, in curious contrast, most of the religious papers acknowledged 
 the reverence of treatment and the dignity of conception which 
 characterized the work." London Athen&um. 
 
 " It is a remarkable story in many ways, bold yet reverent in its 
 handling of the great and solemn facts of the trial, crucifixion, and 
 resurrection of Jesus, striking in its fresh and sympathetic repre- 
 sentations of Judas, Barabbas, and others, uplifting in its tender 
 and beautiful conception of Christ, and brilliant in its descrip- 
 tions." Boston Congregationalism 
 
 Vendetta ; 
 
 Or, The Story of One Forgotten. 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 "It is a thrilling and irresistibly charming book." Baltimore 
 American. 
 
 "The story is Italian, the time 1884, and the precise stage of the 
 acts, Naples, during the last visitation of the cholera. A romance, 
 but a romance of reality. No mind of man can imagine incidents 
 so wonderful, so amazing as those of actual occurrence. While the 
 story is exciting, and must be read through when once begun, it 
 furnishes a vivid and impressive picture of Italian life and morals." 
 Washington National Republican. 
 
 J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.
 
 Authors and Their Works. 
 
 "THE DUCHESS. 
 
 Peter's Wife. 
 
 Lady Patty. A Little Irish Girl. 
 
 The Hoyden. 
 
 izrno. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 Phyllis. Mrs. Geoffrey. 
 
 Molly Bawn. Portia. 
 
 Airy Fairy Lilian. Loys, Lord Berresford, and 
 Beauty's Daughters. other Stories. 
 
 Faith and Unfaith. Rossmoyne. 
 
 Doris. A Mental Struggle. 
 
 O Tender Dolores/* Lady Valworth's Diamonds. 
 
 A Maiden All Forlorn. Lady Branksmere. 
 
 In Durance Vile. A Modern Circe. 
 
 The Duchess. The Honourable Mrs. Vere- 
 Marvel. ker. 
 
 Jerry, and other Stories. Under-Currents. 
 A Life's Remorse. 
 
 Bound only in Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " 'The Duchess' has well deserved the title of being: one of the 
 most fascinating novelists of the day. The stories written by her 
 are the airiest, lightest, and brightest imaginable ; full of wit, 
 spirit, and gayety, yet containing touches of the most exquisite 
 pathos. There is something good in all of them." London 
 Academy. 
 
 J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.
 
 Authors and Their Works. 
 
 ALBERT D. VANDAM. 
 
 My Paris Note- Book. 
 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 
 
 "This new volume by the author of ' An Englishman in Paris,' 
 is one of the most readable of the books of the year. It abounds 
 in the brightest of sketches, in the most interesting of gossip, in 
 the most vivid of descriptions of the altogether unique Paris under 
 the third republic." Boston Daily Advertiser. 
 
 "The book, which comes to us from the Ifipplncott's, is fully as 
 entertaining as its predecessor, and is quite as rich in illustrative 
 anecdotes of eminent men and important events. We are again 
 brought into intimate relations with Louis Napoleon ; we are taken 
 behind the scenes of the Comedie Francaise ; we make the ac- 
 quaintance of Renan, Paul de Kock, Thiers, Jules Gre"vy, in a 
 word, the most interesting phases of recent and contemporary 
 French life are exposed to us by one who has known the boule- 
 vards for almost forty years, and who has had, besides, the use of 
 certain valuable reminiscences recorded by two maternal grand- 
 uncles, who lived on terms of intimacy with Napoleon III." 
 Philadelphia Press. 
 
 The Mystery of the Patrician Club. 
 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 "The man who could write 'An Englishman in Paris' must be 
 entertaining, no matter under what guise he appeared. Albert D. 
 Vandam has a rare gift of making himself interesting. First, he 
 never writes anything not pertinent to the story there are no dry 
 passages to be skipped, no paragraph which is not essential to the 
 connection of the story. Second, he has a wonderful faculty of 
 weaving a very complex plot and carrying it out with a smoothness 
 and consecutiveness which makes it a constant delight to the 
 reader. In his last work, ' The Mystery of the Patrician Club, ' he 
 reaches the perfection of his art. The first few pages seem to 
 promise simply a clever detective story ; but we soon discover as 
 the plot unfolds that there is the main branch and numerous little 
 side issues revealing family secrets and club mysteries. These 
 plots within a plot are what make the book so intensely engross- 
 ing. " Detroit Free Press. 
 
 J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.
 
 Authors and Their Works. 
 
 GUI DA. 
 
 Two Offenders. 
 
 izmo. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 Syrlin. Guilderoy. 
 
 iftno. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 Othmar. 
 
 A House-Party. 
 Puck. 
 Pascarel. 
 Be1>ee. 
 
 Signa. 
 
 Cecil Castlemalne's Gage. 
 Folle-Farine. 
 Oranville de Vigne. 
 Idalla. 
 
 Randolph Gordon. 
 Strathmore. 
 
 In a Winter City. 
 Ariadne. 
 Friendship. 
 Moths. 
 Beatrice Bovllle. 
 
 Chandos. 
 Trlcotrin. 
 Under Two Flags. 
 A Village Commune. 
 In Maremma. 
 Princess Napraxlne. 
 Wanda. 
 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 40 cents. 
 
 "Ouida is one of the most interesting writers of her time. 
 She has close observation, much imaginative fertility, a copious 
 vocabulary, and a retentive memory." New York Herald. 
 
 "Ouida's stories are abundant in world-knowledge and world- 
 wisdom, strong and interesting in plot. Her characters are con- 
 ceived and elaborated with a skill little short of masterly, and the 
 reflective portions of her stories are marked by fine thought and a 
 deep insight into the workings of human nature." Boston Gazette. 
 
 J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.
 
 L LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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