-AUTHOR- OF 
 BUT-YCT-A-WOMAN
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE 
 
 WIND OF DESTINY 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR SHERBURNE HARDY 
 
 AUTHOR OF "BUT YET A WOMAN" 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 1887
 
 Copyright, 1886, 
 BY ARTHUR SHEKBURNE HARDY. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Tht Riverside PrtM, 
 Electrotyped and Printed by II. O. Hougbton & Oo.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 They who believe that they can 
 speak, or keep silence, in a word, 
 act, in virtue of a free decision of 
 the soul, dream with their eyea 
 open, SPINOZA. 
 
 ALL the day long the corn had been yellowing 
 in the summer's sun. The hills of Ashurst were 
 barely visible through the haze ; even the river 
 seemed asleep. 
 
 Behind the house a path led along the low, 
 rambling wall, overgrown with bushes ; a fringe 
 of sumach, among whose red fruit the clematis 
 trailed in lines of smoke-like bloom. At the end 
 of the path a few tall pines overtopped the bank, 
 throwing long shadows upon the slender sedges 
 and pale green grass that ventured out a little 
 way from the shore. Checked by the curve at 
 this point, the river rested here a moment, its 
 wide expanse of luminous waters unbroken by 
 a ripple. Only by gazing attentively could one 
 see the farther shore, where a boat crept slowly 
 along the shadow line, its oars flashing now and
 
 2 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 then in the sunlight, like the dripping wings of 
 a water-fowl. 
 
 Under the pines a seat and table, covered by 
 a lattice, constituted what Schonberg called his 
 tea-house. 
 
 Schonberg himself stood upon the edge of the 
 bank, his legs wide apart, his pipe in one hand, 
 the other thrust to the elbow in the capacious 
 pocket of a dressing-gown of faded yellow, which 
 hung to his heels. A fringe of white hair strug 
 gled from under the rim of his black skull-cap, 
 and over his bright gray eyes pushed heavy eye 
 brows which, with the strong lines of his face, 
 gave him a grim aspect. But these lines were 
 singularly mobile, especially about the mouth, 
 and could soften with his thought, even to solici 
 tude. 
 
 One who, attracted by this lonely figure on 
 the bank of Ashurst's river, should go nearer to 
 examine the face might discover in its grim ex 
 pression a contempt for the casualties of life ; 
 for Schonberg prided himself upon an inner life, 
 unaffected by the storms which beat about his 
 personality. And there was, in truth, in his na 
 ture a solitary summit, lifted above mutation and 
 tides. Speculation had busied itself about this 
 man. the more so because of the solitude he car 
 ried with him. It is not necessary to have taken 
 a city to excite curiosity, or to become worthy the
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 3 
 
 pen of the biographer. Biographer ! One can 
 almost see his eyes take fire at the word. For 
 what is more presumptuous than to write the his 
 tory of a man ? Trace the red and the black 
 drops to the veins of his ancestors, set his por 
 trait over against the title-page, strand him in a 
 universe of self-seekers, catalogue his tastes, de 
 scribe his habits, hoard up the meagre incidents, 
 after all, the man escapes you, hid within 
 that zone of infinite repulsion which surrounds 
 the soul as it does the atom. 
 
 n. 
 
 Friendships are not always formed on the 
 principle of the proverb, for certainly Schonberg 
 and Fleming were not of a feather. Theirs had 
 begun in their student days at Paris, those 
 days when ambition has not yet been harassed 
 by the whip of necessity, and has not yet known 
 defeat. For what matter those defeats of child 
 hood when hope, not yet tired, reforms its vast 
 projects and summons new armies? 
 
 The young American had first met his friend 
 on the stairway of their attic chambers, where to 
 Harold, who intimated that neighbors ought to 
 be good company, Schonberg had replied that 
 he did not improve upon acquaintance. His
 
 4 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 dress alone might have attracted the attention of 
 an artist ; but it was so dominated by his per 
 sonality that, when Harold attempted to repro 
 duce it for the benefit of his comrades in the 
 atelier of the Beaux Arts, he discovered he was 
 drawing a man, and not a costume. 
 
 They often found themselves together on the 
 imperials of the omnibus crossing the Pont St. 
 Michel : Harold on the way to the Palais des 
 Beaux Arts, Schonberg to the dingy lecture-room 
 of the Sorbonne. The fact that they were both 
 the one in art, the other in philosophy un 
 der the chiefs of the eclectic school furnished 
 them a theme for conversation on their morning 
 rides. In spite of Schonberg's discouraging re 
 ception of his offer of friendship, Harold, later 
 on, abandoned his cafe for that of his new ac 
 quaintance, and they began to exchange visits in 
 their attic quarters. This comradeship ripened 
 slowly into friendship, a friendship to whose 
 formation each brought very different material. 
 
 Harold was an enthusiast, Schonberg a neu 
 tral, intellectually, for the heart always takes 
 sides. Harold went into raptures over his mas 
 ter, Schonberg called his a philosophical zero. 
 
 " You and I," he said one day, contemptuously, 
 " are types of eclecticism. I shall perish like 
 the donkey, between the trough and the manger, 
 of starvation "
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 5 
 
 " And I ? " laughed Harold. 
 
 " You ? You will take the best dish from every 
 table, and die of gluttony." 
 
 Neither knew the value of money, and each 
 betrayed his ignorance in his own fashion, 
 Harold by throwing it away, Schonberg by not 
 knowing what to do with it. 
 
 If knowledge of life consists in that wide ex 
 perience which weakens convictions, rather than 
 in the deep which strengthens them, Harold 
 knew more of it than Schonberg. 
 
 Whereas Harold made many friends and ac 
 quaintances, Schonberg made none. He was 
 especially awkward and uncomfortable in the 
 presence of women, always avoiding them if pos 
 sible. He never alluded to them, however, ex 
 cept in terms of respect, such respect as a 
 planet might feel for a comet whose fiery trail 
 and uncertain track it watches afar from its 
 quiet orbit. 
 
 Harold had once succeeded in persuading his 
 friend to accompany him to a house where he 
 spent much of his time ; but the visit was never 
 repeated. 
 
 "He is very interesting," said Harold's fair 
 hostess. " Why do you not bring him again ? " 
 
 " What ! he interests you who cannot interest 
 him?" 
 
 " Precisely. That is the reason."
 
 6 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " Well, at all events he is safe," replied Har 
 old. 
 
 " And you in danger ! " she retorted, laugh 
 ing. " Answer me this question. What is the 
 chief end of man ? " 
 
 " To love his neighbor," said Harold, bowing. 
 
 " Good ! You have the catechism by heart. 
 Love is the flower of human nature. For which 
 plant, then, have you the most fear, for this 
 one," tapping his shoulder with her fan, " which 
 has a hundred blossoms, or that other which has 
 only one ? " 
 
 The friendship existing between Schonberg 
 and Harold did not prevent each from finding 
 secret fault with the other for precisely those 
 qualities which formed the hook and eye of their 
 attachment. 
 
 In the former's rugged seriousness the latter 
 found a needed sense of repose. Harold could 
 lean against his friend as the atoms lean against 
 each other, though he often struggled against 
 this equilibrating force. For him, a setting sun 
 meant nothing ; there was another day coming. 
 The falling leaves in the windy autumn woods, 
 what were they? Spring returns again. For 
 such a nature life is a continuous quantity, and 
 the track of sorrow a furrow ploughed in the 
 sea. The organization is full of elasticity, its 
 wounds heal. If a flower falls from the stalk, it
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 7 
 
 puts forth another ; if one object is withdrawn, 
 another replaces it. This vitality often aston 
 ished Schonberg, though he knew it was never 
 really assailed. To imperil life the dagger must 
 get through the skin. 
 
 in. 
 
 During the summer following their acquaint 
 ance they made a walking-tour together through 
 Flanders and the Forest of Ardennes. It was 
 Schonberg who had proposed the excursion, but 
 Harold who had determined its direction. They 
 had traversed the mediaeval cities of Flanders, 
 crossed the Meuse at Namur, skirted the Forest 
 of Ardennes, and, following the fall of the Lesse, 
 had struck the river again at Dinant, all this 
 that Harold might steal an interview with a cer 
 tain Madelon Foy, then living a league from 
 Dinant, in the chateau of Walzins. Harold's 
 romance was like many another, except as it 
 happened to be set over against the sombre ex 
 perience of his friend. Contrasted with this, it 
 was like a spot of sunshine on the dark slope of 
 a mountain. 
 
 Thrown upon his own resources by Harold's 
 almost daily absence at Walzins, Schonberg gave 
 himself up to a solitary exploration of the en-
 
 8 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 virons. Rowing down the river one afternoon 
 with a stroke that resembled his lengthy stride, 
 he saw the figure of a woman on the island just 
 below the mouth of the Lesse. She had ap 
 parently expected him to stop, for as he passed 
 by she raised a hand and beckoned to him. He 
 turned the prow towards the bank, and, almost 
 before it had parted the long grass which lined 
 the shore, a young girl leaped on the thwart and 
 pushed the boat into the current. 
 
 " Have you seen my skiff ? " she asked, seat 
 ing herself in the stern. 
 
 " No," said Schonberg, looking at her and be 
 ginning to row mechanically. 
 
 " Of course not, you come from above. It will 
 be stopped at the lock." 
 
 She spoke with the Walloon accent, but her 
 voice was pure and clear. She was evidently 
 satisfied with the direction he was taking, for 
 she sat quietly watching him as he rowed, lean 
 ing forward with one elbow on her knee, her 
 chin in her hand. Suddenly she rose to her 
 feet. 
 
 " Give me one oar," she said briefly, stretch 
 ing out her arm. 
 
 She fitted the pin to its socket, and seating 
 herself on the thwart in front of him began to 
 row. For the first time Schonberg was free to 
 look at her. He saw a coil of brown hair
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 9 
 
 drawn back so smoothly as to show the natural 
 contour of the head, and a strong but slender 
 back which swayed to and fro with an easy 
 vigor. Though he had jostled many a woman 
 in the street, Schonberg had never been so near 
 to one before. 
 
 The swollen river which had carried away her 
 boat was still rising, sweeping them down among 
 its surface eddies. From time to time she 
 turned her head to mark the drift, setting the 
 bow to the course with a strong quick tug at the 
 oar, which loosened the handkerchief knotted 
 about her throat, and disclosed her neck browned 
 by the sun, the golden brown of Rembrandt. 
 As they n eared the town she steered in towards 
 the landing, and, as the boat swung alongside 
 the short flight of stone steps, leaped ashore. On 
 the lower stair she turned, looking at him, as he 
 fastened the rope to the iron ring, till their eyes 
 met ; then, with an abrupt " Adieu," ran up the 
 steps, crossed the street, and disappeared under 
 an archway. 
 
 Schonberg, after paying his ten sous, walked 
 down the quay like a man coming out of a 
 dream. He sought to take up his life where it 
 had been interrupted by that figure beckoning 
 to him on the island. He quickened his pace as 
 if to escape the intruder ; but ever before him 
 he saw the golden-brown neck, the lithe form
 
 10 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 swaying to and fro, and inhaled the faint per 
 fume of her hair. 
 
 On reaching his room he found Harold, ra 
 diant. " I thought you would never return. 
 Come, dinner ! I am ravenous." 
 
 " What ! A lover, and hungry ? " 
 
 " Ravenous, I say," repeated Harold. " I 
 have eaten nothing all day. Ah, my friend," 
 he said, with the impulsive frankness natural 
 to him, "what blessed wind of fate drove us 
 hither ! " 
 
 Schonberg said nothing. 
 
 " You found the river high," said Harold at 
 dinner, relating the events of his day. 
 
 " Yes, high," replied Schonberg, absently. 
 
 " At the ford of the Lesse, even, it was over 
 the stepping-stones. Can you imagine how we 
 passed ? " 
 
 " You wet your feet," said Schonberg. 
 
 " Yes, mine," laughed Harold. 
 
 "My dear fellow," Harold said that night as 
 they went to bed, "you think I am mad, los 
 ing my wits. I tell you, study me well ; I am 
 worth it, for I am the happiest of men. It is 
 for that reason I find you by contrast more 
 sober than ever to-night." 
 
 Early the next morning Harold was off with 
 a hunting-party in a neighboring preserve. 
 Schonberg, whose brain sleep had cleared, had a
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. H 
 
 line of sarcasm about his mouth for the night 
 before. Still the day hung heavily upon his 
 hands, and when the shadow of Dinant's spire 
 lay on the river he went down to the quay, and 
 drove the little boat against the current, past 
 the island to the meeting of the waters, float 
 ing back by the tall flags on the hurrying tide. 
 
 " A huntsman," said Harold that evening, 
 cleaning his gun, " is a superstitious devil. I 
 shot a bird the last time, an old cock drum 
 ming on a log, and to-day I went to the same 
 spot, as if that were the only lucky one in the 
 wood." 
 
 The following day the boatman, with an eye 
 to his ten sous, was on hand, but not his cus 
 tomer. For when the hour came, Schonberg, 
 with his book, climbed the steps zigzagging up 
 the face of the rock to the ruined citadel. On 
 the way back the open door of the church at the 
 foot of the stairs invited him, and he went in 
 under the blackened portal, taking one of -the 
 wooden chairs near the entrance. A few strag 
 gling worshipers were kneeling here and there 
 on the cold stones ; a boy was extinguishing the 
 lights on the high altar ; a priest came down the 
 aisle, crossed himself at the font, and passed out 
 into the street. 
 
 As he was about to go, a figure he knew stood 
 in the doorway, the outer sunlight on her hair;
 
 12 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 She recognized him, her face lighting up with 
 a smile, and came straight towards him. 
 
 " You row no more ? " she said, her short 
 woolen dress touching his knee. 
 
 He did not look up at first. When he did, 
 the smile was gone out on her face, the same 
 searching expression he had seen from the boat 
 filling her eyes. But in the instant that his met 
 them they changed, more and more, it was 
 only an instant, yet how long ! till they seemed 
 to say " Come ! " in a soft, compelling whisper. 
 Then she went on, between the pillars of the 
 nave, to a side altar in the transept. He could 
 see her from where he sat, and his eyes wan 
 dered confusedly from her kneeling form to the 
 image on the shrine, whose tinsel robes caught 
 the glimmer of the candles. 
 
 The fable of Love's bandaged eyes is spared 
 by the myth-wreckers. How else explain his 
 random arrows, those careless but unerring ar 
 rows ? How tremblingly would he fit them to 
 the string if he could see the graybeards sitting 
 by in council Experience that analyzes, Pru 
 dence that weighs, and the cold eye of Reason 
 that puts to shame. 
 
 Schonberg rose and walked to the door. The 
 street was full of people, and he followed the 
 throng irresolutely ; then turned and reentered 
 the church. The wooden image was there, with
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 13 
 
 its vacant eyes and tinsel robe, but the kneeling 
 figure had gone. 
 
 " If we stay here much longer," said Harold 
 that evening, " we cannot go to Treves." 
 
 " Well, then, let us remain where we are." 
 
 " Yes ; but for you it will be stupid. You 
 stay only to please me." 
 
 " If you do not wish my opinion, why ask it ? " 
 said Schonberg. " I am not an echo." 
 
 His proposition was an agreeable one to Har 
 old, though unexpected. At all events, Harold 
 was satisfied. He was writing to his fair host 
 ess at Paris, a woman all of whose friends were 
 suitors, her husband most of all. 
 
 " I am writing Madame X.," said he, looking 
 up from the table. " Would you tell her she 
 has a rival ? " 
 
 " No," replied Schonberg. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " You may change your mind." 
 
 " My dear fellow, the mind is not in question 
 in such matters. Wait, some day you will see 
 for yourself." 
 
 He was going to Walzins the next day. 
 
 " Come, let us go to bed," he said, laying 
 down his pen. " I am sleepy." 
 
 " You have not finished your letter ? " 
 
 "No, and I am not sleepy," he laughed; 
 " but to a man who waits for to-morrow, sleep
 
 14 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 is a famous time-slayer. I was writing only to 
 kill time, and since you forbid me to write of 
 the sole thing I have to tell, I naturally can 
 think of nothing to say." 
 
 "You might tell how you kill time," said 
 Schouberg, preparing to go to bed. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " thought Harold, as he went 
 to his room ; " he has no to-morrow." No to 
 morrow ! when in the border land of sleep dark 
 eyes were saying, " Come ! " and his hands 
 already grasped the oars. 
 
 When the chimes under the bulbous spire of 
 the tower jangled their four o'clock carillon on 
 that morrow for which Harold could not wait, 
 Schonberg was in his boat breasting the current. 
 He was no sophist. The morning had seen al 
 ternating moods, but when finally he strode down 
 the quay under the lime-trees, it was after ad 
 mitting that he went because he wished to. 
 
 Past the bare limestone cliffs he crept, inch by 
 inch, till he gained the still water behind the 
 island ; then he rested on his oars and looked 
 about him. Nothing. He pulled in under the 
 island shore, rowing along the bank till it un 
 masked the bridge at the mouth of the Lesse. 
 He was about to turn when a boat shot out from 
 under the trees at Anseremne. He caught it 
 with half a hundred quick strokes, and they 
 rowed on together, she slightly in advance, with-
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 15 
 
 out a word. As they neared the bridge he slack 
 ened his speed. 
 
 " Kow ! hard ! " she cried to him, with a chal 
 lenge in her voice ; " it gallops here." 
 
 He fell behind, and she passed first under the 
 black arch, keeping her lead with a laugh whose 
 echo came back to him from the narrowing cliffs. 
 Abandoning a generosity out of place, Schon- 
 berg took up the challenge, putting all his 
 strength in the blades. But his companion had 
 stopped, and, before he saw where he was, he felt 
 the keel grate on the shallowing bottom, and was 
 hard aground. 
 
 " This is the end," she called to him ; " we 
 can go no farther. Wait." 
 
 She had seen his situation and was coming to 
 his aid. His boat was fast at the centre, dip 
 ping bow and stern in deeper water as he moved 
 from one to the other in the effort to get clear. 
 
 " Wait ! " she said, " you are caught on a 
 rock. Now," and she reached over, taking hold 
 of the stern, " get in with me." 
 
 Lightened of its load, the boat floated, and 
 pushing it alongside she fastened its chain to the 
 ring at the stern of her own, and sat down. 
 
 " Captured ! " she said. 
 
 " No, quits," said Schonberg. " One good 
 turn deserves another." 
 
 Her face was flushed with the long effort, and
 
 16 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 the handkerchief on her bosom rose and fell to 
 her deep breathing. 
 
 " It 's beautiful here, is n't it? " she said, loos 
 ening the folds from about her throat, and dip 
 ping her hand into the water. " Is that what 
 you came here for ? " 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so," said he. 
 
 " Is n't it so where you came from ? " she 
 asked, looking at him. 
 
 " It is different," said Schonberg. 
 
 " Is there a river ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That 's where you learned to row," she said, 
 with a sidelong glance. 
 
 " No, I don't row there." 
 
 " Don't you ? " she said, with a look of sur 
 prise. 
 
 For want of something to say, Schonberg de 
 scribed the Seine. 
 
 " I should like to see it," she replied, splash 
 ing the water with her hand. 
 
 " This is best. You would say so if you were 
 there." 
 
 " This is my prison, and that is yours," she 
 replied shortly. " What do you do there ? " 
 
 " Study," said Schonberg, a little ashamed of 
 his occupation. 
 
 She looked at him again, curiously ; then, 
 after a pause, " Did you ever see Freyr? "
 
 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 17 
 
 " No ; where is it ? " 
 
 " I '11 show you." She reached back, and took 
 an oar from the boat in tow. " You row, and 
 I '11 steer," she said. 
 
 She guided the boats to the shore, and helped 
 him to secure them, laughing at his bungling 
 knot, and finally tying it over again herself. 
 
 " Come," she said, leading the way. 
 
 He followed her up the face of the cliff, from 
 whose summit the chateau of Freyr appeared 
 on the plain below, its yellow walls hidden among 
 green hedges, and all about it meadows dotted 
 with grazing sheep. 
 
 " I suppose there are finer chateaux in Paris," 
 she said, looking down on Freyr, and fastening 
 a red heather spray in the knot of her handker 
 chief. 
 
 " Yes, certainly. But people are not any 
 happier there than here, for that reason." 
 
 " How do you know ? " she asked quickly. 
 And then, lowering her voice, " That's what 
 Father Pierre says." 
 
 " And that 's what the sheep say down there 
 on the meadow," said Schonberg, standing by 
 her side. 
 
 " It 's not what the lark says when he rises at 
 morn," she replied. 
 
 " What would you do if you should go ? " he 
 asked, not knowing why.
 
 18 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " I would go, that 's something. Why do 
 you come here ? Because you are free. Come," 
 she said abruptly, " look at the sun." It lay on 
 the edge of the hills as they went down the 
 path into the valley. 
 
 Her animation returned when they were in 
 the boats again, and she led the way down the 
 stream, flinging a smile over the water between 
 them whenever he turned. Under the rever 
 berating arch of the bridge she whispered 
 " Adieu ! " and threw the red heather into his 
 boat ; while hers, caught by the rush of the 
 Meuse, shot like an arrow in towards Anseremne. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For days after, Schonberg lost all trace of 
 her. He wandered restlessly about the church ; 
 he passed the archway under which he had first 
 seen her disappear, with a thrill of expectation ; 
 but neither there, nor on the river, nor at Anser 
 emne, did he meet with her again. 
 
 One morning he opened the door of his lodg 
 ing directly upon her, but, though she saw him, 
 she went on without a sign. He was, however, 
 in a frame of mind to which obstacles are like 
 the sparks of a fuse. He watched her till she 
 was fairly on the road which wound under the
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 19 
 
 hills along the edge of the river, then ran to the 
 water-side and leaped into his boat. He made 
 a sign to the boatman, in his doorway across 
 the street, and headed up the stream. Half-way 
 to Anseremne, where the rocks crowd the road 
 to the bank, he caught up with her. She was 
 sitting quietly on one of the guard-stones watch 
 ing his approach, and as the boat grated against 
 the slope of the wall she stepped on the bow. 
 To reach the seat in the stern she had to pass 
 the thwart where he sat, and as she did so he 
 put out his hand to detain her. 
 
 " Why, just now, did you " 
 
 " Sh ! " she said, with a smile, " arn I not 
 here ? " 
 
 Yes, she was there, sitting opposite him with 
 the smile still in her eyes, that was enough. 
 He was about to speak, but she raised her fin 
 ger to her lips, she had so much to tell ! 
 There was to be a fair at Dinant to-morrow. 
 Actors were coming from Bruxelles. Had he 
 ever seen a fair ? There would be booths in 
 the square, and tents full of strange sights, and 
 music. 
 
 What did he care for the fair, for the mimic 
 stage where the puppets strut ! Like the rush 
 of a river the rush of his blood drowned the 
 sense of her words, but their music filled his 
 ears. He listened, but he did not hear.
 
 20 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " Row," she said ; for he made no haste to 
 reach Anseremne. She took the rudder ropes, 
 talking the while ; steering west of the island, 
 thus hiding the hamlet on the eastern shore, 
 and heading the boat for the mouth of the 
 Lesse. All the people for leagues around would 
 be there, oh, a great crowd ! And children 
 to ride on the turning horses. The gateaux 
 makers of Dinant would coin money that day. 
 And the actors, Oh! veine She had never 
 seen the actors ; they did not come every year. 
 
 She had brought the boat to the bank near 
 the bridge. 
 
 " And you will be there ? " he asked. 
 
 " No," she said, standing up and looking 
 down upon him, " I shall not be there." His 
 face clouded, but hers was radiant. Had she 
 not realms to give away ? " Look, do you see, 
 near the top of the hill, that chapel among the 
 trees? I will be there. If the door is shut, 
 knock, and call ' Noel.' Sit still ! " she cried, 
 " you will have us over. Give me your hand." 
 
 The boat swung in the eddy ; she steadied 
 herself with his hand, and, watching her cbance, 
 sprang ashore. 
 
 *' Noel, Noel ! " he cried, as she ran up the 
 bank, " you will not deceive me ? " 
 
 She turned and looked at him. All the light 
 had gone from her face.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 21 
 
 " Deceive you ? " she repeated slowly. " Per 
 haps so, who knows ? You had best not 
 come." 
 
 He would have followed her, but the branch 
 he held had broken when she leaped, and the 
 current under the arch had swept him already 
 into the mid-stream. 
 
 The chapel stood on the hill behind the vil 
 lage, in the angle of the cemetery wall, of which 
 it formed a part. Without, it presented that 
 appearance of age which comes to buildings as 
 to men, when time has destroyed their beauty 
 but has not yet sapped their strength. In the 
 band under the windows might be seen the trace 
 of a sculptured vine whose buds and leaves had 
 long since fallen ; and here and there under the 
 eaves a headless gargoyle projected from the 
 shadow. The stones of its dark walls still held 
 firmly, but the place of their carven ornaments 
 was known only by scars. 
 
 Schonberg approached the main entrance and 
 knocked. The echoes answered within, and 
 without the scream of frightened birds. He 
 waited; then, laying his lips to the oak door, 
 he called, "Noel! " Still no answer. Only the 
 twitter of the swallows among the vacant niches 
 above, where a single figure remained, over 
 whose head the birds had built their nests in a 
 crown of thorns.
 
 22 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 It was evident that no one had passed that 
 door for many a day, and he followed along the 
 wall in search of another on the side of the 
 cemetery. A narrow gateway led into the in- 
 closure, among whose leaning stones and iron 
 crosses he made his way. Some of these were 
 newly gilt and hung with artificial garlands ; 
 others, defaced with moss and rust, were nearly 
 hidden in the tall grass through which the pe 
 rennial flowers found their way to the sun, and 
 stood whispering together at the sight of their 
 ghostly brethren, stained and disordered by the 
 rain and wind. 
 
 As he had conjectured, there was on this side 
 another entrance. It was encumbered with ref 
 use, old boxes, and garden tools ; and half buried 
 in the rubbish the face of a broken statue stared 
 from its deep-cut, hollow eyes, still instinct with 
 life. He hesitated a moment, then went in. At 
 the foot of the steps, beyond the line the sun 
 light could not pass, he saw Noel. She was evi 
 dently waiting for him, for she beckoned with 
 a nervous gesture, and led the way through the 
 debris which strewed the floor. 
 
 At one of these obstacles, following close be 
 hind her, he threw his arms about her, and 
 caught the quick, deep breath of surprise on her 
 lips. She did not struggle, but a shudder ran 
 through her frame ; then, for one brief moment
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 23 
 
 she stood still. Was it a dream ? " Noel," he 
 murmured. It was not in the lecture-room of 
 the Sorbonne that he had learned what to say. 
 
 But at the sound of his voice she unclasped 
 his arms, and, still holding one hand in hers, led 
 him on. At the foot of the winding stair lead 
 ing up to the pulpit she made him sit down, and, 
 crossing the aisle, pushed wide open one of the 
 windows through whose dust-covered glass the 
 sun could not penetrate. A flood of yellow 
 light leaped in, and fell on the pavement at his 
 feet. Even at that moment he noticed the two 
 rude outlines on the stone floor, a man and 
 a woman, side by side, with their hands folded 
 over their breasts. 
 
 " Let us talk together," she said, sitting down 
 by his side. " Tell me, what do you do in 
 Paris?" 
 
 She had asked that question before. 
 
 " I study," said he. 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 " All." 
 
 " And what do you study about ? " Schon- 
 berg had no answer at hand. " Perhaps I 
 should not understand," she added. 
 
 " I study philosophy, but that is only a 
 name." 
 
 " What does it teach you ? " 
 
 " How to be happy, they say."
 
 24 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " Happier than now ? " 
 
 He made a quick movement toward her, but 
 she checked him with her eyes. 
 
 " Why do you ask, who know ? " he said. 
 
 " You thought I would go to the fair ; " then, 
 looking away, " I wanted to make you happier 
 than that." 
 
 He fell on his knees at her feet, and clasped 
 his hands round her waist. 
 
 "What do you think?" he cried, drawing 
 her face down towards his. 
 
 She neither resisted nor answered him. 
 
 "But if one is not happy, does philosophy 
 teach one how to bear pain ? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh, Noel, Noel, what shall henceforth give 
 you pain ? " 
 
 " Nothing. But you ? " 
 
 " I ? " He laughed aloud. 
 
 " Hush ! " She put her hand over his mouth, 
 and bending down of her own accord, "Come 
 what may, you are happy now. Will you re 
 member ? " 
 
 " Noel," how sweet the word was ! " Noel, 
 you have something to tell me ; something on 
 your mind." 
 
 "No I " She checked herself suddenly, 
 with an effort to smile. 
 
 " Is it because I am here ? " and he stood up. 
 "Tell me, say the word, and I will go."
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 25 
 
 She sprang to his neck. " No, no ! not yet, 
 not yet ! " she cried, sobbing like a child. It 
 filled him only with joy then, but there came a 
 day when he would have given all but that joy 
 itself to forget that sob on his breast. 
 
 He lifted her gently, and was about to place 
 her on the seat they had occupied. He had not 
 noticed it before, it was the wooden frame of 
 the grave-digger, and leaning against the pulpit 
 stairs was the spade. He looked about him. 
 There was no other seat. The whole interior 
 was littered with rubbish, barrels piled against 
 the pillars, heaps of hay and straw in the nave. 
 Along the side aisles, draped in dust and cob 
 webs, were ranged the stalls ; but only their 
 mouldering arms and backs remained. On a 
 low platform, at the end of the nave, was the 
 remnant of a wooden altar which a touch would 
 have overthrown ; and above it a black cross, 
 from whose arms the dying Christ looked down. 
 For a moment the tragic irony of that rude fig 
 ure, in the midst of this desolation and decay, 
 made him forget the burden in his arms. As 
 he started down the nave towards the platform 
 under the cross, she opened her eyes. He shut 
 them down with kisses. 
 
 " Come ! " she suddenly exclaimed, like one 
 waking from sleep to danger, " the day is ours, 
 and it will be gone. Shall we take our boat
 
 26 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 and go up the river ? I know places that you 
 have not seen. And we will dine there, oh, I 
 have it all ready. Shut the window while I am 
 gone." And, slipping from his arms, she ran 
 down the aisle and out the door. 
 
 Schonberg closed the window, shutting out 
 the sun. He found his way with difficulty in 
 the dim light, and at the door turned back with 
 the lingering look of one who leaves a spot be 
 loved. The stalls, like a row of monks sitting 
 in the shadow of the wall, seemed to watch about 
 the Christ, whose outlines were just visible in 
 the gloom. 
 
 Even the % grasses without, bathed in warm 
 sunshine, were a grateful sight ; and still more 
 the small house, with its out-buildings and domed 
 ricks of hay that he saw from the gate ; and 
 above all, Noel, coming down the path. 
 
 She gave him the basket on her arm. " I will 
 go for the boat," she said. " Take the lane by 
 those birches, and meet me at the bridge." 
 
 There are times when the clouds of sense 
 which hang about this mysterious life roll away, 
 and everything is plain. How we wonder, when 
 the revelation is finished and the soul gropes 
 again for a foothold ! Surely we were mad that 
 day. 
 
 Schonberg had no need to record it in his 
 journal. The breath of the summer woods, the
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 27 
 
 light of the summer sky, the voice and the eye 
 of love, all were written down. Ay ! and that 
 fleeting presage which troubles the heart when 
 it is full. Poverty is not so poor as that hap 
 piness which has before it the unseen certainty 
 of collapse. But he knew it then. There was a 
 warning in her happiest smile, in the quick alter 
 nation of her moods. For him the wealth of 
 that day was inexhaustible ; but she counted it 
 as the miser counts his gold. Once she left him 
 and wandered away by herself ; once she crept 
 into his arms ; and both times, to his question, 
 " What is it, Noel? " she answered, " Nothing. 
 I love you." 
 
 As the day waned she grew more restless. 
 
 " Noel," he said, " if you do not trust me, 
 you do not love me." 
 
 From that time on, no word or look of trou 
 ble betrayed her. 
 
 It was late when they came back. The stars 
 in the river danced and sparkled in the ripple of 
 the boat. She had one oar, and sat before him 
 as on the first day. At the bridge they ceased 
 rowing, and the boat floated noiselessly under 
 the arch. She leaned back, till he saw her up 
 turned face, and felt the touch of her form. 
 One last kiss, oh, if he had known ! As they 
 emerged from the shadow, she rose to her feet. 
 It was as if she had said, " The day is over, it
 
 28 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 is finished." She pointed to the shore, and he 
 rowed into the spot where he had left her once 
 before. When the boat touched the bank she 
 stepped out silently, and began to climb the 
 slope to the road. 
 
 " Noel," he cried, " to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Yes, to-morrow," she answered. 
 
 "Here?" 
 
 " Yes, here." 
 
 " But, Noel, when ? " 
 
 The question startled her like a rifle shot. 
 He could not see her face, only that she had 
 stopped and turned. 
 
 " When ? " Her voice was hoarse, and trem 
 bled. " At this time." 
 
 Something told him that he should not see 
 that form, hurrying away in the night, again. 
 He leaped from the thwart, letting his boat go 
 adrift, and ran up the slope. " Noel ! Noel ! " 
 He ran down the road. " Noel ! Noel ! " She 
 must have gone the other way. He turned and 
 ran again. " Noel ! Noel ! " But the night was 
 dark. Great clouds were advancing over the 
 hills. A peal of thunder broke against the 
 cliffs of the river, the flash lighting up the 
 road and bridge. No one was in sight. " Noel ! 
 Noel ! " No one answered, no one heard, not 
 even the Christ that loomed majestic above the 
 desolate shrine.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 29 
 
 V. 
 
 He knew what the knot of women under his 
 window were talking of the next morning, their 
 stolid faces lighted by the fire of curiosity ; for 
 why did people stop each other in the street, 
 exchanging low words and exclamations of sur 
 prise ? As he hurried by, the venders of fruit 
 and spiced cakes were arranging their wares in 
 the booths of the fair. 
 
 " What do you say ? " cried one, screaming 
 to her neighbor across the way. 
 
 " A girl has drowned herself in the river 
 above." 
 
 The answer rang in his ears. Every rock 
 and tree repeated it as he went by. The river 
 tossed it back from its waves, and the wind told 
 it to the quivering grass. At Anseremne quarry 
 workmen were pushing the loaded cars to the 
 barges ; women were washing on the river bank. 
 What ! and Noel dead ? He hurried on through 
 the wide river street, up the narrow lane. There 
 he met a priest coming down. 
 
 " Where is Father Pierre ? " 
 
 The name came back to him, though he 
 had not heard it since he looked with Noel on 
 Freyr. 
 
 " I am Father Pierre. What is it, my son ? "
 
 30 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " Where is she ? " 
 
 Father Pierre had looked into too many faces 
 not to read this one. 
 
 " Come," he said, retracing his steps. They 
 climbed the hill in silence, passing between the 
 graves to the chapel door. A single candle 
 burned on the altar within, beside a white form 
 stretched below, seeming itself the source of 
 the light which it reflected upward on the pro 
 tecting arms of the cross. 
 
 An old woman, bent over with age, rose from 
 the steps as they went down. 
 
 " Leave us," said the priest. Then to Schon- 
 berg, " Is your conscience free ? " The blank 
 stare of the eyes into which he looked was an 
 swer enough. " Enter, then," he said. " I will 
 wait here." 
 
 When Schonberg came out again his face was 
 as white as the robe of the dead. " Why " 
 his voice ended in a gasp. 
 
 " Last night," said Father Pierre, drawing a 
 paper from his soutane and handing it to Schon 
 berg, " she sent me this." 
 
 He took it and read : 
 
 " I shall be found at the bridge. Cover my 
 face, and lay me in the chapel under the black 
 cross. Some one will come. Make them let 
 him go in, and give him this." 
 
 There was a folded paper within. As he
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 31 
 
 opened it he saw the white violets they had 
 gathered together, faded, but their scent made 
 his brain reel. 
 
 " Remember all you have said. Forgive the 
 past for the sake of to-day. For what I do 
 there is nothing to forgive ; it is the only way I 
 can be forever yours." 
 
 " What does it mean ? " he said, holding it 
 out to Father Pierre. 
 
 A smile of satisfaction lit up the priest's face 
 as he read. " Come with me," he replied, lead 
 ing the way. At the farther angle of the wall 
 he paused before a little mound scarce two feet 
 long, remote from the rest, but carefully kept 
 from the weeds. " Stoop and read," he said. 
 
 Mechanically Schonberg did as he was bid 
 den. There was a single word on the plain 
 wooden cross at the head of the grave : Noel. 
 
 " It is the old story," said the priest. " But 
 she has sprinkled herself with the blood of sac 
 rifice. Let God, who made the falcon, judge 
 the dove." 
 
 Yes, as Father Pierre said, all the stories are 
 the same. In the laboratory of life each new 
 comer repeats the old experiments, and laughs 
 and weeps for himself. We will be explorers, 
 though all the highways have their signboards 
 and every by-path is mapped. Helen of Troy 
 will not deter us, nor the wounds of Caesar
 
 32 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 frighten, nor the voice of the king, crying, Van 
 ity ! from his throne, dismay. What wonder the 
 stars that once sang for joy are dumb, and the 
 constellations go down in silence ? 
 
 VL 
 
 To Schonberg, who disappeared suddenly from 
 Dinant, Harold wrote forthwith : 
 
 " You cannot surprise me. I predicted your 
 desertion, and condoned it in advance. I see 
 you now in your den among the chimney-pots, 
 pitying those who part with their reason. Take 
 care ! one may reason irrationally." 
 
 But when Harold returned to Paris, Schon 
 berg had disappeared, nor did he hear from him 
 till the eve of his marriage, when the last letter 
 which came for Madelon Foy brought a band of 
 curious plates for the hair, beaten gold set 
 with topaz, whose date and maker no jeweler 
 of the Rue de la Paix could determine. 
 
 An irregular correspondence followed, in which, 
 as in their former intercourse, Harold's part was 
 the more active one ; but it was long before they 
 met again. After a year's tour from Norway to 
 Algiers, with Madelon, Harold had returned to 
 France to pass the summer at St. Malo, before 
 setting sail for Ashurst. From here he wrote
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 33 
 
 Schonberg Madelon herself added a postscript 
 entreating a visit ; and when Schonberg came, 
 and had grasped Harold's hand and looked into 
 Madelon' s winsome face, there climbed upon his 
 knee a little girl, whose clinging arms were like 
 the tendrils of the vine which fasten in the crev 
 ices of the rock. 
 
 He found Harold unchanged ; hard pushed as 
 ever for money, but not for cheer. Sometimes 
 this cheer exasperated Schonberg ; sometimes he 
 even admired it, but without envy. For of all 
 those things which grief envies, buoyancy is not 
 one. 
 
 Harold had talked about his friend all these 
 years, yet could not answer one of Madelon's 
 questions. Now she knew why. This friend 
 had no confidences to give, made no allusions 
 to himself. He liked to be in her presence, 
 though he said little, basking there as in the 
 sun. Before the summer was over, scarcely 
 knowing why, she was deeply attached to him. 
 Little Seraphine preferred his company to that 
 of all others, not excepting Madelon. She drew 
 him down at morning on the sands, and listened 
 at night with great wondering eyes to such sto 
 ries as were not written in her books. 
 
 " There was once," Madelon heard him tell, in 
 the twilight hour when Seraphine sat on his 
 knee, " there was once a fair country built about
 
 34 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 with a wall, over which none of its inhabitants 
 could see, and behind which the stars went down. 
 Some spent all their time in digging at this wall 
 with their nails ; others lay down beside the 
 fountains in the shade, and laughed ; and some, 
 like spiders, spun webs to hide the stars whose 
 perpetual silence troubled them. But that which 
 troubled them most was a black bat none could 
 escape ; the idlers laughing at the fountains, nor 
 the workers at the wall. Upon the youngest 
 child, as upon the wisest philosopher who knew 
 whether the number of the stars was odd or even, 
 this ugly bat lighted ; and such an one straight 
 way disappeared and was seen no more. The 
 wise men pretended that such had but gone be 
 yond the wall, and this was the more probable 
 because they were no longer anywhere to be seen. 
 And some, who had climbed the highest moun 
 tains, said there were pleasant fields and brooks 
 without, only more beautiful, and that the 
 bat, like themselves, was a prisoner within the 
 wall, and could not trouble those without. 
 
 " Now among these people abode also pne who 
 was ever with them, like the bat. The bat they 
 named Death, and this other they called Love. 
 None could avoid her, and none knew whence 
 she came. She was more subtle than the bat, 
 and wore many disguises, sitting down with the 
 peasant in his hut and the king in his council-
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 35 
 
 chamber. Even the wise men were charmed by 
 her, coming out from their retreats to converse 
 with her, and the workers at the wall ceased their 
 labor at the sound of her voice. But some said 
 she was even more terrible than the bat; for, 
 said they, she brings secretly its food, and but for 
 her it would perish and peace reign. But most 
 welcomed her ; for under her robe hid always a 
 laiighing child whose name was Happiness, whom 
 every man ran after to hold and keep for his 
 own, but whom none could win or force to stay 
 with them, only Love. 
 
 " Now certain of the wise men pretended that 
 none had ever seen Love, but that she was as it 
 were a dream ; and that the child that hid in her 
 robe was only an image which existed on the ret 
 ina of the eye. And this was the more proba 
 ble, since none had persuaded the child to live 
 with them, nor could any man be found who had 
 seen it, except under the shelter of Love's robe. 
 But others of the wise men made charms where 
 with to snare the child, and to these charms they 
 gave mighty names : to one Fame, and to another 
 Labor ; to one Reason, and to another Renunci 
 ation " 
 
 " I do not understand." said Seraphine, with 
 wide-open eyes. 
 
 " So ? " said Schonberg ; " then I will tell you 
 about the giants that lived before the flood."
 
 36 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 The summer passed quickly, and, as the time 
 for farewells drew near, Madelon's face grew 
 sad, not alone because she looked forward 
 with some misgivings to Ashurst. Her marriage 
 had been bitterly opposed by her father, and but 
 for her mother who in becoming one had not 
 wholly ceased to be a child would probably 
 never have taken place. The Countess Foy 
 knew that the will and the heart of her daughter 
 were in league, and that to break the one was 
 also to break the other. Her husband, more 
 skeptical, remained obdurate. As often, the 
 same premise served for both arguments. She 
 would yield because Madelon was their only 
 child, a fact which to his way of thinking con 
 veyed the right of despotism. The controlling 
 motive, however, which led her at last openly to 
 take Madelon's side was a self -reverence which 
 forbade her violating the deeper instincts of 
 her daughter's heart, as it would have prevented 
 her from wronging her own. The Countess Foy 
 respected herself first, her position afterwards. 
 The marriage took place quietly at Walzins, 
 with the express understanding on the part of 
 the Count that thereafter Madelon's name was 
 never to be mentioned in his presence. This 
 conditional consent afforded him more pleasure 
 than was ever suspected, for from that day to 
 his death he wore a black band and black gloves,
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 37 
 
 the vanity of his effusive nature thus finding a 
 most agreeable field for activity. There are men 
 for whom tears and embraces are uninteresting, 
 but to whom the temptation of playing the mar 
 tyr is irresistible. 
 
 Madelon was more willing to pay the price of 
 her happiness than her mother was to have her. 
 For although the latter approved, her heart 
 sometimes misgave her. " Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, 
 advise me," she said, appealing to a friend who 
 was then visiting her at Walzins. 
 
 " My dear, you might as well ask me which 
 balloon to buy for your child of the man on the 
 Champs Elyse*es ; rank, riches, love, it makes 
 no difference. One bubble lasts as long as the 
 other." 
 
 " Isabel ! " exclaimed the Countess through 
 her tears. 
 
 " Patience ! if the bubble is nothing, it is 
 we who hold the string. Tell your gosling to 
 idealize : by dint of idealizing night and day 
 even friendships continue ; it is the infallible 
 elixir " 
 
 " You do not follow your own advice," inter 
 rupted the Countess resentfully. 
 
 " I ? never ! " laughed Isabel. " I weep bit 
 terly the dead, but I detest mummies." 
 
 " You think I bring you the sanction of your 
 happiness," said Madelon's mother in announ-
 
 38 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 cing the conditions of her husband, " but it seems 
 to me I only give you the right to destroy it." 
 Secretly, she trusted to the influences of time 
 and her own persuasions ; but the only conces 
 sion ever gained was after Seraphine's birth, 
 when, being ordered to Walziiis by the physi 
 cians to pass the summer on account of her 
 health, she had succeeded in obtaining her hus 
 band's consent to a visit of Made-Ion with Sera- 
 phine. It was during the following winter, while 
 Madelon was in Algiers, that the Countess died. 
 One of Seraphine's earliest recollections was that 
 of being caught in her mother's arms and kissed 
 in a passion of tears. Then for the first time the 
 child realized that in her world of sun and flow 
 ers was lurking somewhere a mysterious peril. 
 
 Schonberg came into the house at St. Malo a 
 guest, and Madelon was a charming hostess. 
 But it was not long before she found herself the 
 guest, and he her entertainer. One by one she 
 discarded those " undermost garments of dissim 
 ulation and courtesy which are never put off." 
 Here was a man not to be lassoed with cobwebs ; 
 of him she knew nothing, but him she knew. 
 
 One evening, at bedtime, Seraphine learned 
 that his stories were to come to an end. " You 
 shall go with me ! " she exclaimed, her voice* 
 quivering with the passion of alarm and desire. 
 
 " The child loves you," said Madelon, holding 
 her breath.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 39 
 
 " Well, be it so," replied Schonberg ; and 
 this answer did not surprise her. For she had 
 seen that unconscious influence of the child, 
 drifting in like a buoy upon a stormy sea to save 
 a sinking faith and courage. 
 
 That night she covered little Seraphine with 
 kisses. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Harold Fleming had been one of Ashurst's 
 failures. 
 
 According to its theory of life, nothing could 
 be strung on the raveling yarn of existence un 
 til its ends had first been secured by a sort of 
 theological hard knot, no matter what bright- 
 colored beads this knot might thereafter uphold. 
 The son of a former village pastor, he had been 
 destined for his father's calling. But the years 
 of study abroad, which were to have put the 
 finicals on his education, disturbed its foundation 
 courses. He had left Germany for Italy, and 
 Italy for Paris, where he had flung himself into 
 the study of art with the sudden enthusiasm of 
 one who finds at last his calling, really begin 
 ning life in earnest only when he entered the 
 studio of a French master. This act of serious 
 ness was not, however, so interpreted in Ashurst, 
 which saw the skeleton in everything. For
 
 40 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 though its literary circle was very devoted to the 
 " Old Masters," who had become great by stick 
 ing fast to their painting, Harold, in doing no 
 more, became only a warning where they had 
 become models. Even his fame, shared in later 
 years by Ashurst, scarcely atoned for this lapse 
 from virtue. 
 
 Moreover, having married, while abroad, a 
 French lady, he very naturally brought her home 
 with him. Not that Ashurst had an antipathy 
 to all that was foreign. On the contrary, it 
 shared that taste for foreign garniture which, 
 like other similar waves, flowed and ebbed about 
 its ancient landmarks without producing much 
 more effect than the tide does on a hard beach. 
 But it was one thing to import Philistine orna 
 ments and apparel, and quite another to import 
 the Philistine herself. 
 
 Madelon both disappointed the preconceived 
 ideas and provoked the criticism of Ashurst. 
 She dressed better than her neighbors, yet cared 
 less about it. Except of life, she possessed less 
 knowledge than they, yet wielded more power. 
 She was, it is true, very fond of amusement, but 
 of that kind which consists preeminently in the 
 diversion of others, and this brilliant accomplish 
 ment was a more refined type of selfishness than 
 had been expected. Of beauty she had little. 
 In comparison with social powers such as hers,
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 41 
 
 beauty is but a passive force that waits, like in 
 ertia, on fortune. And with all this she had the 
 rare gift, peculiarly her countrywomen's, of being 
 at home what she was abroad, an enkindling, 
 energizing power. She exercised at her fireside 
 that woman's stimulus which in its perverted 
 form tempts men to overstep the boundaries of 
 duty, as an elevating, restraining influence to 
 keep them up to and within its requirements. 
 Her home was not far from the ideal one. There 
 were others also in Ashurst, and all true homes 
 are everywhere essentially alike. But the style 
 and circumstance of Madelon's appealed to the 
 imagination as well as to the heart ; its virtues 
 possessed charms and graces. From various 
 sources Ashurst had formed a type of feminine 
 France to which Madelon did not conform. For 
 she made cages instead of snares. 
 
 As for Schonberg, he felt in Ashurst as if he 
 had stepped from a crowded street into some 
 quiet old china shop, where he could neither sit 
 down nor stir without destroying some image. 
 For Ashurst was not tolerant of habits or judg 
 ments foreign to its own. It was not only that 
 Schonberg was of an alien race, with those char 
 acteristic ways which belong to the decorative 
 effect of national life, though these also were 
 innocently resented as a slavery to gods not 
 worshiped in Ashurst. Such external non-con-
 
 42 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 formity to its canons might, however, escape 
 with pity or be condoned with a smile. The 
 real ground of disapproval was his steady neu 
 trality in the face of all those mysteries of life 
 for which Ashurst had a solvent, a neutrality 
 giving rise to the desire to see him subdued, 
 brought to terms, and reduced to the common 
 level. Combativeness, or aggression, would 
 not have produced half the irritation of this 
 silent but deep non-conformity, holding stand 
 ards in such absolute indifference that they lost 
 even the indirect tribute usually paid by their 
 violators. People in Ashurst moved in orbits 
 calculated before they were born. But for 
 Schonberg all their usages and precedents, their 
 formulae and conventions, were only the wall 
 which the wise men built about the tree on 
 which the nightingale sang. 
 
 Those to whom appearances stand for realities 
 never knew him, except as it were by sight; 
 they saw his eccentricities alone, distinguishing 
 him thereby from his fellows as one might 
 distinguish the Torso from among statues, by 
 the absence of head and limbs. Most followed 
 blindly the verdicts of the oracles ; for places 
 like Ashurst have their oracles, and there are 
 everywhere minds which place verdicts before 
 reasons. 
 
 In this north wind of disapproval there grew
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 43 
 
 gradually over his speech and manners a rough 
 ness, like the fungus on his fence, a roughness 
 originally nothing but a straightforward honesty 
 of purpose which stood modestly, though stoutly, 
 for its own. But Ashurst was aggressive, and 
 twisted a native virtue into almost a deformity. 
 He made his enemies as do most men, by his 
 tongue. This was more often due to a certain 
 philosophic candor of speech than to any bitter 
 ness of spirit, sheer absent-mindedness, one 
 thought preoccupying his attention to the exclu 
 sion of all others ; as when he interrupted the 
 minister, who was repeating for his benefit a 
 sermon on the gravity of trifles, with the remark 
 that he disagreed with him entirely, for life, to 
 him, was like the sphere, the more any portion 
 of it was magnified the flatter it seemed. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 It was not unnatural that speculation should 
 busy itself about such as Schonberg. "Of 
 mighty men and of great rivers the springs are 
 obscure." He had the appearance of a wreck 
 abandoned on a lonely shore. There were even 
 those who were confident that he had suffered 
 from a disappointment in love, a conjecture 
 which so amused Harold that he told his wife 
 of it.
 
 44 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " I think so, too," replied Madelon demurely. 
 
 " You would n't think so if you had heard 
 what he said when I told him." 
 
 " What did he say ? " 
 
 " That love slew its victims by surfeit, not by 
 starvation." 
 
 " That was an evasion," replied Madelon, so 
 seriously that Harold looked up at her inquir 
 ingly. " Besides," she added quickly, " you are 
 a living proof to the contrary." 
 
 " You don't really believe nonsense ! " he 
 said, with a return of incredulity. 
 
 Had Madelon wished to disarm suspicion, she 
 should have argued the matter. Her silence 
 re-awakened curiosity. 
 
 " Come," he said after a pause, " you know 
 something.'* 
 
 " No," replied she, hesitatingly. 
 
 " That was what you said when I first asked 
 you if you loved me, but it proved otherwise." 
 
 " You are laughing at me," said Madelon, 
 giving him a covert reproof with her eyes. 
 
 " I did n't then," replied Harold. 
 
 A longer pause followed, during which his 
 eyes were fixed upon his wife. Madelon was 
 silent. It is often hard to give specific reasons, 
 though our intuitions are right. 
 
 " Nobody knows him better than I do," said 
 Harold. " As for love ! " and he laughed.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 45 
 
 " He loves Seraphine," interrupted Madelon. 
 
 " Of course he loves Seraphine ! Have you 
 no other reasons ? " 
 
 " You would call them trifles, Harold," said 
 Madelon, laying down her work. 
 
 " Tell me one, and see. Come." 
 
 " Did you ever notice the little square of 
 wood-violets in his garden, how carefully he 
 keeps them ? " she said at last. 
 
 "No; but what of it?" 
 
 " Don't you think there is a kind of care we 
 give to trifles which they themselves cannot 
 explain ? " 
 
 "Well?" said Harold. 
 
 "Unless they stand for something, unless 
 they are bound fast to memories " and Mad- 
 elon's voice, which trembled easily, faltered. 
 
 " Madelon," said Harold emphatically, " did 
 you ever hear of that bridge into the Moham 
 medan paradise, narrow as the edge of a scim 
 itar? I think you reach great conclusions by 
 a terribly thin logic. If a man has violets in 
 his garden, it is because he loves violets, not 
 because " 
 
 " That depends," interrupted Madelon. 
 
 " Yes, of course. But you put your conclu 
 sions for your premises. A man who has loved 
 may love violets, but it hardly follows that 
 because he likes violets "
 
 46 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " I don't say it depends upon whether he 
 loved, but upon whether he won," Madelon in 
 terrupted again. " If he had won, the violets 
 would have been forgotten soon enough." 
 
 Between the truth and the inconsequence of 
 this reply Harold was silent. But when he next 
 saw Schoiiberg in his garden, he said, interrog 
 atively, " You are fond of violets ? " 
 
 " Why not ? " replied Schonberg. " They are 
 not cabbages. It is one thing to dig in one's 
 garden for pleasure, and another to dig there 
 for bread." 
 
 IX. 
 
 The net of circumstance which closed about 
 Schonberg after his arrival in Ashurst was 
 woven of a few simple strands. How few, in 
 deed, the events of life, however complex or 
 mutable ! How common, and yet how momen 
 tous to the individual ! History only repeats 
 them, romance can but vary their order. 
 
 He had taken a vacant house near the Flem 
 ings, at which both Harold and Madelon had 
 protested without avail. But most of his time 
 he spent with them ; for while he loved inde 
 pendence he did not mistake solitude for it, 
 and had none of that shallow vanity which af 
 fects a disdain for common intercourse as a
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 47 
 
 proof of superiority. Thus he was no recluse. 
 He had his strong social likes and dislikes, and 
 trod pavements as well as wood-paths. He 
 seemed to win without effort the love and esteem 
 of simple folk and children, but for the minister 
 he was ever the stone at the bottom of the eddy 
 which the eddy cannot lift. For the minister 
 was fond of logical tournaments, whereas Schon- 
 berg detested argument, thereby exercising an 
 irresistible fascination for one whose sense of 
 duty outran the respect due his own limitations, 
 and whose knowledge of impotence begat an 
 uneasy activity. On such occasions as he could 
 not avoid, Schonberg usually capitulated, by 
 that most exasperating of all surrenders, si 
 lence. Once only, driven to the wall, he lost 
 his patience. 
 
 "When I see two men arguing," he said, 
 turning on his heel, " I see two donkeys in a 
 treadmill, moving side by side, and making no 
 progress. Write it out for me, and I will go 
 home and think about it. Digestion is a soli 
 tary business." 
 
 Little Seraphine had now a sister, with whom 
 she affected the airs of a young mother. " You 
 cannot love me so much now," Schonberg said 
 to her one day ; " Elize must have her share." 
 These words, understood in all seriousness, set 
 the little mind a-thinking, and when bedtime
 
 48 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 came, and she had sought him out on the 
 piazza for a good-night kiss, she asked, " Does 
 the sky of St. Malo touch the sky of Ashurst?" 
 
 "Yes," said Schonberg. 
 
 "That's how much I love you," she replied 
 solemnly. 
 
 Those years of Elize's and Seraphine's child 
 hood held for Schonberg a happiness akin to 
 that of the mother who, pressing her loved ones 
 to her bosom, sees reluctantly the days of de 
 pendence going by. They contained no events 
 worthy of record, yet one having access to the 
 pages of the journal which he filled with the 
 splutterings of his quill pen would have found 
 witnesses to the influences which filled those 
 happy, monotonous years, influences of the 
 child who leads us back to the beginning of 
 things : back to the springs of life whose only 
 shadows are the flowers on their banks, whose 
 only reflection is the upper sky ; to the primal 
 streams of hope and love, not yet swollen to 
 those mighty currents that bear us away on 
 their tide ; to the days when we did not ask 
 whither they tended, and had not forgotten 
 whence they came ; to the simple happiness of 
 the child over whose pathway has not yet fallen 
 the shadows of those spectral shapes, the Future 
 and the Past. There is no child who is not 
 wiser than you. All the long-forgotten first les-
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 49 
 
 sons are on his tongue. Ho will disconcert you 
 over the Pythagorean proposition, though you 
 have since mastered the Pythagorean philoso 
 phy. Of second, third, last impressions he 
 knows nothing ; he will give you the first. And 
 woe to him whose ear has grown too tired to 
 hear, whose life has no blessed second-childhood, 
 which is the home-coming through reason and 
 experience to what was once his by instinct. 
 For life's middle belt of sand is bounded by 
 gardens, and he who traverses safely the zone 
 of doubt and pain finds beyond the self -same 
 fountains of hope and faith at which he once 
 ignorantly drank. 
 
 ' ' They alone content may gain, 
 Who can good from ill divide, 
 Or in ignorance abide 
 All between is restless pain." 
 
 Thus these years went by uncounted, till one 
 of those events came from which days and years 
 are reckoned anew. Harold died. 
 
 " I bequeath to them," said he, speaking of 
 his children to Schonberg the last time he saw 
 him, " the friendship which has been so long 
 mine and of which I make you trustee, till they 
 come of that age when they shall know better 
 than to squander it." 
 
 The best proof of Schonberg's faithful exe 
 cution of this trust was the love which Sera-
 
 50 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 phine and Elize gave him. Madelon watched its 
 growth with a passionate eagerness, secure at 
 last in the thought that she and hers had found 
 their way to the heart which Ashurst had not 
 carried by stratagem or assault. To every heart 
 there is one royal road love. They had found 
 it instinctively, she and they, without seeking 
 for it ; as little conscious of barriers as when 
 they passed the wall which ran thickset with 
 vines and briers between the two houses, through 
 the gate. Any one who saw them together 
 would know that they had entered by this ever- 
 open door. 
 
 After Harold's death, Madelon realized that 
 he alone had stood between her and that home 
 sickness which belongs to her race. She talked 
 now freely with Schonberg of what before she 
 had scarcely thought. He became more and 
 more the friend in whom she confided, since she 
 had no longer him whom she loved. During all 
 these years she had heard no word from her 
 father. She wrote now, for the sake of her chil 
 dren; but her letter was returned unopened. 
 The hope of reconciliation she had cherished on 
 their account died out ; sometimes it seemed to 
 her that she alone stood in the way, and that 
 after she had gone they would recover that of 
 which she had dispossessed them. But she 
 louged to see France again, and talked it over
 
 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 51 
 
 with Schonberg in the evening hours on the 
 piazza when the little ones were asleep. 
 
 " Yesterday," she said, one night, " I asked 
 the Squire exactly how much I have to depend 
 upon." 
 
 " What did he say ? " said Schonberg, mov 
 ing uneasily in his chair. 
 
 " He told me to ask you." 
 
 He had been dreading this question. Harold 
 had not been given to economies : if he thought 
 of the morrow, it was only of the picture he 
 would paint or the one he would sell. Schon 
 berg had already been obliged to resort to arti 
 fices, to invent explanations at the moment, even 
 to pledge the Squire to secrecy. It was a pleas 
 ure beyond gauging, this dependence which 
 opened up all the channels of love's activities. 
 
 " One can live so much cheaper there than 
 here," she continued ; " if I only have enough 
 for that " And she began to dream. 
 
 Schonberg was silent. There would be no 
 pleasure left if his affection was dragged into 
 the light and gilded over with gold. He liked 
 gratitude ; but he detested its expression. And 
 Madelon ! with her pride that keen knife with 
 which we wound ourselves, which we draw across 
 the very bonds of love and sheathe in our own 
 hearts. No, she must not know. 
 
 " Harold would never speak of these things," 
 she said, coming out of her dream.
 
 52 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 "There is nothing to fear," said Schonberg, 
 astonished at what he was saying ; " you have 
 enough ; to-morrow we will talk about it." 
 
 The next morning he walked into the Squire's 
 office. A silent man was the Squire, with cold 
 blue eyes, a straight mouth without lips, and thin 
 hair ; one of those men universally respected, 
 who die amid great show of regret, leave ex 
 amples worthy of imitation, and whom nobody 
 loves. And there, among the cases of yellow 
 law books, the high stool, and iron safe, Schon 
 berg made over to Madelon Fleming, and placed 
 in her name, for her, her heirs and assigns for 
 ever, the half of his fortune. Why ? Perhaps 
 to save his conscience the lie of the night before, 
 or, since he could not efface from her heart its 
 sorrow, to shield it at least from anxiety. 
 
 But Madelon never saw again the sunny fields 
 of France. The energy of her life ebbed stead 
 ily after Harold's death. Unaccountable as it 
 is, the stronger nature, on which the weaker 
 leans, often frets itself to sleep when the object 
 of its activities is withdrawn ; it is as if the 
 oak failed when the vine it supports dies. Thus 
 Harold and Madelon both disappeared from the 
 shaded paths of the little village, and under the 
 pines of its secluded churchyard slept the sleep 
 of the faithful, if not that of the strictly tradi 
 tional just; and Schonberg, who had entered
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 53 
 
 the Fleming home as the traveler enters the 
 inn, seeking shelter from the rain and night, 
 and who had lingered there* as the traveler 
 lingers at the fireside, loath to pursue his jour 
 ney, was left alone with his trust. The net of 
 circumstance had closed, and held him fast. 
 
 " Between your garden and your books you 
 lead a very quiet life," said the minister to him 
 one day. In the minister's simplest sentences 
 there was often the shadow of a hidden re 
 proof. 
 
 " I find a new coin every time I go over my 
 estate," was the reply. 
 
 X. 
 
 There was something in Seraphine akin to 
 himself which drew out Schonberg's sympathy 
 and admiration. Both had his love, but where 
 as Elize won it, Seraphine commanded it ; and at 
 times, face to face with this graver but no less 
 willful nature, he felt that an hour for control 
 and advice might come when it would neither 
 take the one nor brook the other. " Elize," he 
 said to himself, "has so much sympathy; every 
 contact is a discharge. But Seraphine ! she 
 accumulates electricity like a Leyden jar." 
 
 There was absolutely no outward resemblance
 
 64 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 between her and Noel ; but the subtler affinities 
 do not reside in color and form. No merely out 
 ward resemblance could have so startled him as 
 did at times the mingling of contained strength 
 and willful purpose, of impulse and reserve, with 
 which Seraphine confronted him. It was not 
 her look, but her way of looking, that brought 
 back to him the river bank at Anseremne. In 
 this mental resemblance which even in the 
 child at St. Malo he had recognized, fugitive 
 and phantom-like as it then was he found at 
 first a sad, consoling pleasure. But as she ma 
 tured, above all as the years went, by and she 
 became his own care and preoccupation, this 
 likeness grew more striking, and gave birth to a 
 strange apprehension, a half -con fused forebod 
 ing, which troubled his heart. He was no coward 
 to Fate, though he recognized it in the very act 
 of antagonizing it ; but there were times when 
 the Past, often more real then the Present, 
 seemed to throw its shadow forward into the 
 Future. And then, what weapons Love puts 
 into the hands of Fear! the senseless fear at 
 which he laughed. What, a tragedy in Ash- 
 urst ! Why not in Ashurst as in Anseremne ? 
 Had not Seraphine all those elements which make 
 life momentous for their possessor ? " Dear, 
 solemn, Seraphine," as Elize used to say, " who 
 makes alliances for life and death."
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 55 
 
 She had inherited from her father something 
 of the New England character, but it was not 
 easy to see where the native and the alien met. 
 She was too near the sources to have become a 
 new type. At times the French inheritance un 
 expectedly appeared in its own purity, a sud 
 den surprise ; and then, like the theme of which 
 we catch at intervals a strain amid the varia 
 tions of the composer, to charm by the single 
 ness and freshness of its expression. She pos 
 sessed great naturalness, but no transparency. 
 The most striking feature in her appearance was 
 a high, rather narrow forehead, which she con 
 cealed in part by her hair, and which gave her 
 face an intense expression. The same intensity 
 of nature was heard in her voice, soft in its in 
 flections, but with undertones of sadness, even 
 severity ; and there were times when they rose 
 above the rest with subdued menace of author 
 ity. Elize recognized this authority without 
 having ever really aroused it. In such life as 
 they knew together, it was a quiet resisting force, 
 unobtrusive, but ready for the whirlwind. 
 
 Elize was the child of Madelon. Like her 
 she wielded without effort and without vanity 
 the weapons of fascination and grace, touching 
 all the gamut of sensation and emotion with a 
 delicacy and quick perception which gave her 
 the charm of variety. In Ashurst people were
 
 56 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 of one mould. They thought, talked, and acted 
 very much alike. If they were not dressed, 
 Schonberg said, it would have been difficult to 
 distinguish one from the other. But Elize 
 could be several people at once, changing color 
 like the chameleon, yet never losing her identity. 
 She consulted no standards, and knew no models 
 of propriety she herself did not suggest ; giving 
 full play to the fertility of her resources, often 
 creating more emotion than she felt, and devel 
 oping on contact with others the mobility of her 
 nature, without which, constancy, if a jewel, is 
 one without sparkle. 
 
 The minister called her Elizabeth, as if there 
 were something shallow and unstable in the very 
 word Elize, which the moral tone of its English 
 synonym could rectify. But the minister read 
 books more and better than human nature. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Opposite the Flemings a gilded gate, set in a 
 massive wall, guarded the entrance to The Tow 
 ers. Though on the summit of a slope, its red 
 walls were not visible from the road, being hid 
 den by the surrounding trees. It was a hazard 
 ous combination of styles, singular but not quaint, 
 irregular but tame. The very swallows passed
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 57 
 
 it by for Schonberg's projecting eaves, in whose 
 sheltering shadows they built their nests ; for the 
 peaked roof and gables of the Flemings, where 
 they chattered among the flowers that climbed 
 the lattice and peeped in at the diamond panes. 
 
 In former times, when Mr. Ferguson was liv 
 ing, strangers in Ashurst were taken to see the 
 grounds and gaze at the great facade, which 
 rose suddenly to view where the winding avenue 
 emerged from among the elms and firs upon 
 the open lawn. Even then, however, the house 
 was rarely occupied. Rowan, the only son, was 
 in Europe, and Mr. Ferguson, after his wife's 
 death, seldom left the city. In meeting him on 
 one of those occasional visits he paid to Ashurst, 
 one felt very much as when, walking down the 
 gravelled path, the silent stately house appeared, 
 both were made to be looked at, and few who 
 looked would care to live in the one or with the 
 other. 
 
 " Uncle," said little Elize to Schonberg once 
 in the old days when they sat under the honey 
 suckles of the piazza with Madelon, " if that 
 house is The Towers, what is the name of our 
 house?" "The Snuggery," replied Schonberg, 
 taking the little girl in his arms ; and so it came 
 to be called ever after ; and when Harold, whose 
 buoyant temperament often succumbed to trifles, 
 grew dissatisfied, Madelon would ask, " Which
 
 58 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 will you choose, dear, The Snuggery, or The 
 Towers ? " which brought out the sun again. 
 
 Why Mrs. Ferguson had not lived with her 
 husband in the city, where he spent most of the 
 year, everybody had conjectured, but nobody 
 knew. She existed now only as a memory in 
 Ashurst, the memory of a silent, retiring woman, 
 mingling rarely in society, whose face had the 
 sweetness of sadness, but from whose lips a 
 watchful curiosity had never heard a murmur. 
 Had the walls of The Towers spoken, they would 
 quite likely have disappointed the curious. The 
 fate of first hopes is so universally, if tacitly, 
 conceded, as to have lost all its tragic force. 
 Every life is strewn with the ruins or haunted 
 by the visions of habitations built in its morn 
 ing, habitations which either perished with 
 occupancy or remained forever dreams ; and no 
 doubt many would have considered The Towers 
 a more ample compensation than the evening 
 commonly offers the morning. 
 
 " Do you know what she reminds me of ? " 
 Harold had once said, as the Ferguson carriage 
 rolled through the gate with its lonely occu 
 pant ; " of what a flatterer said to Antony of 
 woman : * Between them and a great cause they 
 should be esteemed nothing.' ' 
 
 " Ah ! a great cause, perhaps, but money ! " 
 said Madelon.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 59 
 
 Yet the owner of The Towers had not been 
 without defenders. On the day of his funeral 
 Schonberg walked home with the minister, who 
 on parting with him at his gate had said, 
 
 " Well, he was a just man." The minister 
 was celebrated for his saving clauses. 
 
 " I have observed," said Schonberg, looking 
 > hard at his feet, " that an excess of one quality 
 is always bought at the expense of another. If 
 a man be absolutely just, he will be absolutely 
 merciless. I would not trust absolute justice to 
 any but a god." 
 
 " We must give him his due," replied the 
 minister. 
 
 "I was speaking of justness," said Schon 
 berg curtly. " What did the Jew say ? Be just 
 one towards another? Not a bit of it. Do 
 as thou wouldst be done by ; that is the only 
 justness. All the rest is chips, dry as geom 
 etry." 
 
 Much to Ashurst's surprise, Mr. Ferguson's 
 estate was found on his death to be in what was 
 called an " embarassed condition." He had be 
 gun life with an end in view, and this end he 
 had attained. At first, as with the mariner who 
 creeps to windward, progress had been slow, and 
 his hand never left the helm. But then the 
 helm was steady. In this first period of his 
 career he risked little and economized every-
 
 60 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 thing. In the second he drew a danger line 
 about certain safe investments sufficient to meet 
 his yearly expenses, from the least personal item 
 to the brilliant flower exhibitions which consti 
 tuted one of Ashurst's annual attractions. He 
 found economy not inconsistent with display, and 
 practiced it as before. But besides this pru 
 dently reserved capital, which occasioned him 
 no concern, was another, a floating, uncertain 
 wealth, ever shrinking and expanding, which gave 
 to life all its zest. The former was food and 
 clothing, the gratification of vanity, and the love 
 of ostentation ; the latter fed the thirst for ex 
 citement begotten in the long windward beat 
 and not allayed by arrival in port. For a long 
 time this prudent distinction was maintained. 
 But the intoxication of success has this in com 
 mon with the grosser form, that it leads men 
 to assume risks and incur perils from which 
 soberness would flee. Before the fair gales of 
 prosperity, the pressure of the ship's helm close- 
 hauled to the wind a constant reminder of the 
 point to be weathered disappears ; and it was 
 thus at last that Mr. Ferguson embarked upon 
 enterprises which compromised his reserves. His 
 ship might have outlived the storm had not the 
 pilot succumbed at the critical moment ; ashore, 
 and masterless, it went to pieces in the hands of 
 the wreckers, and, with the exception of a legacy
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 61 
 
 from his mother, Rowan found himself stripped 
 of all a reasonable expectation had led him to 
 look upon as his own. 
 
 His father's death was a shock, but not an 
 affliction. There had always existed between 
 them such a gulf of nature that sympathy had 
 never gained on the submission of the child or 
 the authority of the father. This authority, 
 though silent, was none the less irksome. Mr. 
 Ferguson was too indifferent to be inquisitive. 
 Pie had given his son the best education purchas 
 able with legal tender. He himself had not en 
 joyed such advantages, but he vaguely approved 
 of them, as also of Rowan's life abroad. In his 
 opinion there was no education but life. He 
 could see his tact, his judgment, his nerve, de 
 velop with experience, but he could not trace 
 the influence of Greek roots or logarithms into 
 success, " any more than you can find the food 
 in the muscle," some one said to him ; to which 
 he replied that " chips and confections were not 
 food." He had achieved success as the bee 
 makes honey, by persistent work ; giving as lit 
 tle heed to the fragrance and beauty of the 
 things among which he moved, as does that in 
 dustrious rover flying from flower to flower on 
 purely commercial transactions. But behind 
 this tolerant indifference Rowan knew that his 
 father regarded certain professions as profitless
 
 62 THE WIND OF DESTINT. 
 
 trades, to be indulged in as whims are, if one 
 can afford to ; and that he expected him to re 
 turn in due time, and take his place in the city. 
 There was a glad sense of relief at the bottom 
 of his ieart when that wall of cold opinion which 
 circumscribed his life disappeared, and he saw 
 DO longer stretching before him the iron track 
 his father had laid into his future. 
 
 He had been amusing himself abroad with 
 painting ; now he settled down to work. The 
 loss of fortune, uncovering the spur of necessity, 
 converted a pastime into a profession, and made 
 aims of desires. 
 
 XIL 
 
 There was another person involved in the 
 disaster to Mr. Ferguson's estate, his ward 
 and Rowan's cousin, Gladys. 
 
 After two years of legal complications which 
 threatened to be interminable, Gladys had ac 
 cepted The Towers in liquidation of her claims ; 
 for after her uncle's affairs had passed through 
 the hands of the wreckers, this cumbersome prop 
 erty alone remained. Gladys had visited her 
 uncle when a little girl, but was a stranger in 
 Ashurst, and had, in fact, made only a single 
 preliminary inspection of The Towers before
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 63 
 
 coming to take possession for the summer. She 
 had scarcely arrived when a letter from Rowan 
 announced his return from Europe, and a visit 
 to Ashurst. 
 
 Gladys had not seen him since he went abroad. 
 Meanwhile, the wheel of fortune had made a 
 revolution. He could not of course hold her to 
 account for its reverses, yet she did not look for 
 ward to the meeting with perfect serenity. She 
 had often tried to imagine herself in Rowan's 
 place, where in fact she was, and, judging 
 others by herself, this mode of generalization 
 had led her to conclusions with reference to her 
 cousin's state of mind not altogether satisfac 
 tory. But she was no more to blame than he. 
 Certainly, with all her delicacy of invention, she 
 would never have dared to offer compensation. 
 
 This letter stirred other thoughts also. She 
 had always liked Rowan, though she had never 
 been able to manage him, and had once decided 
 that on that account, after all, she did not like 
 him. This decision rested on an effort of the 
 will rather than a state of mind, and to maintain 
 its integrity the effort had to be occasionally re 
 peated, which in time becomes tiresome. But 
 this decision had to all appearances been a final 
 one, for shortly after Rowan's departure Gladys 
 became Mrs. Temple. 
 
 Whatever the thoughts his return evoked, she
 
 64 TEE WIND OF DEBT INT. 
 
 had regained her composure when he came up 
 the steps of the terrace at the hour mentioned 
 in his letter. She was sitting under the awning 
 among the flowers, her lap full of bright-colored 
 wools, which formed an effective contrast with 
 her simple toilette, a very pretty picture. It 
 was one of luxury, Gladys never disguised it, 
 but it formed the background not the fore 
 ground of her pictures. 
 
 Rowan answered the question she had been 
 debating while sitting there in the momentary 
 expectation of hearing his steps on the gravel, 
 as to whether she should or should not kiss him 
 affectionately, by lifting her fingers to his lips 
 with a 
 
 " Good morning, Cousin Gladys." 
 
 " One would think I was a princess," she said 
 with a reproachful look, though the solution of 
 her question flattered her. 
 
 " If you are not a princess, I at least am a 
 vassal," said Rowan ; " that is, with your per 
 mission. I wish to rent of Your Highness the 
 small house by the ferry." 
 
 This house was a dependency of The Towers, 
 in a lane which, once a road, had not known 
 a carriage wheel since the bridge replaced the 
 ferry. 
 
 " But, Rowan," said Gladys, " surely you are 
 going to stay with us ? "
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 65 
 
 " No," said Rowan, " thank you." 
 
 "But, Rowan, everything is ready. Your 
 room " 
 
 " Thank you ; you are very kind, but you can 
 be kinder." 
 
 " You shall be free as as I am," urged 
 Gladys. 
 
 " I want to be more so. Besides, I have sent 
 my boxes to the house already." 
 
 " Before even asking me ? " 
 
 " Well, you can still make your terms." 
 
 " Terms ! business ! are we not cousins ? " 
 
 " On that account the business is all the more 
 important." 
 
 " But how will you live, Rowan ? You can 
 not" 
 
 " Oh, I have engaged an old woman. She is 
 probably waiting now on the doorstep for the 
 key. Then, I shall not stay long." 
 
 " And you came this morning ! " 
 
 " This morning, cousin." 
 
 " And you have engaged a servant already ! " 
 
 " Why not ? Is there anything very difficult 
 in hiring an old woman ? " 
 
 " But can she cook ? " 
 
 " We shall see. Have you any more ' buts,' 
 Cousin Gladys ? " 
 
 " I should have none, if you came here." 
 
 " But I don't choose to, cousin."
 
 66 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " You are unkind, Rowan, and a trifle im 
 polite." 
 
 " And you are very arbitrary. In fact, it is 
 for that reason " 
 
 "With a tenant," she said quickly, "one has 
 the right to be. But with a guest " 
 
 " Oh, a guest ! " interrupted Rowan, laugh 
 ing ; " what ! you would make a guest of your 
 cousin ? " 
 
 Gladys' eyes fell. 
 
 " You can neither be at home, nor a guest, 
 here. But am I to blame, Rowan ? " 
 
 " Are you to blame for my recollections ? 
 No," he said absently. 
 
 "Why do you come?" she asked, after a 
 pause, lifting her eyes again. 
 
 " To see you, cousin." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Gladys, reviving and flush 
 ing with pleasure. 
 
 " For what else ? I know no one here." 
 
 " Then why do you come back ? " 
 
 " My first reason you do not believe, my sec 
 ond you will not understand. I was a child 
 here." 
 " Yet you know no one." 
 
 " No but associations do not make the 
 charm of childhood." 
 
 " Well, then, places." 
 
 " No, nor places. But the key, cousin ; will 
 you send it, or shall I 'take it ? "
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 67 
 
 " Wait, I will get it," and Gladys disappeared 
 through the glass doors. " I suppose I ought to 
 present it with bended knees on a cushion of 
 crimson velvet," she said, returning with the 
 key. 
 
 " In token of welcome ? " 
 
 "No, of defeat." 
 
 She walked with him across the terrace to the 
 steps. 
 
 " Do you find many changes, Rowan ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 He looked at her and smiled. 
 
 " The trees grow ; that is about all." 
 
 " Why not come and take dinner with me to 
 night ? " she said. " I am all alone. Or have 
 you stocked your pantry already ? " 
 
 " Gladly. Is Mr. Temple here ? " 
 
 " Jack ? Oh, I expect him to-morrow night." 
 She had absolutely forgotten she was married ; 
 she often did, though not to her detriment. 
 " We will have a cozy chat this evening," she 
 added. " You have to right yourself." 
 
 "I? Right myself ?" 
 
 " Yes, you. The absent are always wrong." 
 
 " And by way of compensation are soon for 
 gotten." 
 
 She laughed. " We shall see." 
 
 " Well, then, till dinner ; " and he went down 
 the steps.
 
 68 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The doors of the house in the lane turned that 
 afternoon on hinges which had not creaked for 
 years. It was a small house, overshadowed by 
 lindens and buried in lilacs, with low, rambling 
 outbuildings that might have been builded in a 
 dream. Within reigned the disorder of arrival. 
 Boxes, trunks, furniture, were piled about in 
 confusion. A little old woman, dull-eyed and 
 wrinkled, struggled amid this chaos with the 
 silent mechanical energy of a mercenary. 
 
 The windows were open. Odors of earth and 
 forest came in with the warm summer air to take 
 possession again of the rooms so long deserted. 
 Indifferent to the confusion, Rowan's dog, a silky 
 but muscular setter, lay on a rug near the door, 
 his nose between his paws, his eyes following his 
 master. " What matters it all ! " said that eye 
 to his master's, " you are here. But come ! let 
 us go out into those wide fields where I hear the 
 song of the robin and the leap of the hare ; 
 there is home ! " 
 
 Rowan was tired. He flung himself into a 
 chair by the window, while the old woman worked 
 on in silence. The dog came and laid his head 
 upon his knee, fixing his liquid eyes on his mas 
 ter's. " Come," they said ; " see how patient I
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 69 
 
 am. Listen ! how the birds sing." Rowan gave 
 some directions, put on his hat, and went out the 
 door. 
 
 Home ! the lane hedged in with a tangle of 
 blackberries and dwarfed shrubs, the green 
 fields spotted with yellow blossoms, the hills 
 asleep in the sun, they were all his. It was 
 home. 
 
 On the edge of the wood the dog paused to 
 see which way his master should go ; but Rowan 
 threw himself down in the shade of the hem 
 locks, and the dog crouched quietly beside him, 
 his head close to his hand. 
 
 How short a time it seemed since Rowan the 
 child ran in those meadows, and the bees rose 
 from the clover as just now, when he passed by ; 
 when life was full of serenity, and confidence in 
 happiness deeper than happiness itself ; when 
 each day a capacity unfolded like a bud, and the 
 ear had not yet heard the footfall of that mys 
 terious Presence which blots desire and disap 
 pointment alike from creation. 
 
 The dog's eyelids were slowly closing. What 
 had he to do with these things ? He knew his 
 master's eye when it spoke to him, when the gun 
 was taken from the rack and the leash slipped 
 from the collar ; but now his master was asleep, 
 asleep with his eyes wide open. That was his 
 habit. Well, he too would doze awhile.
 
 70 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 No, associations did not constitute the charm 
 of childhood, nor yet places, the wood whence 
 the brook sallied, the meadows where it slept. 
 What we go back to seek there is the bloom of 
 our own nature. We would fain escape that 
 angel whose flaming sword bars the past, and 
 creep back again into our Eden, hoping to find 
 there our lost selves. 
 
 Men were raking the hay in the fields beyond. 
 The dog raised his head, and listened to their 
 shouts as they guided the oxen, to the creak of 
 the burdened wheel. 
 
 Beyond the road, Rowan could see the white 
 stones of the village graves. His mother was 
 there, under the pines. Too little of influence 
 that gentle life had had upon his, scarcely 
 more than the star upon the wind and waves 
 of the sea. But now that she was gone, his 
 thoughts turned towards her, as the eye of the 
 sailor seeks the star when it is overswept and 
 hidden by the storm. How soft the afternoon 
 light, like twilight, under the pines. Nature 
 herself seemed to acquiesce in the peace of that 
 secluded spot. What cant we fall into, thought 
 Rowan. Nature ! she goes her way, kind if 
 we will lie down with the dog, that knows not 
 of these things ; if we will be satisfied, as the 
 flower is, to scatter in her garden a little seed ; 
 but to the voices of the soul dumb and inexo 
 rable, as if no man did pray.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 71 
 
 "Come!" said the dog, sitting up on his 
 haunches, with his eyes fixed upon the wood, 
 where the leaves rustled ; " there is a squirrel 
 over there among the acorns, or a partridge 
 looking for berries in that cover which slopes to 
 the brook." 
 
 Rowan rose, shaking the red, hemlock spines 
 from his clothes. Across his path the dog ran 
 joyously, starting the squirrel from his notch in 
 the oak, the partridge from her dusty hollow in 
 the fallen tree ; then leaped to the crest of the 
 rocky point overlooking the river, where, trem 
 bling with excitement, one paw raised, he lis 
 tened for the stir of the leaf or the snap of the 
 twig that betrays the quarry. When Rowan had 
 climbed the height, he was far away on the 
 meadow below, following the steady flight of a 
 hawk. Rowan smiled as he watched them, 
 the silent sailing of the bird, fanning the air 
 with the tips of its wings, the bark of the pant 
 ing dog, following hard with eager eye. Nestor 
 never caught his bird. But instinct was stronger 
 than experience. Why not, indeed ? What a 
 fine world, forsooth, would this be if reason 
 could rule passion, and experience clip the wings 
 of desire ! 
 
 A path led along the crest of the rocks. Over 
 the crisp moss, sprinkled with acorns, down the 
 uneven steps of the ledges, Rowan followed it
 
 72 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 into the young forest of birches and maples, 
 breast high. Nestor, returned from his chase, 
 walked behind with dripping tongue. 
 
 The path widened now to a wood road, close 
 set with a wall of young trees, among which it 
 wound between black stumps, scarred by fire but 
 tipped with mosses, scarlet and gray. 
 
 " Nestor ! " said Rowan, turning suddenly to 
 the dog at his heels, " we must go back. We 
 have to go to our cousin's dinner." 
 
 Nestor's answer was a low growl. 
 
 " What is it ? " said Rowan, listening. Yes, 
 there were footsteps among the dry leaves, and 
 as he turned, a woman, bareheaded, appeared, 
 like an apparition, close beside him, at the turn 
 of the road. It was Seraphine. 
 
 A momentary fear filled her dark eyes. 
 
 " Down, Nestor ! " said Rowan, in a whisper 
 to the dog, who still growled. 
 
 Her dress touched him as she passed by. He 
 looked up, still holding the dog by the collar, 
 but she was gone. Was it a dream? For only 
 now that she was gone did he see her slim fig 
 ure, the crimson dress, the black-lace scarf about 
 her throat, the midnight hair over the midnight 
 eye, and the red flush of surprise on her cheek. 
 
 Nestor wagged his tail. How should he know 
 whom to greet, or of whom to beware? His 
 scent was keen for the step of the fox, and his
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 73 
 
 eye caught the quiver of a leaf in the still wood. 
 But what should he know of human destinies, 
 that lock in the glance of an eye, at the touch 
 of a crimson dress, and become one forevermore. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Whether because Rowan was a little early or 
 dinner a little late, Gladys managed to secure a 
 tete-d-tete with her cousin beforehand, in which 
 she rambled over Europe with him in so Bohe 
 mian a fashion that he almost fancied he was 
 sipping ices under the arcades of San Marco, or 
 chocolate on the banks of the Guadalquivir, in 
 stead of sitting on the terrace in the sleepy calm 
 of Ashurst. 
 
 " So you paint now? " said Gladys, with that 
 taint of depreciation in her voice which conveyed 
 what she did not say. 
 
 " A little, cousin." 
 
 " I never expected you would be a painter, 
 Rowan." 
 
 " No, nor I. But for misfortune we should 
 sometimes sail down the Rubicon, thinking Rome 
 was at its mouth." 
 
 She looked at him meditatively a moment, and 
 then, resuming her work, remained a long time 
 absorbed apparently in its intricate design.
 
 74 THE WIND OF DESTINY, 
 
 " You manage to extract a good deal of com 
 fort out of misfortune," she said, at last. 
 
 " It 's not an unmixed evil." 
 
 " How very philosophical we are, cousin," she 
 said, mimicking him. 
 
 " We do not philosophize at our age ; it is al 
 ways the future, never the past." Gladys' face 
 flushed visibly. "A life must sink its three 
 times before it submits to destiny." 
 
 " How many chances have you left ? " she 
 asked, playing with her rings. 
 
 " You have all three, cousin." 
 
 "Ah, you think so?" 
 
 " I judge by appearances." 
 
 She shook her head. " They are deceitf uL" 
 
 " Not in your case." 
 
 " O King Solomon ! " she exclaimed ; " your 
 wisdom would crush us ... if it were not light 
 ened a little by its conceit. Do you think you 
 have found the bottom when you have reached 
 the end of your plummet ? " 
 
 " Come, come," said Rowan, " I thought we 
 were talking about appearances." 
 
 " Well, be it so ; and because I have not aged 
 horribly, therefore" she paused. 
 
 " Therefore what, cousin ? " 
 
 " Nothing, give me your arm, please ; din 
 ner is ready." 
 
 Gladys knew the difference between the pleas-
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 75 
 
 ure of eating and the pleasure of dining ; as also, 
 such is the poverty of perfection, that all 
 good dinners would be wearisomely alike but for 
 the sparkling wines of society. Moreover, con 
 versation a deux was her delight, though only 
 with a cousin. Coffee was served on the terrace, 
 where she entertained Rowan in the long twi 
 light with her views on life in general, and in 
 Ashurst in particular. 
 
 " Tell me, Rowan, really, why do you come 
 back here ? " 
 
 " I 've told you once," replied he, watching her 
 needle. 
 
 " Yes, sentiment. Excuse me, but I don't 
 believe in it." 
 
 " That 's usually the case with things we don't 
 understand." 
 
 " Perhaps I disbelieve in it because I under 
 stand it so well," she said. 
 
 " Am I forbidden to tread my native soil ? " 
 asked Rowan, looking from her fingers to her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Oh, it 's patriotism, is it ? I did n't know you 
 were so fond of America." 
 
 " I 'm not, to the extent of believing it con 
 tains all the attractions, any more than one per 
 son possesses all the virtues." 
 
 " We don't cultivate the virtues here," replied 
 Gladys ; "we simply exterminate the vices ; it 's 
 more simple."
 
 76 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 Rowan laughed. " You are quite an observer. 
 How many days have you been here ? " 
 
 " It does n't require a very acute observer to 
 see that theology and society are very curiously 
 intertwined in Ashurst," said Gladys. 
 
 " Theology ! I never expected to see you in 
 terested in theology." 
 
 " I am not," and Gladys shrugged her shoul 
 ders imperceptibly ; " one does n't have to study 
 codes to feel them. I suppose," she contin 
 ued, laying aside her work, for the light was 
 waning, "I suppose you are a confirmed bach 
 elor now, with all your habits fixed." 
 
 " If they are good ones they are better than 
 friends," said he, examining the pattern she had 
 laid down. 
 
 " You will have to forswear some of them here, 
 and form some new ones. I have already." 
 
 Rowan walked to the railing and looked down 
 on the lawn. The stars and the fireflies were 
 beginning to show themselves. 
 
 " If I molest nobody, nobody will molest me," 
 he said, carelessly. 
 
 " Oh, you are going to play the hermit." 
 
 " I 'm going to rest, whatever that may be." 
 
 " What a superfluity of reasons you have," 
 said Gladys, talking to his back. " The last is 
 the worst one, however." 
 
 " Why ? " said Rowan, turning around.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 77 
 
 l, you are not adapted to solitude. A 
 fish with wings must fly, you know ; and if there 
 are eagles in the air, there are also sharks in the 
 sea. Perhaps you can do as the fable suggests, 
 swim close to the air and fly close to the sea." 
 
 " I don't understand you." 
 
 " Oh, nothing ; only that it is absurd for you 
 to play the hermit. It may do very well for 
 Dr. Schonberg, but it 's not your metier." 
 
 " So Dr. Schonberg is still here, is he ? " 
 
 "Probably," said Gladys, leaning over the 
 railing beside him. " The Flemings have called, 
 but not he ; he 's not very sociable, I believe. 
 Do you remember the Flemings, Rowan?" 
 
 " Only the name," he replied, putting on his 
 hat. 
 
 She was disappointed at his going so soon, 
 but for some reason did not betray it. 
 
 " Do you ever paint portraits, Rowan ? " she 
 asked, at the terrace steps. 
 
 " No, never." 
 
 " But mine ? if I asked you. I think it 
 would be a good idea, before I sink my third 
 time. That is, if your charges are not exorbi 
 tant ; business between cousins, you know, is 
 very important." 
 
 "I do not paint portraits, cousin." 
 
 " Cousin ! why do you call me cousin ? You 
 might say Mrs. Temple once in a while, or 
 Gladys."
 
 78 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " It really makes no difference, Gladys." - 
 
 " No difference ! " she exclaimed impatiently. 
 " A name is a door, sir. Is there no difference 
 between the front door which the servant opens 
 and the lattice wicket which the mistress raises 
 herself? But the portrait," she said, averting 
 a reply. 
 
 " Are you serious ? " 
 
 " Always." 
 
 He hesitated a moment. "Well, come Fri 
 day, in the morning." 
 
 "And in the mean time, I shall see you, of 
 course." 
 
 " If I get lonely." 
 
 " Or if your cook fails." 
 
 " Oh, in that case, undoubtedly. Good 
 night," and he went down the steps into the 
 shadows of the trees lining the lawn. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Almost every one liked Gladys. 
 
 The majority of us are soon weighed and 
 measured, and in spite of some differences of 
 opinion these estimates converge on the whole, 
 like the rays of a reflector, into a tolerably def 
 inite image which stands for the reality. We 
 are sometimes astonished when this double faces
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 79 
 
 us ; but surprise us as it may, we have generally 
 no difficulty in recognizing it. And yet about 
 Jack and Gladys Temple the widest differences 
 of opinion prevailed. The greater part of one 
 sex, whenever within her range, saw themselves 
 as in a glass, a magic glass reflecting exactly 
 what they wished to see, and were correspond 
 ingly flattered. Others, with less vanity and 
 more penetration, admired the glass itself, its 
 crystalline transparency and clear depths. A 
 few careful observers had noticed that it revealed 
 everything but itself. Finally there were the 
 cynics who had discovered how very thin even 
 the best of mirrors are. 
 
 But the most cynical of Gladys' acquaint 
 ances were still her admirers. Her art was so 
 perfect, so delicate, that if not altogether de 
 ceived by the illusion, they were still fascinated 
 or amused. One soon forgets the side of the 
 moon one does not see. 
 
 Her marriage with Jack, as well as Jack's own 
 estimate of his wife had been a fruitful subject 
 of speculation. Had he married Gladys' money? 
 Not only did he have sufficient of his own, but 
 this supposition involved the conception and 
 execution of a formidable scheme, the conquest 
 of Gladys herself. It was certainly difficult to 
 imagine Jack laying siege to Gladys, or Gladys 
 falling into any snare Jack could weave. The
 
 80 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 romance of her marriage was more commonly 
 constructed on the basis of a worldly ambition 
 which, in availing itself of the indispensable 
 privileges of the married state, had very pru 
 dently contrived that the safeguard should not' 
 also be a prison. If this were true, it was the 
 only instance in which the shrewdness known to 
 underlie Jack's quiet good nature had failed 
 him. Moreover, his perfect serenity and con 
 tentment warranted the suspicion that he was 
 possibly the deeper of the two. When some one 
 at the club pityingly referred to him as a " led 
 horse," the reply came : " Yes, led to water with 
 a silk ribbon." 
 
 This serenity was mutual. No one had any 
 reason to suspect the slightest discord. The 
 traditional valet or maid could have testified 
 that Jack and Gladys formed a model example 
 of unruffled conjugal happiness, and that never 
 a word or a look betrayed a worm in the bud. 
 Even her aunt Isabel, who was always construct 
 ing plans for others out of the debris of her 
 own experience, and who was sure that Gladys 
 once had a heart of which her cousin Rowan 
 might have been the possessor, had almost for 
 gotten this episode, and believed men and women 
 were no longer what they used to be when she 
 was young. In those days, at least, men had 
 eyes to see and women eyes to compel.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 81 
 
 When Jack came down, Saturday night, from 
 the city, the house seemed to have been running 
 all summer ; and Sunday morning there was a 
 dainty breakfast on the terrace, at which Gladys 
 presided with her usual affability, for say what 
 one might about Gladys, her vivacity and seren 
 ity of temper were not confined to gaslight. She 
 was as fascinating and well dressed at breakfast 
 as at a dinner party. 
 
 " There are some very amusing people here," 
 she said, after giving Jack a description of cer 
 tain of her visitors ; " and some very nice ones," 
 she added, observing his face. 
 
 ' I suppose we 're to make a lot of calls this 
 afternoon," Jack replied, with a resigned air. 
 
 " What are you thinking of, Jack dear ! " ex 
 claimed Gladys, buttering a roll ; " this is Sun- 
 day." 
 
 Although not ignorant of Gladys' powers of 
 adaptation, Jack opened his eyes with a low 
 whistle ; to which Gladys, tranquilly finishing her 
 roll with her innocent blue eyes full on Jack's 
 face, paid no attention. 
 
 "One may smoke here?" he said, taking out 
 a cigar. 
 
 She made a little moue for an answer, and he 
 lit his cigar. Ostensibly engaged therewith, he 
 was in reality watching Gladys. The art of eat 
 ing was one of her accomplishments. His appe-
 
 82 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 tite was superior to hers, but he had usually to 
 rely on his cigar in order to finish their repasts 
 together ; a practice which Gladys allowed, even 
 indoors. 
 
 " Is n't this lovely ! after the city," she said, 
 looking up at her husband with the happiness 
 that belongs to a good breakfast in the open air. 
 " All alone here, by ourselves ; it 's like a pic 
 nic." 
 
 " A la Watteau," said Jack. 
 
 "You dear old fellow," and Gladys leaned 
 over the balcony beside him, slipping her arm 
 through his ; " if you would only exert yourself 
 with other people as you do with me ! you can 
 be perfect when you wish to be." 
 
 " It is n't so very difficult; with you to help, 
 you know, Gladys." 
 
 Gladys laughed softly. She liked a compli 
 ment, even from Jack. 
 
 " I don't think we will go to church this morn 
 ing," she said, as the bells of Ashurst rang out 
 in the still air. " People will hardly expect us 
 to, the first Sunday, you know. Besides, I 
 have n't time to dress." 
 
 Her excuse would in all probability have 
 proved acceptable, for the people of Ashurst to 
 whom she referred dressed also for church every 
 Sunday, as she did, without the suspicion of 
 irony. Jack acquiesced. Gladys knew what he
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 83 
 
 liked and what he disliked. When he called 
 her good-natured he paid a compliment to her 
 powers of discrimination. The foundation stone 
 of her creed was respect for one's aversions, and 
 she knew Jack as the glove knows the hand. 
 
 " Don't you want to go over the house with 
 me ? There 's ever so much to be done," and 
 Gladys grew animated. The Towers furnished 
 an opportunity for the control of outlay, which 
 she enjoyed more than the outlay itself. Gladys 
 was no doll. Jack had learned long ago that if 
 he wished to make her happy he must allow her 
 to make her own presents. She found very lit 
 tle pleasure in passively receiving. Her happi 
 ness lay in the chase, though she ate the game. 
 
 "You're not going into that on Sunday, aro 
 you, Gladys ? " 
 
 She lifted her eyebrows and smiled imper 
 ceptibly, continuing in a confidential tone. 
 
 " You are not to go into the billiard-room till 
 it is finished. I know exactly what to do with 
 it. Have you seen the stables ? " 
 
 " I went out there before breakfast." 
 
 " Are n't they nice the box stalls ? Come, 
 dear," and she gave Jack's arm a twitch, " you 
 shall show some interest. I have been looking 
 forward to this all the week. I want to show 
 you the river ; it 's lovely," and Gladys put on 
 her hat.
 
 84 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 They walked across the lawn, soft as forest 
 moss, and sown with white clover. 
 
 " Jack," said Gladys, she usually reserved 
 her surprises for the evening, when she took 
 down her hair ; but this one would not wait, 
 " Rowan Ferguson is here." 
 
 Although Rowan was her cousin, Jack never 
 remembered having heard his name on Gladys' 
 lips. He did not ask himself why, for various 
 reasons ; for one, because he knew Aunt Isabel 
 was right when she said Gladys was proud as 
 Lucifer ; for another, because of a chance re 
 mark Gladys had once made, to the effect that 
 people who inspired jealousy were not worth it ; 
 and last of all, because he was proud himself. 
 
 " That 's awkward, is n't it," said he, taking 
 his cigar out of his mouth. 
 
 "Why, Jack?" 
 
 " Well, here we are, in his nest, you know.'* 
 
 " I don't believe he cares," she said in an ab 
 sent manner, as they sauntered across the lawn. 
 "There are better things in this world than 
 money." Jack wondered what things Gladys 
 could be thinking of. " I mean to devote my 
 self to him," she atlded resolutely. 
 
 " You 're awfully good-natured, Gladys." 
 
 " I shall end by believing you, if you say it so 
 often." 
 
 As they disappeared from the open into the
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 85 
 
 shrubberies, a little white bunch of muslin came 
 running across the lawn as fast as two short 
 bare legs tipped with pink boots would allow, 
 uttering at intervals a frantic cry of " Papa Jack ! 
 Papa J-a-ck ! " from a pair of lungs taxed to 
 their limit by this double exertion. And al 
 though both Gladys and Jack turned at the first 
 cry, and waited till the child had overtaken them, 
 its apprehension of being left behind was not 
 allayed till, its hands in theirs, it walked safely 
 between them. Gladys waved a signal to a 
 white-capped figure on the terrace, and the trio 
 continued on their way to the river. 
 
 There was a boat-house on the bank, its wide 
 piazza overhanging the water. One could look 
 southward as far as the brown-roofed bridge 
 uniting Ashurst with its suburb on the opposite 
 shore. This shore was a level plain, studded 
 with single elms unfolding like giant flowers, 
 their slim trunks clothed with green to their 
 bases. Beyond, clustered among trees, lay a 
 village above whose sky-line rose a bare spire, 
 glistening white in the sun. 
 
 What Jack was thinking of, as he watched 
 Mab pushing twigs and stones through the rail 
 ing into the water, were hard to tell. Gladys 
 was evidently very happy. In a low cane chair, 
 shading her eyes with her hand, the steeple over 
 among the trees certainly did not suggest to her 
 original sin.
 
 86 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 She had some plans for the summer and be 
 gan to discuss their details with Jack. The 
 plans themselves she never discussed, and Jack 
 never had occasion to thwart her. Her good 
 taste and sense of propriety were a pure instinct, 
 almost as destitute of morality as that other in 
 virtue of which she loved her bath. So far as 
 Jack knew, she had no secret plans whatever. 
 When they were matured she made them known, 
 and took pleasure in discussing with him their 
 execution. If he lacked the genius of concep 
 tion, his practical advice was, per contra, very 
 shrewd. The sharpest remark Gladys had ever 
 made to him was in reply to a caution of his in 
 regard to an affair which she had in hand, a 
 caution so replete with penetrative sagacity that 
 it took away her breath. " You don't see far, 
 Jack, dear," she said, following his advice to the 
 letter, " but you do see the end of your nose 
 distinctly." 
 
 People disputed amicably over this union. 
 What was its secret, confidence or indifference ? 
 Or as a cynical Benedict put it, Two slaves or 
 one ? For there was a puzzling yet ever present 
 happiness, so refreshing in its freedom that even 
 those whose ideal was a complete mutual de 
 pendence, thought twice and sighed. Gladys 
 was vaguely conscious of all this theorizing of 
 the thinking, if not of the thought. How we
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 81 
 
 should revolt against the theories of our neigh 
 bors ! How Gladys herself would have laughed 
 at the assertion of Jack's complete submission I 
 She could not drive him an inch. She never 
 tried to ; her hand was too skillful not to be 
 soft. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Meanwhile, having exhausted the vicinity of 
 its movable property, Mab, disposed to adven 
 ture, strayed along the bank, being cautioned by 
 Gladys not to go out of sight and not to ruin 
 her sash. 
 
 Reveling in an unaccustomed liberty, she had 
 soon explored the immediate neighborhood, and 
 began to pursue her investigations down the 
 shore. After a soliloquy on the possibility of 
 getting over the fence, she squeezed herself 
 through under the lower rail, and having dis 
 posed of this difficulty satisfactorily advanced 
 triumphantly into the field beyond. At its 
 farther corner, in the shade of a grove of pines, 
 her eye was caught by a summer-house, and 
 thither the spirit of discovery and conquest led 
 her. At the edge of the grove, however, she 
 perceived that the house had an occupant and 
 stepped to reconnoitre. 
 
 At first sight the strange figure of Schonberg
 
 88 TEE WIND OF DESTINT. 
 
 alarmed her, suggesting the ogre, a race in 
 which she firmly believed. But curiosity got 
 the better of fear, and she advanced cautiously 
 against the enemy. Arrived within hailing dis 
 tance, she held a parley. 
 
 " Halloo ! " she cried. 
 
 Schonberg, turning round, saw a small figure 
 in pink and white, its hat hanging down its 
 back, its hands crossed behind, in an attitude of 
 mingled defiance and good nature. 
 
 " If you '11 tell me who you are, I '11 tell you 
 who I am," said Mab, drawing a few steps 
 nearer. 
 
 "Well, who are you?" said Schonberg, struck 
 with the fairness of this proposition, and look 
 ing at her over his glasses. 
 
 " Mabel Temple. Do you live here ? " and 
 with growing confidence she went a little closer. 
 Schonberg, of whom children, with an insight 
 often called perversity, were fond, closed his 
 book. " What makes you wear that on your 
 head ? " inquired Mabel. 
 
 "To keep it warm," said he, taking off his 
 skull-cap. " If you will give me some of your 
 hair, I won't wear it any more." 
 
 " My mamma would n't let me," replied Ma 
 bel, who now came boldly forward, and, seating 
 herself beside him, inspected the top of his head 
 with a frank curiosity. Having satisfied herself
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 89 
 
 on this point, she advanced one little foot to 
 wards him and displayed a pink kid boot but 
 toned up to the ankle. 
 
 " I 've got some new shoes," she said ; and, 
 following up the attack, she pulled back her 
 dress over a pair of brown knees and exhibited 
 an undergarment stitched with pink silk, " and 
 a new petticoat," she added, complacently. 
 
 Somewhat abashed by this proceeding, Schon- 
 berg remarked they were very pretty. 
 
 "Where's your little girl?" pursued Mab, 
 having settled these preliminaries. 
 
 " I have n't any little one," replied Schonberg. 
 
 " Why don't you buy one, then ? " inquired 
 Mab earnestly. " My mamma bought me." 
 
 "Ah," said Schonberg, becoming interested; 
 "and who is your mamma ? " 
 
 This was a rider which Mab found difficult to 
 answer. 
 
 " Perhaps you have n't any." 
 
 Mab nodded her head and swung her legs vio 
 lently in reply. 
 
 " I 've got a papa too," she added proudly. 
 
 "And did your mamma buy him also?" asked 
 Schonberg. 
 
 Nonplussed again, Mab resolved to ask her 
 mamma. Possibly this resolve set her in mo 
 tion, for she made a revolution on her little 
 stomach and slid off the seat.
 
 90 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " I am going now," she said decisively. 
 
 " Well, good-by," said Schonberg. 
 
 She ran unsteadily between the trees to the 
 meadow ; but forgetting how far she had strayed, 
 and seeing neither Jack nor Gladys, began to 
 cry. Schonberg, who was watching her, laid 
 down his book and went to her assistance. She 
 confided her hand trustfully to his, and, with an 
 occasional sob, kept up with his lengthy stride 
 as best she could. 
 
 " By Jove ! " exclaimed Jack, who suddenly 
 caught sight of her as she emerged from the 
 pines with her protector, " there 's Mab way off 
 there with a man." 
 
 Though chatting with him the while, Gladys 
 had followed the fluttering sash through the 
 meadow and taken in the whole scene in the 
 summer-house. She was usually very particular 
 about Mab's coming into contact with strangers ; 
 but she replied quickly, "Do sit still, Jack," 
 and, blushing faintly, disappeared behind the 
 willows. 
 
 Mab was discoursing volubly when Gladys 
 returned, but in the absence of all reproof grew 
 gradually calm ; and in the pleasure of an un 
 expected approbation forgot to ask Gladys her 
 question. 
 
 " Who was it ? " inquired Jack as they 
 walked homeward.
 
 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 91 
 
 " Dr. Schonberg," said Gladys. 
 
 " Sort of a hermit," suggested Jack. 
 
 " Exactly quite inaccessible. But he has 
 promised to dine with us. It was really very 
 fortunate, Mab's straying over there a special 
 Providence." 
 
 " Sort of divine interposition," said Jack 
 dryly. 
 
 Gladys laughed, remarking wisely that people 
 who required so much trouble were generally 
 worth it. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The one person in Ashurst of whom Schon 
 berg was afraid was, curiously enough, his ser 
 vant Deborah. The consciousness of this weak 
 ness had once exasperated him. He had strug 
 gled against it with a secret sense of shame ; 
 but without avail, the resolutions which he 
 made melting away at the sound of Deborah's 
 heel. He finally accepted his defeat philosophi 
 cally, and resignedly kept out of her way. He 
 even at last came to look upon her as one of the 
 necessary evils of existence, apologizing to him 
 self for her as Montaigne did for the malady 
 which tormented his life. 
 
 The evil in Deborah was not so much the 
 love of tyranny ; for she allowed her master a
 
 92 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 fair measure of liberty. It was rather a con 
 temptuous scorn for the manner in which he 
 exercised it. In many respects she was a per 
 sonification of Ashurst, a coarser, more angu 
 lar, but honest censor. Her narrow horizon had 
 given a terrible severity and fixity to her ideas 
 which rendered her scorn sublime. There was 
 a fibre of probity in her moral nature which 
 saved her from bigotry and redeemed her igno 
 rance. Schonberg could pay this tribute to her 
 uncompromising disapproval ; and while for 
 him she was but a servant, as he, for that mat 
 ter, was for her a barbarian, they entertained a 
 mutual respect for each other. She remained 
 in his service because she preferred masters to 
 mistresses ; and he retained her because he 
 chose rather to endure an evil he knew than 
 hazard others of which he knew nothing. One 
 great virtue she possessed ; she saved him from 
 all the details of household management, to 
 which he thus remained a stranger. He had an 
 aversion for minutiae, and would rather go with 
 out his dinner than plan and buy it. In this 
 respect he was fortunate. Superiority over life 
 depends largely upon the condition that it does 
 not flood us with its commonalties. One may 
 have a philosophy to withstand its sorrows, and 
 yet succumb to its miseries. 
 
 He passed much of his time in what he called
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 93 
 
 his tea-house. It was his habit to read half 
 aloud with the mutterings of a suppressed vol 
 cano; and this he could do here with the cer 
 tainty that he would not be overheard, and that 
 no footsteps except those he loved to hear were 
 likely to disturb him. The mere thought of 
 Deborah, listening to his voice in the pauses of 
 her work with that contemptuous sniff which 
 punctuated her silence, would have rendered 
 him dumb. Then, too, men have their favorite 
 places, where the hand is cunning and the mind 
 free : an office desk, a laboratory table, a win 
 dow seat, a study chair. This was his. 
 
 All the winter long, when his steps were con 
 fined to the narrow paths through the snow, he 
 waited for spring to unlock this retreat and set 
 the tree buds free. For here, though the water 
 was still, he heard the rush of the Meuse. The 
 little wood-violet lifted its white hood here, as 
 in the woods of Anseremne ; and here at nesting- 
 time rose the song of the thrush as the lark had 
 risen from the fields of Freyr. Here, too, was 
 the river, the open, magnanimous river, 
 where the sun searched at noon, and the stars 
 hid at nignt ; that had hollowed with such labor 
 its track through the flint of the hills and the 
 tangle of forest, barring the way ; hurrying, 
 hurrying, impatient of restraint, angry with 
 bounds, all to rest at last, full of stars and
 
 94 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 clouds, like a soul full of thoughts and dreams, 
 at the end of its course near the sea. And here 
 were the soaring shafts of the trees, that had 
 pushed with such toil through the cover of 
 mould and tangle of grasses barring the way 
 climbing, climbing fast, like a soul that spurns 
 its clay, all to rest at last where the vision is 
 wide and free, full of murmuring sounds and 
 sighs ; like a soul at the end of its flight, full 
 of wonder and mystery. 
 
 Here, on the morning Rowan had fixed for 
 the painting of his cousin's portrait, he sat 
 where Mabel had found him, a book spread 
 open upon his knee. His books were free from 
 annotations, but full of scraps and odd ends of 
 paper, covered with the hieroglyphics of a quill 
 pen, whose splutterings and scratchings often 
 made Elize put her fingers to her ears, and for 
 which he carried in his pocket a small wooden 
 vial of ink. This morning, however, the volume 
 on his knee did not seem to hold his attention ; 
 for he looked over its open page, a large fore 
 finger marking the place where his thoughts had 
 last broken from the traces, rousing himself at in 
 tervals with the start of a schoolboy who dreams 
 over his task. Suddenly a voice said, 
 " Come, give this morning to me." 
 He looked up and saw Elize leaning on the 
 gate in the wall.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 95 
 
 " What will you do with it ? " he asked, lower 
 ing his glasses over his nose and laying his pen 
 in his book. 
 
 " Give it back to you, Sir Miser. I do not 
 steal, I borrow. We will go down the river, 
 and you shall tell me what you are reading in 
 that book of yours ; and we will come back by 
 the meadow. See ! " and she moved her foot 
 through the grass which grew about the gate ; 
 " the dew is gone. Come." 
 
 Schonberg closed his book, and put on his 
 wide-brimmed hat. 
 
 She led the way down the narrow path, which 
 wound like an Indian trail along the bank, stop 
 ping now and then for a leaf of crimson and 
 green, those first single skirmishers which 
 winter deploys in the autumn woods. 
 
 " Where were you all day yesterday, little 
 girl ? " asked he, following behind. 
 
 " Yesterday ? I was reading. I could do 
 nothing till I had finished my book." 
 
 " And you finished it? " 
 
 " Every word." 
 
 " What was it, a novel ? Tell me about 
 it. You liked it ? " 
 
 " Perversely," she replied, emphatically, " for 
 the bad people made me cry with sympathy, 
 whereas the others, one especially, who was a 
 saint, one ought to like saints," and Elize
 
 96 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 turned with a gesture which said it was impos 
 sible. 
 
 " Bah ! " said Schonberg. " Saints for heaven, 
 but for earth, heroes." 
 
 " But, uncle " 
 
 " Do you want to admire some one ? " Schon-! 
 berg continued, shaking his cane in the air ; 
 " for that he may have faults, provided only he 
 has a character." 
 
 " If you do not allow me to worship the 
 saints, how can I ever wish to become one ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, little girl, strive, strive 
 hard. What we admire is the desire. Good 
 ness is not a birthright." 
 
 " I wish it were," said Elize. 
 
 "You wish to begin where Alexander left 
 off." 
 
 " I wish to begin even with Seraphine." 
 
 " Where is Seraphine ? " said Schonberg, sud 
 denly stopping short in the middle of the path. 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaimed Elize reproachfully, " you 
 have only just thought of her I " 
 
 " Let us go back," said he. 
 
 " It is useless ; she will not come." 
 
 " Will not come ? Why not ? " 
 
 " I do not know," said Elize, with a little 
 shrug of the shoulders. " She hath bought five 
 yoke of oxen ; I pray thee have her excused." 
 
 " Humph ! " said Schonberg.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 97 
 
 They turned into the lane, Elize walking by 
 his side. 
 
 " And your book ; you seemed very much in 
 terested in it." 
 
 " I laid it aside when you asked me to." 
 
 " To please me." 
 
 " No, to please myself." 
 
 " Oh, but I had rather it had been to please 
 me. You see I am not yet a saint. I even like 
 to tyrannize a little." 
 
 " Begin now ; let us see what you would do." 
 
 "Well, I would first burn up that yellow 
 dressing-gown, which gives you the air of a man 
 darin." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Schonberg ; " I have never seen 
 one." 
 
 " And I would order you, on penalty of the 
 kiss which you hate, to wear the new one Sera- 
 phine made for you." 
 
 " I have laid it away honorably in lavender 
 twigs," said Schonberg, somewhat confused by 
 this unexpected attack. 
 
 " The honor of a gift is in its use, sir. Shall 
 I go on?" 
 
 " By all means." 
 
 She drew a little closer, and slipped her arm 
 through his. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" he asked, foreseeing some 
 thing important.
 
 98 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " My courage fails me, I play the tyrant so 
 seldom. I think, after all, I will leave it to 
 Seraphine." 
 
 " What ! is it so terrible ? " 
 
 " We even dream of it," said Elize, looking 
 up into his face. " When one dreams, it begins 
 to be serious." 
 
 " You improve fast, little girl. By dint of 
 practice you will make an excellent Nero." 
 
 " If you will come, this evening after tea, we 
 will tell you." 
 
 " But I am going out to dine this evening," 
 replied Schonberg. 
 
 " Well, afterwards, if not too late, will 
 you?" 
 
 They were just passing Rowan's gate when 
 some one called, 
 
 " Dr. Schonberg ! " 
 
 They turned and saw Gladys. 
 
 She had come on this the morning fixed for 
 her first sitting, and had found her tenant's door 
 open, as also that which led from the hall into 
 the adjoining room ; but no one had answered 
 the bell, tinkling faintly from some remote place 
 out of sight and then subsiding into silence. 
 She had rung again, a little impatiently, and 
 the bell, like an echo, had answered her back 
 with an impatient jangle. She had stood for a 
 moment with her dress in one hand, half de-
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 99 
 
 cided to return, but the sun was hot, and the 
 open door was a temptation. If only Mab had 
 been with her, the indiscretion would have been 
 divided by two. However, she must get out of 
 the sun, against which even her parasol was 
 scant protection. One more ring, one might 
 fancy the bell was angry, and had fairly turned 
 over in its rage, then silence again. She 
 advanced to the threshold of the inner door. 
 " Rowan ! " Then she went in. 
 
 She swept the room with that critical glance 
 which is given an apartment whose master or 
 mistress is not there to defend it. It was evi 
 dently not one which had acquired its posses 
 sions during long years of occupancy, for they 
 had the air rather of temporary guests than of 
 old familiars. Still it was a pleasant room, and 
 it contained objects which attracted her eye. 
 There was, for example, before her a chair whose 
 utility the carver had so disguised by the caprices 
 of his decorative art, that she paused, fascinated, 
 without thinking of sitting down. Above her 
 head, too, hung a curious bronze lamp inlaid 
 with silver, and at the further door a curtain 
 overwrought with arabesque. But that which 
 most attracted her was an easel, half hidden be 
 hind a screen in the corner. There was a green 
 curtain before the picture standing upon it, and 
 in an impulse of curiosity she crossed the room
 
 100 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 and drew it aside. Whatever it was she saw 
 there, it plunged her in deep thought ; and then 
 seemed suddenly to remind her that curiosity, 
 though a surface passion easily satisfied, is not 
 always innocent, and often pregnant with con 
 sequences ; for she abandoned her explorations 
 and retreated into the sun. She felt, however, 
 less inclined than before to give up her appoint 
 ment, and was proposing to herself to find some 
 shady spot where she should wait, when she saw 
 Dr. Schonberg and Elize. 
 
 " Have you seen my cousin, Mr. Ferguson ? " 
 she asked, with a smile of recognition for Elize. 
 
 " No," replied Schonberg, taking off his hat, 
 " but we heard his dog barking on the river." 
 
 " How provoking ! " said Gladys, looking 
 down the lane. " I wanted so much to see 
 him." 
 
 " I have not seen him for many years," said 
 Schonberg, replacing his hat, " but, if you wish 
 me," her look was so appealing, "I will 
 walk to the end of the lane, and, if he is 
 there " 
 
 "Oh, how very kind of you," said Gladys. 
 " I do not wish to give you any ti'ouble " 
 But Schonberg was already in motion. " Will 
 you come in and wait, Miss Fleming? " she said 
 to Elize, opening the gate. 
 
 They walked up the narrow path, lined with
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 101 
 
 lilacs, and sat down on the broad stone step be 
 fore the door, chatting together. Once Gladys 
 went down to the gate, but no one was in sight. 
 
 " Come," she said, " let us go in ; it is so 
 warm. Have you met my cousin Rowan ? " 
 she asked, as they entered the room. 
 
 " No," said Elize, looking about her. 
 
 " How cool it is indoors," Gladys said. "Sit 
 down here, Miss Fleming." 
 
 " Oh," replied Elize, bending over the figures 
 with folded wings which supported the arms of 
 the chair, " I should not dare to." 
 
 Gladys laughed, and made room for her on 
 the lounge. " An artist is always picking up 
 pretty things, except fans," she said, impro 
 vising one with her handkerchief. " See the 
 tapestry on that screen. From its crimson dye 
 I think it must be very old Flemish." 
 
 Elize crossed the room to examine its network 
 of strange leaves and legendary animals. Sera- 
 phine was skillful in embroidery. " I wish my 
 sister," she said, " could " 
 
 Elize stopped abruptly. Behind the screen 
 was the picture which Gladys had left uncov 
 ered. 
 
 It was only the picture of a woman, advan 
 cing under the trees of a wood. But to this 
 woman it seemed as if the artist had wished to 
 sacrifice everything. From out the background
 
 102 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 of uncertain shadows which surrounded her, 
 which deepened and receded as the eye sought 
 to penetrate them, she came forth as from the 
 dreams of a lifetime. Except the crimson of 
 her dress, a severity of coloring, an indistinct 
 ness and pallor of touch, made this picture in 
 deed a dream rather than a portrait, and before 
 it Elize stood spellbound, as if Seraphine her 
 self had answered her thought and risen before 
 her in person. 
 
 There was a step on the walk and a knock on 
 the door, but Elize heard neither. 
 
 " Your cousin was on the river," Schonberg 
 was saying to Gladys ; "he will be here pres 
 ently." 
 
 " You have been very kind, Dr. Schonberg," 
 said Gladys ; " will you not come in and wait a 
 few moments ? " 
 
 " Thank you, but if Miss Fleming " 
 
 At the sound of her name Elize turned. There 
 was such a look of wonder and surprise upon 
 her face that even Gladys was embarrassed ; but 
 only for an instant. 
 
 " Do wait," she said to Schonberg ; " I will 
 go to the gate and tell my cousin how his castle 
 has been captured." 
 
 " Come ! " said Elize in a whisper, after she 
 had gone. He followed her beckoning finger 
 and looked over her shoulder. Seraphine !
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 103 
 
 He knew that face well, though joy had trans- 
 figiired it. From those dark eyes it appealed to 
 him, yet threatened him. If he had moved, it 
 would have been to draw instinctively the cur 
 tain before them, as if he had violated the secrets 
 of a Vestal Virgin. What was she doing here ? 
 Who was this man that he should paint a world 
 in her eye, and mould her face to his fancy ? 
 But for Elize he might have remained standing 
 there till Gladys had returned with Rowan. But 
 she put her hand within his and drew him to 
 the door. 
 
 " You are not going to wait ? " exclaimed 
 Gladys, with so genuine a surprise and regret in 
 her blue eyes that Elize was disarmed. 
 
 " Thank you," she replied. 
 
 There was a shade of embarrassment in her 
 voice. But why? after all. She was not the 
 culprit. Not Gladys even perhaps. There 
 was very likely no culprit at all except that Har 
 lequin Chance, that had gotten hold of the reins 
 for an instant. 
 
 This was precisely what Gladys was saying to 
 herself, as she walked back to the house, though 
 she knew that it was from her hands the reins 
 had been stolen. She had a little dispute with 
 herself as to whether she should draw that inno 
 cent green curtain, which had first fired her cu 
 riosity, over the picture, and made up her mind
 
 104 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 very decidedly that she would not for if Gladys 
 was curious, she was also courageous ; and it 
 was in the midst of these reflections that Nestor 
 bounded into the room, followed by Rowan. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " I am sorry to have kept you waiting, cousin," 
 said Rowan, " but, to be truthful, I had forgot 
 ten our engagement entirely." 
 
 " And, to be equally truthful, I have not been 
 waiting ; that is, I found here so much to in 
 terest me that I had forgotten it." 
 
 "Ah! " said Rowan, standing his paddle, still 
 wet, in the corner and beginning his prepara 
 tions for Gladys' picture. She watched him with 
 interest, while Nestor, for whom these prepara 
 tions meant that play was over, stretched himself 
 on the rug for sleep. 
 
 " Don't you and Nestor ever get tired of eaeh 
 other ? " asked Gladys. 
 
 " Sometimes," replied Rowan. 
 
 " Why don't you soar higher, cousin? I told 
 you the other day that it was not good to be 
 alone." 
 
 " Society is not company," said he. 
 
 " Well, go on. Finish your quotation." 
 
 " Was I making one ? "
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 105 
 
 " Oh. fie ! the bad memory ! " said Gladys, sit 
 ting down in the chair where Elize had not dared 
 to. " You omit the saving clause. ' Society is 
 not company where there is no love.' " 
 
 *' Oh ! " said Rowan again, indifferently. 
 
 " Apropos of portraits, you quote very aptly," 
 and Gladys played with her parasol ; " there is 
 still more which you forget." 
 
 " Repeat it, cousin ; it will amuse me." 
 
 " Don't you remember ? ' Society is not com 
 pany, and faces are but pictures in a gallery ' 
 where there is no love, you understand. But 
 with love, pictures will even take the place of 
 faces." 
 
 Rowan made no reply, and went on with his 
 preparations. 
 
 " I am curious to see what you will make 
 of my portrait," continued Gladys, "since you 
 never paint them." 
 
 " No, never." 
 
 Gladys smiled. "Not even from memory?" 
 
 " Memory cannot paint portraits, cousin ; it is 
 too forgetful." 
 
 " And what do you intend to make for me, a 
 photograph ? I do not wish one. I come to the 
 artist for a little magic, the magic of perspective. 
 Naked truth is odious. Can't you dress it up a 
 little, disguise it in fable, for example, as the 
 poets do? I have not come to be copied."
 
 106 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " For what then, to be flattered ? " 
 
 " Yes, delicately, if I have any fugitive excel 
 lences which you can seize. A photograph is an 
 attitude, an expression, a mood. I have a hun 
 dred such, moods and photographs both." 
 
 " I can well believe it." 
 
 "But I have one which underlies them all. 
 One gesture everybody has one worth pages 
 of analysis." 
 
 " Undoubtedly." 
 
 " Well, search, and find it." 
 
 " Ho, ho I " said Rowan, sitting down before 
 his easel. " You are exacting. It seems the 
 portrait is to be a judgment." 
 
 " Certainly. Who cares for the reflection un 
 conscious mirrors make ? there is only one worth 
 looking at, that of the human eye." 
 
 " Stand up, cousin ; let me look at you." 
 
 " One would imagine you were a Greek mas 
 ter inspecting an athlete," she said, walking be 
 fore him. " Do I walk badly ? " 
 
 " No, not ordinarily," said Rowan, " unless 
 when, like Montesquieu's wife, you try to walk 
 better, and then you limp a little." 
 
 " Oh, Rowan ! " 
 
 It is not to be inferred from this exclamation 
 that Gladys' feelings were really hurt. She 
 knew very well that if certain people descended 
 to flattery, it was because they despised.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 107 
 
 She took her seat again in the high-backed 
 chair whose rigid outlines the sculptor had left 
 unbroken, though every surface had its garland 
 and scroll. She had taken off her hat, which 
 lay in her lap with her parasol. Rowan was 
 already at work, and what he saw, as he looked 
 up from time to time, were some very graceful 
 profiles outlined against the black panel, and, 
 between the blue velvet band in her hair and the 
 blue silk balls which fringed her parasol, two 
 blue eyes that could talk faster than lips. For 
 therein, when Gladys chose, one could see at a 
 single look the dance and the flight of all that 
 troop of lighter thoughts and feelings which per 
 ish before they reach the lips. 
 
 Rowan was never sure whether he was at his 
 best or worst with Gladys, although conscious he 
 was not altogether his true self. For some 
 reason he threw up the trenches of an unnatural 
 dignity and reserve in her presence, as at the 
 approach of a foe. And yet Gladys was not 
 an enemy. Indeed, after her marriage, he had 
 come to believe that her Aunt Isabel, who had 
 upbraided him in her satirical fashion for short 
 sightedness on the eve of his departure for Eu 
 rope, had herself been deceived by what on Gla 
 dys' part was merely a delight in capricious sor 
 ties on well-disposed neighbors. There was so 
 much in his cousin he liked, that he would have
 
 108 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 liked her had she permitted him to, and it was 
 more natural to him to treat the world as it ovt^ht 
 to be than to admit it what he found it. The 
 supposition which formed the basis of Aunt Isa 
 bel's satire was so disquieting, that he had never 
 been willing to give it even the consideration 
 necessary to refute it. Had not Gladys herself 
 refuted it ? If she had really loved him, what 
 an idea ! She loved to tease him. Whence 
 comes the pure untainted flower of love ? From 
 the germ of a pure untainted nature only ? or is 
 the seed dropped from heaven, to bear flowers or 
 thorns, as the soil and climate into which it falls 
 shall determine ? In one case we ^can tread the 
 thistles under foot without compunction ; in the 
 other, every struggling thorn by the trodden 
 highway is worth a sigh. 
 
 " What ! have you commenced already ? " 
 
 " Sit still," said Rowan. 
 
 Gladys laughed. " That is what I say to Mab. 
 Poor child, what martyrdom ! But you are not 
 going to paint me with this dress, in this chair? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly." 
 
 " Then it is to be the naked truth after all. 
 But it seems to me I shall look like a fright. I 
 ought to wear a close-fitting bodice of Persian 
 silk, with a hip-girdle and sleeveless tunic, a 
 steeple head-dress with floating veil, and pointed 
 shoes something Gothic and mediaeval."
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 109 
 
 "On the contrary, you will be all the more 
 effective as you are. You desired a fable, and 
 we shall have one, the nineteenth in the four 
 teenth century." 
 
 She obeyed the order to sit still better than 
 Mab, on the whole, only twisting the silk balls 
 of her parasol. Apparently she had some divert 
 ing thoughts. Occasionally, when Rowan's eye 
 rested on her critically, she frowned ; and once 
 she begged permission for the nineteenth century 
 to yawn behind its parasol, though in reality the 
 yawn was hardly more than a sigh. 
 
 " I think I ought to tell you something, 
 Rowan," she said, after a long silence. 
 
 " If the duty is disagreeable, defer it," said he. 
 
 "I was guilty of an indiscretion this morning, 
 and it troubles my conscience." 
 
 "Who told you that you had a conscience, 
 cousin ? " 
 
 She looked at him quickly. She liked a little 
 badinage, but not serious teasing. 
 
 " You are not a very encouraging confessor," 
 she said. 
 
 " What are the requisites ? First, attention, 
 of course ; well, I am all attention." 
 
 "No; first of all, curiosity." 
 
 " Well, I am all curiosity also." 
 
 " Then you will not be vexed, for curiosity 
 was my indiscretion."
 
 110 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " That does not follow," said Rowan, looking 
 up at her. " I reserve the right to be vexed. 
 Or is absolution a prerequisite for confession ? " 
 
 " Not in the least. What I tell you, I tell 
 you for ray own satisfaction," said Gladys with 
 a dignity that was very becoming. " When I 
 came here this morning your door was open, 
 and I went in." 
 
 " Undoubtedly." 
 
 "Being in, I looked about." 
 
 " Naturally." 
 
 " The rest was chance " 
 
 "Take care," interrupted Rowan, "your con 
 fession is becoming an explanation." 
 
 " I confess to an impulse of curiosity," ex 
 claimed Gladys impetuously. " I looked at the 
 picture because I did not know what it was," 
 she continued with the naivett of passion, " and 
 Miss Fleming saw it because I had left it un 
 covered, and because she could not help it. If 
 you insist upon fastening all the remote conse 
 quences upon the the original culprit find 
 the painter." 
 
 " In other words, the confession has become 
 an indictment," said Rowan, quietly. 
 
 " I say to you frankly, Rowan, that I am 
 sorry for my indiscretion ; and I say also that I 
 had no idea it was a serious one till I saw the 
 surprise on Miss Fleming's face. Is it serious ? "
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. HI 
 
 She asked this question as one shoots an ar 
 row, with a following glance at the mark. 
 
 " Gladys," said Rowan, " you make a confes 
 sion and then seek to extort one. I have not 
 the honor to know Miss Fleming, and your 
 curiosity " 
 
 "I am not curious," she replied coldly. 
 " When one has caused annoyance, one likes to 
 know the extent of it." She rose from her seat 
 and began to put on her gloves. " When shall 
 I come again ? Or are we children, and not to 
 speak to each other for the present ? " 
 
 Rowan laughed. 
 
 " Some people laugh when they are angry," 
 said Gladys. 
 
 " I am not angry, and, if you will allow me, I 
 am going to walk back with you." 
 
 " No, thank you ; I prefer you should not," 
 said Gladys, moving towards the door. 
 
 " Then I will tell you what I wish to, now," 
 said Rowan. " In justice to Miss Fleming it 
 should be said that she knows no more of her 
 picture than you did this morning. I have never 
 met her, and have only seen her once but " 
 Gladys' heart fluttered in the grasp of her will 
 like a bird held in the hand " but that 
 makes no difference ; I love her. Shall we still 
 befriends, Gladys?" 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she said, looking him 
 in the face.
 
 112 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 "I mean exactly what I say. We are not 
 children." 
 
 Fear and pride, indignation and appeal, chased 
 each other like shadows in the mist of her eyes. 
 
 " No worse than children," she said, 
 "toys!" 
 
 XIX. 
 
 When the letter announcing Rowan's return 
 was handed to Gladys, she herself was surprised 
 at the effect it produced. Although eager to 
 know its contents, she had allowed it to lie an 
 hour unopened upon her dressing-table while 
 finishing her toilette, in a state of pleasurable ex 
 citement which she did not seek to analyze lest 
 it should come to an end. She had gone down 
 upon the terrace to select some roses, and had 
 returned to her glass to fasten them, one white 
 and one yellow, at her throat, before taking the 
 letter from its resting-place between her fan 
 and laces. Even then she had put it in her 
 pocket, and seated herself at the window with 
 her wools ; for Gladys was veritably industri 
 ous. She had finally risen abruptly, like one 
 who finds himself going to sleep when he does 
 not wish to, and laying aside her work had gone 
 down to superintend the gardener who was set 
 ting out plants underneath the window ; then,
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 113 
 
 while giving her directions, she broke the seal and 
 read the letter. Thereupon she went up to the 
 large southern chamber, the pleasantest room in 
 the house, to say good-morning to her Aunt Isabel. 
 
 She had been brought up in the care of her 
 aunt, and it was for this reason among others 
 that the latter, who was a firm believer in the 
 theory of compensation, insisted upon finishing 
 her days with Gladys. The real feelings which 
 these two entertained for each other were not at 
 first sight apparent to the ordinary observer, for 
 Gladys' aversion was streaked with a variety of 
 other sentiments, such as gratitude, respect, and 
 admiration ; while her aunt had aversions for so 
 many things and people, that one did not stop to 
 connect them with any one object or individual 
 in particular. It was not altogether infirmity 
 which led her to sit so much alone in the great 
 arm-chair where she ate, read, talked, and some 
 times even slept. She was like an old eagle in 
 its cage, disdaining both bars and liberty. 
 
 There went on continually a sort of duel be 
 tween her and Gladys. At seventy, one does not 
 like to be contradicted by a child. The old 
 lady had been a " child " herself. Now, in her 
 arm-chair, she was the spectator, critical, as 
 must be all ex-puppets for whom the tragedy 
 has become a comedy. She was, Gladys avowed, 
 cross, kind-hearted, selfish, generous, by turns ;
 
 114 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 a kind of crater, which one did not care to 
 approach too closely, bursting forth momentarily 
 in eruptions of rebuke, irony, and good-nature, 
 fierce, but soon over. She scolded, pardoned, 
 derided, and petted Gladys with equal pleasure, 
 as if the latter reminded her of a former self, 
 which she now held off at arms' length, as she 
 did the world in general, for alternate praise and 
 disapproval. 
 
 Gladys brought her aunt some of the roses 
 she had gathered, and opened her budget of 
 morning news. The plants for the beds at the 
 foot of the terrace wall had arrived ; she was 
 going to buy a pony for Mabel, and, by the 
 way, here was a letter from Rowan ; and taking 
 it from her pocket she laid it on the little table 
 which, with its crystal bottle of salts, accompa 
 nied the great chair about the room like a satel 
 lite. After lingering awhile for the comment 
 which did not come, she finally left the old 
 lady with the morning papers, to which she was 
 devoted. 
 
 Although Rowan's letter was a very brief one, 
 later in the day she desired, for some reason, to 
 read it again, and sent her maid for it, with 
 some fresh flowers from among the new arrivals ; 
 but received from her aunt the reply that she 
 had not yet read it. 
 
 Thereafter, till Rowan came, Gladys had reso-
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 115 
 
 lutely put away any thoughts this letter had 
 suggested ; and afterwards, if any questions had 
 been raised by his arrival, she determinedly 
 ignored them. It is so easy for the mind to 
 postpone action, to play the neutral, and take its 
 naps of indifference. But while it hesitates or 
 sleeps, the heart, like a pendulum, swings on 
 between hate and love ; for it to live is to feel, 
 to remain indifferent is to cease to beat. And 
 if Gladys, walking home from Rowan's that 
 morning of her first sitting, was hotly indignant, 
 it was with this heart which, never wholly sub 
 dued, waits the opportune moment, acts and de 
 cides while the mind hesitates and reserves its 
 verdict. What a foolish thing she had said ! 
 Toys? She had never been any one's toy 
 except that of chance. If he had kept his 
 appointment and, reviewing the incidents of 
 the morning, her indignation rose hotter against 
 chance, against circumstance that does not wait 
 for decisions, and lays the heart bare with a 
 merciless hand. She was angry too at her in 
 ability to go back to where she was the day 
 before. If she had not cared to see what was 
 going on in her heart, all the more was she 
 angry to have it thrust under her eyes by a 
 merely fortuitous concourse of events. As she 
 went up the terrace steps, the very roses she had 
 set out with the gardener, but a week ago,
 
 116 THE WIND OF DESTINT. 
 
 seemed to say to her, " You cannot see us change, 
 but look, we have grown ! " 
 
 Anxiety, however, that foe to good looks and 
 good manners, was something not to be tolerated 
 for an instant. It can make us more wretched 
 than circumstances warrant, and, on the theory 
 that happiness consists only in thinking our 
 selves less miserable than we really are, Gladys 
 set all her will power to work in forgetting every 
 thing but the one fact, that Dr. Schonberg was 
 to dine with her that evening. She filled the 
 remainder of her day full of occupation, that 
 blessed sea of rest for troubles of all kinds, 
 singing to herself she had no voice as she 
 went about, from the dining-room to the terrace, 
 and from the terrace to her chamber, all the 
 latent fire pent up and covered over. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Although in itself a guest at dinner was an 
 insignificant event for Gladys, it afforded her in 
 this instance a welcome diversion. Further 
 more, she was really interested in Dr. Schon 
 berg. In the presence of this man, hidden away 
 in the hermitage of Ashurst, she imagined her 
 self face to face with a mystery, and was not 
 one to rest content with mere surmises. She
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 117 
 
 liked a difficult, a delicate task, the feeling 
 tentatively for the corde sensible, that sensitive 
 nerve of resentment or bitterness which should 
 put her on the right track, and was quite 
 herself again when, on the way to dinner, Schon- 
 berg felt for the first time in many a year the 
 pressure of a white hand on the sleeve of the 
 black coat which fitted him so awkwardly. 
 
 They returned to the terrace, after dinner was 
 over, where Gladys devoted herself assiduously 
 to her work, but without detriment to the con 
 versation ; while Mab, fishing over the balcony 
 with a worsted skein, which Jack had attached 
 to his cane, contributed a domestic coloring to 
 the scene. 
 
 " Do you like America, Dr. Schonberg? " 
 
 "I have lived here a good many years," 
 said he. 
 
 " You ought to be a good judge, then." 
 
 " Ashurst does not furnish a very broad basis 
 for an estimate," he replied. 
 
 "It's a very good sample," said Gladys, hold 
 ing up the skeins and matching her colors. 
 " Places may differ a great deal in a country, 
 like a patch-quilt ; but the general effect of one 
 corner is the same as that of any other. Besides, 
 to stay in one place is not necessarily to like 
 it, Dr. Schonberg." 
 
 " I stay here because I wish to," he remarked 
 laconically.
 
 118 THE WIXD OF DESTINY. 
 
 " I had a delightful visit from Miss Fleming 
 and her sister," continued Gladys, sliding from, 
 one topic to another. " There is something very 
 distinguSe about Miss Fleming." 
 
 What Gladys meant was quite true. Sera- 
 phine had more presence than Elize, a something 
 marking her off from the myriads one meets 
 in life ; so many rustling leaves swept by on the 
 wind. But Gladys' adjective, as one belonging 
 to the world of fashion and manners, made 
 Schonberg wince, and he never could beat the 
 cover of conversation without starting the game. 
 
 " Pardon me," said he ; " souls have distinc 
 tion, but are not distinguSes" 
 
 "Has she not a good deal of pride?" asked 
 Gladys, smiling. " Pride, you know, is world- 
 fc? 
 
 " Since the ark," answered Schonberg, " every 
 thing goes in pairs. There is the pride of self 
 love, and that of self-respect." 
 
 Gladys lifted her eyes and inspected his half- 
 averted face with the frankness of Mabel. 
 
 " At all events she is very attractive, and I 
 wish to know her. Is it so very hard ? " 
 
 He did not like to discuss Seraphine, espe 
 cially after the incident of the morning, which 
 seemed to him to be connected in some indefin 
 able way with the conversation. " Women are 
 not very easy to understand," he said evasively.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 119 
 
 " No," said Gladys, " we are not so naive as 
 you are ; or perhaps," she added, with a quick 
 glance, " you think nothing can be made out of 
 nothing." 
 
 " That 's what Lear said to the fool," an 
 swered Schonberg, amused at the swift flow of 
 her thoughts. 
 
 " I forgot there was a fool in Lear," replied 
 Gladys meditatively, lifting her blue eyes. 
 
 " Necessarily. Without fools there would be 
 no tragedies." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " and a malicious light 
 filtered through her lashes. " Fools and women, 
 you mean." 
 
 " They are not of one sex, the fools," he said, 
 crossing one leg over.the other. 
 
 " First sex, then fools, and last, tragedy ; is 
 that the logical order? I should put love for 
 sex," she continued, unraveling a fresh skein, 
 " it 's more comprehensive. Love gives the lie 
 to the proverb, does n't it ? There is one fire 
 the burnt child does not dread." And Gladys 
 resumed her long stitches. 
 
 " Do you never smoke after dinner, Dr. Schon 
 berg?" 
 
 " To smoke I must have my pipe, and my pipe 
 is in the pocket of my dressing - gown," said 
 Schonberg, feeling instinctively in those of his 
 dress coat.
 
 120 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " But I can give you one of Jack's a new 
 one." And Gladys laid aside her work. " Will 
 you come?" she said, leading the way to the 
 library. Here Schonberg forgot even his pipe. 
 "They belonged to my father," said Gladys. 
 "They are not arranged yet. Here are Fro- 
 maget and Locke elbowing each other." 
 
 "Do you ever read them?" asked Schon 
 berg. 
 
 " Sometimes," said Gladys, laughing. " They 
 are not altogether ornamental. I am afraid you 
 have n't a very high opinion of my sex." 
 
 "Why not?" said he, turning and looking 
 at her. 
 
 " Possibly because we like Fromaget's imag 
 ination better than Locke's understanding. But 
 we have an understanding. Once in a while we 
 even reason a little." 
 
 " Oh, faster than we do," said he. 
 
 But" 
 
 " But not so far." 
 
 " The hare and the tortoise ! I believe I shall 
 finish by becoming a disciple of Locke," she 
 said, running her hand over the shelf, and 
 bringing the books into line. "All our knowl 
 edge comes from experience ; the trouble is, we 
 women never profit by it. We leave the reins 
 to impulse, after you have given them to rea 
 son. Would you like to examine me in Locke ? 
 Come, begin."
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 121 
 
 Schonberg was penetrative, but he had not 
 yet classified Gladys. A deeper riddle might 
 have been more easily solved. Each furnished 
 the other a new sensation. She could not em 
 barrass him, while he, on the other hand, made 
 her feel like a novice in an art in which she was 
 accustomed to consider herself proficient. For 
 to Schonberg conversation was a real and seri 
 ous business, and no art at all. Rugged and 
 direct, his simplicity went straight through the 
 guard of Gladys' society weapon. He ignored 
 all the rules of the game. She was a good 
 fencer, and enjoyed the science of attack and de 
 fense, the flash and ring of the steel ; and in 
 society, where the foils wear buttons, that is 
 everything. One does not go into a parlor to 
 draw blood, unless with a stiletto, tipped with 
 poison, in the sleeve. Not that Schonberg was 
 sanguinary. He was only serious, intent upon 
 the theme, and forgetful of the speaker. Gladys 
 added to her conversation an element of person 
 ality, sparingly, as one uses a strong condiment, 
 but as a necessary ingredient without which it 
 lost all its zest. Whereas for Schonberg neither 
 he nor you counted for anything. He neither 
 wished to please nor to wound. It was a new 
 experience for Gladys to be taken at her word. 
 But she was not wanting in tact, and finding she 
 could not fence with one who does not know
 
 122 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 how, she sheathed her weapon and faced her 
 adversary with a pair of innocent blue eyes. If 
 they could not embarrass, they could mystify ; 
 for they changed like summer skies, and to look 
 into them was like looking upon a landscape 
 bathed in mist, which confuses the perspective 
 and gives objects uncertain proportions. Their 
 spell did not act at a distance, the flame was 
 more bright than warm ; but in their presence 
 they possessed a nameless influence which dis 
 armed reserve, and in which, as in a cup of 
 wine, constraint and coldness were dissolved 
 away. 
 
 " I should like very much to examine this 
 library," Schonberg said in reply, his eyes wan 
 dering over the shelves again. 
 
 " You like books better than people." 
 
 "They are easier to get along with," said 
 Schonberg, taking down a volume. " A book 
 can retain what it holds. No one is obliged to 
 read a poor one ; but it is sometimes difficult to 
 shake off a fool." 
 
 " How different-we are," said Gladys, sitting 
 down and looking at him thoughtfully. " It 's 
 just the reverse with me, I have n't the least 
 difficulty with the fools but there are books 
 I cannot shake off at all." 
 
 "What ones?" asked he, taking out his 
 glasses.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 123 
 
 " Ah, you cannot tell, oir Tortoise. I know 
 yours without asking." 
 
 " If you know my books, you know me," he 
 replied, looking from the open page over his 
 spectacles dubiously. 
 
 " Of course," laughed Gladys, " and vice 
 versa. But the variety is so great " and she 
 glanced round the room " that you cannot 
 find the clue ! Don't you think they ought to 
 be arranged and catalogued ? They are all in 
 confusion now. One might at least make a pic 
 turesque effect with the bindings. But we are 
 forgetting that pipe ! Wait, I will send it to 
 
 you." 
 
 As she went out the door, she turned. 
 
 " Dr. Schonberg." She had to call twice, for 
 he was already deep among the leaves. " Con 
 fess for once," she said, " it was not so very dif 
 ficult to shake off the fool." And a moment 
 later, a servant brought him a tray on which 
 was a pipe and some latakia, and lit the lamp, 
 for it was beginning to grow dark. 
 
 Schonberg did not resent the personal appli 
 cation of his remark; first, because he knew 
 Gladys was not serious, and then he was not 
 quite sure to which of the two she referred. 
 
 Jack, who preferred his cigar with Mabel to 
 the exertion of conversation, was somewhat sur 
 prised at Gladys' reappearance on the terrace
 
 124 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 alone. He had listened with interest to her 
 efforts to entertain her guest, and, recalling her 
 assumption of the role of Providence, remarked, 
 as she came out the library door, 
 
 " You 've caught a Tartar this time, have n't 
 you, Gladys ? " 
 
 " I have introduced him to his best friends," 
 she replied carelessly. 
 
 " Oh, you can manage him if any one can," 
 said he. He had great confidence in her 
 methods. He never felt aggrieved at her usur 
 pation of attention or responsibility in this di 
 rection, for not every one could claim the one 
 with less arrogance, or exercise the other with 
 more discretion. She had a talent for bringing 
 together those ripe for each other, and of mak 
 ing her guests forget all sense of duty. Jack 
 had not forgotten an evening at the minister's, 
 where every one had been changed round at 
 definite intervals for the apparently sole pur 
 pose of being kept busy. " It was like playing 
 dominoes without matching," Gladys had re 
 marked on the way home. 
 
 " It is Miss Mabel's bed-time," said a voice 
 from the door. 
 
 " Mabel, do you hear ? " said Gladys. 
 
 Mabel, hooking tulip heads over the balcony 
 with her impromptu line, abandoned her occu* 
 pation reluctantly, and after having indulged in
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 125 
 
 such specious delays as she deemed prudent, as 
 a last resort asked if she might go and say good 
 night to Schonberg. 
 
 " Yes, go." 
 
 Jack put on his hat and walked towards the 
 steps. 
 
 " Where are you going, Jack ? " asked Gla 
 dys. 
 
 " I promised Rowan I would call this even 
 ing." He lingered a moment on the stairs as if 
 expecting she would say something. But she 
 did not speak. " Can I do anything for you ? " 
 
 "No," she said, turning away. 
 
 Children ! she thought, as she passed and re- 
 passed the library door. The dream was differ 
 ent from the reality. There had been no fear, 
 no humiliation, in the dream ; for a dream like 
 hers, indulged in between two strokes of her 
 ivory brush, dallied with between two stitches of 
 her loitering needle, could be banished with a 
 frown or a sigh when conscience awoke. And 
 Gladys had a conscience, although often not 
 aware of it till, like the magnetic needle above 
 the ore, it swerved under the attraction of self 
 interest. She was explaining the matter to it 
 now as she walked to and fro, and she found it 
 easier to treat with conscience than with pride ; 
 for conscience can be argued with and diverted, 
 but pride is consoled for its humiliations only by
 
 126 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 forgetting them. As if conscience could dictate 
 to the heart ! its whips might scourge, but they 
 could not kill. Conscience ! Gladys loved au 
 thority, but despised law. If there was a task 
 to be performed, she would do it of her own free 
 will, not under the goad of duty. A task ! the 
 tide of her indignation turned against herself. 
 What was she thinking of ? Love ? She, Gla 
 dys Temple ? Though the night was cool and 
 fresh, she grew hot as she walked the terrace 
 under the summer stars, for the fight is only a 
 vain beating of the air when one will not rec 
 ognize the enemy, and pride persisted in throw 
 ing the blame upon circumstances. After all, 
 what had happened ? Nothing, nothing, nothing, 
 she repeated obstinately, shutting her eyes. 
 
 The sound of Mabel's voice came through the 
 open door. 
 
 Schonberg had not heard the patter of feet 
 running over the terrace, nor seen the little 
 figure with its dress* full of tulips till it stood 
 before him in the^red light of the lamp. 
 
 " I 'm going to bed," said Mabel, depositing 
 her tulips on his open book and standing on tip 
 toe to be kissed. 
 
 "Are you?" said Schonberg. "Well, good 
 night, little girl ; " and he lifted her to his lips. 
 
 " Are you going to sleep here ? " inquired 
 liabeL
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 127 
 
 " No," said he, smiling, and realizing for the 
 first time that he had been very much at home. 
 
 " Are n't you afraid of witches ? " pursued 
 Mab earnestly. 
 
 " Witches ? What are they ? " 
 
 " They live in the dark, and eat people up," 
 said Mabel in a confidential whisper calculated 
 to inspire terror. 
 
 " If that 's the case I had best be going," said 
 Schonberg, kissing once more the small witch 
 before him and folding his glasses in their case. 
 As he rose from his chair he saw Gladys, im 
 mobile, in the doorway. The light from within 
 shone full on her face. It was flushed, and 
 betrayed anxiety. It was not the same woman 
 that had left him a half hour ago. He had only 
 seen her twice before ; but the one brief meet 
 ing of their eyes at Rowan's that morning, when 
 he turned from Seraphine's picture, came back 
 to him now. 
 
 " Mabel has been warning me of dangers 
 which beset my way home," said he. 
 
 Gladys laughed nervously. " Dangers ? " 
 
 " Yes, witches," he replied, looking at her in 
 tently. 
 
 " You should have told her they were all 
 burned long ago," she said. Her eyes avoided 
 his, and a thought, like a flash from a night 
 cloud, so rapid that what is seen is only a ghost
 
 128 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 of a landscape lingering in the darkness, shot 
 through his mind. They crossed the terrace si 
 lently, with that uneasiness which succeeds the 
 sudden consciousness of mutual comprehension. 
 I am worse than Mabel with her witches, thought 
 he. Why not ? said another voice ; the fireflies 
 on the lawn can attract your attention, and the 
 thoughts of a feverish brain close beside you 
 emit no light ! 
 
 He put out his large warm hand to say good 
 night. 
 
 " It 's a night for dreams," she said, lingering 
 at the steps. 
 
 " Dreams ! " said he ; " beware of them. Be 
 tween dreaming and living there is a gulf 
 fixed." 
 
 Then she heard the grinding of his cane on 
 the gravel. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 While Schonberg was reading that evening in 
 Gladys' library, Seraphine made him a present 
 in this wise. 
 
 She and Elize were sitting together on the 
 porch when Rowan came up the walk. 
 
 " Is Miss Fleming at home ? " he asked, rec 
 ognizing Elize by the light from the window. 
 
 Seraphine rose from the shadow, and Elize
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 129 
 
 presented him. It was not wholly because Row 
 an had asked only for her sister that Elize 
 walked down to the gate, loitering between it 
 and The Towers with the thought of Schon- 
 berg's half-promised visit in mind. Nor was it 
 altogether because of her natural delicacy. She 
 felt a strange timidity. Nothing troubled Elize 
 so much as a mystery, because well, the most 
 casual observer could have told why. Those 
 scarlet flushes which waxed and waned like the 
 glow of the auroral light under the pale olive 
 of her cheek, those clear gray eyes into which 
 the dark lashes were ever throwing shadows, 
 told all her secrets. 
 
 " Miss Fleming," began Rowan, " I have come 
 to offer you an apology." She was still stand 
 ing, and he saw by her face, on which the light 
 from within fell, that she knew nothing. " Af 
 ter meeting you in the woods the other day, I 
 went home and painted you as I first saw you. 
 My cousin, Mrs. Temple, has accidentally seen 
 this picture ; I say accidentally, I mean I was 
 not present when she discovered it, nor when it 
 was shown to your sister and Dr. Schonberg, 
 who happened also to be there. I am not such 
 a sophist, Miss Fleming, as to attribute the " 
 he sought for a better word, but could not find 
 it " the unpleasant position in which you are 
 placed to my cousin's curiosity. The fault lies
 
 130 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 behind that, and is mine. Nor am I willing to 
 excuse that fault by saying, what is not true, 
 that in painting that picture I was doing only 
 what artists claim the right to." 
 
 Seraphine made a movement. 
 
 " The more I have thought of it, the more I 
 have dreaded to come and say this," pursued 
 Rowan, "and the more clearly I felt I ought to 
 because " He hesitated a moment, break 
 ing off a cluster of the blue berries which hung 
 from the woodbine about the porch. 
 
 " Why do you go so deeply into the reasons ? " 
 said Seraphine. 
 
 He looked up quickly. It was the first time 
 he had heard her voice. There was in it the 
 faintest tremor, but when he searched her eyes 
 he could not tell whether his reasons had trou 
 bled her or were indifferent to her. 
 
 "You are right," he said. " Every word I say 
 only adds to my offense. But, thus far, Miss 
 Fleming, have I your pardon ? " 
 
 " You have been very frank," said Seraphine. 
 "For that I thank you, Mr. Ferguson." 
 
 There was an afterthought in her words which 
 he imagined he divined. 
 
 " I have not asked you what I should do with 
 it," he said ; " but if it would save you the 
 embarrassment of deciding I will keep it." 
 
 " No," said Seraphine, smiling, " you will give
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 131 
 
 it to my uncle, Dr. Schonberg." This solution 
 did not please him, and he could not avoid show 
 ing it. "And you will do so because I ask 
 you," added Seraphine. 
 
 He was silent for a moment; then, looking 
 into her face again, " An artist's work is dear 
 to him, Miss Fleming." 
 
 " Do you wish me to command you, Mr. Fer 
 guson ? " 
 
 " No," he replied eagerly, " you are right, and 
 I will do what you have asked, may I say 
 not commanded ? " 
 
 There was a troubled look in her eyes worth 
 more to him than words. She had taken her 
 seat again in the shadow. He had nothing more 
 to say that he dared to, yet he hesitated. 
 
 " Good-night, Miss Fleming." 
 
 " Good-night, Mr. Ferguson," and, as he 
 turned, " thank you." 
 
 At the gate he met Elize, who gave him an 
 inquiring glance in the dusk. 
 
 " I am afraid I have tried the patience of a 
 saint," said he. 
 
 u You ought to be more considerate of saints," 
 replied Elize, "you who paint them." 
 
 Soon after Rowan had left, a soft rain began 
 to fall. Seraphine had gone to her room. Elize 
 lingered at the door, though she no longer ex 
 pected Schonberg. The leaves glistened in the
 
 132 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 light streaming from the windows, the rain gur 
 gled in the eaves. She felt a loneliness she 
 could not explain ; there was, in her heart, all 
 the difference between her morning walk in the 
 sun amid the songs of the robins in the hazels, 
 and this slow rain falling out of the mysterious 
 night. She closed the door, put out the can 
 dles, and went up stairs. It was not the rain on 
 the roof that kept her awake that night. 
 
 " Seraphine," she whispered. 
 
 What is it, Elize ? " 
 
 She hardly knew how to begin. That which 
 troubled her meant nothing or everything. It 
 was the first time they two had ever gone to 
 sleep together without that hour's talk which 
 begins when the candles are lighted on the 
 dressing-table ; when the heart shares the aban 
 don of the body and opens its doors, as those 
 flowers which open only at night and yield their 
 perfume only in the light of the stars. But it 
 was no longer the picture standing in Rowan's 
 room which troubled her it was Seraphine her 
 self. Why? She did not know, except that 
 she lay so quietly beside her. If she had moved 
 certainly she was not yet asleep and ElLze 
 began to wonder. The rain continued softly 
 but persistently ; the great drops swelled and fell 
 from overhanging boughs on the roof ; the wind 
 sighed in the chimney. Her thoughts came as
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 133 
 
 the rain and the wind came, in gusts, a broken 
 chain of images, now distinct, now dissolved in 
 unconsciousness ; she began to dream. She 
 was searching searching for that little rivulet 
 she heard, but which hid in the tall grass and 
 daisies. She listened ; yes, it was there, trick 
 ling on somewhere, close under her feet 
 but she could not find it ; then the murmur be 
 came a roar. Hark ! it was like the sea. She 
 woke with a start. The wind was sighing at 
 the windows, and the raindrops trickling on the 
 roof. She had been dreaming. She put out 
 her hand and felt for Seraphine's ; it did not 
 move. She crept closer, till her cheek touched 
 her shoulder ; she was asleep. How warm the 
 shelter of that room was how sweet the touch 
 of that form ! How foolish she had been ! 
 Seraphine had no secrets from her. And once 
 more, in the murmur of the rain and the night 
 wind, she fell asleep. 
 
 But not Seraphine wide awake, with Elize's 
 hand in hers. There are seeds which, from the 
 time they first fall into the heart, we know will 
 come to maturity. 
 
 A ray of yellow light from thirty million 
 leagues away crosses the horizon line. The 
 leaden sea sparkles, the sterile rock grows warm, 
 the shut flowers open. The first arrow from the
 
 134 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 quiver of the sun ! cries the Poet. The scientist 
 laughs. Your metaphor, he says, is at fault ; 
 the emissive theory was long ago disproved ; it 
 is a vibration. Bah! says the Philosopher, a 
 vibration in a vacuum ! No, that is impossible. 
 In a rare material medium, then ? No, friction 
 is inadmissible. In what, then ? Ether. And 
 ether, what is that? An imponderable fluid. 
 And this imponderable fluid, since it is not mat 
 ter, what is it ? The Scientist hesitates, and the 
 Poet laughs. My friend, says the Philosopher, 
 I have a brain, whence spring ideas, complex, 
 mysteriously combined but how ? Conscious 
 ness notes only the result, the process is un 
 known. 
 
 And I, cried the Poet, have a heart, whence 
 springs love love, frailer than beauty, stronger 
 than sin. How ? I will explain it all to you, 
 when you have told me how the shaft from the 
 sun's quiver fell this morning into the sea ! 
 
 xxn. 
 
 Gladys was supposed to have been kindly 
 treated by fortune. It had surrounded her with 
 an atmosphere which resolved such of the crude 
 realities of life as succeeded in penetrating it 
 into a soft illusion of spectrum-like colors. It
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 135 
 
 had favored her, too, with a happy, contented 
 disposition. She accepted life as she found it. 
 It was not altogether satisfactory : her love for 
 laces, for example, could never be satisfied ; then, 
 too, a complexion was a great care and source 
 of anxiety ; there was also her Aunt Isabel. 
 Still, on the whole, it was a very agreeable gift ; 
 and while aware that there were probably greater 
 evils than even Aunt Isabel in store for her, she 
 enjoyed her immunity from them as she never 
 could have done had she realized how complete 
 it was. Poverty ? There was undoubtedly such 
 a thing. She had even imagined what she would 
 do under a reverse of fortune. She would wear 
 a very neat, close-fitting calico dress, with a nar 
 row white collar, and take in sewing. Further 
 than this she ceased to plan for what was, after 
 all, a remote contingency. Suffering ? Gladys 
 had not thought herself especially exempted. 
 She had a great many worries ; she had to grow 
 old like other people, and die like them. Pas 
 sions ? She did not believe very much in the 
 passions, which were not associated in her mind 
 with well-bred people. Besides, they hastened 
 the flight of every pleasure, sapped every throne, 
 and furrowed the face with wrinkles ; of which 
 Gladys thought more than of the fiery track 
 they plough in the heart. She had read a great 
 deal, and very judiciously. Novels, to be sure,
 
 136 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 abounded in passion, and novels were very enter 
 taining ; she liked nothing better than a good 
 one, in a pleasant room before a cosy fire. But 
 novels were fiction. No one had ever thrown 
 himself at her feet with the threat of suicide in 
 reserve, no one had ever languished and died 
 because of her caprices ; and she was heartily 
 glad of it. If Gladys estimated the passions 
 lightly, it must be remembered all our judgments 
 are fettered by first impressions, and that hers 
 had been derived from society, under whose 
 forces the heart receives a surface polish whose 
 sparkle prevents one from seeing far within it. 
 She loved Jack certainly she did ; Jack was 
 very thoughtful and indulgent. Once, when in 
 Homburg with her aunt, an old nobleman had 
 sued for her hand, and Aunt Isabel had advised 
 her to accept him. But Gladys, who was very 
 young then, had promptly refused ; at which her 
 aunt told her she was a little fool. Not a few 
 younger lovers had subsequently sued for her 
 heart, but with so little success that her aunt 
 finally remarked, with even more warmth than 
 before, that she had not a particle of blood in 
 her veins, and was as destitute of feeling as a 
 fish. Still later, she had met her cousin Rowan. 
 He was very different from the thoroughly crys 
 tallized people she had known in society, for 
 society, when it forms a character, hardens it;
 
 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 137 
 
 and yet, to her surprise, he proved less tractable 
 than they. First amused, then attracted, she 
 was finally piqued. Exactly what passed be 
 tween them was not known even to Aunt Isa 
 bel, who was dumbfounded when her niece 
 announced her intention to marry Jack. This 
 done, perhaps Gladys imagined life was ex 
 hausted, and that she could predict every day 
 that was left. Certainly it was with no little 
 surprise, as well as uneasiness, that she felt the 
 flame beneath the sparkle. So there were giants 
 nowadays after all, and the passions she had 
 seen as so many twinkling stars, like those which 
 glittered above her as she listened to Schon- 
 berg's retreating footsteps, were titanic forces 
 lodged in her own heart. 
 
 She walked down the lawn through the trees 
 which masked the road, absorbed in her thoughts, 
 but with that same need of movement, of occu 
 pation, which had possessed her all the day. A 
 torturing sense of duality tormented her, as if 
 two implacable enemies, imprisoned within, were 
 struggling for her ear. Rowan had been rude 
 and she had been indignant, that was all. Per 
 haps jealousy outlives love ; but did he imagine 
 for a moment And her pride swooped like a 
 falcon on its prey. How absurd, to fall in love 
 with a woman he had never spoken to ! And 
 what right had he to come back now ; she was
 
 138 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 happy . . . perfectly happy. Once . . . Oh, if 
 once ... and her thought soared as the lark soars 
 above the morning fog, beating the mist of the 
 meadow under its wing. Her life seemed sud 
 denly to have been so paltry . . . without even 
 illusions . . . happiness missed, missed, not lost ! 
 . . . and she, fooled to sleep with trifles when 
 there were forces stalking like giants through 
 the land and she was of their race. To live . . . 
 to love . . . the thought filled her with a joyous 
 sense of power, power to suffer and endure ; 
 she was glad, glad to the verge of fear. A new 
 exhilaration quickened her step, the very earth 
 throbbed warm under her foot, and the trees . . . 
 hark ! were they whispering together of her ? 
 She hurried out of their shadows into the open 
 space by the gate. Love ! she said to herself 
 disdainfully, while a bitter sentiment of reproach 
 drove out the momentary joy ; he cared nothing 
 for her he might even come to hate her ; and 
 her eyes flashed in the light flickering from the 
 gas jet above the gate. 
 
 She would go and meet Jack ; her heart 
 warmed suddenly towards Jack. 
 
 The clouds had shut out the stars, and a drop 
 of rain fell on her cheek. She stopped at the 
 corner of the lane, and listened. What could 
 keep Jack so long ? They could find nothing to 
 talk about ; he knew nothing about painting,
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 139 
 
 and Rowan cared nothing for stocks. A fresh 
 breeze stirred the tops of the trees and dropped 
 from branch to branch. She would wait no lon 
 ger ; it might be hours before Jack came back. 
 She would go home, to bed, to sleep . . . but not 
 to dream. 
 
 She hurried back, seeking the shelter of the 
 trees to escape the random drops, though the 
 darkness terrified her. But once in her room, 
 she found this darkness pleasant, and sat for a 
 long time by the window watching the clouds 
 sliding over the stars, till nothing was visible 
 but the distant glare of the lights of Ashurst, 
 reflected in a gray mist of rain. 
 
 She would light the candles and finish her 
 book. 
 
 It was one in which she had been exceedingly 
 interested, but it appeared to her now very com 
 monplace. Its characters were so many puppets, 
 making set speeches and walking about like 
 Nuremberg toys. Why did they not do some 
 thing ! What did all these grooves and wheels 
 amount to ! A drop of freezing water, a little 
 vapor caught in a rock, were mightier than they. 
 The book was stupid she would go to bed. 
 
 But in sleep all the sentinels of reason nodded 
 at their posts, and imagination, the reveler, put 
 on his cap and bells. He swept away the silken 
 hangings of Gladys' bed, and hung a great world
 
 140 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 there a cold, dead world, solitary and still, in 
 an empty space. The gilt night-clock was tick 
 ing on the dressing table ; she could hear the 
 beat of the dead world's heart louder, louder, 
 till its mountains trembled and fire shone in the 
 seams of its barren rocks. " My dear," said this 
 world, suddenly, in an ironical voice which so 
 resembled her aunt's that Gladys sat up in her 
 bed, " though you are cold as a fish, your pas 
 sions will some day ruin you." 
 
 When Gladys woke again the sun was stream 
 ing in the window. How pleasant those first 
 waking moments were, when the thoughts that 
 had troubled her sleep were dissolving in this 
 strong bright sun, and she realized they were 
 only vanishing fancies and dreams. Life glit 
 tered again like the river she saw from her win 
 dow as she threw wide open the blinds. Her 
 senses drank in the sparkle of the water, the 
 songs of the birds, the fragrance of the earth re 
 freshed by the night rain. This was the reality. 
 
 She was so contented and happy that she felt 
 the need of speaking to some one, and smiled at 
 her own blue eyes in the glass. Even Aunt 
 Isabel seemed attractive, and Gladys knocked at 
 her door as she finished the last button of her 
 morning dress on the way down to breakfast. 
 Her aunt was already in her chair ; Gladys did 
 not remember ever to have seen her in bed. She
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 141 
 
 proposed they should take a ride, " it was so 
 beautiful after the rain. I will order the horses 
 at once, and we will start immediately after 
 breakfast." 
 
 " Here is your letter, Gladys," said her aunt, 
 taking a paper from the table as she was leav 
 ing. 
 
 " It is of no consequence," she replied, throw 
 ing it into the basket. 
 
 Aunt Isabel appeared as the carriage rounded 
 the terrace corner ; punctuality was one of her 
 virtues. There were traces of beauty on her 
 face, to say nothing of that beauty which is nei 
 ther created nor destroyed by the imagination, 
 character ; traces too of the coquette, though 
 the pleasure of adding that touch of art which 
 no wealth of resources need despise had long 
 since lapsed into the duty of making the best of 
 such as were left. Gladys was somewhat afraid 
 of her. Her wit had grown caustic with age, 
 and bit hard. But Gladys was not always 
 worsted. She remembered the encounter of 
 Richard's sword with Saladin's cushion, and op 
 posed an unresisting good nature, an innocent 
 laugh, to the wiry edge of her aunt's attack. 
 She had learned, too, that when she had a really 
 good opportunity to retort, she won respect by 
 availing herself of it. Nothing so pleased Aunt 
 Isabel, strange to say, as to be fairly beaten by
 
 142 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 Gladys ; it was the son outdoing the father. 
 Once, when Gladys told her that having failed 
 to set a good example in her youth she consoled 
 herself by framing admirable maxims in her old 
 age, Aunt Isabel gave way to a fit of genuine 
 laughter. 
 
 She was at heart very fond of Gladys, above 
 all, because she had never to forgive her for 
 being stupid ; and this morning, Gladys being 
 especially in vein, the old lady lay back against 
 her cushion with half-closed eyes, listening to 
 her account of Ashurst and its people. Gladys 
 possessed the art of graphic narration and de 
 scription, and could draw one of those pictures 
 which leave a perfectly definite image on the 
 mind although we cannot remember its details. 
 She had found at the breakfast table a note from 
 Jack to the effect that he and Rowan were off 
 for a day's shooting. Without any well-defined 
 purpose she turned the horses' heads away from 
 the village into the woodland roads. On the 
 whole she was rather glad to be relieved from 
 her sitting that day. 
 
 Passing through a strip of woods which fol 
 lowed a brook down from the hills, they over 
 took Seraphine. She was sitting on one of the 
 side logs which guarded the bridge, resting. 
 Gladys' recognition was accompanied by one of 
 her brightest smiles, but the one she received in 
 return seemed to her even brighter.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 143 
 
 "Gladys, who was that young girl on the 
 bridge ? " asked her aunt some time after. 
 
 " Miss Fleming." 
 
 " You have not told me about her." 
 
 Gladys told what she knew, adding : " You 
 must ask Rowan if you wish to know more." 
 
 " Ho, ho ! " said Aunt Isabel to herself with 
 a sharp glance at Gladys. 
 
 " Do you think she is pretty ? " the latter 
 asked carelessly. 
 
 "Decidedly; there is no question about it. 
 She reminds me very much of the Countess 
 Foy." 
 
 Gladys smiled. Her aunt never forgot a 
 name or a face, and these reminiscences of days 
 before Gladys was born, to which she was not 
 infrequently obliged to listen, were not very in 
 teresting to her. "I suppose she was a very 
 remarkable woman," she said, with a touch of 
 malice. 
 
 " Very," replied her aunt. " She had an im 
 petuous heart which she knew how to govern." 
 
 Gladys shrugged her shoulders and took up 
 the whip. She was a little irritated ; a small 
 black speck had appeared on her day's horizon. 
 " I think Miss Fleming is striking ; I don't 
 know that I should call her very beautiful." 
 
 " Beauty, my dear, has no degree. It differs 
 in kind," said Aunt Isabel.
 
 144 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " I don't admire that kind, then," remarked 
 Gladys. 
 
 " You would not have us all alike, child ! 
 There would be no love if there were no vari- 
 ety." 
 
 " No, nor any inconstancy," retorted Gladys. 
 
 " Inconstancy ! " exclaimed Aunt Isabel ; " you 
 don't even know what it is." 
 
 Gladys lifted her brows in a way peculiar to 
 her, and replaced the whip in the socket. 
 
 " This Dr. Schonberg," said her aunt on the 
 homeward way, "interests me. He must be 
 quite an original. Invite him to lunch with us, 
 since we are to be alone. There is yet time," 
 she said, looking at her watch. 
 
 " But he dined with me last night. I cannot 
 invite him again " 
 
 " Present him my compliments, Gladys." 
 
 " Why not to-morrow ? " 
 
 " No one knows what may happen to-morrow. 
 Drive home quickly, I will send him a note my 
 self." 
 
 "I do not think he would come if he knew it 
 was simply to amuse you," objected Gladys. 
 
 " In the first place, my dear, he will not know 
 it, and in the second place we will amuse each 
 other." 
 
 So the note was written and despatched. It 
 piqued somewhat Gladys' curiosity, and con-
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 145 
 
 tained a sentence which excited that of Schon- 
 berg, who appeared at one o'clock on the terrace 
 where Aunt Isabel, engaged in her favorite pas 
 time, a game of solitaire, awaited him. 
 
 " This is Dr. Schonberg ? " she said, laying 
 down her cards. " Have the goodness to take 
 this chair beside me, and to excuse an old lady 
 who has left but one of her sex's privileges, to 
 ask favors." 
 
 He bowed and took the seat offered him. 
 
 " Do you play at solitaire, Dr. Schonberg ? " 
 
 "To tell the truth, madame, I have played 
 nothing else all my life." 
 
 She smiled a little, fixing her bright penetrat 
 ing eyes upon his face, and went straight to her 
 point. 
 
 "While driving, this morning, I met Miss 
 Fleming." 
 
 Schonberg deposited his hat on the floor be 
 side his chair, and listened attentively. 
 
 *' One is astonished to see any young people 
 at all nowadays, in our country villages ; they 
 hurry away from them as the brooks do from 
 their hills. It surprises me she is altogether 
 content to remain here, for she is content, is 
 she not ? " 
 
 At a loss what to think of this question, 
 Schonberg betrayed a movement of surprise. 
 
 " Ashurst, to be sure, is a delightful spot for
 
 146 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 children, including those of our age," continued 
 Aunt Isabel, taking up her cards again, '" but it 
 is only a pond, there is no current." 
 
 " There are eddies innumerable," interjected 
 Schonberg. 
 
 " Therefore you and I sink to the bottom," 
 said Aunt Isabel, searching for the knave of 
 hearts ; " but do you think Miss Fleming will 
 imitate our example ? " 
 
 Schonberg followed the movement of the 
 cards in silence, till having completed her game 
 the old lady leaned back in her chair and fixed 
 her bright eyes upon him again. 
 
 " Miss Fleming recalled to my mind, this 
 morning, a very dear friend, the Countess Foy. 
 She has been dead, it is true, these many years, 
 still I remember her. And I also remember a 
 beautiful child who caused her much concern. 
 Was not her name Madelon ? I thought so. I 
 often heard of her from her mother, with whom 
 I corresponded till her death, and know very 
 well the story of her marriage. To-day, when I 
 heard the name of Fleming, I said to myself, 
 this is my friend's granddaughter." 
 
 " It is true," said Schonberg. 
 
 "You will pardon me, then, if I take some 
 interest in her. I wish to see her." 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 "I am so old I am only an inhabitant, but
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 147 
 
 Miss Fleming can be a neighbor, if it be not 
 too late." 
 
 " Too late ? " said Schonberg, not understand 
 ing her. 
 
 " I mean before she leaves us." 
 
 " But we have no intention of leaving." 
 
 " Oh, that is incredible." 
 
 " Your friend did not tell you " he began. 
 
 " On the contrary, she told me everything. 
 He was a precious fool, the grandfather, I as 
 sure you." 
 
 " If he is a fool," said Schonberg, not no 
 ticing her use of the past tense, " so much the 
 worse for us. Fools never repent." 
 
 " So much the worse for him, then," said Aunt 
 Isabel tranquilly, " for he is now dead." 
 
 " Dead?" exclaimed Schonberg, rising to his 
 feet. 
 
 " Well ! " cried the old lady, like Frederick 
 to his soldiers, "what did he wish to live for 
 ever?" 
 
 Here Gladys appeared. Lunch was ready. 
 
 At lunch Gladys did not exert herself as us 
 ual. Schonberg was preoccupied, and her aunt 
 had a satisfied air which above all things always 
 exasperated Gladys. She was conscious of in 
 truding upon them, and it occurred to her at the 
 same time that Jack had made his plans for the 
 day very abruptly, and that Rowan had disposed
 
 148 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 of her sitting rather summarily. She was vexed 
 with herself for feeling aggrieved at such trifles, 
 but the black spot on the morning's horizon had 
 grown larger ; she saw continually Seraphine, 
 smiling. To her thinking lunch dragged along 
 so mournfully that she excused herself before it 
 was over. It was not of her planning, and she 
 washed her hands of all responsibility for its 
 stupidity. 
 
 "You must have expected this," said Aunt 
 Isabel when they were alone, resuming the con 
 versation where it had been interrupted. 
 
 "But not in this way. It must have been 
 very sudden." 
 
 " Very," she replied. " My letter was one of 
 gossip, which travels faster than business. More 
 over, it was from Vienna, where the Count died. 
 They are searching for the heiress, and I wish 
 to see her ; you will be carrying her off now. 
 Promise to bring her to me. Poor child ! how 
 long she has waited." 
 
 " She has not been waiting," said Schonberg. 
 
 Aunt Isabel looked up over her sherry. " You 
 do not mean that she does not know." 
 
 "She knows everything." 
 
 " And she has never talked to you about it ? " 
 
 " What was there to talk of ? " asked Schon 
 berg. 
 
 " Humph ! " muttered the old lady, moving
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 149 
 
 her arm-chair into the sun and her glass to the 
 corner of the table beside her. 
 
 Sclionberg, too, was thinking. So it had 
 come at last ; the happy monotonous years were 
 over. He lived them again as he sat watching 
 the sunshine quivering on the surface of the 
 wine. He would give all he possessed for the 
 happiness of those he loved. All he possessed! 
 That love was his all yes, even that. 
 
 What did he expect? The brook from the 
 hills lingers a moment in the pool at their base, 
 and hurries on. Had he thought to limit lives 
 just begun by his own that was finished ? He 
 had foreseen all this from the first. He thought 
 of his morning visit at Rowan's. The scenes 
 were shifting, new actors were coming on the 
 stage. But we are never ready for these transi 
 tions, and when they come they are always the 
 sudden storm prepared mysteriously out of a 
 blue sky. He tore himself with a wrench from 
 his thoughts, and looked across the table where 
 the old lady sat in the sun. She was asleep, 
 her hand on the table, holding her glass. He 
 made a movement, but she did not stir. He 
 rose and walked to the window opening on the 
 terrace ; Aunt Isabel's afternoon nap was not so 
 easily disturbed. He took his hat from the 
 chair outside no one was in sight and walked 
 down the steps.
 
 150 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 Gladys, passing by the window shortly after, 
 looked in and saw her aunt, still asleep. The 
 rustle of her dress as she entered, however, 
 awoke her. 
 
 " You must have amused each other famously," 
 said Gladys. 
 
 xxni. 
 
 Meanwhile Seraphine continued her walk. 
 
 She had turned aside from the road to follow 
 the brook up the hills. Wherever she paused 
 the miniature valley opened an enticing vista 
 full of lights and sounds. The little falls of 
 water beyond called to her, " Come up hither 
 where we are." There were nooks of shade 
 where flowers whose time was past were bloom 
 ing still, haunts of the moss and fern ; and 
 spots of sunshine where danced myriad flecks of 
 insect wings. She fixed upon more than one 
 distant landmark as her goal : a black log under 
 which the water rumbled ; a great tree at whose 
 roots it toiled ; a ledge over which it spread and 
 gathered, to leap through a spray-band of color 
 into a pool. And still the waters above called, 
 " Come up hither, follow my voice and you can 
 not lose the way." 
 
 She loved the woods and everything in them. 
 The spider was safe there to float his silken
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 151 
 
 threads from the tips of the ferns ; the red squir 
 rel waited till her foot was on his fallen trunk, 
 and the wild pigeon called its mate from the 
 tree against whose rough bark she leaned. She 
 had resolved not to go beyond this tree ; still she 
 lingered, loath to turn back. 
 
 Suddenly her ear caught a sound of breaking 
 branches and crushed leaves. Something was 
 moving, through the undergrowth above the open 
 space where she stood. Her heart beat fast, 
 though she knew there was nothing in the woods 
 of Ashurst to frighten a child. She could fol 
 low the sounds through the thicket of leaves as 
 they grew more distinct ; she could see now the 
 tops of the young trees swaying as they were 
 pushed aside. Just then, with a whirr that made 
 her heart leap to her throat, a startled partridge 
 took wing from the hemlock cover, and lit with 
 a crash in the tree above her head. Almost at 
 the same instant a man broke through the thicket 
 and paused on its edge, listening. It was Rowan. 
 
 The squirrel leaped to a higher limb, the call 
 of the pigeon ceased ; nothing was heard but the 
 gurgle of the brook. 
 
 He advanced slowly, his gun in his hand, 
 choosing every stepping-place among the dry 
 leaves and dead branches, and scanning every 
 tree. She was in full sight, yet he did not see 
 her. Cautiously creeping from moss to stone,
 
 152 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 alert, breathless, he drew near. Once he stopped 
 to shield his eyes from the sun and search a 
 great hemlock between them. She turned her 
 head slowly, little by little, upward where the 
 bird was watching the hunter with its restless, 
 anxious eye. He was within a hundred feet of 
 them now ; he stopped again and raised his gun. 
 
 " Mr. Ferguson," said Scraphine, " the bird 
 has taken shelter in my tree." 
 
 " Miss Fleming ! " 
 
 She stood just across the brook against the 
 brown trunk of the pine from which the bird, 
 startled afresh, took wing, masking its flight be 
 hind the thick branches. 
 
 " Confess that I frightened you," she said, 
 smiling, but trembling. 
 
 The sound of her voice in the still wood had 
 indeed startled him, yet it seemed natural to 
 him that she should be there. He had been 
 thinking of her all the day. 
 
 " Do you wonder ? " he said, coming to the 
 edge of the stream. " I thought you were miles 
 away." 
 
 The color overspread her face. " I ought to 
 be," she said. " I shall be late, and Elize will 
 not know what to think. This little brook en 
 ticed me." 
 
 He did not ask if he might go back with her ; 
 he even forgot Jack, and they walked along the
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 153 
 
 banks together, the talking water between. A 
 strange happiness was taking possession of her 
 heart. It came in like a flood tide, till it filled 
 and overflowed. She struggled against it, as 
 against rising tears. A high rock barred the 
 way below ; she was obliged to cross the brook, 
 and her bunch of wood flowers fell from her 
 hand. " Never mind," she said. But he res 
 cued them all from the rapids, between the glis 
 tening stones, and the eddies above the sands at 
 the bottom shining with a thousand fiery eyes. 
 As he gave them back to her their hands touched. 
 Surely the way to the heart does not lie through 
 the senses, and what matters it if the way to 
 the senses lies through the heart ? 
 
 It was a long walk to the bridge, and they 
 talked of nothing nothing that nothing 
 beside which all else is a shadow, an echo, and a 
 dream. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 On his return from The Towers, Schonberg, 
 prompt in action, though without method, sat 
 down at his desk and wrote the notary at Dinant, 
 with whom, from time to time, he had corre 
 sponded in relation to the affairs of Madelon and 
 her children. His mind worked fast, and his 
 thought traveled far ; details escaped him easily.
 
 154 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 One central fact filled the whole range of his vis 
 ion, a new life opened before him ; " for the for 
 mer things are passed away." A long file of 
 memories came back to him. Elize would not 
 run again to his arms with the news of the rob 
 in's eggs hatched over night, nor Seraphine sit 
 on his knee listening to his stories. " The lights 
 He created for seasons, and for days, and years ; " 
 but when we look up, the season is past, the days 
 finished, and the years set below an ever-advan 
 cing horizon. 
 
 His letter finished, he carried it himself to the 
 office, and, taking the road to the bridge, came 
 back through the fields by the river. On reach 
 ing the tea-house he took his pipe from his 
 pocket, filling it mechanically, his eyes on the 
 distant shore. A dumb hostility against events, 
 all this chaos of experience we call growth, 
 progress, discipline, against the old Count, 
 who in passing away, and Rowan, who in coming 
 upon the scene, opened for those he loved this 
 new life, independent of him, and into which he 
 could not enter. " It is in the nature of things," 
 he muttered, half aloud, pressing the tobacco 
 into the bowl ; " they are not the cause, only the 
 signal ; " and looking about for some stray con 
 solation, he remembered that he was approach 
 ing dangerously near to that period of life when 
 we must become a burden upon those dear to us,
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 155 
 
 and that separation would spare him this, which 
 of all things he detested. For separation it must 
 be ; if not now, then soon. True, it was not in 
 this acre of Ashurst that his roots were so deep ; 
 but habit and the necessities of his own being 
 had gotten the upper hand. He looked about 
 him helplessly, as the plover in the morning fog 
 seeks for its nest. He saw Seraphine and Elize 
 already at Walzins. " I must tell her to-night," 
 he thought, fumbling in his pocket for a match. 
 He was late to his dinner that afternoon. Deb 
 orah's patience evaporated with the soup, sim 
 mering an hour over time on the range. But her 
 frowns did not trouble him. Nothing so makes 
 us forget our small trials as a greater one ; and 
 while she was serving him in a silence more con 
 demning than words, he was thinking how he 
 should tell Seraphine that evening, and wonder 
 ing whether she had anything to tell him. Did 
 she love Rowan ? The thought hurt him, for we 
 cannot love without forsaking, more and more, 
 kindred and friends. Then the face of Gladys 
 appeared to him. Her nimble imagination and 
 quick taste interested him, and the thought that 
 had possessed him on the terrace the night be 
 fore came back with its prophecy of unknown 
 evil, causing him to think of Seraphine with a 
 new tenderness. The shelter of his own arm 
 might yet be necessary to her. What a wizard
 
 156 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 love is, touching this one to regenerate, and 
 another to lay moral sense in ruins. " Bah ! " 
 he exclaimed, rising from the table. "Mabel 
 with her witches is not more foolish than I." 
 Yet he could not altogether rid himself of his 
 forebodings ; the heart is a sure prophst. 
 
 In the study he found Seraphine's picture. 
 Confronting him unexpectedly as it did when he 
 opened the door, it seemed the confirmation of 
 his thoughts. He took the candle from the ta 
 ble, and approaching the portrait held the light 
 above his head. What strange tricks memory 
 plays with our eyes ! For the woods on the Lesse 
 are like those of Ashurst, and, as he gazed, 
 through their dark lanes came Noel. The black 
 trunks soared like the pillars of an aisle. In the 
 flickering flame that fell upon them, he saw the 
 stalls under the windows, the leaning pulpit and 
 stairs, and, standing out from the luminous shad 
 ows, the cross above the altar, at whose foot was 
 stretched a bier. 
 
 He replaced the candle on the table and went 
 out the door. 
 
 The moon had risen, and every leaf stood clear 
 cut against a white sky. The air was warm, but 
 the oppressiveness of the day was gone. The 
 shadows of the trees looked not so cool as the 
 whitened fields on which they fell. It was a 
 night when Nature, putting aside her robes of
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 157 
 
 mist, steps forth unveiled, like a chaste Diana, 
 in the light of the inoon. 
 
 For a long time he walked the path, back and 
 forth, under the sentinel maples which lined the 
 road, his long garment flapping at his heels. At 
 the hedge of hawthorn in front of the Flem 
 ings' he stopped to listen. A strain of music 
 came through the open window, and he recog 
 nized the touch of Seraphine. She seemed to 
 be searching for something in a wilderness of 
 sounds, such sounds as the wind calls from 
 the harp, the vague unrhythmed measures which 
 set revery in motion. Among these sounds 
 vibrated at intervals a note like a human voice, 
 then others answered it ; gradually these notes 
 fell into the cadence of a periodic movement, and 
 at last united in melody. He seemed to be lis 
 tening to the birth of a song. 
 
 Then the sounds ceased. After waiting a mo 
 ment he went in. Seraphine was alone in the 
 sitting-room, sewing. 
 
 " Where is Elize ? " he asked, looking about 
 the room. 
 
 " She has just gone to her chamber," replied 
 Seraphine, glancing at the clock ticking OQ the 
 shelf over the fireplace. He followed her eyes ; 
 it was later than he had thought. He crossed 
 the room to the hearthstone, where two tall and 
 irons caught the light on their polished balls,
 
 158 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 and stood with his back towards them, as if it 
 were not broad midsummer. 
 
 " And Miss Leigh ? " 
 
 Seraphine looked up and smiled. " She has 
 gone too." 
 
 Miss Leigh was an aunt of Harold's who had 
 lived with his children since Madelon's death. 
 It was not strange that Seraphine smiled, for 
 Miss Leigh always disappeared when a visitor 
 came, even Schonberg. She seemed the shadow 
 of a human being, with her pale face and white 
 hair ; like those white ferns of winter which the 
 frosts have blanched, and which wave without 
 rustling over the snow under which their com 
 panions lie buried. 
 
 Seraphine, looking up from her work, saw 
 Schonberg's eyes fixed upon her in silence, and 
 thought of what Elize had once said to him: 
 " You have two kinds of silence ; one says, 
 'Take care, go no further!' the other would 
 extract from me my secret of secrets." 
 
 " You have nothing to tell me, Seraphine ? " 
 he asked at last. 
 
 " Great Pan is dead," she said, smiling again. 
 
 " But I have something to tell you." 
 
 Seraphine went on with her sewing. 
 
 " And you are not curious ? " 
 
 "No, Bluebeard, I am not curious, since you 
 give me no key."
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 159 
 
 " Some one has presented me with a portrait," 
 he said, after another interval of silence, ap 
 proaching his subject indirectly, through an 
 other. 
 
 "Yes, I know." And Seraphine bent lower 
 over her work. 
 
 " It has led me to think," he continued. " I 
 had forgotten ; it seems only yesterday that 
 you were a little girl. But in reality it was 
 long ago." 
 
 " Yes, in one way it was long ago. One for 
 gets, when one year is so like another." 
 
 He looked at her thoughtfully. For a mo 
 ment the desire to defer his announcement mas 
 tered him; it might not be true, and in that 
 case "Come," he said, with a sudden ten 
 derness and relief, " you are tired ; follow the 
 example of Elize." 
 
 " Elize was sleepy, I am tired ; there is a 
 great difference. Are you never tired of ... 
 being tired ? Do you never want . . . change . . . 
 anything but sleep?" And she lifted her eyes, 
 in which he saw a signal-light to his. 
 
 " You have been sewing too long. Come, go 
 to bed," he repeated. 
 
 " No, I had rather talk with you." 
 
 "With me?" 
 
 " Yes, with you. What do you suppose I am 
 doing here, alone . . . sewing ? " And, laying
 
 160 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 down her work, she leaned back in her chair. 
 " No, I do not sew ... I think. I am going to 
 tell you, for I am tired of telling the trees, 
 they do not listen ; nor the brook which runs 
 away, nor the river asleep, they talk, but 
 they do not hear. After all," she added, taking 
 up her work again, " I do not think, I dream. 
 I believe I am a little homesick." 
 
 Her voice struck to his heart. Dreams? 
 They are the whisperings of the heart that 
 wakes, and asks if, of all the passers-by, none 
 seeks for it ; the yearnings of the young bird, 
 on the edge of the nest, for the spaces of air 
 and the scorching sun. He knew ; and he fol 
 lowed her words, as step by step one follows at 
 twilight footprints made at morn. 
 
 " Of what do you dream, Seraphine ? " 
 " Of so many things. Of Dinant," he 
 crossed his hands behind him with a motion of 
 surprise, recalling suddenly the forgotten secret 
 of Elize, " with its white houses between the 
 river and the rock. The chimes of the tower 
 wake me at night. I see the lights on the 
 bridge, and hear the rumble of the wagons. 
 When Elize is asleep, I climb there above the 
 red roofs, in the shining powder of the rocks be 
 tween the walls that buttress the vines. Moth 
 er used to tell me of it, and every scene grew 
 vivid as she talked with me, like old pictures
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 161 
 
 retouched, till I remembered every day of the 
 summer we spent there. I can hear the very 
 tinkle of Father Gudin's spoon in his tumbler 
 of sugar and water, and the rush of the stream 
 under the wheel in the meadow; and see the 
 great pike the gardener stirred from their sleep 
 in the lilies to please me. Once it was all like 
 a story I had read ; now it is a life I have lived. 
 Of what else shall I think ? Ah, yes, yes ! " 
 she said, divining the thought which troubled 
 his face, " we are happy here. It is only I ... 
 if I did not dream ! 
 
 " Do you remember the picture of the chateau 
 that used to hang there where you stand, and 
 . . . after father died . . . over mother's bed ? 
 She loved it, but I I have put it away. And 
 that other, of the cottage on the dunes where I 
 was born. There is no grass so sweet to me as 
 that strong yellow spear that keeps away the 
 sea, and holds in its grasp the sliding sands. 
 Oh, that sea ! " and her eyes began to shine. " I 
 hear it most of all. There were days when I 
 loved it, you remember them, when it kissed 
 my feet and played with my houses of sand, 
 curling about their foundations, or breaking 
 with a laugh in little waves over their walls; 
 and days when I feared it, yet was proud of its 
 strength, as though it were my own; when I 
 danced in the wind along the dunes, and we
 
 162 THE WIND OF DESTINY. , 
 
 shouted together alone, it and I ; when the fisher- 
 women, holding me fast, pushed their nets before 
 them, and I felt its cool clasp about my waist. 
 How we laughed and chatted, with the salt, yel 
 low flower of the sands wreathed in our hair, 
 we were free, then, they and I, like our great 
 sea. And at night I hear it- the roar of the 
 sea chiding, in its deep voice, or, growing an 
 gry, with bursts of thunder above the wind, till 
 I sit up in bed, wide awake, beside Elize, listen 
 ing, as if some one called. I cannot help it; 
 it is in the blood ; you do not know ; I was born 
 there, in its arms." 
 
 Schonberg had not moved. 
 
 " The sea, and the fields," he said, when her 
 voice ceased, " they are the same everywhere 
 here as there." 
 
 But as he spoke his thought was of the Lesse 
 flowing through the fields of Freyr. 
 
 " No, you do not believe it," said Seraphine. 
 " The fields and the sea, they are nothing ; but 
 associations " 
 
 " Yes, yes," he interrupted, " they are the 
 native air." 
 
 She went on, looking at him from the recess 
 of the old chintz-covered chair, framed in by its 
 high square sides like the face of a child in the 
 white cap of some grandam. 
 
 " Then the long journey we made. I remem-
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 163 
 
 ber it, but as a dream ; all its scenes are so vivid, 
 yet so confused : the cliffs in the north, covered 
 with sombre pines ; the city, with lights and 
 flowers, and a sharp-roofed chamber under the 
 tiles ; long days on the floating river boats ; theii 
 a great blue sea and a tent under palms. How 
 can I help thinking of these things ? They come 
 and go, like waves rising and falling, first pleas 
 ure and then pain. If I could only see Dinant 
 once more, and the black cottage on the dunes ! 
 Perhaps ib does not stand there any longer; 
 perhaps the sea has crept under it at last, as 
 it threatened to do when I lay awake, listen 
 ing. It seems as if to look once would satisfy 
 me. But now, all these memories fill me with 
 longing and desire ; they are the breath of the 
 roses I cannot reach coming up from my window 
 wall." 
 
 Her voice trembled, and she went to the win 
 dow. Shading his eyes with his hand, Schon- 
 berg sat down in her chair. 
 
 " Think, uncle," she said, after a moment of 
 silence, " think how long we have lived here ; 
 count them, the years, one like the other as the 
 trees in the hedges." She moved the footstool 
 towards him and sat down at his feet. " Whom 
 shall I tell, if not you ? It is so hard to repress, 
 to feign." 
 
 " Yes, it shortens life," said he.
 
 164 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " Why should we not go ; and you with us ? 
 When I think of Dinant and the sea, I feel as I 
 used to when a child ; when I read * Once upon 
 a time there was a prince ' . . . Come ! " she 
 exclaimed, stealing his hand, " take us, Elize 
 and I." 
 
 There was no day he did not think of Dinant, 
 but to see it again ! It was strange he had not 
 thought of that, and his heart thrilled as the 
 heart of the ruler when the Master said to the 
 dead, " I say unto thee, Arise ! " 
 
 " You are not angry with me, uncle ? " 
 
 "I, angry? No. I have something to tell 
 you." 
 
 " I knew it," she said. " Why do you not 
 speak ; I am not a child." 
 
 "You wish to see Dinant, again," said he, 
 speaking slowly ; " well, you can. Your grand 
 father is dead, and you are the Countess Foy." 
 
 Seraphine rose to her feet. For a moment 
 the large room that had always been so attrac 
 tive seemed all too small to breathe in, and her 
 quiet life charged with power. Had she not 
 been saving money these two months to buy the 
 golden pin which Elize wished for her hair? 
 Had she not been dreaming as the bird, safe 
 from the hawk in its cage, dreams of the wood 
 glens? And now, wealth, freedom, home, Di 
 nant, and the sea ! She stood a moment breath-
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 165 
 
 less, crossed the room and came back again to 
 his chair, then went out quickly upon the porch 
 into the friendly solitude which emotion loves. 
 
 The night was still. Only the plaintive note 
 of the wood thrush was heard in the far woods. 
 Above, a flock of little clouds floated noiselessly 
 up to the moon, where they vanished in thin 
 veils of mist. 
 
 She could not have told how long she had 
 been there when Schonberg came out, his cane 
 in his hand. 
 
 " Good-night," he said. There was a look on 
 his face which reproached her. Elize would 
 have thrown her arms about his neck. 
 
 " And your hat, uncle ? " 
 
 " Did I wear it ? I forgot," said he, going 
 back for it. 
 
 " But, uncle, you have not kissed me," said 
 Seraphine, as he started again towards the gate. 
 
 He turned with a gesture of impatience, touch 
 ing her cheek with his short grizzled moustache. 
 She took his hands, intercepting his retreat. 
 
 " Are you endeavoring already to forget Sera 
 phine Fleming to go in search of the Countess 
 Foy ? " said she. " I warn you beforehand you 
 will not find her." 
 
 Straight as the yellow grass of the dunes she 
 stood before him, love in her voice and eyes. 
 But the remembrance of another night came
 
 166 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 back to him ; a night when he ran down the 
 road to Anseremne crying Noel ! Noel J 
 
 " It is a little sudden, for both of us ; but I 
 am glad," he said. She slipped her arm through 
 his, and they walked together down the path. 
 " It is a great relief to me." He was poor at 
 disguises. " You will go back to Dinant now. 
 There will be no more worry for the future ; " 
 and he began to relate in a very matter-of-fact 
 way how the news had reached him. Seraphine 
 smiled, pressing his arm closer. And, con 
 strained by her silence, he went on. He had 
 written to Dinant; doubtless they would hear 
 from there soon ; any day might bring a letter. 
 And then, nothing would prevent their imme 
 diate return; they were rich now; this was 
 no place for them ! And reaching his gate he 
 kissed her again. " Run back and tell Elize," 
 he said gayly ; " she will forgive you for waking 
 her." 
 
 " You do not offer to show me your present," 
 said Seraphine. 
 
 "You have not seen it?" he replied with sur 
 prise. " Come." 
 
 He pushed open the study door, and Ser 
 aphine went in. The figure on the canvas 
 seemed advancing to meet her out of the forest, 
 out of the shadows into the sunlight on the edge 
 of the wood ; and her heart cried, " It is 1 1 It
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 167 
 
 is I ! " Its beatings frightened her. A thou 
 sand thoughts gathered there against her will, 
 a troop of fluttering doves thronging the 
 doors of the dovecote to take possession of a 
 home long prepared ; a thousand longings, hid 
 den there like the young larks in the meadows, 
 trembled to take wing ; but above all, the con 
 sciousness of power, power to suffer and com 
 pel, to triumph arid defy. 
 
 Something of what was passing in her mind, 
 Schonberg knew. A sudden shyness caused 
 him to turn his back, and lighting his pipe at 
 the candle flame, he went out on the porch. 
 She joined him presently, left a kiss on his fore 
 head, but before he could rise to go home with 
 her was gone once more into the friendly shel 
 ter of solitude and night. 
 
 He listened to her footsteps growing fainter 
 on the walk. The light in her chamber shone 
 awhile through the trees, then went out. He 
 watched the place where it had vanished as one 
 watches a rift in the clouds behind which a star 
 disappears ; then, thrusting his pipe into the 
 pocket which, with time, had extended itself to 
 the border of his yellow gown, went in and 
 closed the door.
 
 168 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Aunt Isabel's news was confirmed the next 
 day by a letter leading to a family council in 
 the tea-house, a council resulting in the determi 
 nation to set out at the earliest possible moment 
 for Dinant. Schonberg was to accompany them, 
 while Miss Leigh, not one to endure transplant 
 ing, was to remain in the Ashurst home. Her 
 permanent settlement in the old house was the 
 suggestion of Elize, who, in spite of the parable 
 of the widow's mite, experienced a new-found 
 pleasure in forming munificent and vast designs. 
 She laughed at the idea of Schonberg's return 
 to Ashurst when once The Snuggery should 
 be forsaken. He doubted it himself, while re 
 sisting, with the acquired instinct of prudence, 
 her more enthusiastic plans for an immediate 
 and final migration. 
 
 He had related to Seraphine his interview 
 with Aunt Isabel, telling her of the latter's de 
 sire to see her: and it was Seraphine herself 
 who proposed they should make the visit that 
 afternoon. They were met on the terrace by 
 Gladys, who in person conducted Seraphine to 
 her aunt's chamber, and who, before opening 
 the door, had quietly weighed her guest in those 
 delicate balances society furnishes its members.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 169 
 
 Seraphine was looking unusually well that 
 afternoon, so well that Gladys, on her way 
 down the stairs to rejoin Schonberg, paused a 
 moment before the mirror to receive back the 
 answer which angered the Queen in the Russian 
 fable. 
 
 Left to himself, Schonberg had found under 
 the shade of an elm a seat which he preferred 
 to the chairs on the terrace. Just above him 
 a small brook, drawn out of its channel to fur 
 nish a little music for Gladys' shrubberies, had 
 broken away from its artificial bed, spreading 
 itself noiselessly through the grass, whose myriad 
 blades sent a ripple of shimmering light up the 
 slope. 
 
 Discovering his retreat, Gladys took her par 
 asol and joined him. 
 
 She had herself been sitting there that after 
 noon, whose hours had hung heavily. After 
 lunch she had shut herself in her room to imi 
 tate Aunt Isabel's example ; but sleep had not 
 come, though the air was drowsy. She had taken 
 her embroidery out under the awning, but the 
 pastime had become a task, and was soon aban 
 doned. She had loitered a half hour in the 
 library, turning over leaves which failed to in 
 terest her ; to take refuge finally with Aunt Isa 
 bel, whose quick eye had noted her restlessness, 
 and who had lent her a book, with which she
 
 170 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 had retreated to the seat under the elm. This 
 book, of a class her aunt sometimes affected, 
 proved to be one of those unanswerable homilies 
 on the conduct of life whose logic is irresistible 
 because, as in a mathematical theory, all uncer 
 tain factors which might disturb the conclusions 
 are excluded from the premises. Having pil 
 laged the last chapter, Gladys had thrown it 
 aside with a contemptuous smile. This moral 
 multiplication table did not furnish her the prod 
 ucts she was looking for ; besides, there was a 
 robin in the elm branches overhead, whose per 
 sistent liquid note of happiness irritated her. 
 It was very harassing to her, who usually kept 
 her objective point so steadily in view, not to 
 know her own mind. Her will, which had al 
 ways run so smoothly in its channel, had sud 
 denly divided, and, like a river lost in the num 
 berless ways of a marshy level, hesitated where 
 to gather again. We defer a decision, because 
 to decide is to accept consequences and assume 
 responsibilities ; meanwhile irresolution creates 
 heavier burdens. 
 
 On his return from shooting, Jack had told 
 her Rowan expected her that morning ; and 
 she had not gone. She was vexed now at hav 
 ing stayed away. The appearance of visitors 
 had been a relief. She was curious to see Sera- 
 phine again, partly because of her history, which
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 171 
 
 she had heard from Aunt Isabel, and partly 
 Nor was she sorry to see Schonberg, who, since 
 that night on the terrace, exercised over her an 
 attraction mingled with dread. She took her 
 seat a little behind him, where she could watch 
 his face, wavering between the impulse to sur 
 render to the influence she felt in his presence 
 and the resolve of her pride to rebel. In this 
 state of indecision chance took the reins again 
 out of her hands ; for his face, deep in thought, 
 which even her approach had not apparently dis 
 turbed, was like a still lake, into which she could 
 not resist the temptation of throwing a stone. 
 
 " Shall you return to France with Miss Flem 
 ing?" she hazarded. 
 
 " Why do you make plans for us ? " he re 
 plied. 
 
 Gladys colored, though he was not looking at 
 her. 
 
 " It is like a page from the Arabian Nights," 
 she continued, " to wake so, in a moment, to 
 wealth and power and love ! Why not say 
 it?" she pursued, with a smile on her mouth 
 but malice in her voice. " Is it not so ? Noth 
 ing in all the world so stares one in the eyes 
 as a pair of lovers." 
 
 " Why speak of it at all, since it does not 
 concern us ? " said Schonberg, dryly. 
 
 " Me, no ; but you. Do you think I am in-
 
 172 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 dulging my imagination ? You are mistaken. 
 My cousin himself has told me. One must have 
 a confidante, you know." 
 
 " Your cousin does not know the proverb, 
 then," said he. 
 
 "What one?" 
 
 " ' Thy friend has a friend, and thy friend's 
 friend has a friend ; be discreet.' " 
 
 She laughed frankly ; and then, seriously, " I 
 should be glad to think you were my friend." 
 
 Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, 
 drawing figures with his cane on the gravel, 
 Schonberg made no reply to this proposition, 
 and Gladys returned to her subject. " Perhaps 
 you have other plans for Miss Fleming now. 
 It does concern me a little, after all ; Rowan is 
 my cousin, you know." 
 
 "Plans! what plans?" said he, looking at 
 her. 
 
 " More ambitious ones." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and resumed his 
 tracing. 
 
 " Oh, you disdain ambition ? " 
 
 " No, I fear it." 
 
 " You ! " exclaimed Gladys, opening her eyes 
 incredulously. 
 
 " Yes, for others. Ambition only discloses 
 one's riches or poverty. We project ourselves 
 into everything. Wealth, power, solitude, love,
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 173 
 
 they are all treasures or trifles. What we 
 have is always what we are." 
 
 " You should not include love in your cata 
 logue, Dr. Schonberg. Friendship, yes, for in 
 friendship one gives what one has ; but in love 
 the values are fictitious, and imagination fixes 
 the price." 
 
 He made no answer, and she went on, half in 
 earnest, half in jest. Gladys loved to hover 
 about the border line of seriousness. 
 
 " You did not respond to my desire to have 
 you for a friend. According to your theory of 
 projection, you could not be a loser, and I might 
 gain a great deal." 
 
 Schonberg looked at her again. " The foun 
 dation of friendship is sincerity." 
 
 " But not too much," said Gladys. 
 
 An interval of silence followed, during which 
 he watched the ants running excitedly about the 
 ruins made by his cane. 
 
 " What is it that troubles you, my child ? " he 
 said suddenly, turning towards her. 
 
 She had not expected such a question, but a 
 kindness had stolen unawares into his voice, 
 and it is pleasant sometimes even to be called a 
 child. 
 
 " Troubles me ? " she stammered. " What 
 troubles any one ? Circumstances fate " 
 
 " So ! " said Schonberg, " they terrify you ?
 
 174 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 Listen. I once knew a child born in the street 
 Misery, in the city of Poverty. His eyes opened 
 upon the implacable duel between want and 
 famine. His earliest recollection was of a long 
 December night, long and cold, daring which 
 he listened to the difficult breathing of a woman, 
 dying. It was his mother. She had taken his 
 hand at dusk. She had not told him, yet he 
 knew that this consoled her. In an hour she 
 was a nothing a mere pair of lungs struggling 
 for breath, two eyes that stared and saw noth 
 ing, a muscle contracting about his hand and 
 holding him fast. And he well, at last he 
 fell asleep ! And when he woke it was morn 
 ing ; the lungs were still, the eyes fixed, and the 
 muscle a vise. This child was a bundle of 
 nerves, capable of enduring hunger, but trem 
 bling at a reproach. Yet amid the filth of that 
 street with its narrow strip of murky sky over 
 head, that child dreamed saw what it had 
 never seen, peaceful fields and a blue heaven. 
 In the brutal pressure of life these dreams went 
 up like the perfume of a flower growing in the 
 dark. What w r as circumstance to him ! Some 
 one will say," he continued, " that an ancestor 
 transmitted to this child in the one ten-billionth 
 of a grain all this power to survive the ferocious 
 enmity of circumstances, and to draw from those 
 very nerves which trembled floods of vague
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 175 
 
 hope and wild courage ; and that this ancestor 
 did not originate this grain of power any more 
 than did the child to whom he transmitted it. 
 Fate ! well, be it so. But fate is not all na 
 ture is not so niggardly. What ! she steeps the 
 world in power from crust to centre, and leaves 
 the heart a beggar, to pick up stray crumbs from 
 an ancestor's table ! Search, dig, you will 
 find it more plentiful than the coal in the rocks." 
 
 Overcome as by a flood from a great reservoir 
 that had burst upon her little world and swept 
 it from its foundations, Gladys could not speak. 
 His words had brushed away her defenses like 
 cobwebs. 
 
 " Phrases ! words ! " said he, getting up from 
 his seat and sitting down again. " Who would 
 imagine they had such power ; that a single one, 
 fate, for example, four little letters, could 
 put so mighty a thing as conscience to sleep ? 
 And circumstances ! there is a fine one an al 
 lopathic dose that will still conscience like a 
 drop of poison." 
 
 " Dr. Schonberg," exclaimed Gladys, rising 
 abruptly and confronting him with a face white 
 with fear and passion, " are you giving me ad 
 vice ? " 
 
 " Advice ? " he replied, looking straight into 
 her eyes, " what are you resolved upon ? " 
 
 " Resolved upon ? " she repeated, confusedly.
 
 176 THE WIND OF DEBT INT. 
 
 "Yes, resolved upon. When one's mind is 
 made up, one looks about for advice wind to 
 the ship making port ! It matters little which 
 way it blows." 
 
 " Well, and suppose I wished for it," a feel 
 ing of recklessness getting possession of her, 
 "I know beforehand what you would say. 
 Duty ! a little word with four letters ; what 
 power these little words have! One has only 
 to say ' duty ' to a struggling wretch to fill one's 
 heart with complacency. And ' struggle,' " she 
 continued with mocking passion, "there is an 
 other fine one. Struggle ? One does not strug 
 gle with a babbling brook, and with a torrent 
 one cannot. See that ant which fights with the 
 end of your stick." 
 
 She stopped. Seraphine was coming down 
 the terrace steps. The breeze slid from leaf to 
 leaf, dropped on the grass like a cloud's shadow, 
 and vanished. The water shimmered down the 
 slope beside them to the stones, whence came 
 soft hollow noises like the notes of certain wood 
 birds. 
 
 " Cannot ? how do you know ? " asked Schon- 
 berg. 
 
 " By hearsay," replied Gladys coldly. She 
 was watching Seraphine, who, not seeing them, 
 began to walk down the lawn towards the gate. 
 
 " Fate," said he, taking her hand in his some-
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 177 
 
 what rude fashion of greeting, " since you be 
 lieve in it, has perhaps thrown us together. 
 Pardon me, I am an old man, will you come and 
 see me ? " She had regained possession of her 
 self, but his warm hand caused her to tremble. 
 " Certainly I should have said duty, if you had 
 not said it yourself ; we cannot get away from 
 it ; we are tied to it with a rope, and the rope 
 will not break, even in the torrent. Duty, and 
 resignation, and the approval of self there is 
 nothing else." 
 
 " Where did you come from ? " said Sera- 
 phine, who on hearing his footstep had turned, 
 and stood swinging the tip of her parasol 
 through the grass. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Left rather abruptly within Aunt Isabel's 
 door, Seraphine had hesitated for a moment un 
 der the old lady's silent survey. Her first 
 thought, on seeing the face which interrogated 
 hers so silently, was that it had once been beau 
 tiful ; and it seemed to her at that moment that 
 it has been were sadder words than it might have 
 been. 
 
 " So you are the daughter of Madelon Foy. 
 Bless me ! she was younger than you are when
 
 178 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 I last saw her. You do not look a bit like 
 her." 
 
 " My mother was beautiful," said Seraphine. 
 
 " So was your grandmother, and you are the 
 image of her," rejoined Aunt Isabel, taking the 
 reluctant hand. " You do not remember her ? " 
 
 " No," replied Seraphine, sitting down. 
 
 " You are very kind to conie and see me. Be 
 tween us, love is a very one-sided affair. Non 
 sense, child," she exclaimed, answering Sera- 
 phine's eyes ; " why should you pretend to love 
 an old woman whom you have never seen ? You 
 see, my dear, we old people remind you of noth 
 ing, while you children remind us of everything." 
 
 "I am not altogether a child," said Seraphine. 
 
 " Nor I an old woman. We both amuse our 
 selves with words. The truth is, we are children 
 till our hearts are broken. What are you going 
 to do now ? Go back to France ? Ah, I see ; 
 we have been dreaming of it already." 
 
 " Is it strange ? I remember Dinant well." 
 
 " Yes, but Dinant is a dismal place, I passed 
 a summer there with your grandmother, more 
 dismal than Ashurst, even. Do you expect to 
 spend your life in an old dungeon on the top of 
 a rock?" 
 
 "You had my grandmother. I shall have 
 Elize and my uncle," replied Seraphine. 
 
 Aunt Isabel drew the young girl towards her 
 and kissed her cheek.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 179 
 
 " Yes, my dear ; and the fat carp in the ponds. 
 You will have a famous time ! You will show 
 your satins to the sheep, and dazzle the bourgeois 
 with the Foy diamonds." 
 
 Seraphine smiled in spite of herself. 
 
 " I did not expect to find you so large. I had 
 in mind a little girl, quite a little girl. Time 
 passes so quickly ; " and the old lady sighed. 
 " At all events, the old fool is dead 1 " she 
 added, energetically. 
 
 " Do you mean my grandfather ? " 
 
 " Certainly, your grandfather. You need not 
 blush for him, my dear. One fool in the family ! 
 it is nothing. But tell me about your mother." 
 And in answer to Aunt Isabel's questions, Sera 
 phine told the simple story of Madelon's life in 
 Ashurst. 
 
 " Poor mother ! " said the old lady. " What 
 agony to leave you." 
 
 " I do not think mother was sorry to die," said 
 Seraphine, quietly. " She could not bear to think 
 of leaving Elize. We used to talk a great deal 
 together after Elize was put to bed. Once, when 
 I could not help crying, she took my head in her 
 hands and said, 'You must not cry. When the 
 heart is sure that it has exhausted everything, it 
 is ready to sleep.' ' 
 
 " What does that mean? " asked Aunt Isabel, 
 looking at Seraphine with a kind of wonder.
 
 180 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " She meant that she had loved, and been 
 loved," said Seraphine, simply. 
 
 The old lady turned away her eyes, which 
 seemed to follow her thought into some far away 
 place. 
 
 A knock at the door roused her. 
 
 " What is it, Jane ? " she asked. 
 
 "Madam wished me to read her letters to 
 her" 
 
 " Presently, not now. I will ring. You must 
 bring Elize also to see me, my dear," she said to 
 Seraphine, taking up the letters lying on the 
 table. 
 
 " If you wished if you would allow me " 
 said Seraphine, looking at the letters. 
 
 " Allow you ! with all my heart. Ah, here is 
 one from my good friend Savary," she exclaimed, 
 glancing at the superscriptions. "Draw your 
 chair near me." 
 
 " I will sit down here, if you please," said Ser 
 aphine, moving the footstool beside her. 
 
 She took her seat, and beginning to open the 
 letters, felt a hand pass over her hair and rest 
 upon her shoulder. 
 
 " You are a good girl," Aunt Isabel was saying 
 to herself. 
 
 Seraphine unfolded the first of the pile lying 
 in her lap, and commenced to read in a voice 
 which trembled a little.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 181 
 
 " Never mind that one," interrupted Aunt Isa 
 bel. " It is to tell ine that rents are falling." 
 
 Seraphine laid it upon the table and took up 
 another. 
 
 "No, nor that one either. It is from my 
 doctor, and I know what he will say. Poor 
 man ! he is at his wit's end. He wishes me to 
 drag myself to some spring, where they sell the 
 elixir of life by the glass. Ah, at last ! " she 
 exclaimed, as Seraphine took up a letter post 
 marked Eman ; " that will tell us something 
 about our good-for-nothing Rowan." 
 
 A faint color stole into Seraphine's face. 
 
 " Ma chere amie" she faltered. 
 
 " Wait, my dear ; I must tell you. Monsieur 
 Savary is a very old friend," the old lady 
 sighed, " and when I say very old I mean very 
 good; it is the same thing. He has had the 
 kindness to watch a little for me over my 
 nephew. Now begin ; let us hear what he has 
 to say." 
 
 " My dear friend," resumed Seraphine, grate 
 ful for this moment of recovery, " I deny myself 
 even the pleasure of presenting my respects and 
 inquiring after your health, to inform you at 
 once of the reasons you ask for your nephew's 
 departure for his native land. Mafoi, my dear 
 friend, they are very simple, but like some sim 
 ple things they are very difficult to explain.
 
 182 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 Without doubt you know this dear nephew bet 
 ter than I, who have seen him only from time to 
 time ; nevertheless you will permit me to enter 
 into certain details which appear to me neces 
 sary, in order that you should understand what 
 has taken place." 
 
 " I think I ought not to read this letter," said 
 Seraphine, looking up from the page. 
 
 "Do you know my nephew?" asked Aunt 
 Isabel. 
 
 " I may," replied Seraphine, letting her eyes 
 fall again. 
 
 " Continue," said the old lady, pressing her 
 shoulder gently. " When you reach anything 
 which I think you should not hear, I will warn 
 
 you." 
 
 Seraphine bent her head over the letter and 
 began to read again. 
 
 " It is not agreeable to be repulsed by for 
 tune. In affairs of the heart the evil is not so 
 great ; it wounds the -vanity, on the other hand 
 one preserves one's illusions. But in the serious 
 business of life it impairs the courage, and with 
 out courage the will becomes only a desire. I 
 make no pretensions to understand your sex, but 
 I affirm that life assumes in our eyes more nat 
 urally its true meaning ; we perceive more clearly 
 that it is a task, not a dream not even a pleas 
 ure. Herein also lies our advantage. For you,
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 183 
 
 the greatest of misfortunes is to be too early dis 
 illusioned ; for us, after the Isles of the Blessed 
 sink from sight there remains the ocean of ac 
 tivity. Ask yourself then, my dear friend, if a 
 dream which cannot be realized is for you so 
 terrible, what must be for us a task which can 
 not be accomplished. 
 
 " I remember well the impression which your 
 nephew first made upon me ; a nature which the 
 practical young men of to-day disdain. So much 
 the worse for them ! There are weaknesses easy 
 to ridicule but difficult to reproach. It was 
 evident to me that he had not received an edu 
 cation requisite for success. Ah, when I remem 
 ber the black coat with its rose in the button 
 hole in which I received my diploma, tied in a 
 white ribbon ! I, who could write verses in the 
 style of Horace or satires in the style of Juvenal, 
 and who was delivered over to the world by my 
 worthy teachers as the Athenians sent their vir 
 gins to the Minotaur, decorated with garlands ! 
 Surely, of all the sciences whose progress we 
 boast, education is the rear guard. This is in 
 evitable. How reconcile the external conditions 
 of man's existence with his destiny ! Rowan is 
 the embodiment of this antithesis. Never have 
 I seen one in whom the gifts of nature struggled 
 so constantly with those of experience. 
 
 " But you will ask me, why this failure ? It
 
 184 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 seems to me failure is so common that it does 
 not merit an explanation, and that but for the 
 love which you entertain for your nephew, ex 
 planation would be unnecessary. And then, in 
 matters of Art, I know so little. However, let 
 us try. You will say that he loves his profes 
 sion granted ; that he has a lively imagina 
 tion I admit it ; and to this he owes a facility 
 of composition which is marvelous, not to speak 
 of his coloring, which, when he deigns to color, 
 is as light as a poet's rhythm. Why then, you 
 ask, why then is it that with so much enthusiasm, 
 such conscientious study, such seriousness in 
 spired by such ambition, the public that good 
 public we love and fear so well will have none 
 of him ? Because he ignores this excellent pub 
 lic altogether. I assure you I know no more of 
 Art than the painter of signs. I do not judge, 
 I explain. But who would give to a young man 
 about to enter a salon the advice, ' Respect no 
 foibles and combat every opinion ? ' It is the 
 same in this great social organism, life. I do 
 not say that your nephew attacks ; he does what 
 for him is worse he ignores. Of what use is 
 it to paint Madonnas which no one buys ? I had 
 a chat not long since with his master, who, by 
 the way, has the medal of honor. " Much talent, 
 but a dreamer ; he will accomplish nothing." 
 That was his verdict. Assuredly all the great
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 185 
 
 leaders from Plato to Napoleon have been dream 
 ers. But, madame, there are no longer any lead 
 ers, and of what use is it to lead where no one 
 follows ! This is the age of ideas, but every one 
 has his own; there are no more masters, no 
 great rivalries, only jealousies ; no great schools, 
 no systems. There are those who rejoice in this 
 democracy, in these terrible agencies which in 
 lifting everything level everything. For me it is 
 a chaos, a period of transition, in whose feverish 
 heat every egg of theory hatches and none live. 
 
 " I have above my desk a canvas which Rowan 
 gave to me on parting. It is the figure of the 
 Virgin standing by the infant Christ asleep. I 
 cannot convey to you the expression of that 
 mother, whose ears seem to hear the wings of 
 protecting angels, yet whose eyes also seem to 
 see the last great scene of the Cross. And over 
 all a softness of touch, an indecision of outline 
 one would say the mist of incense ascending 
 before the lights of the altar. 
 
 " As I look I hear the words of the master to 
 whom I showed it, ' The artist can no longer 
 consecrate himself to religious symbolism. The 
 age in which we live demands realities, not em 
 blems.' 
 
 " ' And the renaissance ? ' I asked. 
 
 " ' A renaissance,' he replied, ' is a souvenir. 
 The past is but the point (Tappui) the source
 
 186 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 of inspiration. Remember the words of Goethe : 
 If you wish to be great, fill your mind and heart 
 with the thoughts and sentiments of the age in 
 which you live. These pictures,' he continued, 
 looking at the canvas, ' have the merit only of 
 an echo. They are the reflection of a mysticism 
 at which we wonder, but in which we no longer 
 believe. The fault of your prot6g is that, in 
 reproducing this mysticism, he has also the mis 
 fortune to believe in it.' 
 
 " ' What a paradox ! ' I answered. ' The 
 spirit of the age realism ! ' 
 
 " Doubtless, my dear friend, this learned man 
 who has the medal of honor is right, for the 
 time being. We have yet to see whether in this 
 vaunted realism we are to find the new strength 
 which the earth gave to the fainting Antaeus. 
 As for me, I verily believe that if Goethe were 
 alive to-day he would reject his own advice, and 
 at such a price renounce greatness, though it 
 courted him with the tongue of Sappho. Real 
 ism forsooth ! I much prefer that of Louis XV. 
 to ours, for the former at least was brilliant, 
 lively, delicate, and rose into the region of the 
 imagination ; but to-day spirituality disappears 
 behind formulae. You see at last I am growing 
 old, since I sermonize and grumble. 
 
 " You have asked me why Rowan returns to 
 Ashurst. Well, I have said it, failure. Yes,
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 187 
 
 failure. But do not imagine that you are to find 
 in him one of the dejected or cynical products of 
 this age of competition. For these romanticists 
 what do they care for failure ? They suffer 
 most, and are the worst of optimists ; they bleed 
 so easily, but who ever saw one die ? The suf 
 fering which engulfs us is a spring-board from 
 which they vault into the empyrean. Say to 
 your nephew ' failure,' and he will laugh in 
 your face. No, it is only a pecuniary pressure, 
 to which we must surrender though we despise 
 it, that leads your nephew to abandon Paris. 
 That legacy which his mother left him yields, I 
 think, next to nothing ; his painting nothing at 
 all. The world laughs at a fool who will not 
 stoop to pick up flattery and florins. But I 
 have a lurking respect for fools. To despise 
 money is to despise a king, to listen to flattery 
 is to mortgage one's worth to one's enemy. 
 Still, I repeat, your nephew does not roll in 
 gold, and I say this to you lest you should not 
 discover it." 
 
 " Humph ! " interjected Aunt Isabel. 
 
 " Perhaps also at night he mistakes some 
 times the roar of the wheels for the murmur 
 of the fine rain on the roof of his chamber in 
 Ashurst. 
 
 " And now to answer your last question. No, 
 absolutely No ! I, who know so well, alas ! the
 
 188 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 symptoms of this malady, declare it to you. 
 This seems impossible to you, my dear friend, 
 who, pardon me, have seen so many at your feet. 
 Nevertheless, it is true. And in place of such 
 tragedies as I might have to relate to you, there 
 is only this idyl which will explain the check I 
 inclose with this letter. 
 
 " I called at his rooms to attend to certain 
 matters remaining after his departure. While 
 there I heard a timid knock, and opening the 
 door I saw a young girl, modestly clad in a gray 
 dress " 
 
 " Continue," said Aunt Isabel. 
 
 " She was confused at seeing me, and re 
 mained without saying a word. ' What do you 
 desire, Mademoiselle ? ' I asked. ' Monsieur ' 
 she said, and her eyes wandered about the 
 apartment which was vacant. ' Is gone,' I re 
 plied. ' Ah ! ' she murmured. ' You desire to 
 see him ? ' ' Yes.' ' But he is gone.' Still she 
 made no motion to go. * Well,' said I, ill at 
 ease, ' what service can I render you ? ' She 
 hesitated a moment. ' You know him ? ' at 
 length she asked. I assured her I knew him 
 well. She then drew from her pocket a small 
 purse, her fingers trembled, and took from it 
 five bills of one hundred francs each. ' I wish 
 to give him these,' she continued ; ' you will 
 send them to him?' 'Assuredly,' I replied,
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 189 
 
 * but from whom ? ' A blush covered her face, 
 and she bent her head. ' He will know ; say 
 for me, please, God does not forget a good ac 
 tion.' ' It seems that you do not forget one 
 either,' I replied. ' Adieu, Monsieur,' she said 
 hurriedly. 
 
 " I inquired of the concierge nothing ; he 
 had never seen her before. 
 
 " Often in my thoughts I have seen this young 
 girl again ; an ordinary face, but with sweet eyes 
 and a charming air of modesty. Her dress was 
 scrupulously neat, but poor ; one does not ordi 
 narily see bank notes of one hundred francs in 
 the pockets of such a dress. 
 
 " Draw from this what you will. To me it is 
 evident that there is for your nephew something 
 in life which he has not yet experienced. 
 
 " My letter is finished. I write to you from 
 Evian, where I am passing a few weeks for my 
 health. You remember this town, bordering the 
 lake in whose blue depths the mountains are 
 mirrored. The swallows glide above it, grazing 
 the surface with their wings ; and as I lay down 
 my pen I confess that it also has but touched 
 the surface. Below, lie the images of the moun 
 tains in the deeps of the lake." 
 
 "Is that all?" asked Aunt Isabel, as Ser- 
 aphine finished. " Think of it," taking the
 
 190 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 letter over the latter's shoulder, " so many fine 
 phrases to tell us that our nephew is a good-for- 
 nothing ! " Seraphine straightened herself up as 
 if about to reply. " Yes, a good-for-nothing ! " 
 reiterated the old lady. " And to think of what 
 he might accomplish if " She finished her 
 sentence with a gesture of impatience. 
 
 "If he only wished to," said Seraphine, look 
 ing up with a smile. " Shall I go on ? " 
 
 " No, my dear ; I will not impose on your 
 good-nature, for I wish you to make me another 
 visit many before you go." 
 
 She went to the window after Seraphine had 
 left her, and watched her cross the lawn till the 
 trees hid her from view. " Why not ? " she 
 muttered to herself, going back to her chair. 
 And taking out her writing materials from the 
 desk beside her, she began a reply to the letter 
 which had so much interested her, in which, 
 among others, was this sentence : 
 
 " Write me, I beg of you, the next time, a 
 letter of gossip. I am in my second childhood, 
 and thinking is more tiresome than living. 
 
 " By the way, I have found here the daughter 
 of that little runaway, Madelon Foy, think 
 of it ! and it is possible she will find for our 
 nephew that * something in life which he has 
 not yet experienced.'"
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 191 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 For several days Gladys had put off her visit 
 to Rowan's ; but Jack, having seen the sketch 
 of her slender form in the high-backed chair, 
 was interested in its completion. 
 
 " I don't want to drive you, Gladys, but I wish 
 you would finish it." 
 
 "Yes, certainly," she said; and she sent a 
 note to Rowan that evening making an appoint 
 ment for the following day. Was she afraid to 
 go ? Without answering this question, she said 
 to herself she did not care. There was nothing 
 to choose, no alternative she herself did not 
 create ; she had only to forget and ignore. 
 
 In the early morning, after breakfast, she put 
 on her shade-hat and wandered down towards 
 the boat-house. There was yet an hour before 
 it was time to go ; but this hour seemed now all 
 too short, and she realized that not choosing was 
 making up one's mind. 
 
 All the way across the lawn she felt the pres 
 ence of that necessity which dogs the footsteps 
 of free- agency, it was not that she might, but 
 must choose. Oh, if we could only sleep, stop 
 time, flinch the laws of growth, and lock the 
 wheels of action ! But love and life, the neces 
 sities of the heart and the necessities of action
 
 192 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 mock at neutrality, and wring a decision from us 
 every day. 
 
 She had passed the boat-house mechanically, 
 and her hand was on the gate leading to the 
 pines. In the summer-house beyond she saw 
 Schonberg. He was that child! she was sure 
 of it. What a glimpse of power he had shown 
 her. What ! a child despise fate, and not she ? 
 She had read stories quite as startling before, 
 just as she had looked a thousand times at the 
 night sky without once seeing the flaming suns 
 which inhabit it ; just as she had looked a thou 
 sand times into her own heart without feeling 
 that sense of power which rose to her brain like 
 the perfume of the flower of which Schonberg 
 had spoken. What forces there were under the 
 filigree lace and satin skin of life! The stars 
 obeyed them but she was free ! She passed 
 through the gate into the meadow, where the 
 freshness of morning still lingered. Love? 
 Well, yes, she said defiantly, half closing her 
 eyes ; was she responsible for it ? There was a 
 kind of pleasure in recognizing it, in order to 
 strangle it, in indulging this dream, in order 
 to overwhelm it with its own folly and humili 
 ation. 
 
 Approaching the point, she heard the sound 
 of Schonberg's voice ; he was reading aloud. 
 She advanced softly over the pine needles, un-
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 193 
 
 perceived. His back was towards her, but his 
 voice could be heard distinctly ; and, leaning 
 against the trunk of a tree, she listened : 
 
 " Why, if the soul can fling the dust aside, 
 And naked on the air of heaven ride, 
 Were 't not a shame, were 't not a shame for him 
 In this clay carcase crippled to abide ?" 
 
 He paused, looking off on the river. She 
 started at his movement, and a dry twig snapped 
 under her foot. 
 
 "So you were listening," said he, turning 
 with surprise to see Gladys standing hesitatingly 
 where Mabel had accosted him. Her face was 
 fresh and fair as the river sparkling before 
 them, but her eye was anxious, and her step 
 restless. 
 
 " I am trespassing," she forced herself to say. 
 
 " Oh, no," replied Schonberg ; " what I own 
 here is not what you have come to enjoy. That 
 is only to sleep in," he said, with a gesture 
 towards the house. " This is where I live." 
 
 He made room for her beside him, as if to say 
 she was welcome, and she took the offered seat 
 without a word, like a fascinated bird. A thin 
 veil of vapor lay on the river, through which the 
 trees appeared dimly, like the walls and towers 
 of a city extending along the farther shore. 
 Gladys felt the necessity of saying something, 
 but could find nothing. She was thinking of
 
 194 THE WIND OF DES1 INT. 
 
 what he had dared say to her, and at this thought 
 the seeds of revolt stirred in her heart. And 
 yet, looking from the river to his rugged face, 
 though it wore the serenity of a child, Gladys, 
 so in the habit of bending others to her will in 
 her indirect and subtle manner, felt that he 
 could break her like a twig and wind her like a 
 reed about his finger. 
 
 " You will miss this spot when you go," she 
 said. " You will have nothing to do." 
 
 Schonberg smiled. " You think I do nothing 
 because 1 sit here alone. There is a hive of 
 workers over there," he said with a look towards 
 the spires of Ashurst ; " and of all they accom 
 plish nothing remains but the good or evil they 
 do to each other. Read the great philosophers 
 in your library ; those of them who do not get 
 lost on the way all meet again at one fork in the 
 road, whose sign-post you and I, who stay at 
 home, can read as well as they good and evil." 
 
 " Good ? " said Gladys, as if she herself were 
 hesitating before that sign-post. " What is the 
 good?" 
 
 "It is very lucky you are not obliged to wait 
 for me to tell you ! Do you remember the reply 
 of the sage when asked, ' What is beauty ? ' 
 ' Question of a blind man.' " 
 
 " You laugh at the philosophers," said Gladys, 
 sustaining his gaze resolutely ; " I supposed you 
 were one." 
 
 I
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 195 
 
 " Oh," he replied laughing, " I have an argu 
 ment which will pin every one of my beliefs to 
 the wall like a butterfly, and when I give them 
 an airing they consume each other like the kine 
 of Pharaoh. I do not like inconsistency any more 
 than you do, but there are two kinds : that of 
 the fanatic who sees but one aspect of truth, and 
 that of the neutral who sees many. Fortunately 
 we forget our thoughts more easily than our ac 
 tions ; if we could read the register of the mind, 
 no man would face judgment. And yet, after 
 all, who needs his neighbor to tell him what is 
 right ? Our only use is to furnish each other 
 the opportunity for a good action. Hurry, 
 hurry," he said, looking at her. " If the object 
 of life is to do good, life is too short ; but if 
 knowledge, it is longer than necessary." 
 
 " Let us talk of something else," said Gladys. 
 " I am a coward." 
 
 " What are you afraid of, of death ? " he 
 asked kindly. 
 
 " Every one is at heart," said Gladys, seizing 
 upon his misinterpretation of her reply to escape 
 her own thoughts. "Did you ever think that 
 somewhere, perhaps uncut in the mountain, but 
 somewhere, is a stone which will stand over your 
 grave, and want to find it, to go and look at it ? " 
 She held out her white, blue-veined hand. " See, 
 how warm it is ! Some day it will be cold, 
 worse."
 
 196 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 Schonberg took the hand for a moment in his, 
 then let it fall. 
 
 " Do you imagine that a pulse which refuses 
 to beat, a lung which cannot breathe, a clot of 
 blood caught in a vein, is death ? It is not so 
 simple as that. I will find it for you in the be 
 ginning of life, at the flood-tide of happiness ; in 
 the very lovers of whom we were speaking the 
 other day. The tide rises fast for them, reaches 
 its height, pauses, life is then over. They re 
 fuse to believe it, the heart is not yet full. 
 Full ? Its capacity is infinite, but the reservoirs 
 fail. I say life is over ; for happiness that is 
 stationary, that repeats itself, is happiness no 
 more. Having had the most, one is not content 
 with the less, and death is in the balance of the 
 beam. If I were a painter, like your cousin, I 
 would paint the bird whose throat bursts with 
 song, the butterfly fluttering in the mud, in place 
 of a skull, a bit of bone, which the moralist puts 
 at your elbow." 
 
 " I did not know you were such a pessimist," 
 said Gladys, trying to smile. 
 
 " I, a pessimist ? " he replied good-naturedly. 
 " Why call names ? If you only knew ! I am 
 like other people ; when I was young I treasured 
 my griefs, now I guard my pleasures." 
 
 She sat for a moment smoothing out the 
 wrinkles of her dress over her knee, then rose 
 with a start. The village bell was striking.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 197 
 
 " I must go," she said. 
 
 " So soon ? This is not the visit you promised 
 me." 
 
 " Did I promise ? I have an engagement." 
 
 " Oh ! circumstances ! " said he, a twinkle in 
 his eye. " Come, let us drive and not be driven. 
 Will you give us to-morrow? We will take 
 the boat with Seraphine and Elize ; there is an 
 island below, where we will fasten and let the 
 river go by with all our troubles." 
 
 "Really?" said Gladys. 
 
 " Absolutely. Do you accept ? " 
 
 She put both her hands in his. " With all 
 my heart." 
 
 " Good. Go to your engagement. I will con 
 sult my larder." 
 
 " Leavo that to me ! " she cried. " To-mor 
 row, at what time ? Nine? " 
 
 " At nine." 
 
 " I shall not fail. Till to-morrow, then." 
 
 " Till to-morrow." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Gladys hastened home. She had to change 
 her dress, and she wished to take Mabel with 
 her. Her heart was lighter, but, as she ap 
 proached Rowan's, a shadow as of something yet
 
 198 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 below the horizon seemed to fall over her path 
 again. 
 
 Rowan appeared to have wholly forgotten 
 their last conversation ; which annoyed Gladys, 
 who was only making believe that she had for 
 gotten. She was noticeably reserved and digni 
 fied, yet charming withal, as ever ; for Gladys' 
 manners were not mannerisms, and, like her 
 dresses, were invariably worn with grace and 
 naturalness. Even pride and anger, so repre 
 hensible in themselves, were becoming to her, 
 much to her disgust sometimes when she really 
 wished to be ugly, and, as Aunt Isabel told 
 her, only succeeded in rendering herself be 
 witching. To all outward appearance she was 
 entirely at ease, but in fact was struggling hard 
 to despise certain things in order not to despise 
 herself. 
 
 From time to time Rowan looked up from 
 the canvas before him to the slender figure in 
 the black carved chair. Between the lace and 
 the brown hair, flushed with red, was a neck 
 soft as the swan's, and between the close sleeve 
 and long glove an arm white as snow. But it 
 was not of these he thought, nor her blue eyes 
 he saw. 
 
 " I fancy talking interferes with your work." 
 
 " Not iu the least," he replied, relapsing into 
 silence.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 199 
 
 " What have you there to read ? " she asked, 
 glancing at the book-shelf. 
 
 " Are you tired ? I shall not keep you long 
 now." 
 
 " Let me see that little red book, please. It 
 looks tempting ; red covers always are." 
 
 He took the book from the shelf, and handed 
 it to her. 
 
 " Oh dear, poetry ! " said Gladys, turning 
 over the leaves. 
 
 " You used to be fond of poetry, cousin," 
 said Rowan, after a pause. 
 
 But she did not hear him. Reading here and 
 there fitfully, her eye had caught the words : 
 
 "Love is not made of tears, nor yet of smiles ; 
 Of quivering lips, or of enticing wiles. 
 Love is not tempted ; he himself beguiles." 
 
 " Read me something," said Rowan. She 
 turned the leaf hurriedly. 
 
 " Love is not made of kisses or of sighs ; 
 Of clinging hands, or of the sorceries 
 And subtle witchcraft of alluring eyes. 
 
 " If we know aught of Love, how shall we dare 
 To say that this is Love, when well aware 
 That these are common things, and Love is rare ? 
 
 " Love is the union into one sweet whole " 
 
 " Well, are you not going to read ? " he asked, 
 looking up.
 
 200 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 She closed the book quickly. " Not now," 
 she replied with a sigh, half rising as if to go. 
 
 "Wait just a moment, please. I have al 
 most finished." 
 
 She sank back into the chair with the book 
 in her hand. She had forgotten her portrait. 
 The last few minutes were longer to her than 
 the whole hour. Mabel, having exhausted Nes 
 tor, came in and laid her head in Gladys' lap, 
 taking the hand abandoned to her. Mabel loved 
 its rings, especially the diamond one, playing 
 hide-and-seek with the fires flashing from its 
 facets. Occasionally Gladys' eyes strayed from 
 the curly head to Rowan, absorbed in his work. 
 It seemed to her suddenly that he looked tired 
 and careworn. She had not noticed it before. 
 No, Schonberg had unnerved her with his ter 
 rible words ; or perhaps it was the light. Gladys 
 had a tender vein in her composition. If Jack 
 came back from the office with a headache, 
 though she had on a ball dress, or were tying the 
 ribbons of her opera cloak, she would plunge 
 into her dressing-room, to come out in a white 
 apron, with flannels and bottles and the busi 
 ness-like air of a trained nurse softened by com 
 passion. Mabel knew how to work this vein 
 when overtaken by childish ailments, and reck 
 oned a sick day in bed among the favors to be 
 desired of fortune.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 201 
 
 When Rowan was not looking, Gladys stole 
 thoughtful glances at him. No, it was not the 
 light, certainly. 
 
 " There," said he, throwing down his brush, 
 " I shall let you go now." 
 
 She rose with a start, and, putting on her 
 hat, they went out together. 
 
 " You don't look well, Rowan," she said, as 
 he held the gate open for her. Her voice was 
 so kind love is always kinder than pity 
 that he noticed the change in it. 
 
 " Thank you, Gladys, but I am, perfectly 
 so." 
 
 " I wish you had been willing to come with 
 us," she said, lingering at the open gate. " This 
 is no way for you to live." It seemed to her 
 as if she had suddenly acquired the right to 
 yes, to love. For 
 
 ' ' Love is not made of kisses or of sighs ; . . . 
 Love is the union into one sweet whole." 
 
 No, not even that. He did not care for her, yet 
 a strange happiness swelled up to her throat, the 
 mysterious happiness of losing one's life to find 
 it again. She did not stop to deliberate, to cal 
 culate her strength, " great designs spring 
 from the heart," she simply gave herself up 
 to the sudden rush of feeling, the sweetest and 
 the strongest that fills the heart of woman who 
 finds such pearls in the marvelous deeps of pain.
 
 202 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " I wish you would come, Rowan. I could make 
 it so pleasant for you and Miss Fleming." 
 
 He raised his eyes to hers, and she blushed 
 like a child caught in a fault. " My dear Gla 
 dys," he exclaimed, taking both her hands in 
 his with a quick movement, " I wronged you the 
 other day ; will you forget it? " 
 
 She smiled faintly, releasing her hands, while 
 the lines repeated themselves in her ears : 
 
 " Love is not made of kisses or of sighs ; 
 Of clinging hands " 
 
 "You make much ado about nothing. "Will 
 you come? It would give Aunt Isabel so much 
 pleasure," she went on hurriedly. Rowan hardly 
 recognized Gladys. Was it Gladys, after all? 
 "You shall have your old room." It washers 
 now ; but she saw herself already moving out of 
 it. " Miss Fleming was there the other day, 
 calling on Aunt Isabel, I mean. You know her 
 grandmother and Aunt Isabel were friends." 
 
 " No, I did n't know it," he said, walking on 
 beside her down the lane. 
 
 " Why should n't you come, just for a week, 
 till Miss Fleming goes ? " 
 
 " Is Miss Fleming going away ? " he asked 
 abruptly, forgetting Gladys' entreaty. 
 
 " I think so ; that is, probably ; " and Gladys' 
 throat swelled again. " Don't come any far. 
 ther ; I must hurry back to lunch."
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 203 
 
 " But, Gladys," said he ; " wait a moment. I 
 want to thank you." She saw he was not speak 
 ing of what he was thinking. "I cannot tell 
 you how much I " 
 
 " Certainly." She smiled again. " Come in 
 this evening after dinner, and we will talk about 
 it." She hardly knew what she was saying. 
 " I must hurry now. Good-by." 
 
 " Bring Nestor, too ! " shouted Mabel, running 
 sidewise with her head over her shoulder. She 
 chatted fast all the way back. Gladys said 
 Yes and No to her questions, without hearing 
 one of them, and when she reached her chamber 
 threw herself upon her bed in a passion of tears. 
 She had not foreseen the burden would press so 
 heavily or so soon. 
 
 She did not appear at lunch; and, after it 
 was over, Jack, who was going away that after 
 noon on a yachting excursion, came up to her 
 room to make his final preparations and say 
 good-by. 
 
 He had never been able to persuade Gladys 
 to go with him, even for a short run down the 
 bay. But she was always full of her own af 
 fairs, and he never doubted that she had a bet 
 ter time than he. 
 
 " Why don't you have some people down and 
 fill up the house ? " he said, packing his valise. 
 " I know some who are waiting for an invita 
 tion."
 
 204 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " How long are you going to be away ? " she 
 replied. 
 
 " Oh, about a fortnight ; but that has n't got 
 anything to do with it." 
 
 "No," said Gladys. 
 
 " I shall start to-morrow, if there 's any wind, 
 and drop you a line wherever I can." Jack's 
 letters were literally " a line " inclosed between 
 " Dear Gladys " and " Yours, Jack ; " but they 
 were longer than hers, for she never wrote at all. 
 
 " Where shall I write you, if I should wish 
 to?" 
 
 He looked up, surprised. " Better send to 
 the office. There 's nothing wrong, is there, 
 Gladys?" 
 
 " No, there 's nothing wrong ; I had the feel- 
 ing"- 
 
 " Feeling, about what ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing," she replied, rising. " One 
 can't always answer such a question." 
 
 "I wish you would go," said Jack. "We 
 could take Mabel with us." 
 
 She made no reply, and went to the wardrobe 
 for her afternoon dress. 
 
 " Do you know where my sea-coat is ? " asked 
 Jack. 
 
 " I gave it to James to brush ; shall I ring 
 for it?" 
 
 " No, never mind ; I want to see James my 
 self. I '11 be back in half a minute."
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 205 
 
 Gladys put on her dressing-sack and sat down 
 before the mirror. Sho did not ring for Ellen, 
 who was waiting as usual to dress her mistress' 
 hair : why not, it were difficult to tell ; one can 
 not always answer such questions. She took 
 out the comb and pins, one by one, till her hair 
 fell over her shoulders in brown waves tinged 
 with a red like that of the ripe grain in the 
 first rays of a morning sun. She was a longer 
 time in putting it back again than Ellen re 
 quired ; still Jack did not come. She had 
 changed her dress when he returned, and was 
 deliberating before her open jewel-case. 
 
 " Halloa," he said, looking over her shoulder, 
 and taking out a small cross of opals set with 
 diamonds ; " I don't remember that." 
 
 " Rowan gave it to me years ago," said Gla 
 dys, looking at him in the glass. 
 
 " Oh, did he ? " said Jack, not observing her. 
 " Why don't you wear it ? It 's pretty. There, 
 I believe I 'm ready. Where 's Mabel ? " 
 
 Gladys rang the bell. 
 
 " Bring Mabel up here," said Jack to the 
 nurse. He went to the window and lit a cigar 
 with the satisfied air of a man who is ready and 
 has a little time to spare. 
 
 Presently Mab came in like a summer storm 
 of sunshine and rain. 
 
 " Are you going to be a good girl and take
 
 206 TUE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 care of Mamsey ? " said Jack, lifting her up in 
 his arms and placing her on the window casing. 
 
 " What will you bring me home ? " asked 
 Mabel, quick at seeing chances. 
 
 He kissed her with a laugh, and they all 
 went down the stairs together. At the steps, 
 when the valise had been placed in the car 
 riage, Jack turned to Gladys. 
 
 " I am going to drive you down," she said. 
 
 It seemed to him she had something to say ; 
 there was a feeling of constraint new to their 
 intercourse. But she did not speak, and grad 
 ually his thought wandered ; he noticed the over 
 head check was too tight ; an ounce more weight 
 in the fore shoe would n't be a bad idea ; and 
 that led to the ballast of the yacht, the sail 
 ing-master wished a part of it taken out and 
 replaced by a lead keel ; Jack himself thought 
 there was too much of it, and too far aft she 
 showed her forefoot. 
 
 " What are you thinking of ? " said Gladys. 
 
 " I was thinking about reballasting the Vixen. 
 Look out ! " he exclaimed as she struck the 
 horse savagely with the whip ; " he has n't been 
 out for a day or two." What had got into 
 Gladys? 
 
 Instead of checking his valise and going out 
 on the platform to wait for the train, as he usu 
 ally did, he remained with her in the carriage 
 when they reached the station.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 207 
 
 " What 's the matter, Gladys ? " he asked, as 
 the whistle sounded round the curve. 
 
 " Why do you keep asking me that question ? '* 
 
 " I have n't asked you before. If there were 
 anything, of course you would tell me," he add 
 ed, laying his hand on her knee. 
 
 " Of course," said Gladys. 
 
 He was about to kiss her, as usual. A kiss 
 of that sort had never embarrassed him before. 
 It was like shaking hands. But she made no 
 motion, and it seemed to him that she did not 
 wish him to. But after he had taken his seat 
 in the train, and while lighting a fresh cigar, 
 Gladys' averted face and eyes appeared through 
 the smoke, and it occurred to him that he might 
 have taken another kiss than the ceremonious 
 one he had contemplated. " Women are so in 
 fernally contradictory," he thought, looking out 
 of the car window. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Unaccustomed as Gladys was to strong feel 
 ing, she found it impossible to analyze it when 
 it came. She swung from resolve to resolve 
 till her mind refused to act out of sheer exhaus 
 tion, and a sort of apathy took possession of her. 
 Riding home she drew her shawl close about her
 
 208 THE WIND OF DESTINT. 
 
 shoulders ; she was cold, though a warm wind 
 blew from the south and the sun was shining. 
 She stopped at Aunt Isabel's door, telling her 
 laconically she had persuaded Rowan to spend a 
 week at The Towers ; then went to her own cham 
 ber, where she had dinner served, scarcely tast 
 ing it. She was still cold, yet the air seemed 
 oppressive, and she sat with her shawl about her 
 and the window wide open. Had she not ex 
 pected Rowan she would have gone to bed. The 
 light faded out of the west as she waited, alone, 
 listening. But he did not come ; the shadows 
 deepened, and when Ellen came to say that Aunt 
 Isabel was ready for her game of chess, she could 
 not see her mistress in the darkness. 
 
 Next to solitaire, chess was Aunt Isabel's 
 favorite pastime. She had taught Gladys, who 
 detested the game, but who by dint of forced 
 practice and the desire to beat her aunt had 
 finally become a good player. 
 
 She roused herself with an effort, and, light 
 ing the candles, gave a hurried glance in the 
 glass. Gladys was not vain. Indeed, it was 
 as if some one else speaking in the darkness had 
 said : You are beautiful to-night. Her face was 
 flushed, and her eyes shone like stars. Then 
 she went to her aunt's chamber. 
 
 The air seemed close and stifling as she took 
 down the chessmen from the shelf and began 
 arranging them on the board.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 209 
 
 " You have your king on the wrong square," 
 said Aunt Isabel ; and after the game was begun, 
 " What put it into your head to ask Rowan 
 here?" 
 
 " I think it would suggest itself to any one." 
 
 " But he refused once." 
 
 " I found a new argument. It is your move, 
 Aunt Isabel." 
 
 " What argument ? " 
 
 " I held out to him the inducement that he 
 might see here some one whom he loves." 
 
 Leaning back in her chair, the old lady ex 
 amined Gladys' face sharply. " What, so soon ! " 
 
 " So it seems," said Gladys. 
 
 "That is strange. I had the same thought 
 myself." 
 
 Then the game went on in silence. 
 
 " You play badly to-night, Gladys," said her 
 aunt when it was finished. 
 
 " I have a headache it is hot here ; " and 
 Gladys opened the window. A rush of warm 
 wind swept in, causing the lights to flare. " I 
 believe it is going to rain." 
 
 " There will be a storm," said Aunt Isabel. 
 " If you have a headache, Gladys, you had bet 
 ter go to bed." 
 
 " You would like to roll me in blankets, no, 
 thank you. Besides, I told you Rowan was com 
 ing this evening."
 
 210 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " You told me nothing of the kind." 
 
 " If you will see him, and persuade him," 
 Gladys said suddenly, " since it is your idea, I 
 will go. I am tired." 
 
 " Very well. Shall I tell him you had a head 
 ache?" 
 
 "Why, certainly," said Gladys, putting the 
 chessmen back in their box and ringing the bell. 
 " Ellen, when Mr. Ferguson comes, you will 
 show him up here. Good-night, Aunt Isabel." 
 
 " Good-night. Bring me my cap, Ellen," said 
 the latter. 
 
 Gladys went to her room. The traveling- 
 clock between the candles on her dressing-table 
 was striking eight ; she could not go to bed at 
 that hour. There was a feeling of tightness 
 about her head ; she took off her dress and boots 
 which bound her like shackles, and put on a 
 loose morning gown and slippers. Something 
 was taking form in her thoughts, one could 
 see it from the restless automatism of her move 
 ments. Suddenly she went to her desk and sat 
 down to write : 
 
 " DEAR JACK, I am coming to town to-mor 
 row. I shall send this by the night mail, hoping 
 it will reach you in time for you to meet me 
 the morning train ; if not, I shall go to Meyer's 
 to lunch and wait for you. I might as well tell 
 you now, do you want to take me with you ?
 
 THE WIND OF DESTIN7. 211 
 
 You will wonder what has become of my aversion 
 to the water. You see it was not safe to urge 
 me, since I change my mind at the last mo 
 ment. GLADYS." 
 
 She rang the bell, folding her note hurriedly, 
 as if there were danger of another change such 
 as she had mentioned in her letter. 
 
 " Tell James, Ellen, to take this letter to the 
 office ; and, if the mail is closed, to go himself 
 to the station. And wait ; I am going with 
 Mr. Temple for a week or more on the yacht. 
 When you come back, pack the two small trunks 
 my flannel dresses both the blue and the 
 white and some warm things. Here are the 
 keys. I will see Mr. Ferguson myself when he 
 comes ; and Ellen, Mr. Ferguson will make my 
 aunt a visit. He is to have this room, and 
 you will move everything of mine to the east 
 chamber, next Mabel's. Take the letter first, 
 and then send Margaret to me." 
 
 After Ellen was gone, Gladys went to her 
 drawer and took from her jewel-case the cross 
 of opals. 
 
 " Margaret," she said to the nurse, who came 
 in answer to her summons, " if Mr. Temple sees 
 best, I shall take Mabel with me for a week on 
 the yacht ; at all events, you will be ready to 
 morrow in case I telegraph for you ; if not, I 
 shall be back . . . soon. And, Margaret, you will 
 not let Mabel go to the river alone."
 
 212 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 Then Gladys went down to the library with 
 the cross in her hand. 
 
 It was nearly nine ; still Rowan did not come. 
 She took from the table a book in one of those 
 dainty bindings which had led to its selection 
 for this place of honor. Indeed, Gladys had 
 never examined its contents before. A border 
 of red tracing ran up the illuminated pages. 
 She read the title on the page to which she 
 opened, The Dying Soldier's Message, but 
 the words meant nothing to her. What she saw 
 was the cross which burned within her tightly 
 closed fingers. She read at first without under 
 standing the lines, till gradually, like some far 
 away lonely music, their pathos stole in upon her 
 attention unawares. 
 
 " God knows whether my mother is yet alive, 
 
 I assure you I would not afflict her. 
 
 If she lives, tell her I am too lazy to write, 
 
 That my regiment is on the march, that she must not expect 
 
 me. 
 
 And my little neighbor, you remember her, 
 It is a long time since we have seen each other ; 
 She does not think of me. However that may be, 
 Tell her the truth without fear of afflicting her. 
 If she weeps, her tears will not last long." 
 
 She felt her eyes growing hot, and closing the 
 book quickly went to the terrace door. The 
 night was dark, and on the black surface of the 
 glass her own image confronted her warningly.
 
 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 213 
 
 The clock on the mantel began to strike 
 nine he would not come. A large inoth, out 
 side, climbed up the smooth pane, its eyes shin 
 ing like rubies in the night. She opened the 
 door and stepped out upon the terrace. The 
 strong south wind seemed to hold it and beat her 
 back ; then, rushing past her, extinguished the 
 light and left her in darkness. 
 
 She crossed the terrace slowly. She was not 
 conscious of having made any decision, yet went 
 down the steps unhesitatingly, avoiding the grav 
 eled walk. What was she going to do ? She 
 did not know, though she knew perfectly well 
 what she was doing. The momentous peril, the 
 uselessness, the folly of it, were as real as the 
 darkness enveloping her ; but these did not stay 
 her, nor the rustling trees huddled together in 
 black groups, nor a cold drop which fell from the 
 closing clouds on her bare head. " To-morrow I 
 shall be gone," she kept repeating to herself, 
 holding fast to her resolve, as if every step on 
 the soft grass threatened it. The galop of a 
 horse outside the gate caused her to stop ; it 
 was James coming back from the station. What 
 was she doing there ? The light above the en 
 trance fell on her face and dress, and she drew 
 back into the shadows which a moment before 
 had terrified her with a sudden fear and sense of 
 humiliation. Where was she going? What was
 
 214 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 this passionate desire her feet obeyed ? To open 
 her heart to eyes that could only pity ; so to love 
 love that she must barter everything for a look 
 of recognition, a sigh of compassion? She 
 pressed her hands to her head ; the thought that 
 she was mad flashed through her mind. No, it 
 was not her head ; the pain was in her heart. It 
 was not love he should see, but the pain ; love 
 he would not understand, but pain he could share. 
 James, standing up in the stirrups, put out the 
 light ; it was late, and going to rain. Gladys 
 listened to the sounds of the horse's feet as they 
 died away. Her thoughts grew confused, and 
 slid out of her grasp. She was walking, fall 
 ing, and her hand tightened on the cross. 
 How hard her heart beat against it in her palm ! 
 " When one loves, one loves," it seemed to say. 
 
 Straight on, past the solitary light of Schon- 
 berg's window, down the lane to Rowan's gate. 
 There she stopped, irresolute. The house was 
 dark. The wind had ceased, and a cold, fine 
 rain, which made her tremble, fell steadily on the 
 trees, dropping from leaf to leaf. 
 
 How came she there ? A moment ago she was 
 in her own room. She raised her hand to her 
 eyes as if to shield them from a light. How dark 
 it was ! she could see nothing ; how had she 
 found her way ? Her forehead was burning, and 
 wet ! When had it begun to rain ? Oh, yes, she
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 215 
 
 remembered now; they were going down the 
 river ; there was an island there. No, it was her 
 picture, and Mabel, Mabel was with her. She 
 must find Mabel ; the child would be wet through. 
 No, it was night ; she was only dreaming. She 
 must have fallen asleep with that Russian book 
 in her hand, and involuntarily her fingers 
 closed on the cross, giving a new direction to 
 her wandering thought, yes, the cross, she was 
 going to give it to Rowan, that was what the 
 book had said : " Tell him the truth without 
 fear of afflicting him ; if he weeps, his tears will 
 not last long." 
 
 She went up the path as if it had been noon 
 day, opened the door, and entered the studio. 
 Where should she put it ? Not for worlds would 
 she have him dream what she was doing. How 
 cunning she was ! She would put it in the great 
 chair where she had sat ; he would think she had 
 dropped it there. She groped her way to the 
 chair, smiling in the dark, when, almost there, 
 she heard a sound that chilled her heart with ter 
 ror. It was Nestor in the lane. She sprang to 
 the door, and hid herself in the lilac bushes 
 within the gate. Between the shivers of the 
 trees, at every lull in the rain, she listened. The 
 pitiless drops fell on her face, on her neck, on 
 her hair. Hark ! he was coining ; she must fly. 
 As she turned, softly, oh, so softly! her
 
 216 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 dress caught in the shrubbery, and brought down 
 a shower of rain and dried leaves. 
 
 " Be quiet, Nestor," said Rowan's voice. 
 
 She tore the traitor lace from the branch : it 
 was too late ; he was there, close beside her. 
 The ground swayed under her feet ; her dress, 
 heavy with moisture, dragged her down. She 
 made a desperate effort not to fall, with that last 
 strength which flares up like a flame before it 
 expires, and straightening herself as the white 
 willow when the wind has passed, reeled 
 
 "Why, Gladys!" she heard him say; then 
 the rain and the cold, the shame and the fear, 
 all disappeared in unconsciousness. 
 
 He caught her as she fell. " Gladys," he 
 whispered ; then louder, " Gladys ! " A little 
 pool had gathered in the hollow of the stones; 
 he dashed the water in her face. She opened 
 her eyes, but they saw nothing ; a long, deep 
 sigh, like the last breath of the dying, and the 
 force was spent. 
 
 Frightened, he raised the form sliding through 
 his arms ; it was cold and wet. The dress clung 
 to his limbs, and the chill struck to his heart. 
 He laid her down upon the grass, taking off his 
 coat and wrapping it about her ; then lifting her 
 again began to run. At the corner of the lane 
 he was forced to lean for a moment against the 
 lamp-post exhausted ; she was slipping from his
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 217 
 
 grasp. The hair had fallen, but a rose she had 
 fastened there that afternoon clung to it still. 
 He lifted the head upon his shoulder and began 
 to run again. The light at the gate of The Tow 
 ers was extinguished, and the road so black that 
 he stopped at times to feel the border of grass 
 with his feet. In the house, not a light. The 
 library window was open, and entering, he stood 
 for a moment, irresolute, listening. Within all 
 was silent ; there was no sound but the beating 
 of his own heart next the burden in his arms, 
 whence came a dead perfume of the crushed rose 
 and wet hair. He groped his way to the lounge, 
 and, laying her there, went into the hall. There 
 were voices in the rear of the house ; he knew 
 every door, and advanced softly towards the 
 passage leading to the kitchen. Ellen, hearing 
 footsteps, met him at the threshold. 
 
 "Where is Mr. Temple?" he asked, before 
 she could utter her surprise. 
 
 " Mr. Temple left this afternoon, sir," she re 
 plied. 
 
 " And are you Mrs. Temple's maid ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " What is your name ? Come in, and shut 
 the door." 
 
 " Ellen, sir." She had recognized him, and, 
 in his face, that look impossible to conceal, an 
 nouncing disaster.
 
 218 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " Do you love your mistress, Ellen ? Hush ! " 
 he interrupted. " Never mind ; go up to her 
 room and wait. Above all, be quiet. Do you 
 understand ? " 
 
 He stood at the foot of the stairs till she had 
 disappeared with the candle in her hand, then 
 went back to the library. 
 
 Dumb with curiosity and apprehension, Ellen 
 glanced about the room as she entered it. There 
 was no one there. It was ten o'clock. She had 
 prepared Gladys' bed for the night. It was just 
 as she had left it a half hour before, the clothes 
 turned back and the night-dress with its lace 
 ruffle folded on the pillow. Presently she heard 
 Rowan coming slowly up the stairs. She had 
 a premonition that he was bringing her mis 
 tress with him, and was not surprised, though 
 speechless, when she saw the white mass, with 
 its stained and discolored dress, laid under the 
 satin hangings of its bed. 
 
 She approached with the candle, but he took 
 it roughly from her hand, placing it so that the 
 bed was in the shadow, and, grasping her arm, 
 drew her away to the door. 
 
 " Listen," said he. " You are not afraid ? 
 Do just as I tell you. Unfasten her dress, 
 boots ; take them all away, everything to show 
 that she has been out, the wet, the mud. Do 
 you understand ? "
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 219 
 
 Ellen made a sign of assent. " And of my 
 being here to-night, not a word, remember ! Can 
 you keep a secret, for her sake ? When you 
 are ready, send for the doctor instantly, and 
 wake her aunt. You have brandy ? but first 
 of all, the dress." As he spoke he looked at 
 her keenly, and she seemed to him worthy of 
 confidence ; so much so that he added, " I give 
 you my word of honor that in doing as I bid 
 you are serving your mistress best and doing 
 right. Hurry, now," and he let go her arm. 
 
 She went to the bed, and began to loosen 
 deftly the disordered dress. 
 
 " If you do as I bid you, there will be only 
 one question asked. Where did you first see 
 her?" 
 
 " Here," said Ellen. 
 
 " Of course, in her bed. Can you lie ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Ellen, simply. 
 
 " You may, must, if necessary. Have no 
 fear." 
 
 He went down the stairs, through the library 
 door, hurrying as if something still depended on 
 his haste. 
 
 Nestor, on guard at the step before the door, 
 waited his return. Rowan threw himself in a 
 chair and buried his face in his hands. The dog 
 came and laid its head on his knee, while facing 
 him was the picture of Gladys, her blue eyes
 
 220 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 full of smiles. Was it true, did she really love 
 him ? Gladys, whose moods were like shadows 
 of passing clouds, and fancies like the flight of 
 swallows ever on the wing. 
 
 Sitting beside him on its haimches, the dog 
 gave a low, impatient whine. Something glit 
 tered in its mouth, a cross of opals, set with 
 diamonds. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The pulse was slow, the breathing regular 
 and deep. 
 
 " Take the candle away," said the doctor, as 
 Gladys, muttering low, indistinguishable words, 
 turned restlessly from the light. 
 
 The physician had been summoned by tele 
 graph from the city. Twenty-four hours had 
 elapsed, and he must return that night ; an im 
 portant consultation the next morning allowed 
 him but a half hour to stay. Aunt Isabel 
 watched him intently as he stood by the bedside, 
 his eye quiet but keen, his mouth resolute but 
 mobile, one would say a man capable of great 
 mistakes and great successes. The minutes 
 passed in silence. There were only thirty, and 
 Aunt Isabel grew impatient. lie took up a 
 bottle on the table near the bed, examining the
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 221 
 
 label in an absent way, while she smoothed the 
 pillow and ruffled night-dress, disordered by 
 Gladys' unquiet slumber. 
 
 " There has been no no strong emotional 
 disturbance ? " he said, taking the clinical ther 
 mometer gently from the arm. 
 
 " No," said Aunt Isabel, promptly. 
 
 "Of any kind?" She shook her head. "Nor 
 anxiety? "he continued, replacing the bulb in 
 its case. 
 
 " She played chess with me that very evening." 
 
 " As well as usual ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Any unusual exposure to cold or rain ? " 
 
 " None. That is impossible." 
 
 Ellen, standing in the shadow at the foot of 
 the bed, made a movement, which she instantly 
 repressed. 
 
 A footstep was heard on the stair ; then the 
 door opened, and the village physician entered. 
 Aunt Isabel introduced the colleagues, and much 
 against her will left them together. But, hur 
 rying away to catch the train, the stranger was 
 intercepted. 
 
 " Well ? " said the old lady, with a tremor in 
 her voice. 
 
 He made a gesture with his hand, as if to say, 
 " I promise nothing." 
 
 At the terrace door another woman, bold with 
 love and fear, confronted him.
 
 222 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " She knows nothing, sir. She was brought 
 home wet, and cold as ice." He seemed to un 
 derstand, in spite of the ambiguity of Ellen's 
 pronouns, continuing his walk across the terrace 
 to the carriage waiting at the steps, its side-lights 
 burning. "I am the only one who knows. I 
 hopo I 've done right in telling you, sir." 
 
 " I knew it before, my good girl, that, or 
 something else," he replied, getting in; and, 
 looking at his watch, " Drive on ! " he said to 
 the coachman. 
 
 "What were you doing on the terrace, 
 Ellen ? " asked Aunt Isabel, as the former came 
 up the stairway. 
 
 " He left his little black case on the table," 
 said Ellen, quickly ; and, pleased with her facil 
 ity of speech, she reentered her mistress' cham 
 ber, taking her place at the bedside with the 
 lighter heart which rewards a clear conscience. 
 
 But Gladys neither saw nor heard her; nor 
 the nurse the doctor sent later from the city to 
 replace her, one whose mouth would not 
 twitch, nor eyes moisten, as Ellen's did, and 
 who would not start at every incoherent word or 
 unquiet motion. There was no need that Aunt 
 Isabel's voice should sink to a whisper as she 
 approached the bed ; nor that Jack, summoned 
 hastily from the roar of the city and the flap 
 ping sails of the Vixen, should hush even Ma-
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 223 
 
 bel's laughter on the terrace. For Gladys did 
 not hear these strange footsteps which invaded 
 her chamber, and was indifferent to all solici 
 tude. Only one avenue from without was open, 
 light ; the feeblest ray, straying in through the 
 closed shutters, bit like an asp and seared like 
 flame. 
 
 Imagine pictures on an arras wall, succeeding 
 each other as by magic, distinct, single, but mo 
 mentary. Such are the acts, the states of mind, 
 revealed by consciousness. Of these ceaselessly 
 changing pictures, now and then one is caught 
 on the sensitive plate of the memory, while 
 the snail Thought, with its mole eyes, looks 
 on wisely as they pass, the unending frieze of 
 Life : Sorrow mute, and Joy singing ; Desire 
 with hungry eyes, and Satiety tired but sleep 
 less ; Hate aflame, and Love aglow. But the 
 myriad moving threads which make up these 
 pictures are unseen ; the causes which deter 
 mine the act, the state, in all their subtle 
 play, escape consciousness ; it sees the single 
 resultant of infinite forces, the simple sum of 
 innumerable elements. Thus we live, bat-like, 
 in gloom, and our impuissance is our power. 
 For, magnify this vision of consciousness, show 
 us the tumult of the looms behind the arras, and 
 straightway Thought, the snail, is paralyzed - 
 Delirium !
 
 224 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 So for Gladys. The outer world solicited her 
 in vain, for within what visions ! The universe 
 had melted into atoms, and every atom was a 
 world. With what a dizzy velocity they swept 
 by ! How their paths crossed and twisted ! It 
 was no longer the pictures on the arras wall of 
 consciousness, but the flux and play of the mil 
 lion threads, the whir of the looms ; music un 
 ending, but every note a thousand vibrations. 
 Where were the sky curtains, shot with stars? 
 Rent now like veils, behind which opened inter 
 minable vistas. Time, itself, shrinking and ex 
 panding, stretching moments into aeons, and 
 crushing millenniums into seconds. 
 
 " Unconscious," the doctor had said ; a strange 
 word, full of strange comfort. 
 
 At length, one day the fear and dazzlemeut 
 disappeared from Gladys' eyes, and the eyes 
 themselves closed heavily. 
 
 " Stupor," he said. 
 
 " And afterwards ? " asked Aunt Isabel, try 
 ing hard to speak naturally. 
 
 " One thing or the other," was the reply. 
 " The scale is balanced ; on the side it dips it 
 will stay." 
 
 Stupor ! Say, rather, peace. The rocking stars 
 fixed again, and the sea in slumber ; the din a
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 225 
 
 murmur, like the far tramp of receding armies, 
 and the light an afterglow, as of invisible suns. 
 
 Then began the slow resurrection of the past. 
 She was no more an actor, but a witness, before 
 whom its scenes defiled in endless procession. A 
 thousand events and impressions, unconsciously 
 registered, emerged from oblivion ; as the dew, 
 falling unseen and imperceptible, under the 
 cover of night, shines in the morning sun. 
 
 She saw a little girl chasing a butterfly in a 
 field of clover. Now at rest on a clover-top, 
 now on the wing, a golden fleck in the sunshine, 
 the insect led the child in zigzag lines across the 
 field ; down the slope to the tiny stream among 
 the cardinal flowers ; over the yielding moss, in 
 which the foot sank ; and up through the sweet- 
 fern bushes in the pasture to the edge of the 
 wood, where it fluttered upward, and vanished. 
 Breathless with the chase the child stopped ; its 
 little feet were wet, its apron torn, its hat lost, 
 the butterfly gone. Its lip quivered and its 
 eyes began to swim, for where was home, and 
 what would home say? Gladys smiled. She 
 felt no alarm. She remembered it all, and knew 
 the nurse was already hurrying after the little 
 truant. It amused her. It was so strange to 
 stand aside, to let some one else live for you, 
 while you looked on. But what a foolish little
 
 226 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 girl ! with nothing to show for her lost hat and 
 torn apron, not even the scarlet flowers. 
 
 She was in her chamber, when she had one 
 all her own. A young girl was standing before 
 the glass fastening a white rose in her hair. It 
 did not seem to satisfy her, for she put it 
 aside and selected another, holding it to her 
 throat ; finally she chose a red one, and hid it 
 quickly in her bosom, which nothing yet had 
 troubled. Gladys saw the eyes shining out from 
 the mirror, herself. She knew every thought 
 in their deeps, and how fast the heart was beat 
 ing under the white muslin. She would have lin 
 gered in that room ; crept into its bed canopied 
 with dreams. Ah, if at the first breath of au 
 tumn the butterfly could fold its wings and steal 
 back again into the chrysalis ! From below came 
 up the sound of music, the hum of voices, and 
 the breath of flowers ; the young girl extinguished 
 the light, went out, and closed the door behind 
 her. Do butterflies sleep in chrysalides when 
 flowers are abloom and the birds are come from 
 the south again ? 
 
 Hark ! some one called her. Far off, like the 
 outlet of a cave, a spot of light shone in the dark, 
 and within its circle a strange face looked down 
 upon her. Some one was holding her hand ; she
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 227 
 
 drew it away, and at the same time a mist 
 spread over the face, the light contracted, then 
 disappeared. 
 
 It was only a dream ; she was awake again. 
 There was that young girl once more, no, a 
 woman now. How beautiful she was ! The 
 thought brought a hot blush to Gladys' cheek, 
 and at the same time she laughed under her 
 breath she was not speaking of herself ! But 
 her vision was no longer clear as before ; she 
 could not read the woman's heart as she had 
 the young girl's, nor follow the thoughts cross 
 ing the deeps of those eyes. She had missed 
 something. The thread of life she had been 
 retracing was broken and lost. At times, too, 
 the dream returned, with voices like the droning 
 of bees. How full of lights they were, those 
 eyes like May woods lights and evanescent 
 shadows. Certainly they were happy eyes, yet 
 she searched them wistfully ; somewhere in the 
 May woods was a dove with a broken wing; 
 till at last, far down below the swimming sur 
 face, in the heart whence all their lights and 
 shadows came, she found a wound ! That was 
 not strange ; there were cases on record, bul 
 lets carried a lifetime, unsuspected. But hush ! 
 not a whisper why tell her ? See, how happy 
 she is ! the world courts her, one can hardly fol 
 low her now in the crowd, among the lights and
 
 228 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 flowers was it these which hid the flutter of 
 the dove's wing ? How should one reach her to 
 get one little word to her ear, so pressed about, 
 feted, and crowned and in her hand, another 
 smaller one. Why tell her, then? Every one 
 knows the heart has graves ; the foot can scarce 
 tread there for the tombs ; hopes, dreams, all 
 that is born there comes back thither to sleep 
 as flowers to the sod whence they sprung. No, 
 not a whisper ! for who sees the frost or knows 
 when it fell ? Hush ! she must steal out of this 
 heart, out of its farthest corner softly ! Oh, 
 if she should waken it, disturb these graves 
 where its children lie ! How had she dared enter, 
 and what way had she come ; here, this way, 
 through the May woods. Hark again ! a cry, 
 the cry of the wounded dove. It was she, 
 herself, Gladys, who was waking ; the path was 
 wet, the leaves dripped with rain, she was cold, 
 and it was night Hurry, oh, hurry ! he was 
 coming Rowan ! 
 
 Her hand strayed feebly over the coverlid ; 
 her dress was warm and dry. She opened her 
 eyes ; it was dark, but not night. That sound 
 she heard was not rain, but the ticking of her 
 clock on the dressing-table. She looked up, and 
 saw a man standing beside her with grave, watch 
 ful eyes. He stooped over her, and she heard a 
 kind voice say :
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 229 
 
 " There, my child, be quiet and rest." 
 And in spite of her curiosity, while struggling 
 to waken memory, and still battling with her 
 drowsiness, she could but obey this strange voice, 
 this strange hand which patted her shoulder so 
 gently as the heavy lids closed against her will, 
 and for the first time for days Gladys slept. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 When Gladys parted from Rowan in the lane 
 on the morning of her last sitting, a single sen 
 tence of hers was ringing in his ears, " Till 
 Miss Fleming goes." What did Gladys mean? 
 He wished to ask her ; but she had left so hastily 
 that before he recovered from his surprise her 
 white dress was already a far-away spot of light 
 in the shadows of the elms. He reentered the 
 house, and, taking up his brush and palette, be 
 gan to work upon the drapery of Gladys' dress. 
 It was what he had intended to do after she was 
 gone ; but every motion was a mechanical one ; 
 his thought was elsewhere. All that had filled 
 these days of rest and leisure disappeared from 
 view before the supreme end which this single 
 sentence had disclosed, and towards which every 
 energy of his nature was now directed. He de 
 termined to see Seraphine that very afternoon,
 
 230 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 and when dinner was over went out in the direc 
 tion of the Flemings'. As he passed Schon- 
 berg's he heard the voice of Elize on the porch, 
 where arrangements were being made for the 
 morrow's excursion. A sudden timidity over 
 came his resolution, and he passed by without 
 turning his head. If he could only see Sera- 
 phine alone ! All the afternoon he wandered 
 through the fields and along the river behind 
 the house in the vague hope of meeting her, but 
 without seeing any one except Schonberg, sit 
 ting alone in the tea-house and muttering to 
 himself, with now and then a rising inflection as 
 if asking a question, after which he drew his 
 gown about his legs and lapsed into silence. 
 
 It was supper-time when he returned home. 
 At all events he should see Gladys that evening, 
 he thought. 
 
 Immediately after supper he took his hat 
 again and went out. It was yet too early. 
 Gladys would not have finished her dinner ; but 
 to be on the way made the time seem shorter, 
 even though that way were the longer one by 
 the river. On reaching the tea-house he sat 
 down to wait until Gladys should be ready to 
 receive him. What she had said that morning 
 had been a relief to him. If once, in the sur 
 prise of the discovery that he had touched the 
 heart of his cousin, his pride had been secretly
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 231 
 
 gratified, the thought was now a disquieting one. 
 He had never loved her ; all her ways irritated 
 him, and on the news of her marriage he experi 
 enced the relief of one whose judgment receives 
 a long-wished-for confirmation. Since his return, 
 however, this judgment had become disturbed. 
 What he wished to believe that she loved to 
 tease, or, at most, that a woman could never feel 
 towards one she has once loved as towards 
 others was sometimes difficult. But now Gla 
 dys herself had cleared away his perplexities : 
 still, he resolved not to accept her invitation. 
 
 Before him, the river, turning sharply west 
 ward, ran straight as a road through the dense 
 pine woods, whose dark lines framed in the dis 
 tant horizon. Overhead the sunset clouds sailed 
 in the south wind, and below on the river their 
 softened images floated down like scarlet barges 
 between the black walls of pine. Slowly the 
 waters began to grow dark and the clouds to 
 lose their color, till at last only that far hori 
 zon lingered fresh as a rose set in the sombre 
 shadows of the forest. In the pine woods it 
 was already night. Lights twinkled in the 
 homesteads on the plain across the river, where 
 the cows were housed, the sheep gathered in, 
 and the labor of the day finished. One by one 
 the indistinguishable sounds of night, which 
 render its silence only more profound, came up
 
 232 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 like a fog from the lowlands, and above in the 
 pines the murmur of the wind rose and fell with 
 the low crooning of a summer song. 
 
 As the village bell struck, Howan took the 
 path leading out upon the main road between 
 Schonberg's and the Flemings'. At the gate in 
 the wall between the two houses he stopped 
 again. From behind the curtain of Seraphine's 
 room a light shone on the chestnut tree outside 
 the window. She was there, so near to him. 
 He pictured to himself the interior of that room, 
 its ornaments and furniture ; and his heart be 
 gan to beat violently. How long he remained 
 there he could not have told ; but the last trace 
 of day had disappeared, and Night, the enchant 
 ress, was filling the world with mystery. Out 
 of the willows, like a bird, the breeze sallied, 
 like a bird's wing swept over the grass, hovered 
 an instant above the thicket, and vanished 
 again. Beyond, the river glittered with stars ; 
 not a sound to betray its flow. Near the shore 
 were black patches of leaves where the water 
 lilies gazed out wonderingly upon the earth 
 flowers, upon the sombre trees stretching in 
 interminable lines along the banks, between 
 whose walls, as in a chasm, flowed that other 
 river, on whose bosom floated also innumerable 
 blossoms, and over whose surface, here and 
 there, a stray cloud spread like a night bird its 
 black wings.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 233 
 
 Nature, whom we invest with our own di 
 vinity, from whose dumb lips issues our own 
 song, what were thy mysterious night, but for 
 the soundless mystery of love ? What were the 
 breath of thy night wind, setting free a sea of 
 perfumes, but for love breathing on the human 
 heart ? What thy lilies or thy sky, but for the 
 soul's hopes and longings struggling upward un 
 satisfied till they also sco the heaven-fields and 
 the unquenchable stars? 
 
 He was no longer thinking of anything : he 
 simply gave himself up to the feeling that she 
 was there, within sound of his voice, almost 
 within reach of his hand, when suddenly, where 
 the path curved behind the willows, the leaves 
 rustled, and a white form appeared. Without his 
 assent the word " Seraphine " escaped from his 
 lips. 
 
 The young girl started and stood still. 
 
 " Seraphine," he repeated, opening the gate. 
 
 She did not speak nor retreat. He hurried 
 towards her and took her hand. On her face 
 was an expression of fear and unspeakable sur. 
 prise. And yet before that first embrace of his 
 eyes hers did not fall nor falter ; she knew what 
 was before her ; she had no fear, and nothing 
 could surprise her. No one had told her he 
 would be there. Yet she knew, and all that was 
 to take place. He drew her gently with him,
 
 234 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 still holding her hand in his, as though if he 
 loosed it she would turn and fly. Yet she went 
 without fear or trouble. A delicious peace filled 
 her heart the world. It seemed to her that 
 all had been as it was a thousand years, as a 
 thousand years it would be ; and yet she knew, 
 as the gate closed behind her, that a door was 
 being shut upon a past into which she should 
 not enter again. He led her to the seat where 
 she had passed so many hours with Schonberg 
 and Elize. She did not see the dark shadows of 
 the pines above it, nor the gathering clouds be 
 tween which, here and there only, a star gleamed 
 momentarily. 
 
 "Seraphine," he whispered again, drawing 
 her towards him. She tried to rise, to speak, 
 but could not and hid her face. 
 
 Half an hour later he stood alone at the gate, 
 beyond which she had just disappeared among 
 the willows. An indescribable joy filled his 
 heart. It was all true ? No longer a dream, 
 a reality ? He remembered the first time they 
 had met, in the woodland road ; he had fright 
 ened her then, but what a steadfast light burned 
 in her startled eyes ! She would walk where 
 she had chosen, without asking others what she 
 should do, and she had chosen ! He recalled 
 every moment that had just passed ; so few, and 
 never to be repeated, yet redeeming this life and
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 235 
 
 pledging another. He had forgotten to ask if 
 she were going away. But what matter ? How 
 could she go away ! Then he began to dream, 
 and at those dreams let him smile who has not 
 longed for day to end, for the hour when the 
 last good-night is said, the door shut, the light 
 extinguished, that free, alone, he may enter the 
 realm of sleep through the gate of love's first 
 dreams. 
 
 The bell in the village steeple commenced to 
 strike again. Gladys would be waiting for him. 
 How he had misjudged dear Gladys ! At that 
 moment there was no room for misconceptions 
 in his heart, no place for wrong in the world. 
 Eight, nine what, ten ? It was too late ; and 
 when had it begun to rain ? He would see 
 Gladys in the morning and explain it all to her. 
 
 But Gladys, trembling at his door, was already 
 beyond the reach of his excuses. 
 
 Schonberg, writing at his table, was roused 
 that evening by the sound of feet on the piazza. 
 He rose with his quill in his hand, when the door 
 opened ; in the entry stood Seraphine. 
 
 " It is you ! " he exclaimed, with a gesture of 
 surprise. 
 
 " Myself." 
 
 Her eyes shone as she offered him her cheek. 
 He touched it with his lips ; it was not a kiss,
 
 236 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 for cheeks so fresh and fair are not made for 
 threescore years. 
 
 " Why, my child, you are wet. It rains ? " 
 
 "It is nothing. Wait." And unfastening 
 the handkerchief about her neck she dried her 
 moist face and hair. " Are you alone ? " The 
 energy of her question caused him to look about 
 the room as if he expected to discover some one. 
 " Ah, you were writing," she said, going to the 
 table and sitting down in his chair. " I disturb 
 you." 
 
 " Not at all," he replied, observing her with 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Come, let us have a little fire ; my feet are 
 wet. Yes, it rains ; " and throwing her hand 
 kerchief on the table she stooped to the hearth 
 and lit the fire. The dry wood blazed up quickly, 
 casting a red light upon her face and bosom. 
 
 " Your feet are wet/' said Schonberg, stand 
 ing over her. 
 
 " I had only my slippers," she replied, hold 
 ing one foot to the flame. 
 
 " What folly, what folly ! " he repeated, en 
 deavoring to assume an air of severity. 
 
 She turned her head and smiled. He had 
 never seen her so exhilarated ; her every attitude 
 betrayed a secret happiness, which escaped, too, 
 in every motion and published itself in the clear 
 but tremulous tones of her voice. A pair of
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 237 
 
 slippers hung beside the fireplace on a nail, 
 an important element in Schonberg's domestic 
 economy, and in an instant she had removed 
 her own and plunged her feet in their cavern 
 ous depths. " You wish to scold me ; I am 
 waiting," she said, drawing out from their huge 
 receptacles one small foot after another, and 
 holding them alternately to the blaze. 
 
 Schonberg walked once or twice across the 
 room, hesitating each time he approached her, 
 and finally sat down again, making a pretense of 
 arranging his papers. 
 
 " Well, you have nothing to scold me for ? " 
 and suddenly, from behind, he felt her arms 
 about his neck and her cheek beside his. 
 
 " No seriously Seraphine " he stam 
 mered, endeavoring to loosen the arms, which 
 caused him a feeling both of pleasure and em 
 barrassment. 
 
 " And am I not serious ? " she whispered. 
 " Tell me, what shall I do to be serious ? Is it 
 forbidden to kiss you ? Answer quickly ... it 
 will be too late " 
 
 " Be reasonable, Seraphine. You have some 
 thing to tell me " 
 
 " Yes, listen," and she drew her arms closer. 
 " Shut your eyes fast 1 am happy, happy, 
 happy." 
 
 He turned in his chair, but only to see her at
 
 238 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 the door, a finger lifted to her lips as if forbid 
 ding him to follow. 
 
 It might have been a dream, but for the hand 
 kerchief on his table and the embers on his 
 hearth. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 When, after leaving Ellen, Rowan found him 
 self alone in the still falling rain, the conviction 
 that he was doing right suddenly deserted him. 
 Under the necessity of action his mind had 
 worked with the lucidity and rapidity of instinct ; 
 now, misgivings and forebodings assailed him. 
 He hurried home, and throwing himself upon 
 the lounge endeavored to collect his thoughts, to 
 satisfy his conscience, to quiet his fears. An 
 hour ago life had been an inexhaustible happi 
 ness. What had he done ? what had happened ? 
 The unfinished face of Gladys looked at him 
 from the canvas reproachfully. He had carried 
 her secretly to her chamber ; all his desire had 
 been to reach that room unobserved. Why ? 
 The reason which had prompted him was au in 
 sult to her. Moreover, he had acted contrary to 
 every conviction ; Iter last words had been of 
 plans for him and Seraphine. Once, perhaps, 
 it might have been so ; but now, pride alone 
 would render it impossible ! Everything was
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 239 
 
 against such a supposition. Oh, a liking, a 
 little pique a love to tease ; but a love to 
 bring her to his door, at his feet, he was a fool 
 to think of it. Yet he had scarcely begun to ex 
 perience the relief this reasoning afforded him, 
 when the certainty under which he had acted 
 returned. Something rose out of those unfin 
 ished eyes, as out of a hungry heart, and took 
 possession of him. It was true, he knew it was 
 true ; and his thought went back to the days 
 when they had first met, when they had parted, 
 when he knew that for the asking 
 
 He got up and began to walk the room. He 
 experienced a feeling of revolt against this love 
 which appropriated his life, revolt and pity. 
 " No, no, it is impossible," he repeated. " She 
 was sick ; mad, mad ! " and an anxiety for what 
 he had done succeeded. Deception was repug 
 nant to him. Why should he assume so grave 
 a responsibility ? Who would comprehend it 
 should the truth become known ? He had given 
 Gladys up to nameless suspicion in pledging 
 Ellen to secrecy, whereas if he had but told 
 Aunt Isabel Why should he not tell her ? and 
 he put on his hat as if to go out. But it was 
 now too late, and Aunt Isabel would think as he 
 did. She had upbraided him once for his blind 
 ness ; he could not count on hers now. No, he 
 had done rightly. Gladys must be saved. She,
 
 240 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 who had uncovered her heart to his eyes, what 
 would she think of him if he called Aunt Isabel 
 to see ? Certainly, she was mad, and his 
 thoughts retraced again the same endless circle. 
 After all, why should he persist in believing 
 what Gladys would herself deny ? This argu 
 ment, so simple, reassured him. She herself 
 would explain how she came there ; why should 
 he attribute such folly to her before she had an 
 opportunity to interpret her own actions ? Nestor 
 had frightened her. ... It was while he was 
 thus thinking that the dog laid its head on his 
 knee with a low whine. Something metallic 
 clicked in Nestor's mouth ; it was Gladys' cross. 
 He had forgotten its existence ; but what its 
 broken circle of fires said to him caused him to 
 cover his face with his hands. It was true, it 
 was true ! 
 
 In one thought alone he found an intense re 
 lief. He would tell Seraphine all. 
 
 Worn out with anxiety, Eowan had fallen 
 asleep at last on the lounge, but a succession of 
 disordered fancies had robbed slumber of rest. 
 Now it was Gladys' pale face he lifted on his 
 shoulder ; now he struggled for breath on the 
 slippery sod ; then he saw that face still, an 
 invincible force closing its blue eyes forever, till, 
 changing mysteriously, it disappeared, and there 
 Was Seraphine's in its place, smiling sadly.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 241 
 
 When he awoke the sun was shining warmly 
 after the rain. So gayly did the birds sing in 
 the branches outside the window they almost per 
 suaded him there was nothing to fear. He looked 
 at his watch, it was eight o'clock, made 
 a hurried toilette, and hastened to The Towers. 
 
 On the way he encountered Schonberg, in ex 
 cellent spirits. 
 
 " You are going to The Towers ? Tell your 
 cousin the day is fine, and the river is calling 
 her." 
 
 Rowan looked at him, without understanding 
 a word. 
 
 " We are going on the river, that is all," said 
 Schonberg. 
 
 " Mrs. Temple will not be able to go to-day. 
 She is not well." 
 
 " Not well ? " said Schonberg, with surprise. 
 " What is the matter ? " 
 
 " I am going to see," and Rowan hurried on. 
 
 As he approached the house all his fears came 
 back again. The curtains of Gladys' chamber 
 were drawn, and Margaret, who carried his 
 message to Aunt Isabel, spoke in a whisper. 
 Waiting in the library, into which the sun 
 struggled through the crevices of the closed 
 blinds, he remembered the day when his mother 
 lay there, there, where the table stood. It 
 seemed to him. as if the strong perfume of flow-
 
 242 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 ers filled the room again, and the voice he did 
 not then understand was repeating the words, 
 " In such an hour as ye think not." Years of 
 sunlight had not driven that shadow out of his 
 heart. 
 
 Aunt Isabel was not one to wring her hands, 
 but her face, haggard with anxiety and wakeful- 
 ness, appalled him. It wore that expression of 
 impotence so profound that it does not ask for 
 help, but appeals only for sympathy. 
 
 " Is Gladys very sick ? " he asked. 
 
 Aunt Isabel was sitting in her armchair, a 
 little pot of coffee beside her, which exhaled a 
 delicious fragrance. 
 
 " What does the doctor say?" he asked again, 
 for she had made no reply. 
 
 " The little he can." 
 
 He walked to the window, and looked out 
 upon the lawn, spread with wet webs sparkling 
 in the sun. 
 
 " Do you mean there is really danger ? " 
 
 " My God ! She played chess with me here 
 at this table last evening," said the old lady, 
 looking at the table vacantly, without seeming 
 to hear his question. " Why did you not come 
 last night ? " she asked, abruptly. " She ex 
 pected you. A little headache ; who would have 
 thought it, who would have thought it ! " 
 
 " What can I do ? " said Rowan, feeling that 
 he could do nothing.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 243 
 
 " One must eat and sleep," moaned the old 
 lady to herself, sipping her coffee. 
 
 " Have you sent for Mr. Temple ? " 
 
 She made a sign of assent. Evidently she 
 suspected nothing. Gladys' secret was safe. 
 
 " Tell me what I can do," he repeated. 
 
 " Nothing. No one can do anything ; that is 
 the pity of it, to sit and wait." 
 
 It was on his lips to tell her ; but what would 
 be gained ? 
 
 " Can you take Mabel with you this morn- 
 
 ing?'; 
 
 " Why, certainly," he said, quickly. 
 
 " Yes, amuse her ; tell her stories. I will send 
 her to you on the terrace." 
 
 He opened the door softly, and went out on 
 tiptoe. Ellen was coming up the stairs. " If 
 she wakes, tell her nothing is known," he said 
 to her. Ellen's significant eyes annoyed him. 
 Why should he feel guilty ? It was Gladys' se 
 cret, not his ; and yet, walking down the avenue 
 with Mabel's hand in his, a persistent voice with 
 which he could not reason reproached him. It 
 was not the voice of conscience, but of Gladys, 
 the Gladys of long ago, and he could not 
 silence it. The thought of Seraphine, to whom 
 he was going, made him almost angry with 
 Gladys. Meanwhile, Mabel's little hand in his 
 said to him, Love does not reason; it appro 
 priates.
 
 244 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " Mamma is not well, Mabel," he said, with an 
 effort to shake himself free. " How would you 
 like to come with me for a row on the river ? " 
 
 " I would," said Mabel. " What makes 
 mamma sick ? " she asked, as they went on. 
 
 "I don't know," said Rowan, looking down 
 on her yellow hair. 
 
 " When we come home she '11 be better prob 
 ably," she replied, with an air of complete satis 
 faction. " Probably " was one of Mabel's latest 
 acquisitions, which she took especial pleasure in 
 putting to use. " May I swing on the gate ? 
 Mamma lets me." 
 
 " You may do anything your mamma lets 
 you." 
 
 She ran ahead, her hair floating out under her 
 straw hat, and, pushing back the heavy iron gate, 
 swung herself on the lower bar, laughing tri 
 umphantly. " Bang ! " she shouted, squeezing 
 her eyes together as it closed noisily. 
 
 " Wait for me here," said Rowan, crossing 
 the street to the Flemings'. 
 
 The door was wide open, and, in the chamber 
 above, he heard Elize singing : 
 
 " The bee with his comb, 
 
 The mouse at her dray, 
 The grub in its tomb, 
 Wile winter away ; 
 
 But the firefly and hedge-shrew and lob-worm, I pray, 
 How fare they ? "
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 245 
 
 He stood for a moment undecided, when he 
 heard Seraphine's step coming down the stairs, 
 and all the beauty and freshness of the morning 
 came back again. The momentary hesitation of 
 her foot on the stair, the flush of surprise on her 
 cheek, he did not see, but only those limpid eyes 
 which replied to the happiness that filled his 
 heart. They told him she had given herself 
 without reserve out of her hands, but something 
 more than the song growing nearer on the floor 
 above made him wonder at what he had dared 
 the night before. 
 
 "My cousin Gladys is very sick," he said, 
 " and I am going to care for Mabel to-day. I 
 have promised to take her on the river ; will you 
 come with us ? Come," he whispered, as Elize 
 appeared at the head of the stairs. 
 
 " Wait for me on the piazza. We are going 
 on the river," she said to Elize. "Will you 
 come ? " 
 
 Elize glanced from Seraphine to Rowan. 
 " How can I ? I 'm the mouse at her dray, the 
 bee with his comb, to-day. You see, Mr. Fer 
 guson," she said, with an explanatory gesture, 
 " housekeeping is unending honey-making, and 
 winter comes three times a day ; that is the rea 
 son Seraphine and I take turns at the comb. Not 
 with absolute regularity, you know," she added, 
 laughing at her own impromptu, and recollecting
 
 246 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 that she had intended to pass the day on the 
 river herself ; " in fact, it 's a plan I just thought 
 of ; but you approve of it, don't you ? " 
 
 "It is certainly a just one." 
 
 " I did not intend it to be simply just, but 
 also generous," said Elize, significantly. " Be 
 sides, Seraphine and I have completed our grub 
 state, you know. We shall have our wings pres 
 ently, and then ! " and sitting down on the 
 doorstep, Elize made another gesture, signifying 
 possibilities unspeakable. 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Kowan. 
 
 " Has n't Seraphine told you ? " she exclaimed, 
 with genuine surprise. 
 
 "Told me what?" 
 
 " Do you really mean I shall have to sing 
 you another song from Browning, about Kate, 
 the queen ; do you remember ? ' But that for 
 tune should have thrust all this upon her ! ' Did 
 you ever hear of Dinant ? " she asked, enjoying 
 his bewilderment. " Dinant in Flanders. Ser 
 aphine and I are going to invade Flanders, and 
 open the campaign at Dinant." 
 
 " What are you going to Dinant for, Miss 
 Fleming?" said Rowan, sitting down on the 
 step beside her. 
 
 " What brought you to Ashurst, Mr. Fergu 
 son?" 
 
 " Sentiment, partly ; this was my home "
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 247 
 
 ""Well, sentiment will take us to Dinant. 
 Sentiment and the rest." 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 " Why should you ? It is not your fault ; it 's 
 a fairy tale. Don't you remember any stories 
 of princesses wandering about in dark woods, 
 like those you painted, but real princesses, 
 only disguised in rags, you know ? Here comes 
 Seraphine ; ask her. Perhaps when you are 
 alone, in the middle of the river, where Ashurst 
 cannot hear you, Ashurst, that despises ances 
 tors, except Puritan ones, of course, perhaps 
 then she will tell you ; " and with a good-by, like 
 the dart the banderillo plants in the bull as he 
 leaps the barrier, with a smile for its flaunting 
 flag, Elize disappeared in the house. 
 
 xxxin. 
 
 Rowan called Mabel, and the three went down 
 the road to the boat-house. 
 
 In the sky above not a trace of the storm of 
 the night before remained. The road was wet 
 and muddy, with pools of yellow water; but in 
 the fields and the woods, fresh from their rain- 
 bath, a world of life was astir. A striped squir 
 rel ran ahead on the fence-rails, and a bluebird 
 preened itself on the post; the wayside was
 
 248 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 alive with little brown sparrows, fluttering at 
 their approach out of leafy ambushes to sway on 
 bending weeds. In the air was a bracing fresh 
 ness, just a touch of winter ahead, and 
 among the pines on the hill-slopes patches of 
 flaming oaks, interspersed with yellow mists of 
 maple leaves. As they reached the boat-house, 
 up the river, in short, wary flights, came a belted 
 kingfisher with his metallic scream. 
 
 He did not speak except by furtive glances, to 
 which Seraphine replied sometimes with a smile 
 of happiness. Since the night before she was no 
 longer the same woman to him, and in these 
 quick glances he saw those little things which 
 marked her off from all others, and which were 
 inexpressibly dear to him. She wore her crim 
 son dress ; was it accident or design ? 
 
 " AVhat is it Elize means by your going away ? " 
 said he, while Mabel, on the float, was endeav 
 oring to push the boat into the water. 
 
 " I had forgotten all that," she replied. 
 
 " All what, Seraphine ? " 
 
 " You know my mother was an exile here, but 
 we have just received news of our grandfather's 
 death, and that we Money is a very neces 
 sary thing," she said, looking up into his face ; 
 "but it isn't worth talking about." 
 
 " Are n't you going to get in ? " teased Mabel, 
 tugging at his hand.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 249 
 
 They went down on the float silently. 
 
 " You will not only have to care for me, but 
 mine," said Seraphine, as steadying herself with 
 his hand she took her seat in the stern. He 
 pulled a few strokes out of the flags into the 
 open water which rippled from the prow, where 
 Mabel leaned over, with eyes divided between 
 the treasures of the water deeps and the image 
 of her own curly head on its surface. " This is 
 to be our life : you at the oar, I at the rudder. 
 What does it matter if the currents are with us ? " 
 
 " ' But that fortune should have thrust all this 
 upon her,' " he repeated. 
 
 " All what, Rowan ? Things we do not care 
 the most for ? " And in saying this she thought 
 how the world had changed for her since she 
 talked of Dinant with Schonberg. 
 
 " I can see two skies," cried Mabel, with her 
 head over the rail, " and fishes ! " 
 
 " When do you go ? " 
 
 " I do not know," she replied, lifting her eyes 
 and letting them fall again. 
 
 " Dr. Schonberg goes with you ? " 
 
 " Of course," she said quickly. 
 
 " But, Seraphine " He ceased rowing and 
 leaned forward. " I cannot let you go you 
 know that well " 
 
 A deep color overspread her face. " Will you 
 promise not to speak of it again, if I answer you 
 now?"
 
 250 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 " In Dinant I will be your wife," she said. 
 
 He stood up in the boat. " Why don't you 
 row ? " said Mabel, who suddenly found herself 
 in Rowan's arms and heard him say, "I will 
 row you to the end of the world." But to her 
 he could not utter a word. For a long time he 
 feared even to meet her eyes ; what she had 
 spoken clothed her with sanctity. When at last 
 he regained possession of himself, it was to talk 
 of Dinant, of her mother, and of Schonberg; 
 uttering everything but his thoughts, thoughts 
 of which she nevertheless was conscious. 
 
 The boat had drifted into the flags again, and 
 Mabel, leaning over the side, was pulling at the 
 stems. " See ! " she cried, climbing over the 
 thwart and depositing her wet and muddy tro 
 phies in Seraphine's lap, " these are for you." 
 
 Notwithstanding Rowan's determination to tell 
 Seraphine what had taken place, he found it 
 more difficult than he had foreseen. His impulse 
 was still to confide all to her ; but love, in its 
 first experience of happiness beyond the reach 
 of trouble, trembles at the proving offices of coun 
 selor and friend. To withhold anything from 
 her was repugnant to him. " Why should I ? " he 
 thought. Aunt Isabel, Jack, for Gladys' sake 
 he might deceive ; but Seraphine ! Free from 
 blame, why should he deceive her ? And yet it
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 did not seem now so easy to explain as before. 
 Even if there were no blame, it is praise, not 
 acquittal, we ask from love. Was he about to 
 inflict a pain to satisfy a sentiment ? And there 
 was Gladys; had generosity nothing for her? 
 Certainly if he was blameless, it was not a duty ; 
 and if only a pleasure, was it not a cruel one ? 
 
 On the homeward way they had stopped in 
 the tea-house, as if to wait there were to arrest 
 that fast-flying day. 
 
 " Seraphine," said Rowan, suddenly, " you 
 have a right to know everything in my life, and 
 have I none to your help and counsel ? " She 
 looked up with surprise, though she had been 
 conscious of something she did not know what 
 to come. Then he told her of his return home 
 the evening before, and all that had transpired. 
 But he could not stop there. There was a be 
 ginning as well as an end. He must go back, 
 way back to the day when Aunt Isabel had sar 
 castically observed that she " could forgive a 
 woman for loving, but not a man for not know 
 ing it." That was years ago : he was a boy 
 then, and she a girl. How could he know that 
 in coming back . . . for Gladys was married. 
 He stopped as if Gladys had risen from the bed 
 where he had laid her, and with a look had struck 
 him dumb. 
 
 Seraphine had not uttered a word. It had
 
 252 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 seemed so simple to live and love ; now, noth 
 ing was safe or sure. A pang of she would 
 not own it jealousy, for to first love jealousy, 
 the index of its strength, seems to announce 
 its end. A strange pity, too, mingled with her 
 indignation against this woman, wife and 
 mother ! who had invaded the sanctity of her 
 life. 
 
 " Seraphine," said Rowan, holding her hand 
 fast in his, " I had to tell you. If you should 
 have known it in some other way, how could I 
 have explained, even if I had kept it for your 
 sake ? But that is not the reason ; I can have 
 nothing from you. It would never have been if 
 I could have loved any one but you. Can 
 you not forgive me for confiding ? I do not say 
 confessing, it would not be true. I do not say 
 that it makes no difference, it does. After last 
 night nothing will ever be the same but you." 
 
 He was right ; there was nothing to forgive. 
 If there only had been, her heart would have 
 overflowed with tears. The blight for which we 
 are not to blame is the cruelest, the cause to which 
 we can least attach responsibility the most tragic. 
 For the first time some unseen hand unrolled 
 before her the web of good and evil, unveiled 
 the chaos of atoms which cannot get out of each 
 other's way. No man liveth to himself ; we are 
 always between some one and the sun.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 253 
 
 She rose to her feet, disengaging her hand ; 
 it felt strangely in his. 
 
 " You are not displeased with me, Sera- 
 phine ? " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Have I done rightly ? " 
 
 She made another sign with her head, and 
 they walked on side by side. 
 
 " Seraphine, you love me you are not going 
 to leave me so without a word," he said as 
 they reached the porch. 
 
 A sad smile passed over her lips. If she had 
 not loved, there had been no pain. " A word, 
 Rowan ? I have spoken it it can never be 
 taken back, but " 
 
 " But what, Seraphine ? Tell me." She stood 
 close beside him, and was so far away. " I 
 know I have given you pain, I who would 
 Phrases ! " he said, looking down, " they are not 
 for you." 
 
 " But I love them," she whispered. 
 
 " Tell me you are happy," he said eagerly, 
 secure again in her caressing smile. 
 
 She stood just above him, twisting the dark 
 clusters on the woodbine climbing the post. " It 
 seems as if we were dreaming yesterday. I was 
 above everything ; but now " 
 
 " Seraphine ! " he exclaimed, as if he would 
 bury the words before they could be spoken in
 
 254 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 the sound of her own name. But he understood 
 her. The purple berries fell from her hand on 
 his shoulder ; she brushed them away softly, and 
 went in the house. As he walked down the path 
 with Mabel dancing like a butterfly in the sun, 
 that touch of her hand on his shoulder was 
 sweeter than reconciling words.- 
 
 " Seraphine," said Elize that evening, tying 
 the ribbon in her braid before the glass, " if it 
 were all a mistake, and we were not going back 
 to Dinant, would n't you be disappointed ? " 
 
 " No," replied Seraphine hesitatingly. 
 
 " I should," said Elize, " miserably so. As it 
 is, I am uncomfortably happy. This little room 
 of ours we are going to leave reproaches me. It 
 is almost as if when one is happy one ought not 
 to ask why " And fastening the buttons on 
 her long night-dress, Elize rose and knelt down 
 beside the bed. 
 
 " Certainly one ought to thank God for being 
 happy," she said, rising from her knees, " but it 
 seems terribly like thanking Him that we are 
 not as others are." She got into bed, her eyes 
 fixed upon the picture on the wall above, the 
 chateau of Walzins, overhanging the Lesse, 
 which stole between the rock and the meadows, 
 with shadowy forms of wall and turret, cress 
 and yellow iris, on its limpid surface. " What 
 do you think uncle said to me the other day ?
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 255 
 
 That our happiness is always a drop of honey 
 distilled from others' pain. Do you believe 
 it?" 
 
 " How could I be happy if I did?" said Sera- 
 phine. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 When Rowan returned with Mabel, James 
 was in the garden covering the flowers in anti 
 cipation of an unseasonable frost. From him 
 Rowan learned that Jack had arrived, and that 
 the physician summoned from the city was ex 
 pected on the last evening train. No one was 
 on the terrace, and the house was still. On the 
 way back he called on the village doctor, but he 
 was not at home. 
 
 In the morning he returned again. The 
 library door was open, but no one was within 
 sight or hearing. The open door, the chairs 
 under the awning, the closed blinds above, all 
 betokened a profound indifference to the outside 
 world. He waited awhile on the terrace, fear 
 ing to disturb this silence, and endeavoring to 
 extract from the signs about him some good 
 augury. At last, impatient with anxiety, he 
 went in. Jack's hat was on the table. He 
 opened the door into the hall softly, and ascend 
 ing the stairs followed the long corridor leading
 
 256 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 to Aunt Isabel's chamber. He was about to 
 knock when he heard voices within, - the high, 
 angry one of his aunt, and another expostulat 
 ing and broken with sobbing. On the point of 
 returning, suddenly the door opened, and Ellen 
 came out. Her eyes were red with weeping, and 
 Aunt Isabel, trembling with excitement, con 
 fronted him. 
 
 " Ah, it is you ! " she cried. " This is very 
 well ; oh, yes, this is capital ! " 
 
 He looked from her shining eyes to Ellen, who 
 hung her head as if wishing to hide herself from 
 him. 
 
 " Well ! why do you stand there ? You wish 
 to hatch more misery ? " The sound of her voice, 
 breaking the silence of the house, more than what 
 she said, caused him a sort of terror, and he en 
 tered the room quickly, closing the door behind 
 him. " ' Tell your mistress nothing is known,' " 
 said Aunt Isabel derisively ; " you should have 
 told her while she could listen, before killing 
 her." 
 
 He turned pale, and advanced towards her, 
 trembling. 
 
 " Is Gladys dead ? " 
 
 " Is it any fault of yours if she is not ? 
 Heavens 1 and yesterday you were here asking 
 questions, playing the innocent, you who knew 
 everything ! "
 
 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 257 
 
 " What do you mean ? " he faltered, knowing 
 perfectly well what she meant, and conscious 
 that what he said was an absurdity. 
 
 " Oh, deny nothing ; it is too late ! " cried the 
 old lady, walking the room and moving aim 
 lessly the objects on her mantel and dressing- 
 table without knowing what she was doing. He 
 had never seen her in such a state. Her lips 
 trembled with words she could not articulate, 
 and her sentences were finished with gestures. 
 " It is too late ; Ellen has confessed everything. 
 So you intrigue with servants ! After such a 
 night with the mother, you amuse the child with 
 stories ! Great God ! and He permits such 
 things ! Yes, yes, I understand everything," 
 she continued, arresting the exclamation on his 
 lips. " We bury ourselves in a house out of the 
 way. We shut ourselves up there with a woman 
 who once loved us, to paint her portrait. And 
 I, Heaven pardon me ! I believe this rub 
 bish ! this innocent, whose good actions are paid 
 in five-hundred-franc notes ! " 
 
 " You are mad," said Rowan. He knew her 
 explosive nature, and addressed these words to 
 himself as if to remonstrate with his own rising 
 anger. 
 
 " And we have meetings at night," she went 
 on, without heeding him ; " we bribe honest ser 
 vants ; we play with things we do not under-
 
 258 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 stand, with fire. Why did you not brihe the 
 fire ? Do you know that fire burns ? "Well, 
 honestly, I believe not. How should a fool 
 know anything ! Where was Gladys night be 
 fore last ? " she said, turning suddenly upon 
 him. 
 
 " If you mean where did I find her," he re 
 plied, trying to speak calmly, " I found her at 
 my doorstep." 
 
 " If I mean ! At your doorstep ! Marvelous ! 
 God forgive me, but in my time men were at 
 least men. So you found her, a fine story ; 
 found her, and at your doorstep ! And this 
 is all you have to say ! " 
 
 " Till you are reasonable enough to listen." 
 
 " Reasonable ! " The word was fuel to her 
 unreason. " First destroy, ravage, trample under 
 foot, and then you will be reasonable. You are 
 like the rest, first passion, and afterwards 
 reflection." She turned her back upon him, 
 muttering to herself and adjusting her cap be 
 fore the glass, and, finally, sitting down in her 
 chair, took hold of its arms tightly. " Yes, let 
 us be reasonable ; let us try and save some 
 thing," she said, despairingly. 
 
 Rowan looked at her without the power of 
 saying a word. Hers stung and stupefied him. 
 It was like a nightmare. 
 
 " Well, begin ; but have a care," said Aunt
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 259 
 
 Isabel. " I am not a child to be amused with 
 stories ; and after what has happened " 
 
 " What has happened ? " he interrupted, los 
 ing patience. " What happened years ago when 
 Gladys I do not accuse her, but you know as 
 well as I. I was the hundredth fly in the web, 
 spread unconsciously, let us say, and I 
 escaped ! " 
 
 "Oh, the fine distance ! " muttered Aunt Isa 
 bel. " With time men become gods." 
 
 " Fire ! Who was it played with fire ? An 
 swer me." 
 
 " And he does not accuse her ; he forgives 
 her ! " she muttered again, sarcastically. 
 
 He made a gesture of helplessness. "It is 
 useless," he said, turning away. 
 
 "Rowan," she exclaimed piteously, following 
 him with her eyes, " night before last Gladys 
 was here. She played chess with me at this 
 table." Her voice trembled and softened. " She 
 had a headache. What does that signify ? Yes 
 terday she was going with Mabel to the yacht ; 
 her trunks wero ready. There is something, 
 something you have not told me. Let us not 
 trifle with each other, Rowan." 
 
 His anger rose as hers fell. 
 
 " What can I tell you, who divine everything? 
 I have said I found Gladys at my door. Lis 
 ten." The supplication of her eyes touched
 
 260 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 him, and, sitting down beside her, he took her 
 hand and told her all : of his first interview 
 with his cousin, the discovery of Seraphine's por 
 trait, everything that had passed between them. 
 Sitting silently in her chair, her eyes fixed on 
 the floor, he saw that sh%was listening eagerly. 
 " Who could foresee this ? You knew I was to 
 return ; you yourself would have been glad to 
 have me here, in this house. Why did I bribe 
 servants ? Ask yourself, you are a woman. 
 I know what I have to do now," he said, stand 
 ing before her : " I have to go. That is not 
 much : if I hated her, I could do no less ; if I 
 loved her, no more. It is ignominious." 
 
 She looked at him mournfully. " Yes, go." 
 There was a bitterness in the tones of her voice. 
 " There may yet toll a bell here, and the sound 
 is not pleasant ; and I will stay there is the 
 husband to be deceived. At my age, lies and 
 acting ! but one must think of others. Yes, 
 go ; that is right, by all means. As you say, 
 there is no help for it. You will go with Miss 
 Fleming. In time you will forget it, and she 
 will not know it." 
 
 Her words seemed to have lost the power to 
 wound him. He saw the love from which they 
 were wrung. 
 
 "You are mistaken. She knows it, and we 
 shall not forget it."
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 261 
 
 "You have told her?" 
 
 " Because I love her," he replied laconically. 
 
 " He has told her ! " muttered the old lady 
 to herself. " What folly ! And because he 
 loves her ! " She was no longer speaking to 
 him ; her eyes fixed on her hands, tying and 
 untying the strings of her cap, she seemed to 
 have lost all consciousness of his presence. 
 
 " And the trunks were all ready," he heard 
 her say, as he went out the door. 
 
 Ellen was still in the corridor. 
 
 " Go in," he said to her. " She will forgive 
 you." 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Jack was coming down from his room, in the 
 hotel he frequented while the city house was 
 closed for the summer, when the hall-boy gave 
 him his morning paper and letters. He took 
 them with a nod, and descended the stairs to 
 the rotunda with that air of physical well-being 
 which belongs to health between the morning 
 toilet and breakfast. Threading his way among 
 the crowd going and coming in the open space 
 before the office, with an occasional word to an 
 acquaintance, and a glance at the bulletin-board 
 to see that the weather promised fair for the 
 Vixen, he entered the breakfast-room, where
 
 262 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 the table in the farther corner, commanding a 
 view of the door and the street, was reserved for 
 him as usual. While the waiter, familiar with 
 his tastes, for Jack had long since passed the 
 callow period when a menu is a source of per 
 plexity, was gone for breakfast, he glanced at 
 the head-lines of the columns, ran his eye over 
 the stock market, then, laying his paper on the 
 window-sill, began to take the ice from the 
 melon before him. His mail still remained 
 where he had placed it, beside his plate. The 
 melon finished, he took up the pile and examined 
 the postmarks leisurely. Between a blue enve 
 lope from Messina and a yellow one from the 
 city he found a large white one, of a square 
 form, which he honored by opening immediately. 
 If its contents surprised him, there was no evi 
 dence of the fact other than that, after finishing 
 it, he held it open in his hand, with his eyes on 
 the unending throng hurrying by the window, 
 till the arrival of breakfast disturbed his re 
 flections. The only visible outcome of Gladys' 
 announcement was a list of stores, made out at 
 intervals, and destined to supplement, on her 
 account, the somewhat plain bill of fare which 
 sufficed for his sea appetite. This detail com 
 pleted, he gathered up his letters, ordered a car 
 riage to meet Gladys' train, and passed out into 
 the vestibule of the main entrance. It was
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 263 
 
 here, while lighting his cigar, that he received 
 Aunt Isabel's dispatch. He looked at his watch, 
 countermanded his order for the carriage, and, 
 hailing a passing cab, drove rapidly to the 
 Ashurst station. 
 
 Jack had always been credited with opinions 
 he did not entertain, and tastes he did not pos 
 sess. The tolerance with which he viewed the 
 actions of others was attributed to an indul 
 gence which did not, however, extend to his own. 
 Elastic in his judgments, Jack was really quite 
 inflexible in his principles; but he applied them 
 do much more rigorously to himself than to 
 others that what deserved the name of character 
 passed for a happy combination of common sense 
 and good nature. He was called lucky, yet he 
 had no more faith in luck than the savage has. 
 Confidence in his luck was so great, however, 
 that in the currents of business life, among the 
 whirlpools of speculation, people tied to him as 
 to a barge moored midstream. 
 
 He belonged, by social position, to a society 
 he could not ignore, and which could not ignore 
 him. But society was generally thought to be 
 a bore to him, while in reality he enjoyed it in 
 his silent way, like the flavor of a good cigar. 
 It was astonishing how many people counted 
 him their own particular friend. He never 
 spoke of himself, a source of popularity few
 
 264 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 discover. He was not very " well read," and 
 therefore had no second-hand information to 
 distribute ; but the results of his own observa 
 tion and experience would sometimes ripple 
 forth with the freshness and force of truth 
 itself. Even the coquette liked Jack, while 
 sparing him; he was too sincere to see that 
 form of art, and, as Gladys said to Aunt Isabel 
 after the ball where she first met him, " deli- 
 ciously unconscious of his own qualities." . 
 
 While riding to Ashurst with Aunt Isabel's dis 
 patch in his pocket, it was not unnatural that he 
 should recall that first night he saw Gladys. He 
 could see her now : her small face just pensive 
 and spirituelle enough to give the rather strik 
 ing toilette its piquancy, the blue eyes filled to 
 the brim with sadness, all the more effective be 
 cause Gladys was never sad and the small mouth 
 beneath them was always on the* edge of a smile. 
 He remembered, too, how, when summer came, 
 Gladys, who detested sailing as he did lying at 
 anchor, had arranged for a dinner on the Vixen 
 with so naive a timidity and so peremptory an 
 insistence that for the first time in his life he 
 could not tell whether the act was his own or 
 not. And this recollection brought to mind a 
 cloud of white lace enveloped in a Moorish shawl, 
 to which he had made a speech on that occasion 
 whose intensity of purpose, lack of deliberation,
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 65 
 
 and deficiency in logical form had so surprised 
 him. 
 
 " Miss Ferguson, I have always had an ideal 
 of woman which you do not in the least fulfill 
 . . . but I love you ; can you be my wife ? " 
 
 " Then you despair of meeting your ideal, Mr. 
 Temple ? " said Gladys, with a smile in her 
 eyes like the moonbeams in the water. 
 
 " I have never looked for it." 
 
 " So you start with ideals and finish with . . . 
 idols," and Gladys, sitting on the bowsprit, with 
 the Moorish spangles glittering in the moonshine/ 
 looked up into his face. " A very bad exchange ; 
 people who make^ idols spend their life in keep 
 ing them in repair." 
 
 " You have not answered me, Miss Ferguson." 
 
 " They will say I arranged this party with an 
 object," said Gladys, very gravely. " Oh, I am 
 not trifling in the least," she added quickly, in 
 terpreting his eyes. 
 
 " That is a trifle," Jack interrupted somewhat 
 impetuously. 
 
 " But I do not love you, Mr. Temple." And 
 Gladys opened her eyes wide with a look of re 
 monstrance, and spread her hands with a gesture 
 of helplessness. 
 
 " If you don't, there 's no use trying," said 
 Jack. His reply was half a question, for in 
 spite of Gladys' rather discouraging remark he 
 felt no inclination to abandon the subject.
 
 266 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " You scorn to appeal to ethical motives ! " 
 said Gladys a little mockingly ; yet he did not 
 think she was teasing him. 
 
 " I am afraid there are none to appeal to in 
 this case, Miss Ferguson. Love them that hate 
 you is the commandment." 
 
 " Oh, we surpass the commandment ; we can 
 even love them we hate," and Gladys shut her 
 small lips tightly. " I have not sought this in 
 terview, have I, Mr. Temple ? " she exclaimed 
 suddenly. 
 
 " God forbid ! " said Jack, energetically. 
 
 " But I 'm quite capable of it. What was it 
 I heard a very . . . oh, a ve%y dear friend of 
 mine saying to you, the one you took to din 
 ner to-night "... 
 
 What this very dear friend had said was that 
 Rowan, who had just sailed for Europe, in es 
 caping from Gladys' net had apparently torn it 
 badly. 
 
 "I told you I didn't care what they say," 
 replied Jack. 
 
 " Not even if it were true ? " 
 
 " Never when I succeed," said Jack hon 
 estly. 
 
 She looked up. It was impossible to tell which 
 had the upper hand, the sadness or the smile. 
 Perhaps Gladys was responsible for neither, and 
 had inherited them with her eyes and mouth ;
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 267 
 
 for how could one have two such moods at the 
 same time ? 
 
 " How foolish would you dare to be ? " she 
 said, unfastening- a rose from the cluster at her 
 throat, and dropping one of its leaves over the 
 rail. "Enough to risk success on its turning 
 twice? Quick" . . . 
 
 "Yes," said Jack, watching its fall. 
 
 "Three times," laughed Gladys as it touched 
 the water. 
 
 " Try once more, Miss Ferguson." 
 
 " It is n't necessary," said Gladys, giving him 
 the rose. " Come, you and I are neglecting our 
 guests." 
 
 " Aunt Isabel," said Gladys that evening with 
 a firmness which announced an important deci 
 sion, " I am going to marry " 
 
 " To be married ! " 
 
 " No," said Gladys, " to marry." 
 
 The reasons which had prevented Aunt Isabel 
 from entering what she called " the double state " 
 had not controlled her aspirations for Gladys. 
 It was difficult, however, to urge her wishes 
 without admitting that she served as a warning 
 rather than as an example. But the old lady 
 knew all the symptoms of love's malady, though, 
 as she said, she had never died of it, and inti 
 mated in a somewhat excited manner, as she ad 
 justed her cap, that, while the announcement was
 
 268 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 sudden, she was much pleased and had foreseen 
 it for some time. 
 
 " Foreseen what ? " said Gladys, tranquilly. 
 Aunt Isabel's eyes shone with conscious superi 
 ority. " I think it was quite unpremeditated on 
 Mr. Temple's part, and I am sure it was on 
 mine." 
 
 " Gladys Ferguson," exclaimed Aunt Isabel, 
 grasping the situation with her customary rapid 
 ity, "you are doing what you know you will 
 regret. You do not consult my judgment, 
 let that pass ; but you might consult your own 
 conscience, not to say heart." 
 
 " Don't let us be personal," said Gladys, softly 
 but firmly. 
 
 " Personal ! " 
 
 " Mr. Temple knows what people say," inter 
 rupted Gladys, " and is quite as indifferent as I 
 am." 
 
 "Which you are not" interjected her aunt, 
 wrathfully. 
 
 " Furthermore, I told him I did not love him." 
 
 " The more fool he " - 
 
 " If everybody 's a fool, you must n't expect so 
 much wisdom," pursued Gladys. " Mr. Temple 
 has consulted the auguries, as Caesar did : don't 
 you remember the story, how the bird had no 
 heart ? But Caesar persisted, and Mr. Temple 
 follows his example."
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 269 
 
 Aunt Isabel easily lost her temper with Gla 
 dys ; but there were farther limits to her iras 
 cibility, beyond which she passed into a state of 
 scorn whose silence was annihilating. 
 
 " You have no objection to Mr. Temple, have 
 you? " asked Gladys, following her aunt with her 
 eyes as she moved about the room, grimly mak 
 ing her preparations for the night. Aunt Isa 
 bel's only reply was an expressive pull at the bell 
 which summoned Ellen. Gladys sighed, and 
 gathered up the long pins which had secured her 
 wrappings, and which during the conversation 
 had been accumulating in her lap. 
 
 " If your suppositions were correct, Aunt Isa 
 bel," she said, at the door, "you ought to be 
 more pitiful than angry. It 's too bad to have a 
 relapse when one is convalescent." 
 
 It was very aggravating to Aunt Isabel to 
 know that Gladys at that very instant was ex 
 ceedingly bewitching, standing in the doorway, 
 with a wound in her heart and a half-repentant, 
 half-willful smile on her lips. But she continued 
 her preparations with a scornful indifference so 
 far superior to frowns or anger that Gladys 
 closed the door. 
 
 Jack had sought this interview as little as Gla 
 dys, though he know when he first saw her that 
 evening what he was going to do. But, musing 
 over his cigar that night, he was not in the least 
 surprised at what had happened.
 
 270 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 How many such moments in life, when, uncon 
 scious of any single final decision, we know, nev 
 ertheless, that it has been made ! The very cur 
 rents which solicited us when choice was possible 
 act at last mechanically, the inertia of our own 
 indecision becomes a momentum, and we realize 
 that we are passing the edge of the rapid into 
 the dead water which hugs the shore, or the tide 
 which overhangs the fall. 
 
 The anxiety and apprehension of Jack's ride 
 to Ashurst were not diminished by the fact that 
 the consequences of this rash act, so unique in 
 his life, had belied all the business principles 
 which in other respects governed it. For he had 
 been unreservedly happy with Gladys. Of this 
 there was no doubt ; men may be content with 
 only the reputation for wisdom, but never with 
 the reputation for being happy. The better he 
 knew her, the more he respected her. For every 
 fault she had some balancing virtue. She was 
 fond of society, but was mistress of a house 
 whose affairs went on with the order and regu 
 larity of clockwork. He had a great admiration 
 for this delicate, sensitive spring, quivering at 
 the slightest touch, yet driving the wheels with 
 an apparently inexhaustible supply of nervous 
 energy. Gladys enjoyed trifles and trifling, but 
 on all important issues was sincerity and truth 
 fulness itself. He never felt the desire to con-
 
 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 271 
 
 trol her, because the need out of which desire 
 arises was absolutely lacking. In his ideal there 
 had been an attractive element of weakness and 
 dependence, due perhaps to his strong physique 
 and warm heart ; he had always secretly longed 
 to protect and shelter something, and while Gla 
 dys at times threw herself upon his judgment, 
 and gave him her hand in difficult or giddy 
 places in a way which gratified this longing be 
 yond expectation, she could also walk alone with 
 an independence which raised his love from sen 
 timentality to worship. He had never been 
 more free than since his marriage. Doubtless 
 money had permitted Gladys to save him from 
 some of the worries incidental to his new duties, 
 yet he had the feeling that were they living in a 
 garret, matters would go on in about the same 
 orderly manner. Others had also been won by 
 this balance of Gladys' qualities. She disarmed 
 envy by kindness ; originality took all the sting 
 out of her eccentricities, and brilliancy all the 
 poison out of her malice. She had told him with 
 a fearlessness and a frankness that failed to in 
 spire the least alarm that her "very dear friend" 
 was entirely right, and that she had loved her 
 cousin as much as, under the circumstances, her 
 pride would allow ; she added that she had no 
 further belief in love, and straightway fulfilled 
 all love's offices in so charming a manner that,
 
 272 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 while Jack believed her confession, he had no 
 faith in her creed. She had told him so clearly 
 of Rowan's passive role in what she called her 
 stage romance that the only feeling aroused by 
 her cousin's return had been a kindly pity for a 
 man who had lost his opportunity. 
 
 Nevertheless, a vague uneasiness increased 
 the anxiety caused by the brief, imperative dis 
 patch in his pocket. He remembered now all 
 that was unusual in Gladys' manner the day be 
 fore ; and if this uneasiness took no definite 
 form in his thoughts, it was because he broke 
 away from their grasp whenever it threatened to 
 do so. 
 
 James was at the horse's head as the train 
 drew into the station. He touched his hat, 
 scrutinizing obliquely his master's face, as the 
 latter entered the carriage. Jack asked no 
 questions ; since James had nothing to volun 
 teer, he did not dare to. From the carriage he 
 went straight to his wife's chamber. Ellen rose 
 from the bedside as he came in ; but he mo 
 tioned to her to remain. If she feared to be 
 questioned, her fear was groundless ; for, after 
 standing a moment beside the bed, he stooped 
 over Gladys' unconscious form, kissed the unre 
 sponsive hand, and left the room. 
 
 Ellen was suffering under the weight of a re 
 sponsibility to which she was not accustomed.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 273 
 
 After her confession to the doctor that evening 
 on the terrace, she felt relieved ; but the pres 
 sure returned again at night in the long, still 
 hours by Gladys' bedside. Face to face with 
 that one great reality in whose presence every 
 prop of deception falls away, her confidence in 
 Rowan forsook her, and she waited impatiently 
 for the gray light of morning and the first sound 
 from Aunt Isabel's chamber to go and unbosom 
 herself. She was ready to brave the storm of 
 indignation which awaited her ; but was aston 
 ished, on returning, as Rowan had bidden her, 
 to find that she was not only forgiven but for 
 gotten, and for a moment experienced the cha 
 grin which follows the loss of an accidental and 
 temporary importance. Ignorant of the real 
 nature of the confidence which had been placed 
 in her, she regretted its hasty betrayal when she 
 relieved Margaret again at Gladys' bedside. In 
 the bright morning sun the fears of the night 
 had disappeared with its shadows. What would 
 Gladys say when she recovered ? for she loved 
 Gladys. She accused herself of weakness, espe 
 cially when she heard Jack's footsteps in the 
 corridor and his knock at Aunt Isabel's door, 
 divining the subject of the conversation which 
 occupied the hour before she heard it open and 
 close again. What had she done? Relieved 
 from all anxiety on her own account, her solici-
 
 274 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 tude for her mistress redoubled. To her relief 
 and wonder, Jack did not enter Gladys' room 
 again during the day, and the next morning, 
 learning that he had returned in the night to the 
 city, her indignation swelled to bounds which 
 included all created male beings. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Mabel was playing on the terrace when Jack 
 came out of Aunt Isabel's chamber. 
 
 " Come," said he, " let 's go and throw stones 
 in the river." 
 
 She sprang to his neck with an exclamation 
 of delight, and, having relieved her little heart 
 of its overflow of happiness, ran on ahead. 
 " It 's astonishing how that child loves me," 
 thought Jack. " Because you love her," said a 
 voice. " That does not follow," replied another 
 quickly. "Must be instinct," he said to him 
 self, cutting short the dispute. He had passed 
 a sleepless night, listening every half hour at 
 Gladys' door, and falling asleep towards morn 
 ing on the lounge. When he awoke the sun 
 was shining brightly. He lay for a moment 
 endeavoring to recall a dream, then rose and 
 threw open the window. Rowan was crossing the 
 lawn. He remembered now ; he had dreamed
 
 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 275 
 
 that he was asleep on the deck of the Vixen, and 
 that voices in the cabin below were continu 
 ally waking him, Rowan's and Aunt Isabel's. 
 He dressed himself hurriedly and went down to 
 the latter's room. Scarcely recovered from the 
 shock of Ellen's confession and her interview 
 with Rowan, Aunt Isabel was in no mood for 
 deception even had she resolved upon it. 
 
 "Why not tell me the whole story?" said 
 Jack quietly. " If she does n't love me, I love 
 her." 
 
 " She does love you ! " cried the old lady, 
 vehemently, proceeding to relate all that had 
 transpired, without reservation. 
 
 Jack listened in silence ; where other men be 
 trayed excitement, walked to and fro, or gesticu 
 lated, he stood still. But Mabel detected an 
 unusual kindness in his manner as they strolled 
 together towards the river, and a subserviency 
 to her wishes of which she took full advantage. 
 
 " You wait a moment here," he said to her 
 at Rowan's gate ; " I '11 be back directly." 
 
 But Mabel, discovering Nestor curled up on 
 the flat stone before the door, followed after, 
 bent upon renewing their acquaintance. There 
 was sufficient uncertainty in her devices for 
 amusement to account for his uneasy eye, which 
 watched her every movement with suspicion, and 
 constrained a certain prudence on her part as
 
 276 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 she proceeded, with an accompaniment of per 
 suasive remarks, to ascertain exactly how far 
 she could trespass with impunity on his dignity. 
 The door was open, and Rowan looked up at the 
 sound of her chatter to see Jack. Their eyes 
 met, and read each other. 
 
 " Don't disturb yourself," said Jack, as Rowan 
 rose. He was cleaning his gun, and had the 
 barrel in his hand. 
 
 " Sit down," said Rowan, not knowing what 
 to say. 
 
 Jack seemed neither to hear nor see him, but 
 stood looking at Gladys' unfinished picture in 
 the corner. 
 
 " I should know that was Gladys if I only 
 saw her foot," he said, slowly. "You don't be 
 lieve in hair lines, do you ? Neither do I. Hack 
 it out with a sword, I say." 
 
 A moment of silence followed. 
 
 *' You tie up a spirit like hers in a body," he 
 said, turning suddenly, " and every heart-beat 
 makes it quiver. Oh, I know, better than you 
 do. You don't think I came here to talk, do 
 you? All I want to say is this: if what has 
 happened does n't kill her, the sight of you, or 
 me either, will. When are you going away ? " 
 
 " You might have spared yourself any anxiety 
 on that score," replied Rowan. 
 
 " Well, I thought so ; but some people are 
 always standing on their rights, you know."
 
 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 277 
 
 " Jack," exclaimed Rowan, stretching out his 
 hand impulsively, as he moved towards the door. 
 
 Jack turned. " Do you remember Gordon," 
 said he, " who shot Fay down on the Cape ? 
 Hammer caught on the gunwale getting into the 
 boat ; nobody to blame. If it had been inten 
 tional, they might have hanged him and evened 
 things up a little." The slow, deliberate tones 
 of his voice stirred Rowan's anger, but the hag 
 gard face confronting him checked its utterance. 
 " When the market drops," pursued Jack, 
 " somebody 's better off ; but these damned ran 
 dom affairs, when everybody fails and nobody 's 
 to blame Come, little girl," he said to Ma 
 bel, going out the door. 
 
 Half way down to the gate he turned, went 
 back, and shook Rowan's hand silently. " I had 
 no right to marry her," he said to himself after 
 wards, rolling a large stone to the edge of the 
 bank for Mabel. He was not aware of any ex 
 cessive tenderness for Mabel, but to her nice dis 
 crimination of moods affecting her happiness, it 
 was clear as sunlight. There was nothing she 
 could ask to which he was not ready to assent, 
 and he told her his longest and her favorite 
 story on the terrace before bedtime. 
 
 After she had gone he walked out to the sta 
 bles, where James was bedding the stalls for the 
 night.
 
 278 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 " What time does the last train go through ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " At eleven, sir." 
 
 " Well, harness up to take me down." 
 
 He stopped a moment to speak to the horses, 
 pawing and trembling with ears erect at the 
 sound of his voice. Then he went in and passed 
 up the stairs to Aunt Isabel's chamber. 
 
 " How is she?" he asked, closing the door be 
 hind him. 
 
 Aunt Isabel, who had been waiting for his 
 coming all day, scanned his face narrowly as she 
 shook her head. He walked to the window in 
 silence. There was a flaw in the glass which 
 blurred objects without, and he watched their 
 distorted images with the curious interest of the 
 irresponsible self in trifles when we are most in 
 earnest. 
 
 " I 'm going back to-night," he said abruptly, 
 with a certain dogged resolution. 
 
 " To-night ! " It was breath, not words, that 
 failed her. 
 
 " You can telegraph me if anything happens." 
 There was a kind of satisfaction in being mis 
 understood, which led him to linger over these 
 preliminaries. 
 
 " John ! " exclaimed the old lady, rising from 
 her seat. 
 
 " Well," he said, turning and looking at her,
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 279 
 
 " so we 've got to spell this all out, have we." 
 She sank back again into her chair without tak 
 ing her eyes from his face. " If I knew I could 
 bring her back by going into that room and 
 saying ' Gladys,' do you think I would go ? " 
 
 " Yes, and forgive her." 
 
 " Forgive her !" Jack's face flushed. "What's 
 that got to do with it ? You make her forgive 
 herself ; it 's easy enough to forgive other people. 
 I would n't hesitate to ask her forgiveness if 
 if I had stabbed her through the heart, so far 
 as getting it is concerned ; but she 's stabbed 
 herself. Forgive her ! " he repeated, going to 
 the window again ; " we 've all driven her into a 
 corner." 
 
 " You did n't expect to fool Gladys, did you ? " 
 he pursued, after an interval of silence. " It 's 
 no use ; we can't do it. She will read you like 
 a book the first time she looks into your eyes. 
 She would know by the sound of my heel on the 
 stairs. I 've thought it all out, and I know I 
 am right. Some people can talk things out of 
 sight ; wash the slate clean with a few tears, and 
 begin all over again. Do you think Gladys is 
 one of that kind ? You know as well as I do ; 
 she 's got too much conscience. You can't rea 
 son with it ; it 's made for self-torture. I say I 
 would n't wake her because I should n't dare 
 to."
 
 280 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 He went to the door softly, as if he were in 
 deed afraid of waking her, but came back to 
 take Aunt Isabel's hand. " Don't you be afraid 
 she will misjudge me ; she and I have always 
 understood each other. She '11 know when she 
 wants me if she ever does. There 's Mabel, 
 you know. You 've got a hard time before 
 you." He pressed the trembling fingers. " But 
 we 're not thinking of ourselves. Write me a 
 line every day, and telegraph me if ... either 
 way "... 
 
 As he went out he paused a moment at Gla 
 dys' door, then descended the stairs to the 
 library, where he took from his desk a bundle 
 of papers. As he opened his cigar-drawer a 
 pair of old gloves met his eye. They were torn 
 and soiled ; he remembered to have seen Gla 
 dys wearing them in the garden. He took them 
 up mechanically; notwithstanding the cigars, 
 there was still that nameless perfume in them 
 which belonged to all her things, though she 
 detested perfumes, and never used them. He 
 thrust them into his pocket, closed the drawer, 
 and went out on the terrace. The autumn night 
 air was fresh and bracing, and a burden seemed 
 lifted from his shoulders. 
 
 " Rather late for you to be going this way, 
 Mr. Temple," said the conductor, passing through 
 the car where Jack, wrapped in his thick coat,
 
 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 281 
 
 sat alone smoking. Jack nodded. His hand 
 was in his pocket, closed about an old glove. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 "There, my child, be quiet, and rest," the 
 voice had said. 
 
 She was conscious of something, something of 
 supreme importance behind the drowsy sense of 
 indifference which weighed down every effort. 
 Something momentous had transpired, some 
 great organic change, such as warns the soul 
 when its tenancy is about to expire, and, with 
 shuddering wings, it waits for flight. A vague 
 remembrance she exerted all her will to re 
 call it but little by little a langour slowly 
 overpowered her; the soothing tones of that 
 voice, repeating themselves in endless murmurs, 
 at last sunk to an inaudible whisper, and she 
 ceased to struggle. 
 
 Suddenly Gladys opened her eyes. 
 
 Motionless, they rested on the lace hangings 
 falling from the white rosette of satin over the 
 bed. The heavy curtain outside had been drawn 
 over them, and the light from the window glim 
 mered feebly through its mesh of threads. There 
 were its woven figures she knew so well, birds 
 in a screen of vines and leaves. Some one had
 
 282 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 drawn the curtain closer, so as to intercept the 
 light, and Gladys wondered. Beyond, out of 
 sight, the clock ticked steadily ; it must be on 
 her desk, by the window ; who had moved it 
 from its accustomed place ? She heard the fa 
 miliar click of the wheels which preceded the 
 striking of the hour, one, two . . . five. She 
 must have fallen asleep before dinner. No ! 
 she suddenly recognized that she had on her 
 night-dress. How hot it was ! She essayed to 
 move her limbs to feel the cooling touch of the 
 sheets, but they were heavy as lead, They 
 must be asleep ! 
 
 She had not taken her eyes from the figures 
 on the curtain upon which they had first opened. 
 She felt no inclination to turn them elsewhere, 
 and for a long time lay immobile, watching the 
 bird looking at her from its screen of embroid 
 ered leaves. A slight noise in the room caused 
 her at last to turn her head ; a woman, whose 
 back was towards her, sat sewing in her easy 
 chair. It was neither Ellen, nor Margaret, nor 
 Aunt Isabel. Her hair was cut short, escaping 
 in curls from the ruffle of a white cap, which 
 contrasted strangely with the thick, red neck 
 above the broad shoulders. Gladys could not 
 see her face, but an air of comfort and som 
 nolence, like that of a huge cat curled up be 
 fore the fire, pervaded this figure. Something
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 283 
 
 in its placidity frightened her. Who was it oc 
 cupying her chair, sitting in her room? She 
 resolved to shut her eyes and pretend she was 
 asleep. As she closed them, the drowsy feeling 
 of lassitude and indifference stole over her 
 again, like a mist. Sounds, as of organs and 
 distant litanies rose and fell rhythmically, and 
 then vanished like a wreath of smoke in the 
 wind. Her eyes were wide open again ; there 
 were the birds among the leaves, and the figure 
 in the chair as before. Suddenly this figure 
 moved, and Gladys closed her eyes quickly, as 
 if caught in a fault. A soft but heavy step ap 
 proached the bed, and she felt a hand on hers. 
 Then the steps withdrew, there was a tinkle of 
 glasses on the dressing-table, and the closing of 
 a door. She opened her eyes eagerly now, and 
 made an effort to raise herself on her elbow, 
 falling back with the surprise of one who for 
 the first time finds his orders disobeyed. She 
 looked at her hand, lying outside the sheet ; the 
 fingers were long and thin, but seemed of enor 
 mous size, and heavy. She did not try to 
 account for this, she felt inclined to laugh, 
 when, far away, the whistle of a train came 
 echoing down the valley. A confused rush of 
 thought swept over her, a desperate sense of 
 being late. Mabel was not ready. The cars 
 were drawing out from the station as they came
 
 284 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 in sight of them round the last curve of the 
 road. Jack had sailed. She could see the 
 leaning sail of the Vixen far down the bay, and 
 then, like a lightning flash, all this blur of 
 thought cleared away, and the truth burst upon 
 her with a vividness more real than experience 
 itself. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Aunt Isabel received the summons to Gladys* 
 chamber as a felon hears the key in the door when 
 the fatal hour is come. How many times she 
 had bent over the bed, holding her very breath 
 lest those blue eyes should open ; for she knew 
 what questionings were there, and what a world 
 of tragic sadness was hidden behind the sorrow 
 ful droop of their lids. And now she gathered 
 up her cards and went to the glass. What a 
 face ! She endeavored to smile, to rehearse her 
 part, to recall the words she had selected for this 
 very hour ..." God help me, what can I say ! " 
 she murmured. 
 
 She opened the door softly, stealing to the 
 bedside under cover of the curtain, all her 
 plans had forsaken her, and hid her face in 
 Gladys' neck. 
 
 " She knows," thought Gladys, lying passive, 
 her eyes fixed on the white rosette above.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 285 
 
 " Sh . . . sh . . . Laddie," whispered the 
 old lady, calling her by an almost forgotten 
 name of babyhood. " Sh," she repeated, " you 
 will be better soon. Do not talk ; let me talk ; 
 it has been a hard fight ; let us thank God 
 it is no worse," and she patted the shoulder 
 where her face lay. The hardest part was 
 over now, the plunge at all events was taken, 
 and she raised her head and kissed the pale 
 lips. 
 
 " Worse than what ? " said Gladys. 
 
 " Hush, dear," said Aunt Isabel, soothingly, 
 " try to be quiet. To - morrow you will be 
 stronger. The doctor has left me the most pos 
 itive orders." 
 
 " Stay here I am strong." 
 
 The red face of the nurse appeared at the 
 bedside, reinforcing Aunt Isabel's last remark. 
 " Come, now, be reasonable, that 's a dear ; to 
 morrow at this time you '11 be bright as a 
 cricket." 
 
 The strong, cheery voice, with its intrusive 
 familiarity, jarred upon Gladys. 
 
 " Send her away," she whispered, pressing 
 Aunt Isabel's hand. 
 
 The latter hesitated, then made a sign to the 
 nurse, who withdrew, shaking her head. "I 
 will stay five minutes by the clock," she said, 
 " if you will promise me "
 
 286 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 Gladys closed her eyes in acquiescence, then 
 fixed them upon her with a steady gaze of inter 
 rogation. Was Jack right was it better to 
 hold nothing back ? 
 
 " How came I here ? " 
 
 " Sh ! remember your promise ; you were 
 sick that night, out of your head ... I know, 
 I know ... I will keep nothing from you ; 
 but you must look at things as they are. I have 
 been mad myself . . . what does it matter 
 wine goes to every head." She could not get 
 back to the facts while those eyes were upon 
 her, and wandered off into the excuses she had 
 devised. "Do you remember the donkeys at 
 Lucca, with their paniers ? We are all nothing 
 but donkeys a feather's weight in excess on 
 either side and we lose our balance. Do you 
 think we are all harpies waiting to pounce upon 
 you?" and she took the unresisting hands in 
 hers. " Don't look at me in that way, Gladys ; 
 I will tell you everything dear me ! If you 
 only knew how many times I have fallen down 
 to get up again." 
 
 " He brought me ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear, what else could he do ? They are 
 all going away we shall have peace again, a 
 quiet time, you and I. Ellen undressed you, 
 here she 's a good girl and thought to keep 
 it all from me ... just as if " And Aunt
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 287 
 
 Isabel's fingers smoothed back gently the un- 
 brushed hair. 
 
 " She knows, too," thought Gladys. " Keep 
 back what ? " she said. 
 
 " Now listen," and Aunt Isabel assumed an 
 air of authority, " between love and anxiety 
 I shall lose my patience. Give yourself into our 
 hands ; the past is gone and cannot be helped ; 
 let it be as bad as you please it is not so 
 all the torture is in your own heart forget it. 
 . . . No, dear, you cannot . . . now ; but think 
 of us see me here with my arms around you 
 and Jack not now, but by-and-by ; you 
 know each other. What are we good for if not 
 to lean on ? Open your heart to us cry 
 but creep back into the sun. Do you know why 
 I am . . . what I am ? because once I hardened 
 my heart, instead of " Her voice trembled. 
 " There, I am going, you shall rest ; and we shall 
 wait for you to call us back ; you have no right 
 to keep us out of your arms. Come, dear, begin 
 now ; give me a kiss," and as the old lady rose 
 she leaned over Gladys' fixed eyes and laid her 
 cheek against the pale lips. " I shall come back 
 soon, and we will have a talk as we used to when 
 I put Laddie to bed." 
 
 " If he were only here now ! " she said to her 
 self as she went to her room, "men never do 
 understand," and she resolved to telegraph for 
 Jack at once.
 
 288 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 The nurse, reentering the room, approached 
 the bed softly and listened for a moment 
 Gladys' face was turned to the wall. " She is 
 asleep," she thought, and drawing the curtain 
 closer to shut out the light of the low sun, she 
 stole on tip-toe from the chamber to take her 
 afternoon cup of fresh air. 
 
 " The past is gone and cannot be helped." The 
 words repeated themselves again and again in 
 Gladys' ears. The web was spun, the master- 
 thread had escaped from her hand. How it had 
 slipped, like sand, through her fingers. " Sick 
 mad . . . wine goes to every head," Aunt 
 Isabel had said. Oh, the thief that had stolen 
 in with the wine ! Mad or weak, fated or un- 
 compelled, it mattered not now; the web was 
 spun. 
 
 Jack was there, waiting for her to call. How 
 could she call, she who was dead? A terrible, 
 oppressive weight lay across her heart, the 
 weight of her dead self. She could see it lying 
 there, shrouded and still. Jack was kind so 
 kind I Nothing could change him for her. " You 
 cannot change for him," somebody seemed to 
 whisper to her ; and she repeated the words over 
 and over, holding fast to them, as to a strong 
 hand. If she could but struggle from under that 
 dead self and creep back to the sun ! Surely,
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 289 
 
 she loved Jack. " But love, without self-respect," 
 said another voice ; " is love a thing to run into 
 every mould of circumstance and mood ; to 
 change as we change?" She turned her face 
 wearily to the wall. She could not reason. 
 Now it seemed as if she had played with mighty 
 forces ; now that they had played with her. 
 Self-respect ! Oh, the thief that had stolen in 
 with the wine ! She could track him now through 
 all the vacillating shadows of indecision, when 
 reason counseled and waited, and passion coun 
 seled and impelled, more persuasive than 
 reason; for what passion counsels it can do. 
 Absorbed and bewildered, she listened to these 
 voices questioning and answering each other. 
 " Ellen, Aunt Isabel, Jack, Rowan, and, if 
 Rowan, then Seraphine," said one, " they look 
 into your heart ; it is bare, and they know." 
 " And I, also," she said to herself, closing her 
 eyes. Suddenly the words Schonberg had been 
 reading came back to her. No, she did not re 
 member them. Some one spoke them distinctly 
 in her ear : 
 
 " Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, 
 And naked on the air of heaven ride," 
 
 She opened her eyes. No one was there. Her 
 hand lay outside the clothes , where were its 
 rings ? 
 
 " And naked on the air of heaven ride,"
 
 290 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 repeated the voice. The weight at her heart 
 seemed to stir and tremble with life. What was 
 life ? the vapor, the dream, 
 
 " Were 't not a shame, were 't not a shame, for him 
 In this clay carcase crippled to abide ? " 
 
 said the voice again. She sat up in bed and 
 looked about her. Her head was no longer 
 heavy ; strength ran in her veins. The chamber 
 was still and dark, but she could see. As she 
 touched the floor with her feet, she noticed they 
 had put on her knitted slippers. She crossed 
 the chamber quickly, opened the door, and glided 
 down the stairs. Sounds from the rear of the 
 house filled her with terror ; a moment, and they 
 would follow her, shackle the wings that trem 
 bled with the joy of flight ; the door on the ter 
 race closed behind her safe ! She was free ! 
 How fleet and light her feet were ; the pack 
 could not overtake her now. The trees envied 
 her, shivering in all their leaves, crying free ! 
 free ! The grasses under her feet whispered to 
 each other : she is free ! she is free ! Far away, 
 a star leaped out of the void with a flaming 
 torch, crying free ! and at the river brink, deep 
 in the black flood, she saw it again for an instant, 
 burning like a light from an open door. 
 
 She had the titne to cry, to see Mabel's face, 
 to struggle with those ponderous doors which 
 closed upon her, to know it was vain ; and the
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 291 
 
 heart which had throbbed with all He has made 
 for its joy and its sorrow beat for a moment 
 boisterously ; then, like the ripple on the shore, 
 grew fainter, fluttered, and was still.
 
 292 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 On the beach at Scheveningen, people were 
 beginning to abandon their chairs reluctantly 
 for dinner. From the promenade above, these 
 chairs, whose high, curved backs concealed their 
 occupants, presented a gregarious aspect, like 
 so many hooded gossips, chatting together upon 
 serious and important matters. 
 
 The sun was entering the low, hazy band on 
 the sea-horizon, an opal mist, scarcely distinguish 
 able from the sea itself, so closely did the shreds 
 of vapor torn from its upper edge resemble the 
 white curl of the waves below ; one would say a 
 strip of smooth water lying between the wind 
 currents and trembling with unsteady scintilla 
 tions. Sinking into this curtain, the sun seemed 
 an enormous blur of light. 
 
 Down among the throng of idlers, busy only 
 with each other, the beach appeared made ex 
 pressly for their benefit ; the sea to be a tamed 
 monster, murmuring supplicatingly at their feet ; 
 and the sun to have chosen this hour, when the 
 crowd was greatest, to make his exit with all pos 
 sible magnificence. But beyond, on the deserted
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 293 
 
 shore, nature regained her majesty ; and on pass 
 ing the last chair of this throng, its importance 
 was gradually swallowed up in the silence of the 
 sea and the dune stretching into the haze where 
 all boundaries were lost in mystery. 
 
 "Madelon," said Elize, "call Alexis; it is 
 time to go in." 
 
 In the deep chair, behind the parasol secured 
 in front, scarcely anything was visible of Elize 
 but a pair of small feet and a lap in which were 
 the children's stockings. This parasol had been 
 arranged so as to form a loophole for observa 
 tion, through which she could watch the children, 
 and survey also the stream of promenaders pass 
 ing between her and the advancing tide. Near 
 by was a group which especially interested her. 
 Its principal personage, a young mother like her 
 self, was lying at full length in a large hollow, 
 whose digging had cost the children infinite 
 labor, her dress and feet buried in the sand. 
 The elegance of this morning dress and the con 
 duct of these children had furnished Elize the 
 opportunity for some very natural comparisons, 
 and materially retarded her progress in the book 
 and letter lying on the little shelf in her chair. 
 
 Madelon, her dress looped back above her 
 bare brown legs, ran out to her brother, who 
 with a half dozen other boys was engaged in 
 engineering operations, dykes, canals, and forti-
 
 294 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 fications, successively abandoned to the incom 
 ing tide. Elize had not watched these insignifi 
 cant operations without discovering indications 
 of skill and daring which flattered her pride. 
 Certainly of all the bare legs running over the 
 sand or wading in the shallow water none were 
 so strong or beautiful as those of Alexis, nor 
 could she find any little girl so winsome or so 
 appropriately dressed as Madelon. She was per 
 fectly well aware, too, that her neighbor, though 
 apparently oblivious of her presence, shared to 
 some extent these opinions. In fact it was very 
 evident to any one who watched Elize, as she 
 brushed the sand from the children's feet and 
 assisted them into their stockings and shoes, that 
 her heart was full of sweet and innocent satis 
 faction. 
 
 Having gathered together the various impedi 
 menta, pails, shovels, and wraps, her book and 
 writing materials, she threaded her way among 
 the chairs towards the steps leading up to the 
 promenade before the hotels. At the top she 
 waited for Madelon, whose short legs made two 
 stairs of one. A few bathing wagons were still 
 out in the white line of breakers ; the fishing 
 boats, like a flock of birds which gather on a 
 tree, were approaching the anchorage near the 
 lighthouse, whose steady beam, caught by the 
 uneasy sea, was broken and lost in the shimmer 
 of its lights and shadows.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 295 
 
 " Come," said Elize, " try to hurry." 
 
 She had been endeavoring to write Seraphine, 
 but amid the perpetual motion which everywhere 
 solicited the eye, had scarcely finished the first 
 page. A scrap of conversation behind her chair, 
 a bathing wagon rumbling over the sand, the 
 venders of fruit, milk, and flowers, above all the 
 silken lustre of the sea, rendered all consecutive 
 effort impossible. " I will simply tell her," she 
 thought, waiting for Madelon, " that if I do not 
 write, it is because I cannot ; it is too beautiful." 
 
 On reaching the hotel, Elize found the letters 
 which were the cause of her haste. One, from 
 her husband, she laid aside, to have the pleasure 
 of carrying it in her pocket till she could no 
 longer restrain the desire to open it ; the other, 
 from Seraphine at Dinant, she read at once. 
 
 " He will not admit that he is not as well as 
 usual, but it is now a month since he has walked 
 farther than the great oak in the garden ; this 
 irritates him. Yesterday an eagle sailed in great 
 circles above the Lesse for hours. ' Look at him,' 
 said he ; ' how he dallies with the wind.' It was 
 the cry of a spirit for liberty." 
 
 Elize did not hesitate. It was not so much 
 the desire to be with Schonberg in his last hours, 
 but the courageous impulse of her heart to fly 
 at once to his side, and battle with her frail 
 hands against the enemy. She determined to
 
 296 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 take the children with her, and passed the even 
 ing in preparations for the journey, finding time 
 also to telegraph a certain staff-officer in Brus 
 sels " that young man whom you call your 
 husband," as Schouberg designated him to 
 meet them on their passage through the city. 
 As he was unable to absent himself from his du 
 ties at that time, Elize only asked that he should 
 accompany them as far as Namur, and in the 
 happiness of this brief reunion almost forgot the 
 object of her journey. 
 
 This happiness was sometimes so great as to 
 reproach her. There had been a time how far 
 away it now appeared when, notwithstanding 
 the new horizons opened by the anticipation of 
 returning to Dinant, the current of life seemed 
 to have passed her by. Now all was changed, 
 and she looked from Madelon and Alexis to her 
 husband, after the first excitement of meeting 
 was over, with the terror of the heart that is full, 
 the full cup whose contents tremble on the 
 point of overflowing. How like his father Alexis 
 was! The current had caught her up on its 
 shining tide and thrown Seraphine aside. 
 
 " I wish you would love Seraphiue more," said 
 Elize, taking her husband's hand. 
 
 " But I love her very much," he replied. 
 
 Then Elize began to imagine herself in her 
 sister's place. What would become of her if
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 297 
 
 she should lose Alexis ? could common love con 
 sole her? for as to that which existed between 
 herself and Alexis there was nothing like it in 
 the world. Once, after the terrible event which 
 preceded their departure from Ashurst, it had 
 seemed to her only natural that Seraphine should 
 recoil from the very thought of marrying Rowan. 
 What had he done? Nothing. But it was so 
 terrible. Now, to the wife, this revulsion was 
 almost incomprehensible ; and, pressing the hand 
 in hers to assure herself it was there, she thought, 
 " Nothing could separate us." She remembered 
 that hour when Rowan came, after Gladys had 
 been found, could she ever forget it? She 
 could see Seraphine now, endeavoring to smile 
 in order not to afflict him, the smile of love, 
 love not even wounded, but fettered, bewildered, 
 imploring forbearance, a little time to cry alone, 
 to accustom itself to reality. 
 
 She had promised Rowan to write him. Had 
 he lost courage ? He had only to wait. Was 
 the fault hers ? This thought often tortured her, 
 all the more because no one could impute 
 blame to her. She had almost resolved, a month 
 after their return to Dinant, to summon him of 
 her own accord. Why had she delayed ? Sera 
 phine would have forgiven her ; for later, when 
 joy gave her courage, and she confessed her own 
 happiness, she had spoken of Rowan, and Sera-
 
 298 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 phine had kissed her and written that very day. 
 The memory of their walk together to Diiiant 
 with that letter brought a little sob of repining 
 to her throat. Oh, if she had but followed the 
 first impulse of her heart, before it was too late ! 
 For when her hand, trembling with eagerness 
 which could not wait, pushed that letter through 
 the narrow grating, there was no one to claim 
 it but the dead man lying with his face to the 
 stars on the field of Manassas. 
 
 What had given her the hand she held, her 
 children ? thought Elize. If she had not dropped 
 her bracelet in the Alle'e of the park at Brussels, 
 she and Alexis would never have seen each other. 
 Think of it ! a wide world of happiness, and 
 she might have passed its narrow door without 
 entering. What had she done to deserve it? 
 What had Seraphine done that a bullet fired 
 at random in a swamp four thousand miles away 
 should find her heart, just daring to beat again ? 
 
 " You have not said a word this last half 
 hour," said Alexis, as the train approached Na- 
 mur. " What are you thinking of ? " 
 
 " Of you," replied Elize. 
 
 After leaving Namur there was little op 
 portunity for further reflection. The children 
 began to feel already the relaxation of Elize's au 
 thority, an authority which at Walzins disap 
 peared altogether in the gentle acquiescence of
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 299 
 
 Seraphine. As for Schonberg, at the most he 
 was only their equal. 
 
 " I see it, mamma, mamma ! " cried Alexis ; 
 "it is Dinant." 
 
 But there were yet two stations. 
 
 At last the citadel came in sight, above the 
 white houses huddled together in its shadow at 
 the foot of the rock, as if for protection. 
 
 " Do you think Aunt Seraphine will meet us, 
 mamma ? " asked Alexis, who had his pockets 
 full of shells destined for her. 
 
 " I hope so," said Elize, endeavoring to look 
 out the window and at the same time to put on 
 the capote of Madelon, who danced at the mere 
 sound of Seraphine's name. " How can I do 
 anything while you dance so ? " and Madelon, 
 shutting fast her little fists, trembled like a 
 horse that is being saddled. 
 
 The train had scarcely stopped before Made- 
 Ion's curly head was buried in Seraphine's dress, 
 and her little arms had fastened about her neck 
 as she stooped to kiss Alexis. 
 
 " One would think you were the mother," said 
 Elize, smiling with pleasure as she advanced. 
 
 But there was no doubt as to which was the 
 mother. A radiance as from a light burning 
 within illuminated the face of Elize ; all there 
 was complete, every promise realized. Seraphine 
 was older, but the inexpressible charm of the
 
 300 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 young girl lingered in every feature, the beauty 
 of a promise yet unfulfilled ; delayed, but not 
 abandoned. 
 
 As Seraphine had written, Scbonberg had not 
 of late been able to go beyond the oak tree in 
 the garden. Their long walks had become less 
 and less frequent, and finally had ceased alto 
 gether. He had revisited the old chapel above 
 Anseremne but once, soon after their return. 
 Women were beating their clothes on the river 
 stones, and workmen from the quarries which 
 scarred the wooded hills were loading barges at 
 the quay as he approached the village ; but a 
 new priest walked its street. Father Pierre had 
 crossed himself for the last time, and was asleep. 
 As Schonberg climbed the hill to the cemetery 
 on its slope, he saw the wall had disappeared to 
 make room for the silent company gathering 
 there faster than in the village below. He passed 
 through this added space, already thick with 
 graves, one newly made, covered with green 
 branches and flowers, a screen of perishing 
 beauty above the narrow door whither all foot 
 steps lead and none return. Beyond, the rust 
 and frost had done their work. Where was the 
 little mound in the corner beside which he had 
 knelt with Father Pierre ? He could not find it. 
 The old footpaths had disappeared, the shrub 
 bery had grown bold with neglect, the trees
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 301 
 
 were larger and covered the entire spot with 
 their thick shade. He turned bewildered to the 
 old chapel ; but there, too, all was changed. The 
 doors of the main entrance were open, and the 
 light entered freely through the renovated win 
 dows. A screen protected the carvings, newly 
 restored, over the portal from the nesting birds. 
 A new Christ hung above the altar ; the black 
 stalls were gone, and the eye wandered over the 
 whitewashed walls without finding a spot on 
 which to rest. But walking down the aisle his 
 eye caught the rude outlines on the stone under 
 his feet, a man and a woman, side by side, 
 with their hands folded over their breasts, and 
 at that instant all returned : the dust, the cob 
 webs, and the gloom. Here was the wooden 
 frame of the gravedigger ; the spade leaning 
 against the pulpit rail. Here she had sprung 
 with a cry to his arms. She was not dead, nor 
 he an old man ; only the pain and the waiting 
 were old. But it was over now, and under his 
 white moustache he repeated softly, "Noel, 
 Noel," answering the sob on his breast. 
 
 A peasant woman came in, and, without heed 
 ing him, went to the altar and knelt, looking up 
 in her prayers to the cross, it was there the 
 bier had stood, and, listening to this old wo 
 man, whose remnant of life was hastening to 
 consume itself, mumbling on her knees, he, too,
 
 302 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 lifted his eyes to the figure above. What had 
 he learned since those days, which he now sa 
 luted for the last time, but to cry with Noel, 
 who had taken refuge there, Sanctuary ! Sanc 
 tuary! 
 
 Having finished her prayers, the old woman 
 rose, made the sign of the cross, and came down 
 the aisle. Her hard, brown skin was creased 
 with lines, but deep down beneath the apathy 
 of her eyes a light shone, like a star in the river. 
 The masks avail nothing, thought he, whether 
 of fine contempt, of sodden care, or holy res 
 ignation. Tear them away, lay the ear to the 
 breast, and listen ; you will hear the beat of the 
 immortal heart, the murmur of her hopes that 
 still climb the celestial stairs, the tumult of her 
 legions that life has not conquered, and that she 
 will hurl in the face of Death even, when he 
 comes. 
 
 From the chapel he returned to Anseremne, 
 by the path through the birches. There were 
 new buildings at the upper extremity of the vil 
 lage street, a new hotel, with a garden and grav 
 eled walks, through which he passed to the 
 water's edge. Was it not here that she moored 
 her boat ? He could not tell. Only the river 
 was the same ; shimmering over the gravel beds, 
 sleeping in the shadow of the cliffs, leaping with 
 laughter under the black arch of the bridge.
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 303 
 
 This visit was his last. Often, in thought, he 
 had revisited this spot, when its memory, like 
 the murmur of a spring lost in the woods, had 
 haunted his thirsty heart. And he experienced 
 now that afterglow of happiness and pain which 
 lingers in places sanctified once by their pres 
 ence. But thither he returned no more ; the 
 springs were no longer here. And as if this 
 visit had deprived him of somewhat that peo 
 pled his solitude, he clung more and more to 
 the society of Seraphine. 
 
 For some time she had been concerned for his 
 health, but such was his aversion to this subject 
 that only after anxiety had grown to alarm did 
 she ask his consent to call the physician from 
 Dinant. He acquiesced readily, evidently to 
 gratify her, submitting wearily to the examina 
 tion, and indifferent to its result. 
 
 " Any one who takes the trouble to think how 
 he happened to come into this world," he said 
 to the doctor, who stumbled over his finding, 
 " perceives that he cannot be a necessary being, 
 and becomes reconciled to going out of it." 
 
 It was at this time Seraphine wrote to Elize. 
 She knew the latter would come at once. How 
 tell him without also telling him why? The 
 night before Elize's arrival she went to his room. 
 As he opened the door, his quill in his hand, the 
 memory of another night rushed over her, when
 
 304 TEE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 she stood at his door in Ashurst, too full of hap 
 piness to keep its light from her eyes, and its 
 confession from her lips. 
 
 He was embarrassed at seeing her, and she 
 hesitated. 
 
 " I have some good news," she said, endeavor 
 ing to smile. " Elize is coming to-morrow." 
 
 "What, the little mother?" said he, with 
 affected surprise. 
 
 " I disturb you ? " she asked, sharing his em 
 barrassment. 
 
 " As if that were possible," he replied, kissing 
 her cheek. 
 
 " It is a pleasure to have Elize with us. She 
 is so happy." 
 
 " Yes, the happy people are the best," said 
 he ; " they warm like the sun." 
 
 " But we are happy, too ; " and she took his 
 hand gently. 
 
 " Do you know," said he, after a moment of 
 silence, " the coming of the first tooth of Alexis' 
 gave me more happiness than all I have ex 
 tracted from philosophy. It was only a drop, 
 but it was pure." 
 
 Seraphine smiled, but the constraint she felt 
 oppressed her. What she really wished to do 
 was to throw her arms about his neck, to face 
 the presence they feigned not to see, to say, " Do 
 not leave me, or, if you go, take me also."
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 305 
 
 " Do not work any more to-night," she said 
 aloud. " Let me read to you." 
 
 He cast an undecided look about the room, 
 but, without giving him the time to reply, she 
 went out hurriedly. They read together often 
 at night, and when she returned he was in bed, 
 behind the curtains of the alcove. The book 
 she brought was not the one they were finishing. 
 She had seen it on her table, beside her book of 
 devotions, but when she came back it was the 
 latter she held in her hand. Her fingers trem 
 bled as she opened it. What would he say? 
 Then, without stopping to reflect, she began 
 to read. In the pauses she listened ; he did 
 not move. The trouble disappeared from her 
 voice as she read on, and, having finished, she 
 went to the window to lower the shade. He 
 seemed asleep. 
 
 " Seraphine," he said, from behind the cur 
 tain. 
 
 " Uncle," she whispered. 
 
 " I look often at night from my window. A 
 cloud floats motionless on the deep blue. The 
 hills, immovable, project their shadows over the 
 plain." She saw them as she listened. " Noth 
 ing breaks the silence but the drip of the water 
 on the wheel in the sluice, and the solitary cry 
 of a night-bird. Yet all is motion. That 
 steady star-beam is a quivering dart, and the
 
 306 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 
 
 star a stormy host of atoms. It is they that 
 bring the note of the bird, the image of the 
 cloud. Hark! how they beat against the iron 
 throat of the engine down the valley. The 
 scream of its whistle is their song, and its 
 strength their fiery dance. All we think and 
 feel is but this world of movement, of mass and 
 atom unable to control their own motions, 
 and steeped in a sea so tremulously responsive 
 that your faintest breath breaks on infinite 
 shores. You do not dare to move ? " She heard 
 him sit up in bed. "You cannot help it! 
 Nothing moves of itself since the dance began ; 
 nothing swerves but by collision. Others thou 
 shalt drive, and they thee ; but thyself never. 
 I, myself, capable for an instant of unifying the 
 past and the present, am but one of these atoms, 
 swept on by its own inertia, and disappearing 
 as it came, a portent and a wonder. Do you 
 know what effect all this produces upon me ? 
 To create a faith so necessary in a Being so 
 transcendent, that the inventions of men be 
 come puerilities. Come, little girl," said he, 
 lying down again, " let us go to sleep." 
 
 " He is much better to-day," said Seraphine, 
 in answer to Elize's inquiries, as they rode back 
 from the station. " I left him in the garden, 
 and he told me to tell you he had put on his 
 best coat."
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. 307 
 
 " Does grandpapa love shells ? " asked Alexis, 
 who foresaw the possibility of enjoying the giv 
 ing of his treasures a second time. 
 
 The carriage stopped before the great door, 
 and the children, impatient, ran towards the 
 garden. 
 
 " Alexis ! Alexis ! " cried Elize, " let Made- 
 Ion go first." 
 
 He took Seraphine's hand, envying Madelon, 
 who ran ahead down the walk, with such speed 
 that Elize held her breath. 
 
 As the child turned the corner, she saw Schon- 
 berg in his chair. He had moved it into the 
 sun, whose light fell upon his white head, bent 
 forward on his breast. " He is asleep," thought 
 Madelon, running over the grass. Softly, from 
 behind, scarcely able to repress her glee, she 
 advanced on tiptoe, and touched his arm. He 
 did not move. She laid a round, dimpled hand 
 in his, and looked up wonderingly into his face. 
 She was not afraid. But, for the first time, he 
 did not take her in his arms, nor kiss her cheek, 
 nor smile. It was only by the absence of these 
 tokens that the child knew Death.
 
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