ETHESDA 
 
 ARBARA EL.BON
 
 BERTRAMS 
 ACRES OF- BOOKS 
 UO PACIFIC AVENlkE 
 I ONa_*A<3.
 
 BETHESDA
 
 BETHESDA 
 
 BY 
 
 BARBARA ELBON 
 
 forft 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO. 
 1884
 
 COPYRIGHT 
 
 BY 
 GEORGE W. DILLAWAY 
 
 1884
 
 17-17017
 
 " Thou art my dream come true, and tliou my dream, 
 
 Thou art what I would be, yet only seem ; 
 Thou art my heaven and my hell ; 
 Thou art my ever-living judgment-day." 
 
 K. W. GILUEU.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "A face at once young, grand, and beautiful, where, if there is any 
 melancholy, it is no feeble passivity, but enters into the foreshadowed 
 capabilities of heroism." GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 BETWEEN Genoa and Florence is one of the most beautiful bits 
 of the far-famed Cornice Road. On leaving the superb city 
 the railway winds through orange and pomegranate groves, 
 along oleander hedges, across narrow valleys made by hills 
 which are clothed in olive orchards and crowned by Italian 
 pines. It rises and falls obedient to the dictates of nature, 
 yielding to obstructions only to conquer them, and now runs by 
 the foaming Mediterranean, and again crosses a sea-rent chasm 
 at a dizzy altitude. High crags, pedestals for single trees, rise 
 abruptly from the waves that dash against their base ; while on 
 some of the larger rocks castles are built, or gray- walled villages, 
 with a bit of beach beneath where fishing -boats lie in deep 
 colouring of red and brown. The people run out in peasant 
 array at the sound of the engine-bell, and, on one of the first 
 winter days in 187 , the inhabitants of the rocky fastnesses 
 caught a glimpse of a girl's face which seemed a human type 
 akin to that of the landscape. It was not lacking in strength, 
 but showed a pre-eminent refinement, which was full of pas- 
 sionate sensitiveness. The features were finely cut, and the 
 complexion of a clear pallor, which made more forceful the 
 long eyebrows slightly curving over large hazel eyes, and the 
 golden-brown hair which was drawn simply away from a fore- 
 head capable of much serenity. In animation the changes of 
 warm sunshine and soft shadow which characterised the view 
 were here also ; but in repose a sadness of expression settled 
 upon the face, often seen in countenances denoting at once 
 youth and earnestness. To-day, however, there was added an 
 anxiety which the beauty of the view could not dissipate. 
 6
 
 2 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 This was her twentieth birthday, and standing by the carriage 
 window she looked off over the water to the far horizon, trying 
 in vain to pierce its pearly veil, as if thus she might see the 
 future. She had endeavoured to throw aside the vague feeling 
 which weighed upon her, but no effort could overcome an 
 oppressive dread, the effects of which troubled her aunt, who 
 was watching her, Mrs. Trescott, the only other occupant of the 
 carriage. 
 
 " Come here, Beth, and tell me what is the matter," she 
 said at last. " Must birthday thoughts be so very melancholy ? 
 I wanted you to have a happy day, and you said nothing would 
 gratify you so much as reaching Florence. Did you overtax 
 your strength? Are you too tired, dear?" 
 
 The last sentence was added with increased anxiety in 
 noticing the jasmine pallor and an unwonted weariness in the 
 eyes Beth turned towards her. 
 
 " No, indeed, dear auntie," answered the girl, seating herself, 
 however. "I am not more tired than I naturally must be 
 after the long journey." 
 
 " Well, then, what is it, pet 1 The day is perfect, the views 
 lovely, and you are on your way to the place where you say you 
 have longed to be all the year : our own rooms at Florence. 
 Don't have secrets from me, dear; why should your birthday be 
 sad?" 
 
 " Not sad, auntie ; only " She moved so as to turn 
 
 her face away before she continued. " It is very foolish of me, 
 I know, but I can't remember how many years it is that I have 
 felt the decade opening to-day was to be of great importance to 
 me. I am sure some decisive test of character will come BOOH, 
 which I fear, I greatly fear, I may not bear worthily." 
 
 Her voice stopped suddenly. There had been an unusual 
 quiver of feeling in it from the first, which now increased so as 
 to make speech dangerous. She was not given to superstitious 
 fancies, but this had grown in her until it seemed to cast a long 
 shadow over the coming years. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott was of a much less reasonable temperament 
 than her niece, but she was also prone to think that the " feel- 
 ings " of others were not to be relied upon, whatever her own 
 might - be ; so she only thought, " The child is too tired," and 
 said in a cheery tone: 
 
 " Why, what a foolish girl ! You are always lecturing me
 
 CHAP, i.] THE STIRRING OF SEED. 3 
 
 for putting faith in such nonsense, and here you are twice as 
 silly, I'm sure. Besides, I haven't had the training of you for 
 nothing. If you did have a ' test/ you would come out of it 
 with flying colours. / am not afraid." 
 
 " But that only makes me more so," answered the girl, with 
 increased earnestness. " You have too much confidence in me, 
 auntie ; I have never done anything to deserve it. Don't you 
 
 see How can you tell what will be my temptations, or 
 
 how I will resist them ? No one can. And so Well, it 
 
 is like a cloud between me and the sun." 
 
 " Leave it to the sun to dissipate, Dolly. Look out, and 
 enjoy yourself. It does no good to brood over a thing in this 
 fashion." 
 
 "Probably not," said the girl, somewhat drearily. She 
 was half disappointed in her aunt's careless answers. The pre- 
 sentiment weighed too heavily for her not to desire a firm 
 support, in recognition of a possible failure, and helpful words to 
 reinforce her already unnerved strength. But Mrs. Trescott 
 did not understand the inner workings of this girl's mind, which 
 she thought she knew through and through. She saw Beth's 
 rare tears were near the surface, however, and poured out a 
 glass of sherry, saying : 
 
 " Here, you will find this much more palatable than swal- 
 lowing unshed tears ; and as to crying Why, if you cry 
 
 to-day, it would be a dreadful reproach to me, for I should 
 know you were just worn out, and that I ought not to have 
 done as you teased me to, which I always do, you little 
 witch !" 
 
 The stimulant did Beth good, and the confessing of her 
 trouble also. It looked sillier now that it had been spoken, 
 and her aunt left her no time to brood, but began to talk of 
 other things. 
 
 " Don't you wish you knew what I am going to give you 
 to-day?" she asked presently. "You couldn't have lovelier 
 associations than these. Just look there !" 
 
 The train was moving with exceeding care across a great 
 chasm, bridged by a natural arch, hundreds of feet above the 
 sea. As Beth leaned out she could see nothing except the 
 perpendicular cliffs and the leaping, restless waves far below. 
 
 It was a dizzy sight and fascinating, as such sights often 
 are. The girl was tired and excited. She felt an intense
 
 4 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 desire to foil through the air, and touch the water beneath. 
 The longing took her breath quite away. She gave a little 
 gasp, and her head sank on the window-sill. Then, through 
 the rush in her ears and the sound of the quickening train, 
 she heard her aunt's voice, as from a distance, in alarmed 
 accents. 
 
 " Beth ! Beth ! be careful ! What is the matter ? " 
 
 " Nothing," she contrived to say after a moment. " Just 
 let me be quiet." Then, presently : "I suppose I was dizzy. 
 But it was a strange feeling." 
 
 " Change seats with me," said Mrs. Trescott emphatically. 
 " You must not look out of the window. Here is your present 
 instead." 
 
 " A ring ? Oh, it is beautiful. I never saw one like it." 
 
 " There isn't such another in all the world ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Trescott. "We tired ourselves to death hunting for 
 something, and this, at last, just pleased me. Monsieur 
 d'Isten discovered it at a queer place way down in the city, he 
 said. He brought it for me to see, and I took it without more 
 ado. I think it is just perfect." 
 
 " I like it," said Beth, in a tone of thorough satisfaction. 
 " It is becoming, too ; but look inside." There were a number 
 of Arabic characters clearly engraved. "Can you read it? 
 Try." 
 
 After turning it around several times, Beth deciphered : "Let 
 not grass grow on the path of love or friendship." " The 
 same word means both, I believe." 
 
 " Brava ! You hardly need such an admonition, however. 
 I now Well, my way is best after all. When a friend- 
 ship once commences to languish, let it go. No amount of 
 galvanism will make it lifelike. Still, one might afford to pull 
 up a weed now and then in the pathway, I daresay. The best 
 way, though, is to travel it often and crush the seeds down." 
 
 " We won't let any seeds have a chance to sprout in our 
 path, will we, auntie 1" said Beth fondly. " But how did you 
 know what it was 1 Have you been studying Arabic too 1" 
 
 u Oh, my dear ! imagine me ! No. M. d'Isten translated 
 it for me. He was born in Algeria, you know." 
 
 " I didn't know it." 
 
 " Yes, he is the son of the Marquis de F , lieutenant- 
 general of the forces there. "
 
 CHAP, i.] A REBUFF. 5 
 
 " Indeed ?" exclaimed Beth, in pleased surprise. "Why, the 
 Marquis was the one who sent us our escort, and was so very 
 kind to us, although we missed our opportunity of seeing him. 
 He is a man of whom one hears nothing but praise. Can M. 
 d'lsteu be his son ?" 
 
 " I don't see why you should be so very much astonished. 
 That is the precise man I should have said would be Rend 
 d'Isten's father." 
 
 There was a slight hauteur in her manner which Beth did 
 not notice at the moment. 
 
 " I thought you had quarrelled," she said, " and that you 
 did not like him so well as at first." 
 
 " I don't. He has disappointed me." A shadow crossed 
 Mrs. Trescott's face as she spoke ; a shadow of mingled pride, 
 offence, and repression. She was exercising unusual self-control. 
 
 "So he is an Algerene," said Beth, with interest. "And 
 the wife of the Marquis, was she a native or French ? " 
 
 " She was an Orientale, a Christian of the open Bible, as 
 they call it. Her son always speaks of her with much 
 reverence." 
 
 " And of his father too, I'm sure." 
 
 " He is proud of him, but I fancy the Marquis is a cold 
 man." 
 
 "Perhaps, but every one admires him," exclaimed Beth 
 eagerly. "He has, they say, the keenest sensitiveness to 
 honour. A true Bayard." 
 
 " Hum !" was the sceptical comment of Mrs. Trescott. 
 
 "His son is not like him in that, then?" 
 
 " I thought so once, but that passed, as all such ideas do." 
 
 She spoke bitterly, but Beth, used to frank confidence 
 between them, asked : 
 
 "What happened 1 ? You never told me the cause of the 
 trouble." 
 
 " I never shall, probably," was the unexpected rebuff. 
 " He failed in respect to me. That is enough for my niece to 
 know." 
 
 Beth sat a moment dumb with surprise. " Then you do 
 not expect to meet him again, I suppose," she said presently, 
 and Mrs. Trescott answered, with assumed carelessness : 
 
 " Oh, yes ; we may meet. I don't know that I should be 
 angry with him now ; only, we are not friends."
 
 6 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 "A fine bit of sarcasm," thought the girl, but she exclaimed 
 frankly : 
 
 " Well, I hope we won't meet ! " 
 
 " Why not ? " retorted Mrs. Trescott sharply. 
 
 " I never fancied him from what you yourself told me of 
 him when you liked him best," said Beth, with some spirit. " I 
 tried to hold myself neutral until I should see him as long as 
 he was your friend ; yet when I heard that I should not have 
 to know him it was a relief." 
 
 Mrs. Trescott looked at her with contradictory meanings in 
 her face. 
 
 " Yet you admire his father so much ! " she said at last. 
 
 " They are very different apparently." After a pause the 
 girl added in a firm tone : " Didn't you say M. d'Isten was 
 married ? " 
 
 'Yes." 
 
 ' Have you met his wife 1 " 
 
 ' No ; she does not live in Paris." 
 
 ' And does he live there all the year ? " 
 
 ' As far as I know. But you needn't cross-question me any 
 further. It is a disagreeable subject. You haven't thanked me 
 for your ring yet." 
 
 " Ah," said her niece, with a smile like a sunbeam, " it is 
 what I most desired." 
 
 She took her aunt's hand, and kissed her wrist above the 
 glove. All the constraint in Mrs. Trescott's manner vanished. 
 
 " That is pretty thanks, dear. I am glad you have the 
 ring. It seemed to belong to you from the first" 
 
 It was a heavy hoop of yellow gold, with a leaf lying on 
 it, against which was a ruby rose with a diamond in its heart. 
 
 "I wonder who it was made for?" mused the girl, turning 
 it from side to side so that the gems should catch the light. 
 " Perhaps for some sultana who wore it in the harem, where 
 she was for ever queen. Perhaps for some Christian maiden, 
 whose lover gave her this as a betrothal ring ; that diamond 
 might be the virgin who was enwrapped in the folds of his 
 heart. Or perhaps the gem might be a tear, too it was the 
 symbol of a love which should last through the circle of eternity, 
 even though grief lay in its midst." 
 
 She looked up smiling, a little gravely. 
 
 "You romantic child!" laughed Mrs. Trescott. "That
 
 CHAP, i.] WHAT IS FATE? 7 
 
 last supposition would only be thought of by one as foolish as 
 you. But dream away as much as you like, so long as you 
 don't dream anything sad. I can't have my present bring you 
 sorrow even in fancy, sweet." 
 
 " No danger. It is too lovely for that." 
 
 The rest of the journey passed in comparative silence. Mrs. 
 Trescott was reading the last crowned French novel ; Beth was 
 thinking, rather dreaming. Her mind wandered back to the 
 broken home in Massachusetts ; to the sister who was her one 
 youthful, earnest companion ; to the aunt and uncle with whom 
 this sister lived ; while she and the aunt who had brought her 
 up wandered over the face of the earth, and found only occasional 
 oases of rest, as they would now find a few months' quiet in 
 Florence. 
 
 And meanwhile under all her musings lay the dull, haunted 
 feeling which, ghost-like, vanished when she tried to find its 
 substance, and, without words, made her understand that the 
 future was in its power ; she could not escape it. Her mental 
 horizon reminded her of the desert she had so lately traversed. 
 Long sable dunes sweeping away, with no boundary but the 
 sky ; waves of sand, changing under the wind, to break only 
 into other tawny waves, and, while changing, ever the same. 
 
 The desert had made a great impression upon her. Its 
 silence, its weird immensity, its burning suns and wondrous 
 stars, had all wrought their influence upon her. She had come 
 to understand why the Arabs were fatalists there ; would this 
 shadowy future teach her to be one 1 
 
 She was roused from her reveries by the sight of the Flower 
 City beneath them. They had crossed the last pass of the 
 Apennines, and were striking down into the valley. As Beth 
 saw the town which she dearly loved, where many happy hours 
 had been spent, and friends would soon know of their unexpected 
 arrival, she regained something of her usual spirits ; and her 
 eyes lost all their sadness as the well-known buildings came 
 near, the Lily Tower and the grand cathedral conspicuous above 
 the closely-packed houses. 
 
 "Isn't it the loveliest city in the world?" she exclaimed. 
 " See ! there is the river, and our house. I can even catch the 
 reflection of the windows ! It's like coming home ; it is our 
 heart's home, isn't it, auntie 1" 
 
 " How would you like to live here always ?" asked Mrs.
 
 8 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 Trescott, looking up at the girl, as she stood with her hands 
 clasped through the door -strap, her slender figure swaying 
 pliantly. "Margaret could come over, and we all live here 
 together. You don't care for America much." 
 
 " But I do care for persons there. Margaret never could 
 leave Aunt Agatha; and, besides, she could not be happy here. 
 They think we lead aimless lives." 
 
 " I am sure, with your music, and now your writing, you 
 do more than they do ! And you could not be here at all, but 
 for me. However, I was not serious. Of course, America is 
 the place to live in." 
 
 " But we have this winter, at least, in dear Florence ! " 
 exclaimed Beth. " Aren't you glad ? " 
 
 " Yes, I like Italy. I hope it may be a very happy year to 
 you," she added tenderly. "We have much to be thankful 
 for ; you were so ill a year ago, and now you are almost well 
 again." 
 
 " Quite well, auntie," corrected Beth. " You know we are 
 going to forget I am not a Samson, and try gaiety fearlessly. 
 But, dear," and her voice grew sweet and grave, " most of all, I 
 want to make you happy. You have been so good to me !" 
 
 Mabel Trescott's answer was a warm pressure of Beth's 
 hand, but nothing more was said, for the train now puffed slowly 
 into the station. 
 
 A few moments later they were rolling over the clean streets, 
 Beth recognising each landmark with affectionate pride, and 
 admiring anew the palaces which raise themselves, " by three 
 long-drawn breaths," higher than any houses in Europe. In 
 one of these was the suite they had made into a home. The 
 windows looked out in front between stately houses, on to the 
 Arno, and olive-clothed hills beyond, now crimsoned by the set- 
 ting sun. On the other side the apartment opened into a half- 
 wild garden, where the ilex alleys and measured parterres were 
 overgrown with ivy and clambering roses. 
 
 As the delighted servants rushed out through the medieval 
 gateway to kiss the hands of their care signore, Beth felt a glow 
 of pleasure which warmed her heart. She ran lightly up the 
 marble staircase, and, greeting the padrone with a glad nod, went 
 on ahead of him into the sala. 
 
 How familiar everything was ! There was the same tri- 
 angular fireplace in the corner, where wood was already burning;
 
 CHAP, i.] A KESOLVE. 9 
 
 the same confusion of tables and sofas, etagcres, and easels ; 
 the same shadowy Eembrandts and glowing Titians ; and the 
 painted Aurora still floated among her substantial clouds on the 
 high ceiling. Also yes, surely there was her favourite frag- 
 rance of tea-roses permeating the air. 
 
 " Who could have sent these ?" she exclaimed, bending over 
 a bowlful of the creamy beauties. The beaming padrone bowed 
 profoundly in the doorway as he answered : 
 
 " We Tuscans have good memories, signorina mia." 
 
 "You don't mean you remembered my birthday?" she. cried, 
 her dark eyes shining. She gave the old man her hand; " Mille 
 grazie, signore." 
 
 " Ah, signora," he said, lifting her fingers to his lips, " no 
 one could forget your sweet patience last year. It does an old 
 man's heart good to see you well, and that you care for us still, 
 although you have been far over the waters." 
 
 " There is nothing like it there," she answered, with a little 
 decisive gesture. And then Mrs. Trescott coming in, and busi- 
 ness usurping attentions, Beth slipped off alone into her rose 
 boudoir. 
 
 Here, too, all was familiar, and doubly dear. By the fire 
 was the chaise longue, on which she had passed days and weeks 
 during the languor of convalescence. A buhl cabinet stood 
 opposite the window, and above it hung an inspired sibyl, in 
 the full light of the great window, whose curtains made all one 
 end of the room a mass of snowy draperies. 
 
 Leaning against the casement, and looking out into the 
 twilight garden, Beth said earnestly : 
 
 " I have conquered much in this room ; I will trust I shall 
 more." 
 
 Not suffered, or endured, but conquered, was her thought. 
 
 A few hours later Mrs. Trescott had retired, and the moon 
 had risen, and was sending a silver flood through one of the 
 great arched windows into the sola. Presently Beth lifted the 
 curtain of the little study, and came out into the dim room. 
 She wanted space around her. She needed to breathe freely 
 before she could rest. 
 
 The light from the half-shaded door made but a faint im- 
 pression on the shadowy vastness of the apartment, but the 
 effect of the moonlight on the indistinct masses of furniture 
 and glimmering marbles pleased Beth's mood. She was ini-
 
 10 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 pressionable, and the memory of this being the house where 
 Dante's Beatrice used to live came back to her now with a 
 thrill of delight. 
 
 She went and seated herself on the wide window-ledge in 
 the full shower of moonbeams. With the pure outline of her 
 uplifted face, and her sweeping white draperies, she might have 
 been taken for the mystic maiden of whom she thought. The 
 ring still glowed on her hand like a drop of blood, but she had 
 forgotten it. 
 
 " What a glorious destiny it was to lead such a man through 
 heaven ! " she was saying to herself. " The highest a woman 
 could have. No, there was Mary, she was blessed among women, 
 and yet, how she suffered ! But who would not bear the agony 
 for the joy of giving food to hungry humanity ? Nothing is too 
 hard to undergo, if we let it only make us nobler." 
 
 She spoke bravely, half aloud. It was an answer to the fear 
 that had been haunting her. She met it now fairly. It might 
 do its worst ; good would ensue. 
 
 Thus exorcised, the spirit left her, and her thoughts wandered 
 to other things. The year had been a happy one, yet in many 
 ways serious. A man had loved her, and she had liked him. 
 She had tried to do more. Her aunt pleaded his cause : his 
 mother also. But it is a trying situation for any man to attempt 
 to be the ideal of an intelligent girl during the years when her 
 ideas are constantly changing. Idealising men is the next step 
 to idealising dolls. An enthusiastic girl can make an idol out 
 of a stick, but she won't worship it unless she believes in it. 
 This Beth had not been able to do. Her aunt's influence was 
 all towards making a marriage on the basis of esteem and liking. 
 Mrs. Randleth's (an Englishwoman) had, of course, been the 
 same. Beth did like Clarence, but she never felt the indescrib- 
 able repulsion from him so much as when she admired him 
 most, and saw the most reason in her friends' urgings. 
 
 It wore upon her, delicate as she was from her long illness, 
 and she accepted an invitation from Aunt Agatha, and went 
 home suddenly, on a few months' visit, leaving Mrs. Trescott for 
 a summer trip with friends. 
 
 It had all become clear to her there ; how, she could not 
 exactly say. Perhaps it was being in the truly conjugal atmos- 
 phere that Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope gave to their home. Perhaps 
 it was the awakening of her national independence within her.
 
 CHAP, i.] THE PROBLEM OF CHARACTER. 11 
 
 Whatever was the cause, Clarence was quietly made to under- 
 stand that there was no hope of her yielding, and she returned 
 to Europe fancy free. 
 
 But the new key which she had struck in touching American 
 ideas and customs, after her long residence abroad, if flitting 
 can be so called, and which had seemed harsh at the time, 
 echoed, unconsciously to herself, through old associations now 
 renewed. She found a difference in opinion between herself and 
 her aunt which she had never noticed before. She discovered 
 that the unprogressive actions and notions of the conservative 
 old world were less sympathetic to her than they had been. 
 Perhaps this grew more rapidly from the force of contrast, .dur- 
 ing her travels in Spain, where traditionary ideas are most 
 blindly held, and Algeria, where ideas of any kind seem a thing 
 of the forgotten past. Moreover, being separated from one who 
 had been accustomed to unquestioning obedience from her, and 
 who never hesitated with advice or commands, gave her an 
 opportunity of developing independence which she needed. 
 
 Her sister Margaret, with her radical adhesion to her own 
 principles and opinions, helped her too. She wished now she 
 could be more with her sister. It was an influence which, 
 though silent, was thousand -tongued. There was no one to 
 rival her in Beth's heart. To her aunt she was devotedly 
 attached, but her sister was closer, indeed thoroughly at one 
 
 with her. As for lovers Well, Beth had often asserted, as 
 
 many girls of high ideals do in this age, her conviction that she 
 would never marry. Yet she was always, half consciously, ex- 
 pecting the demi-god who would rout her conviction, and prove 
 that she knew nothing of what she said. 
 
 Meantime her heart slept, as did nature around her under 
 the starry, purple sky. Presently the dawn would come ; and 
 what would the light awaken that now was wrapped in dewy 
 silence 1 It was winter now ; the plant was there, but no bud; 
 what fruit, then, would ripen in the summer sunlight ?
 
 12 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " She sittetli in a silence of her own ; 
 
 Behind her, on the ground, a red rose lies ; 
 
 Her thinking brow is bent, nor doth arise 
 
 Her gaze from that shut book whose word unknown 
 Her firm hands hide from her." R w C 
 
 IT was a glorious day in early February. Already spring was 
 making itself felt in the subtle excitant of the air, and showing 
 itself in the crocuses and wild hyacinths. The trees were per- 
 force letting fall the yellow leaves of last year, because of the 
 swelling buds that came to replace them. There is no use 
 exercising tenacity when the inner growth says Past. 
 
 In the old garden behind celestial Beatrice's earthly home 
 the grass was fresh and short, the roses were beginning to bud, 
 the air was fragrant, and birds were wooing one another among 
 the branches. Bethesda Hamilton, of course, was there in the 
 heart of it all. She was devoted to the picturesque spot, with 
 its cacti-topped walls, opening to let one see the river and hills 
 and far-reaching valley. Often she would lie for hours on the 
 sod looking and dreaming. 
 
 For the time it satisfied her. She could look at those far- 
 away hills, and the time -toned towers, and the shimmering 
 olive groves, until she seemed to feel what they felt, coming 
 curiously near to nature. She could listen to the birds, and 
 the children's voices, and the chimes of sacred bells, until they 
 made a rhythm within her, to which every pulse beat musically, 
 and each ruddy drop flowed in tune. 
 
 So there she was this morning, secluded and yet open to sky 
 and air, when Mrs. Trescott spied her blue gown on the grass, 
 and came out with a letter in her hand. Beth was immediately 
 all animation. She sprang up and ran to meet her aunt. 
 
 " A letter for me 1 " she cried. " From Margaret ? " 
 
 " From somebody you may yet like better," said Mabel. 
 
 " As if that could be ! Oh, from Clarence ! " Her voice 
 fell with such a tone of disappointment that Mrs. Trescott 
 laughed. 
 
 " He would be flattered ! " 
 
 " Is this all ? " asked Beth.
 
 CHAP. II.] A MYSTEKIOUS DICTATOR. 13 
 
 " Yes ; the mail was evidently absorbed in bringing you 
 that. I hope it is worth it." 
 
 She waited, strolling here and there, as if she expected 
 Beth to read it, but the girl was not in the mood. 
 
 Presently Mabel disappeared again into the house, and 
 Beth was left alone to her disturbed reverie. It was indeed 
 disturbed. The restlessness and sweet pain of spring had 
 come closer to her now. It was hardly sweet, it was so keen. 
 She threw herself on the grass again, and pressed close to the 
 earth to still this uneasiness was it of craving or regret 1 
 
 After a little she took out the letter and read it. It was a 
 manly note ; only a few earnest words from one who felt he had 
 a right to assure her of his steadfast devotion since he claimed 
 nothing in return; except, indeed, the encouragement her purity 
 lent to every one, to try to make his life better worth living, as 
 the memory of her was helping him to do. 
 
 It touched Beth deeply. She would have given much had 
 she been able to return Clarence Eandleth's affection. The 
 delight she would give, the rest she would feel, appealed to her 
 strongly. The lack of stability in the circumstances around 
 her had grievously influenced her character. There was not a 
 side on which her nature did not reach out for something to 
 which she could vow and keep fidelity ; and her outstretched 
 arms found nothing her hands closed only on empty air. 
 
 Meantime, within the convex mirror which was turned to 
 the world on every side there grew a personality as surely, if 
 silently, as crystals form in the still sea-caves. And this per- 
 sonality had a magnetism which no one understood, least of all, 
 perhaps, herself. She hardly knew of its existence, except 
 when something rose within her that flung aside all outward 
 interference and asserted itself supreme, as had been the case 
 in her final decision about this lover. 
 
 Instinct was strong within her to defend the inner being ; 
 it was an imperious instinct ; she never could definitely belie it. 
 Those who passed the glassy walls of her courteous reserve and 
 were admitted into her friendship found themselves in a dim 
 mystic city, where they hardly knew what were their own 
 shadows and what the natural inhabitants. Forms of light and 
 forms of darkness were there, and all freely to be known. But 
 in the centre was a palace surrounded by a wide stream, which 
 no one could either fathom or bridge. Here the being, who
 
 14 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 frightened Beth herself at times, lived in solitude, working 
 silently, feeling passionately. She would look forth at those 
 who stood on the other side and dipped impotent feet into the 
 deep waves, scrutinising them, expectant of the one who was to 
 cross in triumph, and to whom she would gladly relinquish her 
 sovereignty. But she was not to be deceived ; and to all as 
 yet, plead as Beth might, she turned an averted face. 
 
 " Beth ! Girlie ! " called Mrs. Trescott. 
 
 Beth looked up and saw her aunt in the window, and 
 behind her a man's eager face. It was too eager for Beth not 
 to be pleased, for each woman loves the true love in her lover, 
 even if unrecognised. Yet she rose reluctantly. It was charm- 
 ing out, and she shrank from the thought of sitting under this 
 artist's eyes, which had subtly changed of late, and held a light 
 she now half liked, now wholly disliked, to meet. But it was 
 all so unsubstantial that she could find no adequate reason for 
 refusing to do what he pleaded for persistently, and which she 
 knew he had now again come to press. 
 
 So she lingered in answering her aunt's summons, and broke 
 off a spray of the new leaves and passed it over her hand again 
 and again, hesitating to enter. Thus hesitating Signer Straora 
 found her. 
 
 He was a fine-looking man, with a strong face and deferen- 
 tial manners. He approached Beth now, bowing profoundly. 
 
 "Ah, signore, you thought I was very dilatory? To tell 
 the truth, I was afraid to go in." 
 
 " Thank you," he said gravely. 
 
 " Why does that please you ? " she asked in surprise. " Do 
 you like to be feared 1 " 
 
 " To-day it promises me much." 
 
 " What does it promise you 1 " Her eyes fell after a glance 
 at his face. She began to guess. 
 
 " It promises me that you have forgiven whatever my offence 
 may have been," he said eagerly, drawing a step nearer. " It pro- 
 mises me that you will not be obdurate ; that I shall see you in 
 my studio ; that your kindness will intercede for me ; that " 
 
 " Perhaps, signore," said Beth demurely ; " perhaps it pro- 
 mises too much. Let us go in." 
 
 The sala looked unusually attractive in its shadowy grace, 
 coming from the noonday light, which had grown almost too 
 intense. Mrs. Trescott was sewing in a recess, willing to leave
 
 CHAP. II.] INSTABILITY. 15 
 
 Beth and Signer Straora undisturbed. She was the most 
 lenient of chaperones ; indeed, she tried to escape being one at 
 all, she so detested the rdle. 
 
 But Beth intended to have all the protection she could. 
 She seated herself close beside her aunt, and motioned Signor 
 Straora to a chair not very near. She was determined to be 
 unapproachable. Promises, indeed ! they were all the other way. 
 
 "Was it hot out 1 ?" said Mrs. Trescott carelessly, looking 
 tropical enough with her warm colouring and dark curls against 
 the bright window. She was a fair-skinned brunette, with eyes 
 which sometimes go with this anomalous type, never seeming 
 to be of the same colour twice, but varying from the luminous 
 darkness of emotion to the light gray of indifference, or the 
 sunny laughter of teasing moods ; at all times a surprise. 
 Signor Straora thought he had never seen a finer contrast than 
 between her and her niece. 
 
 " Too warm in February, aim tie 1 It could not be for me 
 even in summer, but " 
 
 " There was too much nature around to entertain Monsieur 
 1'artist, eh 1 " said Mabel in a teasing tone. 
 
 Beth rose a trifle abruptly. Her aunt ought to support her, 
 she thought ; two against one was unfair. 
 
 " If I am a true artist nothing could please me so well as 
 nature," Signor Straora said meanwhile, addressing himself 
 entirely to Mabel. " A bit of garden like that in which I found 
 the signorina would do for one of Raphael's backgrounds." He 
 shaded his eyes and looked out into the brilliant atmosphere. 
 
 "Tell me," said Beth, approaching him, now that he was 
 impersonally occupied, " what do you think of this engraving of 
 Santa Anna from da Vinci 1 " 
 
 " It is an excellent engraving," replied the artist critically. 
 
 "You speak as if you did not like the subject." 
 
 " Nor do I. Can an artist expect to take a face, which is 
 only clay modelled by character, and use the form without 
 giving the soul's expression 1 In all Leonardo's paintings I see 
 the woman who broke his heart and ruined his honour." 
 
 He laid the engraving aside with a slight gesture of dislike. 
 Beth bent over it with new interest. 
 
 "Nay," she said eagerly, "I thought you artists held that 
 forms are supreme ; that character cannot make a plain face 
 beautiful, or a beautiful one ugly."
 
 16 BETHESDA. [PART L 
 
 "Signora," said Straora, smiling, "you are giving artists 
 credit for less discrimination than most men, and it is our boast 
 that we have ' more. Give me a pure-hearted woman with no 
 deformity but plainness, as you say, and I could produce you a 
 Virgin that would not shock you. There would be nothing in 
 her face which would be inharmonious with pure beauty. But 
 a woman such as Monna Lisa it is blasphemy." 
 
 Beth was smiling up at him with shining eyes. This met 
 her ideal expectation ; it was what she wished might be. 
 
 " Ah, signorina ! " exclaimed the artist, suddenly fervent ; 
 " come but back to my studio, sit to me but twice more, and 
 see what I will do ! " 
 
 Before Beth could reply came a quick knock at the door, and 
 Guinevere Conover, an English prima donna who was making a 
 fine success in Florence, entered. She was a tall fair girl with 
 golden hair of no artificial tint, but her eyebrows and lashes 
 were dark, making the blue eyes an unexpected sight, and one 
 which never fails to indicate a nature at combat with itself. She 
 had become an ardent friend of Beth's during the winter, and had a 
 cluster of tea-roses now in her hand as a tribute to her little queen. 
 
 " How could you come to see me when you are going to 
 sing in the new opera to-night?" exclaimed Beth, with fond 
 rebuke, as soon as the introductions were over. 
 
 " I couldn't stand it at home," answered Miss Conover in 
 an undertone, going towards the study to lay aside her wraps. 
 " I must not do anything to-day, and idleness just kills me. It 
 gives me nerves, and fears, and all sorts of silly things, and I 
 knew you would exorcise them. Ah, love ! " she exclaimed 
 abruptly, as the curtain fell behind them, "you are all my 
 peace and my rest now. It's marvellous the effect you have on 
 me. I feel it as soon as I come near. To-day I stood outside 
 your door there, before I knocked, and just tried to feel you, as 
 it were ; but it was nothing to having you right here." 
 
 " You shall stay with me, then, as long as you like ; all day if 
 you choose," said Beth promptly. She knew the passionate woman 
 had been thrown by an early disappointment on to the stage for 
 work, and that now her whole devotion was given to her art 
 except what could it be 1 ? was reserved for Bethesda. "If 
 I can quiet you, you shall have me," she added tenderly. 
 
 . " That is like you, sweet. Let me put this rose in your hair. 
 It is too lovely for any other place. I remember when I first saw
 
 CHAP, ii.] A SONG. 17 
 
 you, dressed in sheer white, I thought you were like a tropical 
 moonlight, so fair and clear, and yet with an undertone of passion 
 in you which suggested exotic flowers, and palm trees, and " 
 
 "And deserts!" interrupted Beth, turning away some- 
 what impatiently. " Forgive me, but I can't bear to be talked 
 about. I just hate myself to-day." 
 
 "Why, what can be the matter, carissima?" With quick 
 instinct she added presently : " Is it the painter 1" 
 
 "Precisely!" exclaimed Beth. "I have been so stared at 
 and studied by him that even when he says nothing I am 
 conscious of myself and my poses. It's miserable ! I feel 
 like hiding myself in a cavern. Instead," she added, with an 
 effort after her usual manner, " come in and talk to him. He 
 is entertaining and appreciative ; you will like one another." 
 
 Signer Straora rose to meet them and to take his leave at 
 the same time ; but a word from Beth persuaded him to stay, 
 and the conversation was immediately easy and fluent. Beth 
 delighted in listening to the witty sallies and vivacious replies 
 which passed between Signor Straora and Miss Conover, but 
 after a little the latter grew restless. This was not what she 
 needed ; Beth's presence did not exercise its charm with other 
 persons intervening. 
 
 She rose, and, going to the piano, began turning over some 
 music. When she could not have one, her instinct led her 
 directly to the other. 
 
 "Sing us one little song, won't you, Evra 1 ?" urged Mrs. 
 Trescott. 
 
 "Oh, she ought not," interposed Beth. But to such a 
 nature as Guinevere's danger lends piquancy. Besides, as she 
 said, one song could not tire her. 
 
 She had soon chosen a simple minor air, with pathetic 
 intervals and an appealing melody. It expressed the sorrow of 
 a man who had laid his beloved in the grave, and had planted 
 flowers at her head and feet one dark and sombre, to tell his 
 grief; and one white and candid, to recall her purity. 
 
 Music is said to be the voicing of the emotions, and surely 
 it was so here. The rare voice touched its hearers, and made 
 their innermost wishes speak. Mrs. Trescott was restless 
 under a rankling memory; Beth thought how far better it 
 would be to love, and lose, if need were ; and for a moment 
 Straora's eyes rested on Beth's drooping head, with the rose in 
 
 C
 
 18 BETHESDA. [HART i. 
 
 the warm coils, as a man might look at one who had the power 
 to save him from sorrow bitterer than death. 
 
 When the chaste devotion of the last tones was hushed into 
 silence, and a few words of appreciation had been spoken by 
 the stranger, in a voice which quite satisfied the artiste, she said : 
 
 " I will give you a treasure in return for your kind words, 
 signore. Beth, you will play us my sonata 1 " 
 
 "Certainly," said Beth. Here she was at home, and no 
 false pride or obtrusive self-consciousness hampered her. She 
 knew she could play, and she was pleased to give pleasure. So 
 she took up her violin, and pressed it against her breast a 
 moment ; but, once vibrating, she forgot all else. 
 
 The slumbering passion and pathos which underlay her 
 nature flowed out in this beloved art, to which she had given 
 years of study. She was really great at times, beautiful to 
 look at, thrilling to listen to, infinite to suggest. No other 
 person seemed to ensoul a sonata as did Bethesda. Every strain 
 became a thought, and carried itself into one's brain. Each note 
 seemed a magnet, to attract, and to hold. Finally, one felt one's 
 self the instrument, and one's heartstrings were what she was 
 touching, and each touch was an ecstasy and a pain ; and one 
 would not have foregone this pain for the most brilliant joy. 
 
 When she finished and sank back, half-benumbed, as always 
 by playing, Evra came and took the violin away, . with cold 
 hands and burning eyes. 
 
 " You outdid yourself ; is Mozart actually in you ? I believe 
 sometimes you are yourself a spirit, child." 
 
 " She is all spirit," said Signer Straora, standing near, and 
 just touching her chair as if to detain her. What weird power 
 was this that Beth exercised? Every one felt it, and these 
 artist natures more than all. 
 
 She smiled up at them both. 
 
 "I won't vanish," she said. "You make me feel quite 
 eerie, you two, so serious, and yet so absurd. Come, I'll break 
 the spell." 
 
 She sprang up and gave herself a little shake. As she did so 
 the flower fell from her hair. Signor Straora instantly picked it up. 
 
 "There lies my power !" exclaimed Beth, "in Evra's gift. 
 Sha'n't we give it to him, to use as an amulet against the witch, 
 mademoiselle ? " 
 
 "Not against her," he said, with peculiar emphasis, as
 
 CHAP. IL] AN ARTIST'S CEAVING. 19 
 
 Evra nodded assent. She left them and went over to say good- 
 bye to Mrs. Trescott. 
 
 Signor Straora seized his opportunity, and used it with good 
 effect. He saw Miss Hamilton was softened by the music, and 
 touched by their appreciation. He urged her to confer the 
 greatest pleasure she could upon him, since his whole soul was in 
 his art, and she, now, was necessary to it. He avoided with fine 
 care too much personal warmth, and yet let his enthusiasm on art 
 speak as it would. She wavered, and finally turned to her aunt. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott was quick in discerning the undercurrents of 
 society where no personal bias blinded her, and was fond of 
 saying that she had yet to see the man who could conceal his 
 love for any woman when she had once seen the two together. 
 She generally prevented any possible mistake by taking it for 
 granted that any given man loved any given woman whom he 
 had met, until the contrary was proved ; and the contrary of 
 love is not hate, but indifference. 
 
 She shrewdly suspected, therefore, that Signor Straora was 
 "in love" with her niece, but she did not look upon this as 
 any reason why she should refuse a favour that would bring a 
 rich reward. She never threw away anything she desired 
 because of a doubt about using the means she had in her hand ; 
 that is, she was always sure she had a right to use them. 
 
 So now she said : " Of course Beth will go. It is very kind 
 of you to urge it, yet I think it will be a pleasure to you also, 
 and Beth is glad to do a kindness. When shall we come, signore? 
 and when can we hope to see the portrait ? Do you know," 
 turning to Miss Conover, " we never have had a glimpse of it yet. 
 The whims of artists, however, are to be considered, I suppose." 
 
 Meantime Signor Straora was looking at Beth, still un- 
 satisfied. He wished to have her free consent; he wished it to 
 come from her. She understood, and smiled brightly. 
 
 " Yes, I will come, since auntie consents. I don't doubt it 
 will be enjoyable ; and then it is a pleasure, isn't it, signore, 
 to give pleasure 1 I am quite selfish in it, you see." 
 
 It can hardly be expressed what this favour was to the 
 artist. He felt it a question concerning not alone his art, not 
 even principally that, but his most elevated happiness, an 
 inspiration to heart, brain, and soul, such as he had never 
 experienced before. It was not love he felt ; rather that up- 
 lifted devotion which rendered Dante and Petrarch great that
 
 20 BETHESDA. [PART I. 
 
 choosing as the type of all perfection one woman, and worship- 
 ping none but her. 
 
 Yet Beth was only a pretty American girl with faults, and 
 vanities, and narrownesses such as frail humanity will have ; 
 such as Beatrice herself, the divine Beatrice, no doubt also 
 possessed ; and she did not realise at all what had come to her ; 
 indeed, would have considered it unheard-of arrogance to dream 
 of it. 
 
 She had become, in fact, during this interview somewhat 
 ashamed of having taken for granted what had not been even 
 hinted, only felt. But it is just here a woman's responsibility 
 lies. Bethesda was not clear-sighted in regard to the love of 
 men. What blinded her ? She often asked herself this after- 
 wards, but she never gained a satisfactory reply. Was it 
 vanity 1 Surely for it to be hard to realise persons loved her, 
 was not to be vain. She saw nothing in herself worthy of 
 love, so did not expect it. Was this vanity ? Rather, what 
 else could it be ? The doubt implied that the bestowal of love 
 proved the value was in herself; whereas it is only the affluence 
 of love, falling, like the rain upon the just and unjust, which 
 makes any one the recipient of devotion from another. Love 
 comes to us rather for what we should be than what we are. 
 But Beth did not understand this. Only loving, and feeling 
 how the divine source of love makes it spring beyond all persons 
 to its fountainhead could teach her. 
 
 This is what had taught Straora, and, trembling on the 
 brink of his delight, he felt himself incapable of remaining in 
 her presence ; he dared not even kiss her hand, but took his hat 
 and fled. 
 
 He returned in the evening, however, to accompany them to 
 the opera. It was a magnificent success, and it is impossible 
 to convey an idea of an Italian audience under the thrall of such 
 an artistic creation as that given them of Pocohanta by 
 La Cinoni. For the time being they live in the lives portrayed 
 before them, feeling the surging music as they would their own 
 passions, and calmed at its command as at that of a god. 
 Nothing can equal the intoxication of holding such an audience 
 in one's hand, and seeing it quiver with each tone and gesture. 
 
 Cinoni had the tears in her eyes as she came forward 
 between the tenor and composer, and was greeted with a real 
 ovation. She tried to transfer some of the applause to her
 
 CHAP. II.] A PERCEPTION. 21 
 
 companions, but they joined in it to the delight of the public. 
 She had made its supreme success in her masterly rendering of 
 passion and despair. They felt that nothing could express their 
 gratitude. 
 
 As Mrs. Trescott and Miss Hamilton drove home escorted 
 by Signer Straora, Beth leaned back in her corner, an indistinct 
 white figure in the semi-darkness. 
 
 Presently she said : 
 
 "Did you ever think in going to the opera, signore, that 
 there must be many persons present who are 'going through 
 stirring dramas of their own ? " 
 
 " I never did until to-night," he replied, bending forward, 
 eager to catch a glimpse of her face. But without noticing his 
 movement she continued : 
 
 " I wonder if each life is not set to music as much as an 
 opera 1 Surely we can make it what we will, either a sublime 
 symphony, a glorious anthem, or a requiem. Sometimes I 
 think that if we only listened closely enough we might hear the 
 orchestral accompaniment, and gain strength from the know- 
 ledge that discords only chord at last." 
 
 There was a solemnity in her tone which prevented a ready 
 reply, and in a moment or two she spoke in a more natural 
 voice, but with an echo of passionate sadness : 
 
 " Poor Pocohanta ! in losing her lover she lost the keynote 
 of her existence, and all she could do was to end the distorted 
 harmony. Death must be the result of a broken heart. But 
 in our day no one should have a broken heart. Love is not 
 all in the world, even for a woman ; there is something higher 
 and greater." 
 
 " There is nothing so sweet," murmured the artist, thrown 
 off his guard. He had listened to her as to an oracle. She 
 seemed miles above him ; he never thought of touching her, but 
 his heart spoke almost unconsciously in those few words. She 
 might require an utter sacrifice from him, but he knew its worth. 
 
 On this strained intensity of feeling Mrs. Trescott broke 
 with a laugh. 
 
 " What fol-de-rol talking of dying for love ! The heart is 
 altogether too elastic for that, isn't it, signore? We know 
 better than this little romantic maiden, eh?" 
 
 "I doubt if we know so well," replied Signer Straora 
 gravely, and to his relief they arrived at home.
 
 22 BETHESDA. [PART *i. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Ah, tlie little more, and how much it is ! 
 And the little less, and what worlds away ! 
 How a sound shall quicken content to bliss, 
 Or a breath suspend the blood's best play, 
 And life be a proof of this ! " 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 THE second morning after the representation of Pocohanta 
 was the one on which Beth and her aunt first returned to Signor 
 Straora's studio. The bright sunlight and the fresh air had 
 banished all Beth's ghosts, and she was in a joyous mood, 
 dancing around her aunt with a frolicsomeness that caused Mrs. 
 Trescott to watch her a little. Could the child be really 
 interested in the painter 1 
 
 " You don't seem particularly unhappy at the thought of 
 sitting again," she remarked. 
 
 " Not a bit of it," answered Beth frankly. " You know I 
 dislike refusing requests more than almost anything else ; and 
 then you are pleased now, auntie. That makes me happy." 
 
 Mrs. Trescott pushed her reassurance a question further. 
 
 "And Signor Straora?" 
 
 " Oh yes; I like to please him too. He has not had a very 
 pleasant life, they say, and I am glad to tuck any small repug- 
 nance I may feel into my pocket for the sake of giving him 
 something nice to think about ; and," with a gay smile, " I'm 
 nice, auntie, am I not ?" 
 
 "You will do," answered Mabel, in a well-pleased voice. 
 " You look about four years old this morning, and are just as 
 much of a sunbeam as you were then. I hope you will stay 
 my little girl for ever so many years yet, though, of course, you 
 must marry some time." 
 
 " I would begin to mourn over it now, if I were in your 
 place," exclaimed Beth. " It is the wisest plan in this vale of 
 tears to prepare for sorrow and never expect joy. Do cry a 
 little about my marrying; right off, now; won't you please, 
 auntie 1 Indeed, we might cry together, for it will be far more 
 lamentable to me. Now, let's begin together. One " 
 
 "You foolish child!" laughed Mabel "What nonsense
 
 CHAP, in.] AN ITALIAN STUDIO. 23 
 
 you can talk ! Eun away and get ready. We will postpone 
 our tears till a more propitious occasion." 
 
 Notwithstanding this youthful exuberance of spirits Beth 
 dressed herself very demurely in a gray gown, determined to be 
 quite' dignified; but she could not help smiling as she met her 
 own dancing eyes in the mirror. 
 
 " I am not very ugly," she thought, " and I am quite content 
 to be pretty to-day. It can't harm anybody." 
 
 When they reached the studio building, with its sombre 
 cypresses opposite, a shadow was cast for a moment over the 
 sparkling eyes and bright face. Had she any right to return 
 here, where she might be putting sorrow into another's life, and 
 lift through the radiant sunshine some such gloomy monument 
 as one of these 1 
 
 But Signor Straora had been on the watch for them, and 
 now came running down to welcome his guests. There was a 
 pleasure in his bearing (he had to hold a strong rein on himself 
 not to show too much), which, however illogically, restored 
 Beth's gladness of spirit. 
 
 When the door into the studio was opened Beth could not 
 restrain an exclamation of delight. Through an immense 
 window, from which the gray shades were drawn aside, the 
 light was streaming in a yellow glory, and on every side it was 
 reflected by armour and weapons, which were arranged in groups 
 on the tapestried walls. Finely -carved guitars, flutes, and 
 other musical instruments, were laid in artistic confusion on 
 mosaic and ebony tables ; old cabinets of ivory and sandal- 
 wood stood against Japanese screens, which formed odd corners, 
 where lacquer ware and Venetian glass were mingled in incon- 
 gruous harmony. The most striking object in the room was a 
 screen crossing the whole length of the apartment, and rising 
 almost to the frescoed ceiling. It was made of panels of deep 
 red damask, framed in carved ebony ; and, propped or hung on 
 the protuberances of the carving, were unfinished sketches and 
 rough outlines of heads and limbs ; while all around the room, 
 on easels and chairs, were paintings some of weird scenery, 
 and some of elfish figures, that peopled the room with witches. 
 
 But the completing touch, and the one that pleased Beth 
 most, was the bright wood fire. It had never been there 
 before. 
 
 " I observed that you had a fire always burning," explained
 
 24 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 their host, " and I wished to make it as comfortable for you as 
 I could." 
 
 There could hardly have been a greater concession made by 
 an Italian, for they prefer to shiver over a " scaldino " rather 
 than to " oppress the lungs," as they insist a fire always does. 
 But radical changes were being made in at least one Italian by 
 this American girl. Mrs. Trescott wondered even if he did 
 not intend the fire as a symbol of the warmth which had been 
 lighted in his heart by Beth's unconscious hands. 
 
 She had gone immediately to the hearth, and stood there 
 with one dainty foot on the fender, delighted by the scene, and 
 permeated with the sense of pleasure from unobtrusive admira- 
 tion, as well as from the blazing logs. 
 
 One brand fell forward. 
 
 B "0h," she said quickly, "give me the tongs. Thanks. 
 There ! " dexterously readjusting the sticks, " you cannot be 
 expected to know how to tend to a fire. It takes a woman to 
 keep it from doing damage." 
 
 He was watching her with an almost painful delight. Think 
 of a Beatrice condescending to arrange a domestic hearth ! 
 
 She looked up at him smiling and a little flushed. In- 
 stantly down fell the tongs with a clatter, and she moved away 
 to her seat. How about the vague uneasiness, which was the 
 utmost she had acknowledged to herself, then 1 
 
 "Please, signorina," said the artist from the easel in a 
 business-like tone (he had realised his danger), " will you turn 
 this way ? It is essential that I should see your eyes now." 
 
 " Must I look at you, then, all the time ? " asked Beth, a 
 little wickedly in spite of herself. 
 
 A quick answer flashed in Signor Straora's eyes, but he did 
 not give it utterance. 
 
 " Look anywhere you choose," he said quietly, " so that it 
 is towards me." 
 
 " That is my Sphinx-like expression, eh ? " she said, a little 
 impatient at her position. " I wonder how you ever fancied I 
 looked like the Sphinx anyway. Do you know, signore, it is 
 rather a doubtful compliment 1 As I remember her, she had no 
 nose, and her stony complexion looked as if she had been visited 
 by a gigantic smallpox." 
 
 " It is not in those points that I trace the resemblance." 
 
 " No ? Well, that is comforting. Didn't the Sphinx have
 
 CHAP. III.] WHAT IS THE SPHINX ? 25 
 
 the privilege of asking a question of every one who approached 
 her?" she went on after a moment's pause. Someway, she 
 could not bear silence to-day, with his hand and eyes working 
 so swiftly. She felt all the blemishes there were in her face ; 
 she must take her mind off it this miserable self-conscious- 
 ness ! 
 
 He had hesitated before answering her. Now he said 
 gravely : " Yes, signorina." 
 
 " And wasn't there some dreadful penalty attached if he did 
 not answer?" 
 
 " The sacrifice of his life, signorina." 
 
 This was becoming altogether too serious. 
 
 " I can't play at any such game as that if you do call me 
 the Sphinx," she said lightly. "What does the mysterious 
 creature mean, after all, signore 1" ' . 
 
 11 1 cannot say ; I can at most only paint it." He stood 
 back from the easel, surveying the work and the model critic- 
 ally. "It is your eyes that escape me. In them lies the 
 whole secret of the expression. There is a deep question in 
 
 them ; a wealth of expression Ah, signorina ! don't mock 
 
 at me ! " 
 
 Beth's eyes were dancing now, and she broke into a peal of 
 hearty laughter as she exclaimed : 
 
 " Let me translate the question for you, signore ; it is 
 indeed deep. What do you expect to answer when you are 
 accused of sending me to perdition by flattery 1 " 
 
 "I, flatter? Pardon," he said, persistently grave. "I 
 think you cannot recall a single word of even most deserved 
 appreciation. It is too common for you." 
 
 Beth's gaiety was silenced by his tone. She played with 
 the beads in her lap, a trifle embarrassed. 
 
 " Madama," said the artist to Mrs. Trescott, " cannot you 
 suggest something which will keep la signorina from being too 
 much ennuyee ? " 
 
 " Give her a book, and let her read aloud to us. It may 
 entertain you as well as her." 
 
 " I do not doubt it ; but I have few books," he said, taking 
 a handful from a table near by. " Here is a work on art ; you 
 surely will not care for that, Mees Hamiltone 1 Nor this on 
 Egypt ? You see I have been looking up Egyptian history to 
 explain you. Nor this 1 "
 
 26 . BETHESDA. [PAKT t. 
 
 " Let me have the Egyptian one," said Beth, with interest. 
 " I should like myself to find out what is the explanation giveu 
 of me." 
 
 He came forward to hand it to her, but stopped suddenly. 
 
 " No, please, not this," he said deprecatingly. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because I I greatly prefer not." 
 
 " Then there is no reason for it, signore ? " she said, instinct- 
 ively trying her power over him. 
 
 " No, it is a whim of mine," he answered hastily, slipping 
 the volume under the others. " This will suit you much 
 better," and he offered her a collection of poems. 
 
 " No, I don't care for that ; I want the other. It is a 
 whim of mine," she added, mimicking his deep tones with be- 
 witching effect. " Please give me it." 
 
 She held out her hand, the rosy palm upwards. It was a 
 very little thing that she asked. Why not ? Of course the 
 book was hers. 
 
 She opened it eagerly and glanced through the closely- 
 printed pages, reading bits such as these : " The meaning of 
 the Sphinx is the great enigma of life ; the earnest seeking after 
 truth, which has existed in all times. It is the mystery of the 
 unknown." 
 
 " And I look so wondrously mysterious, do I ? " commented 
 Beth, although the query in her eyes deepened in spite of her 
 light words. They were only the foam on the surface of the 
 sea. 
 
 " ' Her figure was placed before every temple.' You have 
 marked that," she said, glancing up. He was busy, and did 
 not reply. 
 
 " ' The Sphinx has a lion's body, with two wings, and a 
 virgin's head.' Poor virgin ! Now, what do you suppose that 
 means, signore 1" 
 
 "The natural and the ideal, and the intelligence which 
 unites them." 
 
 " Why, there's something in it, isn't there ? " she exclaimed, 
 her intellect aroused. " But why should it be a lion ? " 
 
 " For strength and courage. Those are the highest natural 
 attributes." 
 
 "And the wings? Oh yes, I see. But is a virgin the 
 highest in humanity ? "
 
 CHAP, in.] LANCES IN REST. 27 
 
 " Is she not 1 " lie murmured very low. 
 
 Now as Beth sat there was an old copy of a Virgin over her 
 head, and it would have been difficult to say which Signor 
 Straora glanced at as he spoke these words. Beth remembered 
 he was a Catholic, and explained his words quite simply. 
 
 " Why didn't you wish me to see this 1" she asked presently, 
 closing the book. " I don't see what troubled you." 
 
 " I thought you would not find it interesting," he answered 
 in a relieved tone, but he incautiously showed a desire to re- 
 gain it. 
 
 " No, there is something I haven't found ! " she exclaimed. 
 " Go to your easel, signore ; you cannot have it yet." 
 
 She turned over a few pages carelessly, not really expecting 
 to find anything, when her eye caught sight of a fine annota- 
 tion, and heavy marks around a certain passage. 
 
 If she had read it she would have known with what exceed- 
 ing reverence and devotion he regarded her ; and the artist had 
 been afraid it would rob him of his sittings. Moreover, he 
 could not have her see it when she was in such a mood. 
 
 But of course she did not think of reading a word. She 
 half closed the book, and said triumphantly : 
 
 " I have it ! " 
 
 He took a long stride towards her. 
 
 " Signorina, you will give it to me 1 " His tone made it 
 almost a command, and this made her defiant. She folded her 
 hands over it. 
 
 " You gave it to me, signore." 
 
 For a moment they were both silent, her clear eyes encoun- 
 tering his with a curious expression of mingled fire, determina- 
 tion, and experiment. 
 
 " He shall not have the book," she was thinking ; " but he 
 ought to make me give it to him." 
 
 He half recognised the only way to cope with her was in 
 placing entire confidence in her, but the impatience which so 
 often foils victory perhaps also his intense desire to prove to 
 himself some influence over her seized him then. 
 
 " Signora," he repeated, " you will give me that book." 
 
 " Are you quite sure 1 " she returned, smiling. 
 
 " Yes," he said ; but Beth now detected a slight wavering 
 in his tone. 
 
 " Why should I ? " she asked.
 
 28 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 " Because I desire it." 
 
 " Are your desires usually so important to me ? " she ex- 
 claimed haughtily. 
 
 " They shall be in this instance ! " he replied with a fierce 
 catch in his voice. 
 
 " Ah ?" 
 
 She met his eyes again with dauntless resolution. It was 
 a curious sight to see, this dainty, seated maiden defying with 
 calm coolness the fiery-souled man who stood before her. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Mrs. Trescott had dropped 
 her work, and was watching with interest. 
 
 " He must conquer now or never," she thought. 
 
 His burning eyes plunged into his opponent's, and recog- 
 nised there a superior strength. This woman possessed a 
 power he could not thwart. Her indomitable spirit paralysed 
 him, while raising his admiration, his passion, to a dizzy height. 
 
 He dared no longer look at her. Without a word he ground 
 his heel on the marble floor, and, turning, left her. 
 
 Beth drew a long breath, and laid the book on the table. 
 She leaned back in her chair then, her eyes brilliant as two 
 stars, triumph and regret mingling strangely. 
 
 " What a disturbance over nothing !" exclaimed Mrs. Trescott, 
 laughing. "You might a great deal better have taken my 
 advice and read the poems, Beth. But here is your book, 
 signore, and you had better make use of your model while you 
 can." 
 
 Signor Straora did not answer. He had gone quite to the 
 other end of the room, and was hidden by a screen. 
 
 Beth was already regretting her impulsive action. She 
 did not blame herself for measuring lances, when it once came 
 to battle, but she wished she had avoided the cause. 
 
 " I came to give him a pleasure, and I have annoyed him 
 instead," she thought. 
 
 As he walked slowly towards her he saw the wistful ex- 
 pression on her face. His own was what the French call 
 morne. 
 
 " Signora," he said, stopping at some little distance from 
 her, " I cannot ask your pardon. I am not worthy of your 
 favour." He took the book and laid it on the red coals. 
 " That, at least, will not come between us more." 
 
 Beth sprang up to rescue the book instinctively, but it was
 
 CHAP, in.] AN AVOWAL. 29 
 
 too late. The blue flames shrivelled and curled the binding ; 
 then crept in among the leaves, and burst forth into a bright 
 conflagration. 
 
 Beth drew a step nearer. "I beg your pardon," she said 
 earnestly. " I am grieved to make you lose your book." 
 
 " It is not the book," he murmured. Then, aloud : " You 
 have nothing to regret, nor any pardon to ask. Indeed, that 
 would be impossible from you to me." He stopped. The gray 
 ashes were whirling up the chimney. " Addio!" he whispered, 
 in an echo of passionate accents. 
 
 Beth was awed by his manner. She was 'silent and motion- 
 less. How she wished she had never returned ! 
 
 Presently he moved a little towards her, and, with down- 
 cast eyes, began speaking rapidly: 
 
 " Madonna, you do not know what you have been to me ; 
 what you are, and always will be. Nothing can rob me of you. 
 I am as sure of you as of God's saints as of our Blessed 
 Lady." He paused, and his eyes now wandered with a despair- 
 ing intensity over the lovely features, the tremulous mouth, and 
 drooping lids of deep-set eyes. 
 
 " I am going away," he went on. " I am not worthy to be 
 near you. I would gladly be the marble beneath your feet, 
 to thrill with pleasure when you pressed it. But, I am not 
 marble, and I go away. Don't try to answer me. I know 
 all you would say. Your face has become the best-known page 
 in life to me. You cannot conceal what you think ; and yet, I 
 never can read deep enough." 
 
 The fluttering flush that came and went on her cheeks, the 
 distress, the poignant regret, warned him he must not prolong 
 his last study of this dearest face. 
 
 He bent before her, and took her two hands in his. 
 
 " Remember, I thank you," he said, " and I leave you." 
 
 He pressed one and the other hand to his lips. 
 
 " Addio, madonna mia." 
 
 Not daring to trust himself further, he bowed to Mrs. 
 Trescott and left the room. 
 
 "What on earth does all this mean?" exclaimed Mabel. 
 She had not overheard the low quick words. 
 
 " It means that we are to go. Come quick, auntie." 
 
 "You are the most incomprehensible couple!" said Mrs. 
 Trescott, but she put on her hat and cloak.
 
 30 BETHESDA. [I-AIIT i. 
 
 When they were going downstairs Beth cried iii an under- 
 tone: 
 
 "It is my fault, my fault ! I ought never to have come 
 back 1" 
 
 Mabel's answer was an incredulous shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 " Now tell me what all this fuss is about," she said, as they 
 entered the carriage. 
 
 "Oh, I can't!" said Beth in a choked voice. She had 
 caught a glimpse of the cypresses, and these stirred recollections 
 which made her self-reproach still more cutting. 
 
 " Pshaw ! " said Mrs. Trescott, suddenly wise. " Don't 
 make so much of it, child. He'll get over his sweet trouble 
 soon enough. A little love hurts no man. Each one thinks 
 his heart is broken, of course, when the self-conceit is flattened 
 out of it ; but it is a very elastic contrivance, which soon puffs 
 out again. Don't worry." 
 
 Beth hardly heard her. " I have done wrong, wrong," she 
 was saying to herself. " I wish I were ugly and hateful. I 
 
 don't see why persons like me I am not worthy of it, 
 
 and I have hurt him so ! " 
 
 It showed the difference between the two. These little 
 things made the "divide." Streams whose springs were close 
 together would, as they increased, empty into different seas. 
 
 In the evening a letter was handed Mrs. Trescott from the 
 artist. He thanked them for their great kindness, and told 
 them he was obliged to leave the city for an indefinite period. 
 He ended the short note with these words : 
 
 " You have given me the purest and noblest hours of my 
 existence, and whatever the future may bring, believe that the 
 inspiration contained in them will not stop with this world. If 
 at any time my life can be of service to you, command it. 
 Devotedly yours, ALBEKTO STBAOKA m ALBANA."
 
 CHAP, iv.] LETTEES. 31 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " They fail, and they alone, who have not striven." 
 
 J. B. ALDRIOH. 
 
 " Thine eyes, too wise, are heavy with the dole, 
 The doubt, the dread, of all this human maze." 
 
 E. W. GILDER. 
 
 IT was the end of February ; a day deepened in beauty from 
 the one on which Bethesda had lain on the sod in the garden, 
 and afterwards had consented to return to Signer Straora's 
 studio ; but the air was only more deliciously soft, the tender- 
 ness of the landscape but more articulate, and Bethesda a little 
 lovelier. A month could not pass with her now, any more 
 than with the spring, and not leave its slow, sweet traces. It 
 begins early in Italy, but only reaches perfection there, as else- 
 where, in the midst of June roses. 
 
 Bethesda was waiting now outside the English bank, where 
 her aunt had gone for letters. The old Florentine palace, thus 
 desecrated, towered majestically into, the sunshine, and formed a 
 rugged background to the varied life of the street ; and the 
 lounging idlers, the busy hucksters, the crippled beggars, and 
 energetic foreigners, all turned to give at least a second glance 
 at the dainty figure seated in the little phaeton. 
 
 She would have been surprised had she known how many, 
 who were entire strangers, were well acquainted with her habits, 
 and looked for her passing as something worth watching for. 
 She was one of those women whose faces grow more beautiful 
 as they become familiar, and which do not need a voice to 
 speak. The simple discerning Italians pointed her out to one 
 another with real affection, and called her : Our lovely lady. 
 
 She found this morning the glances she attracted somewhat 
 embarrassing at last, and exclaimed joyfully when Mrs. Trescott 
 appeared, a packet of letters in her hand.* 
 
 "Isn't it delightful to have such a big mail?" she said. 
 " Who is that thick one of yours from ? Aunt Agatha? Couldn't 
 we break our rule just for to-day, and glance over some of these 
 now?" 
 
 "No, Beth, don't. Trouble will come quick enough any
 
 32 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 way. There's something wrong in those letters. Oh, I know 
 it You needn't argue with me. I have had a spell without 
 any trouble, and now it's bound to come ; so let us enjoy our 
 drive while we can." 
 
 "As you like, dear. Presentiments can only be met by 
 proving there is nothing in them, or else by making up one's 
 mind to meet whatever may come bravely ; but " 
 
 " You needn't preach to me. Try and make me forget it 
 rather. That is the best you can do." 
 
 It was again an example of their difference. She had tried 
 to give what she sought on that day in December : a strengthen- 
 ing in view of some calamity. But she was finding out that it 
 is not by any means an infallible rule to do as one would be 
 done by. Some natures are diametrically opposed : what is 
 kind to one is cruel to the other. 
 
 She made an effort, therefore, to do as her aunt had done by 
 her; talked to her cheerily and entertainingly, and was re- 
 warded by the gloom lifting somewhat from Mrs. Trescott's 
 face. 
 
 During this they passed the Porta Romana, and followed 
 the road which wound upwards in easy curves, bordered by 
 trees which cast young shadows across the wide walks and 
 gardens, that filled in the interstices of the doubling carriage- 
 way. On either side ancient and modern villas rose, among 
 shimmering olive groves, whose leaves stirred in the sunny air, 
 and caught lights never twice the same. 
 
 "Does this ever cease to be a surprise?" said Beth. 
 " Day after day we come by here, and still it is always new, 
 always an unexpected foretaste of the pleasure we know is 
 beyond." 
 
 "Dear Italy!" exclaimed Mabel, throwing a kiss to the 
 landscape with her usual extravagance. " Who cares for pre- 
 sentiments while we can breathe this air, and smell this 
 fragrance, and look at this view, and, in short, drive around 
 the ViadeiColli!" 
 
 " Here is the field where we gathered wild-flowers last 
 year ; don't you want to try now ?" 
 
 " Yes, that will be charming." 
 
 A moment later they were pushing their way through a 
 wild hedge, and, amidst the sprouting grain, along the fringed 
 edges of the field, delightedly espied hyacinths and harebells,
 
 CHAP, iv.] THE VIA DEI COLLI. 33 
 
 violets and anemones, and the voluptuous narcissi, passionate 
 as a southern beauty. 
 
 After the first exclamations they gathered the blossoms in 
 silence, except for a cry now and then from Mabel. Nature's 
 unseen incense, rising around them, seemed to have permeated 
 Beth, for when she joined Mabel at last her liquid eyes were 
 eloquent of mysteries half revealed, of truths whose fragrance 
 came to her as the flower-scents did. What was it about 
 odours being like the prayers of saints 1 
 
 " Just see these narcissi," she said. " Aren't thick white 
 blossoms intense beyond all the coloured flowers ? It is surely 
 the white heat, which seems cool from its very excess." 
 
 "Ugh! they're suffocating!" exclaimed Mabel, pushing 
 them away, and hurrying to the carriage. "Come; it's 
 horribly hot in the sun." 
 
 The coachman stopped again on the top of the hill, with- 
 out waiting to be told. Often the ladies sat here for half an 
 hour, at the base of the great bronze David, with the cypresses 
 of San Miniato piercing the deep purple sky, like a reticent 
 question, behind them. 
 
 Beneath lay the most beautiful valley and city in the world. 
 There were the narrow, irregular streets of the old town, and 
 the house-covered bridges, under which ran the yellow Arno, 
 now filled by snow gathered from the spring-touched Apennines. 
 Across the river statued palaces extended their porticoes to the 
 river's edge, and beyond lay the mass of merchant houses, 
 surmounted at close intervals by domes and spires, uplifting 
 high into the violet air the holy, golden cross. 
 
 As they sat there, from a hundred towers rang forth the 
 bells, announcing the hour of noon, the twelfth hour which 
 combines those of all the apostles ; and as the mellow chimes 
 died away in the purple shadows of the hills, the silence 
 brought an indescribable sensation of listening angels bending 
 over the city in a radiance so bright that they could not be 
 seen. 
 
 Involuntarily following the echoing sounds Beth's eyes 
 wandered off over the far distance, where the exquisitely 
 shaded mountains fell back to give place to the sea-like valley ; 
 and the peaks of Carrara lifted high their snowy heads above 
 the hearts where lie untold beauties of future statues. Beyond 
 these there was only the sky, the heavens, that is all. But 
 
 D
 
 34: BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 the mighty light made this blue too glorious for human eyes, 
 so they fell, and followed back again the billowy mountains, 
 rising and sinking in the wondrous atmosphere, bearing castles 
 and peasant homes alike upon their bosoms, to the gray walls 
 of Fiesole. 
 
 Over the face of Bethesda, as she gazed, swept the ex- 
 pression of many unuttered, uncomprehended thoughts. The 
 beauty oppressed while it exalted her. She felt wide wings 
 unfold themselves to bear her up, and her body held her down. 
 She would have liked to be the life in the earth, the warmth 
 in the air, the light in the sun ; anything great and impersonal, 
 which would satisfy this strange yearning within her, that 
 seemed infinite in its capacity, and would not be subdued. 
 
 " Gracious, child ! What are you thinking about ?" 
 
 Beth started sensitively, and turned back to the carriage. 
 She could not try to talk any more. She felt hushed, yet 
 thrilled, as if breathing in the silence before a voice should speak. 
 
 Mabel's heavy depression closed in upon them both as they 
 drove home, where the letters must soon be read. Mrs. 
 Trescott did not care to make an effort to diminish its effect. 
 
 "What is the good?" she said, when Beth tried to rouse 
 her. " It's only one thing more, and life has not been so easy 
 to me thus far that I should expect anything but trouble in 
 the future. It has been hard, hard; motherless, homeless, 
 childless, a widow and an exile ; and now who knows what 
 worse is coming ?" 
 
 She looked with dislike on the packet bearing the hand- 
 writing usually so warmly welcomed. 
 
 " How grieved Aunt Agatha and Margaret would be to 
 have their letters meet with such a reception !" said Beth ; 
 and then, seeing it useless to say more, and perhaps a little of 
 the weight of Mabel's gloom falling on her too, they drove 
 the rest of the way in silence. 
 
 Her shadowy room looked very calm and restful to the 
 girl after the warm drive and oppressive mental atmosphere. 
 She let herself drop on the lounge, and lay there a few moments 
 in utter lassitude. Then she roused herself with a start. 
 
 " Bah ! it is better to bring down the sword of Damocles 
 on one's devoted head than fear what may not exist." 
 
 She tore open one of the envelopes bearing her sister's 
 handwriting. It commenced abruptly :
 
 CHAP, iv.] GATHERING OF THREADS. 35 
 
 " Father is ill, very ill. They say he will not live. Miss 
 Sink is nursing him. If it were not for that I should go to 
 him. Aunt Agatha kindly said she would go with me, if I 
 wished it, but I told her no. Was I right ? Would you have 
 done the same ? Our lawyer is to keep us posted. If father 
 asks for us, for either of us, of course I will start at once." 
 
 The rest of the letter, about other things, Beth read with- 
 out understanding. It was appalling, someway, to be so far 
 off, and not aware whether her father, now, was alive or dead. 
 
 She had known him but very little. His wife had died at 
 her birth, and he had separated himself almost entirely from 
 his children, leaving them in the care of their young aunts, 
 who had been brought up by his wife, and were then unmarried. 
 His life was of a description which made him feel less uneasy 
 away from the innocent eyes of his children and the wiser ones 
 of their protectors. He had a large fortune, and was liberal 
 with it, so that he was quite willing to give a generous allow- 
 ance to " the girls " for the care of their little nieces. When 
 Agatha married, the two were left under Mabel's charge ; but 
 later, after her own romantic marriage to a lover upon his death- 
 bed, Mr. Hamilton showed some desire to regain control of his 
 children. At first it was looked upon as a hopeful sign, then 
 recognised as only a deeper step into evil. He was no longer 
 ashamed. Mabel now saw her opportunity of fulfilling a life- 
 long wish and going abroad. Every year made it more danger- 
 ous for the children, as long as they were under age. There 
 was " a scene " with Mr. Hamilton a power which Mrs. Tres- 
 cott had always held over the man, lashing him with her 
 sarcasm and bitter invectives, like a second Queen Margaret, 
 and he could not walk on, regardless of the stinging scorpions, 
 like another Richard. So she had her way. She shook with 
 energy the dust of America from her feet, glad to leave all old 
 associations and begin life anew. 
 
 It was a new life, at all events, for in the first year she 
 heard of the death of Milton Eglamore, the one man she had 
 loved, and who had broken their engagement for some trifling 
 cause. This had been the real reason of her hasty marriage. 
 She wanted to put something between her and the memory of 
 her " dastard " lover. It had hardly been successful. As long 
 as there was life there was hope. When this went out, however,
 
 36 BETHESDA. [I'.viiT i. 
 
 after the first shock, the rich widow became more lively and 
 dashing than ever. She called herself "an exile" at times, but 
 in reality she liked Europe. It would be a trial to her to give 
 it up. Margaret had gone home as soon as she Avas of age to 
 live with Agatha Stanhope, and presently Beth would be of age 
 too. She could return then also, but Mrs. Trescott did not 
 eagerly anticipate that repeal of the decree of banishment. In 
 any case there was a year more, and who knew what might 
 not happen in a year 1 
 
 Beth knew the facts of all this ; she surmised, perhaps, 
 the feelings. She had been brought up in the knowledge of 
 more of the darker side in life than most women of her class 
 and years. It had perhaps given her her earnestness and yearn- 
 ing to do right ; but she had little to steady her. Now, 
 looking out into this life from which her own had sprung, seeing 
 it on the verge of the unknown and awful future, she shrank 
 back appalled. 
 
 Presently, however, she opened another letter of later date. 
 
 " We received a telegram to-day," it said. " Father died 
 last night quite easily, and seemingly content. He never 
 mentioned either of us. When Mr. Simpson asked him at last 
 if he should not send for me, ' No,' he said ; ' the will is right ; 
 the will is right.' That was all. Uncle Raleigh goes on to- 
 night to be present at the reading of the will." 
 
 Beth dropped the paper, and sat looking out with unseeing 
 eyes on the swaying branches and blue sky visible through the 
 lattice. 
 
 Could it be that her f oilier was dead and she felt no more ? 
 Oh, the sadness of it, the bitter sadness, that she could not 
 grieve for him ! She would have done much to have helped 
 him. It had been a dream all her life that some time she 
 might be of service to him. She had thought of his old age, 
 and his daughters caring for him. And this was the end 
 this was all. 
 
 Hark ! what was that 1 It sounded like a sob. Yes, and 
 there was another. In an instant Beth had unfastened the 
 door into Mrs. Trescott's room and had sprung to Mabel's side. 
 She was sitting by a table, her face hidden, and was crying 
 violently. 
 
 " Dear heart, what is the matter ? " Beth exclaimed, while 
 she knelt and put her arm around the quivering figure.
 
 CHAP, iv.] A DREADED OPPORTUNITY. 37 
 
 There was no answer but an acceleration of sobs at the 
 caressing touch, and a gradual subsidence of them as the sym- 
 pathetic silence calmed and healed. At last Mabel put the 
 letter which had caused the outburst into Beth's hand, indicating 
 with a gesture for her to read it in her own room. 
 
 Bethesda did as she was bidden. The letter was one from 
 Agatha. It was later than either of Margaret's, and told of 
 Mr. Stanhope's return. Mr. Hamilton's will had been read, 
 and was found to leave his property to his daughters, half and 
 half. Mrs. Trescott and Mr. Stanhope were left joint guardians. 
 There was no word of regret or affection, but his acts had 
 spoken well for his feelings towards his children. He had no 
 wish to rob them of what was rightfully theirs. 
 
 " You can come home now without fear," continued Agatha, 
 " and I am sure you must be anxious to do so. It is un- 
 doubtedly your duty. The girls both need what they have 
 never had a home which they feel to be permanent. You 
 will be happier in one yourself. Besides, here are all these 
 business affairs to settle in which you and Raleigh are equally 
 concerned ; and Raleigh's care of your own money was first 
 proposed for two years only, and under a pressure of circum- 
 stances now removed. He is still willing to do all the work, 
 but he wishes you to share the responsibility. I hope you will 
 come home as early as possible and settle near us. There is a 
 pretty house whose grounds adjoin ours which is now for sale. 
 Margaret and I think it would just suit you all. I remember 
 Beth admired it when she was here. I have asked them to 
 hold it until I hear from you. 
 
 "Is our girlish intercourse to be renewed in happier 
 surroundings 1 And shall we enjoy together seeing our nieces 
 develop and mature ? " 
 
 Could it be this which had caused Mrs. Trescott's passionate 
 outburst ? Yes, Beth could see how it appeared to her aunt. 
 She was suddenly asked perhaps she might even think coerced 
 to give up Europe, in whose free life Beth knew she delighted. 
 She was accountable to nobody but herself here ; she could do 
 as she chose ; she need not look at the serious side of things 
 any more than it pleased her. Over there it would be quite 
 different. Beth had keenly recognised this during her visit to 
 America. She could feel how the hampering of family consulta- 
 tions would chafe her aunt, accustomed to having her own will
 
 38 BETHESDA. [PART I. 
 
 an unquestioned law. But there was the affection, the stability, 
 the home life ! Yet these would not compensate to her aunt, 
 she knew. Change, travel, and society had taken their place. 
 Thoughts had given way to things. It was all a pleasant, out- 
 ward life here ; there it was earnest and thoughtful. 
 
 It would be a trial to Aunt Mabel, but it must be done, 
 decided Beth. Her own heart yearned for her sister and 
 aunt. For America ? Well, no, she could not truthfully say 
 that. She liked Europe too. It was more homelike to her 
 than America. They might come back again for a visit some 
 time. Now it was their duty, as Aunt Agatha said, to make a 
 home. 
 
 But Aunt Mabel must not be forced in any sense. She 
 
 must take her own way. This house in S . It was a rare 
 
 chance, but if Aunt Mabel felt badly about it, it must be given 
 up, for to take it would be a continual misery to her. America 
 was large ; they might settle anywhere ; but anywhere out of 
 
 S : it would have to be these two alone. Margaret would 
 
 not feel it right to leave the Stanhopes. Still, Beth was willing. 
 She could not have her aunt, who had done so much for her, 
 unhappy. 
 
 The troubles she foresaw worried the girl, and yet when- 
 ever there came a lull in her thoughts these things sank into 
 insignificance within the terrible silence of her father's unloved 
 death. Where was he now 1 What did he know now 1 And 
 the darkness and the sense of vastness crushed her. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "Men, at some time, are masters of their fates." 
 
 Julius Ccesar. 
 
 WHILE Bethesda was still thinking a knock came at the door, 
 and a telegram was handed her. Rendered fearful by the 
 unwonted emotions of the day, the yellow envelope caused 
 her a momentary chill, and she tore it open hastily to end 
 suspense. 
 
 It was in French, which relieved her fears, but surprised her. 
 
 " Hope to be in Florence Thursday, only for a few hours.
 
 CHAP, v.] INDECISION BEGETS FATE. 39 
 
 May I sec you in the evening 1 I entreat assent. Will await 
 your answer. EENB D'!STEN." 
 
 " How very peculiar !" exclaimed Beth, her sensitive lips 
 gathering a little scorn. 
 
 She took the missive immediately to her aunt, who was 
 writing, and looked up with hot angry eyes. 
 
 " Nothing is the matter, auntie," said the girl ; " it is only 
 a telegram from your friend M. d'Isten." 
 
 " Impossible !" exclaimed Mabel, surprised into forgetfulness 
 of her troubles. 
 
 While she read Beth watched, and saw it did indeed change 
 the current of her aunt's mind. She half smiled as she laid it 
 down. 
 
 "At least he is not timid," she said. 
 
 "Bather audacious, I should say. Excuse me for opening 
 it. I did so by mistake. The boy is waiting." 
 
 " Shall I answer it V asked Mrs. Trescott undecidedly. 
 
 " I cannot say," answered Beth in a reticent tone. " That 
 is a question no one but you can decide." 
 
 " It seems as if I ought, when he says he will wait for it. 
 But I can't think very well," she said, putting her hand to her 
 head pitifully. " Do tell me what to do." 
 
 "How can I say, auntie dear? You must remember I 
 know nothing of how you stand. Weren't you offended with 
 him 1 Do you wish to see him ?" 
 
 " The last I heard from him," said Mrs. Trescott evasively, 
 " he assured me I had entirely misunderstood him. He was 
 sure if we met he could convince me. Of course he couldn't ; 
 but then, it looks as if he had some excuse to telegraph this, 
 doesn't it?" 
 
 "Do you wish to hear the excuse? That is the only 
 question. If you think it is a matter which cannot be ex- 
 plained, there is no use in seeing him. If you consider it may 
 be a mere misunderstanding, why, let him come." 
 
 " Then you advise his coming ?" 
 
 " No, I don't advise anything. I know nothing about it, 
 remember." 
 
 " I think I will give him the opportunity, and see" what he 
 makes of it," decided Mabel after a moment's thought. " I 
 used to like him very much, and it is pleasant to have warm
 
 40 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 friends ; never pleasanter than when your relatives are treating 
 
 you harshly." 
 
 The bitter look came again in her face as she turned to her 
 
 portfolio. 
 
 "How shall I word it?" she asked, with an appealing 
 
 glance from abused eyes. 
 
 " Why don't you say clearly it is for an explanation ?" 
 
 " How can I ? Here, you write it. My head is in a whirl." 
 
 She rose and threw herself on the sofa, while Beth quickly 
 
 wrote : 
 
 "Madame Trescott will receive Monsieur d'Isten if he 
 thinks himself authorised to call." 
 
 She read it aloud. 
 
 " It is surely cold enough, but better so perhaps. And now 
 tell me," she added, when Beth had despatched the boy, 
 " what do you think of Agatha's letter 1 " 
 
 " I think you had better simply tell her now that you won't 
 take the house, and decide the rest later. You were writing to 
 her?" 
 
 " Yes ; but I did not say that." 
 
 " Will you let me add it, then, and take the letter ?" asked 
 Beth very gently. She saw her aunt's eyes filling again, and 
 would have liked to spare her. Somehow to-day she was 
 trying to do her best actively, with a stealthy sense of un- 
 reality beneath. 
 
 "You are quite sure you don't want the house?" said 
 Mabel, ready to sob again. 
 
 " Not unless you wish it, auntie clear." 
 
 "You know I would be utterly wretched there!" cried 
 Mabel, flashing forth a moment. " A western town ! And 
 right after Europe ! It is cruel to propose such a thing I 
 thought Agatha knew knew," and cared for me more." 
 
 " Let me add that you won't take the house," said Beth. 
 " That is decided. No one, dear auntie, wants you to go 
 where you will be unhappy." 
 
 " I don't know," said Mrs. Trescott, between her sobs ; 
 "but we can take another house later if you want to." 
 
 " I sha'n't want one until you do, rest assured," said Beth 
 in a cheery tone ; and then she hurriedly added a few words to 
 the angry pages, and took the letter away, promising herself
 
 CHAP, v.] SYMPATHY. 41 
 
 not to mail it, but keep it quietly until the next day. Mabel 
 might regret some of the harsh things she had said by that 
 time. Beth did not yet understand that for Mrs. Trescott to 
 regret anything sufficiently to wish to take it back would be to 
 shatter the whole fabric of her character. 
 
 In the rich luxurious room to which Beth now returned 
 a very Cleopatra in variability was lying on the lounge, 
 ready to burst into tears again, or to be coaxed into smiles. 
 
 Beth did not excite either. At such a time her tenderness 
 was especially healing. And now, as she stood at the head 
 of the couch, and smoothed the burning forehead, not speak- 
 ing a word, but covering Mabel with the shelter of her care, 
 she soothed her almost to sleep. 
 
 Finally she left her on tiptoe, and went into her own room, 
 and put on her white wrapper, and bathed her face. What 
 a full day it had been, and how tired she was ! 
 
 But she must write a few words of explanation to Aunt 
 Agatha, and thank Uncle Ealeigh, and say a little some- 
 thing to Margaret, her only sister ; the two orphans now 
 together. 
 
 She had just finished when a well-known knock came at 
 the door, and Beth hastened to open it, feeling especially 
 glad to see Evra, now that she was sore at heart, and im- 
 potent to disentangle the threads of love which seemed to be 
 tying themselves in a hard knot around her. 
 
 The keen ear of the artist instantly detected the quiver 
 of sorrow and fatigue, however, and Beth's face was worn, 
 for she was one on whom worry told more than much phy- 
 sical pain. 
 
 " What is the matter, dearest ?" exclaimed Evra, throwing 
 aside a choice cluster of lilies and roses to take Beth's hands 
 in both hers. 
 
 " We have had letters " 
 
 " Letters ? " interrupted Evra, as she saw it was hard for 
 Beth, to speak. " I know what that is ! And they have been 
 hurting my Lily 1 It's cruel ! " 
 
 " It's not me, Evra ; and it could not be helped. But 
 Evra ! my father is dead." 
 
 Then the tired heart broke down, and she buried her face in 
 Evra's breast and cried miserably. 
 
 The artist held her with the utmost tenderness, saying many
 
 42 BETHESDA. [PART r. 
 
 endearing things, and, with ready comprehension, trying to 
 strengthen rather than soothe her. 
 
 " I am ashamed," said Beth presently. " It was foolish in 
 me to break down so. You must not think it is only my father's 
 death," she added, sensitive to the least suspicion of hypocrisy. 
 " We have seen nothing of him for years, and I hardly knew 
 him. It was the shock, I suppose, and auntie's being quite 
 upset by some plans. They wish us to go home as soon as 
 possible, and auntie feels badly about it. I have been trying 
 to help her, and never thought of crying until I saw you." 
 
 " Because you knew I would understand, cara. It has 
 worn you out, supporting your aunt. It's a shame for one so 
 delicate to be tried so. Don't bother about the flowers now. 
 Come, lie down here, and let me sit beside you. Your hands 
 are burning, child. This will never do. I shall carry you off, 
 and keep all trouble from you. If I only could, dear ! " 
 
 She made Beth lie down, and covered her with a shawl, 
 petting her like a baby. 
 
 " Now, you are not to say a word, mind. Just give me 
 your hand. Such dainty fingers ! " She went on in an under- 
 tone to keep Beth quiet : " Feeling fingers, too ; if I were ill, 
 or sad, I know these could charm my trouble all away. Per- 
 sons have such different hands. Mine, now ; they are large, 
 and not a bit pretty, but I can feel, can see, with them as though 
 each finger had an eye. If I were blind, I think I could almost 
 tell the colour of your little roseleaf hands. Ah, don't snatch 
 it away so, dear ! Well, if you insist, I shall just lay my head 
 here, and we will be quite still." 
 
 A few moments passed silently ; Beth's eyes were closed, with 
 that strained look which shows they have difficulty in closing. 
 There were heavy shadows beneath, and her cheeks were pallid. 
 
 While Evra was watching her anxiously the large eyes sud- 
 denly opened. 
 
 " I think I hear auntie moving," she said, half rising. " I 
 must go and see if I can do anything for her." 
 
 " You shall keep quiet, my dear," remarked Evra firmly. 
 " She probably isn't a quarter so much used up as you are. I 
 will go. I will give her some of your flowers." 
 
 Mrs. Trescott was dressing languidly with a dark shadow 
 on her face. She paid little attention to what Evra said, 
 although she took the flowers with faint thanks.
 
 CHAP, v.] EELIGION IN MUSIC. 43 
 
 "I am very sorry you are in trouble," continued Evra. 
 " Is there anything I can do to help you throw off the blues ? 
 Come to dine with us, will you? Mother will be delighted, 
 and it will seem pleasanter than for you two to be staying here 
 alone. Will you ? " 
 
 " Does Beth want to go ? " 
 
 " I don't know. Will you, if she does ? She is used up 
 entirely, poor child," she added in a low tone. " She needs 
 something to take her mind off." 
 
 " Well, I don't care what I do. It makes little difference 
 where I am. You must excuse my lack of cordiality, but you 
 see " 
 
 " Oh yes ; I understand. And now, Lily," returning to the 
 other room, " what do you say ? Will you take dinner with us 1 
 It will make it easier for you, dearest," she said, bending to 
 kiss the smooth white brow. 
 
 " It is very good of you ; I am afraid we will be poor com- 
 pany. But I should like to go, if you don't mind." 
 
 " Well, I do mind, decidedly ! I would like to have you 
 every hour of the twenty-four, and every day of the week. 
 Now, what can I do for you ? Your conscience is quieted, for 
 Mrs. Trescott has shut the door, and you are to let me serve 
 you. You are to give me the pleasure of doing something for 
 for one I love." 
 
 " Sing to me, then." 
 
 Sitting there by Beth's lounge, on a lowly tabouret, the great 
 artist sang ballad after ballad, and lullabies; and at last, by some 
 secret attraction, sacred songs, full of strength and richness. 
 
 Bethesda was soon entranced beyond all thought of worry. 
 Music was a real potency in her life, and she was quickly attuned 
 to harmony. Now she thought, with a hushed wonder, of how 
 intricately the hope of redeeming her father was woven into all 
 her own musical studies. And now now was this all she 
 would ever know of fatherhood ? 
 
 The glorious voice soared, and lifted her on its strong wings. 
 She felt there must be something more. For is there any art 
 which expresses religion so well as music 1 The craving, the 
 aspiration, the harmony, the insubstantiality which comes so 
 near being pure spirituality, what is more like religion 1 A 
 keynote found and held is necessary to all harmony. Then 
 the innumerable chords, the notes so distant, yet the same ;
 
 44 BETHKSDA. [PART i. 
 
 the sounds that come, perhaps, from wooden keys, and end 
 who knows where 1 are combined, multiplied, reproduced, in a 
 true order, which allows of 'no discord, and which are merged 
 into the eternal symphony of creation, by the sure triumph of 
 a great and patient musician. 
 
 Who with an ear for music can wonder that Saint Cecilia 
 should have heard the continuation of her strains, and believed 
 they were from heaven ? 
 
 Evra looked up finally, and found Bethesda lying in the 
 twilight, her eyes shining, and solemn, and tender. 
 
 " My darling ! " she exclaimed, putting her hand upon her 
 almost as if to hold her down. 
 
 " Yes, dear," said Beth softly, " your singing has done me 
 much good. It has taken all the soreness out of my heart. 
 You are very good to me." 
 
 " / good to you ! Well, that is a way ! But now I must go 
 home. I have to announce your arrival to mamma. Come soon, 
 won't you, dearest ? " 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "To depict such a character is like trying to catch a meteor and 
 make it sit for its picture." MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 To fertilise an arid grief, one must strike deep, even to the waters of 
 truth, which underlie all lives as streams underlie all lands. 
 
 DURING the next few days there were many talks between 
 Mrs. Trescott and Beth, which were both exciting and exhaust- 
 ing ; for Mrs. Trescott was a very tempest of emotion, and dis- 
 solved in a torrent of tears, or fired into furious anger, according 
 as she felt herself more abused or insulted. Mrs. Stanhope had 
 no right to dictate to her, bid her stay, or call her home, as if 
 she were a puppet ! She could judge for herself. She wouldn't 
 go home until she chose. The trail of the serpent was over all 
 America now ; she could not bear to think of returning ! And 
 then tears again. 
 
 The truth was, that the imperceptible release of self-control 
 during the careless life she had led of late had crept within. 
 Superficial treatment cures no disease ; it but forces it inward 
 to work destruction on the vital organs. Her desire to find 
 pleasure in exterior things, so that she might forget the hollow-
 
 CHAP, vi.] NATUEE'S KETKIBUTION. 45 
 
 ness beneath, took from her interior strength. Beth, perhaps, 
 had been the one link which had bound her to her old life ; the 
 one, at least, that she could not ignore. Yet Beth was the 
 reason, or the excuse, of their staying abroad, and when it was 
 taken away Mabel collapsed, and felt the cruelty of her own 
 emptiness. Now came the revenge of unused energies, of 
 crushed capacities ; now she began to poignantly feel that there 
 was a lack somewhere, and she laid it on the first thing that 
 came to hand, and believed her sorrow all to arise from the 
 unkindness of her friends. 
 
 Numerous plans were, of course, canvassed. Mrs. Trescott 
 unwillingly admitted the necessity of returning home during the 
 summer, but she set the time in July, because then the Stan- 
 hopes would probably be at the seaside, and she would feel more 
 "independent," where they met on equal ground, than when 
 visiting at their house. What the ultimate decision about 
 settling would be was vague as a summer wind. Mabel did not 
 wish to give up Mr. Stanhope as manager of her aifairs, for he 
 was a man of the strictest integrity and admirable business 
 capacity ; but at the same time she was violently opposed to 
 sacrificing any of her own inclinations in order to retain him. 
 Beth advised her taking the money into her own care, and 
 settling wherever she chose ; but Mabel would not listen to this. 
 
 " I cannot manage money aifairs, and you know it. I should 
 lose it all. I must have my money safe ; but my letting him 
 do that for me does not mean that I am going to slavishly sub- 
 mit to whatever he dictates. It is ungenerous to take such 
 advantage of a woman." 
 
 The matter was a weary treadmill of reiterated assertions, 
 questions, and lamentations ; and Beth was completely at a loss 
 as to what was best to be done. In lieu of anything better, 
 she came to look upon the anticipated arrival of M. d'Isteu 
 as a relief. Her aunt was morbid, and perhaps she would 
 recover her usual tone if her thoughts were transferred from 
 herself to another for even a short space. 
 
 Beth's conscience, however, was not thoroughly easy about 
 her part in bringing to pass this meeting. She knew her aunt 
 was given to imprudent confidences, and Aunt Agatha had said 
 when her sister had first written enthusiastically of M. 
 d'Isten : 
 
 "Mabel gains less knowledge from experience than any
 
 46 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 pei-sou I ever knew. At her age she ought to be wiser than 
 to accept these Platonic friendships, which may end well, and 
 may not, probably not." 
 
 Beth herself had not been at all prepossessed in the fine 
 gentleman's favour, yet now she found herself almost glad he 
 was coming. The present always in these days seemed the 
 imperative thing to Bethesda. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott, on the other hand, was half sorry she had 
 allowed him the privilege of seeing her, and looked forward to 
 it as another wear and tear on her poor nerves, to which she 
 was hardly equal. 
 
 " Supposing I tell you about it, and let him try and explain 
 to you," she even went so far as to say ; but Beth stopped her 
 right there. 
 
 " I could not think of that, Aunt Mabel ; you know it would 
 not be right. On the contrary, I am going down to Evra's 
 to-night." 
 
 "Yousha'n't do any such thing!" asserted Mrs. Trescott 
 imperiously. 
 
 " Wait a minute until I tell you why," said Beth, smiling a 
 little at the sudden explosion. "If you are going to have an 
 explanation with M. d'Isten, I would be entirely de trop, and it 
 would be awkward for all if I went away then." 
 
 " You won't be de trop. I told him at the very beginning 
 of our acquaintance that I didn't choose to have secrets. We 
 can speak as easily before you as not. He will think you know 
 all." 
 
 " But since you have chosen to keep me in ignorance," said 
 Beth quietly, " I cannot consent to play a false part. I know 
 nothing about your misunderstanding *-" 
 
 " It wasn't a misunderstanding ; it was an insult ! " 
 
 " And you are going to receive him, Aunt Mabel ! How- 
 ever, as I was saying, I know nothing about it, and you might 
 speak easily before me, but he would not. Since you are going 
 to allow him to explain, it is mere justice to let him have a fair 
 opportunity. He would know that I was criticising him, and 
 it could not help but be awkward." 
 
 " Suppose you consider my feelings a little, instead of his 
 altogether," exclaimed Mabel testily. 
 
 Beth's eyes flashed, but she only said : 
 
 "So I do, in going away."
 
 CIIAP. VI.] OFFENDED. 47 
 
 " You entirely mistake what the explanation will be," said 
 Mrs. Trescott in a less offensive tone, as she saw Beth's resolu- 
 tion. " There isn't a chance of his justifying himself, or mak- 
 ing an adequate apology. At the most it will only be that we shall 
 not remain angry, although I don't even see how that can be." 
 
 " I will come back early, so as to relieve you if you need 
 it." 
 
 " Then you are set upon going to Evra's V 
 
 " If you please ; for the first hour or so." 
 
 "You always have your own way," said Mabel, in a 
 martyred tone. " Of course you will do as you like." 
 
 Beth found it very hard to do anything which would please 
 her aunt these days. The only way she could hold herself at 
 all upright was to think well before she spoke, and then not 
 flinch from her decision. Her instinct was to veer with the 
 desires of those around her, but it is impossible for a character of 
 any consistency to adapt itself to the exigencies of a radically 
 inconsistent nature ; and this Beth was discovering. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott was looking particularly handsome when Beth 
 left her. She had gone over the causes for offence which this 
 man had given her until her anger was newly aroused, and she 
 was prepared to meet him with biting frigidity. There was an 
 extra pride in her carriage, and a brilliance to her eyes, which 
 made Beth remember that one of her admirers had said he 
 always made it a point to anger her occasionally, for the pleasure 
 of studying her in a fury. Beth could recall twenty times at 
 least, when just such a scene as this had been prepared because 
 of some trifling circumstance which Mrs. Trescott had construed 
 into a lack of respect. This was her most sensitive point. 
 With tact, and constant remembrance of this peculiarity, one 
 could coax or lead her unawares further than she knew ; but, 
 touch her sense of self-esteem by carelessness or intent, and she 
 was instantly a-fire to avenge the insult. Only through appeal- 
 ing to her strong emotional temperament could such an error be 
 retrieved, and even then the offence was not extinguished, but 
 rather smouldered, ready to leap into flame if the slightest fault 
 uncovered it. 
 
 Beth found Evra alone, and was greeted with the utmost 
 delight. 
 
 " I shall always like this stranger for sending you to me 
 this evening," she said. " Mamma has gone off to take a nap,
 
 48 BETIIESDA. [PART I. 
 
 and we can have the cosiest time ! But where did the man 
 drop from? Paris ? Well, they Avill have a fine time making up 
 their quarrel I don't think anybody would find it easy to 
 approach Mrs. Trescott when she was vexed. And one never is 
 quite sure of her. There are few one is. You are a rare pearl ; 
 I would trust you with anything, and know you would be my 
 friend, sure and true, through it all." 
 
 " If I once believe, it is very hard for me to mistrust," replied 
 Beth gravely. " I think you can rely upon me." 
 
 " And I know I can." 
 
 Evra was in an unusually entertaining mood that evening, 
 and diversified her stories with snatches of new songs, which 
 made the time fly. At last, to Beth's dismay, she heard the 
 clock strike half-past ten. She sprang up, really annoyed at her 
 thoughtlessness. 
 
 " I said I would be home early," she exclaimed. " It is too 
 bad ; I ought not to have stayed so long." 
 
 She threw her Algerian wrap around her as she spoke, and 
 drew the hood over her head. 
 
 "You look like a white penitent in that," said Evra. 
 " Don't grieve, dear. Mrs. Trescott has had her time occupied, 
 I venture." 
 
 " Perhaps, but I ought not to have forgotten," replied Beth, 
 in a tone that made Evra exclaim : 
 
 " Well, you are an exemplary child, and it shows your good 
 heart, so I won't say a word more. Good-night." 
 
 Beth told the coachman to drive fast, and when they reached 
 the house she ran upstairs swiftly, but stopped a moment at 
 the door to regain her breath. 
 
 Not a sound was to be heard within, and, fearful that the 
 stranger had gone, which would make her delinquency seem 
 worse, she pushed open the door quickly. 
 
 A tall man, with a proud, dark head, was leaning against 
 the mantel, half-facing her. His features were evidently under 
 the contre-coup of some strong emotion. His eyes were resting 
 on Mrs. Trescott, who sat in a low chair, her face buried in her 
 handkerchief. 
 
 Every detail of the scene photographed itself as with flame 
 on Beth's mind. She stood still a second in complete surprise. 
 They apparently had not heard her enter, and the first instinct 
 was to slip away unseen. Her second, which she followed, to
 
 CHAP. VI.] MEETING. 49 
 
 shut the door with sufficient noise to attract attention, and to 
 walk quickly across the long room. 
 
 M. d'Isten started, and his attitude, his expression, his 
 whole being seemed to change. He was only a deferential 
 stranger by the time Beth reached her aunt. She laid her 
 hand on Mabel's shoulder and said anxiously : 
 
 " Can I do anything for you, auntie ? " 
 
 Mrs. Trescott glanced up with a flash of excitement in her 
 eyes which soon dried their moisture. 
 
 " Oh, Beth !" she exclaimed, " Kene" is my good friend again, 
 my dear friend ! He must be yours too. Greet him warmly, 
 for I admire him " 
 
 Her voice trembled and broke. She drew Beth forward to 
 put her hand in his. The girl was completely mystified, and 
 held back a minute. M. d'Isten stood by, making no effort 
 to deprecate the warm words; but, looking up, Beth saw his 
 face was lit by an expression of gratitude both manly and 
 sincere. 
 
 She gave him her hand. 
 
 " My aunt's friends will, I hope, always be mine," she said. 
 
 He bowed profoundly, just touched her hand, and imme- 
 diately took up his hat and gloves. 
 
 " Don't go yet," said Mabel. " I have not even offered 
 you a pinch of salt. We must ratify our compact, as do your 
 mother's race, or it may not hold." 
 
 " Then I shall surely stay," he replied, with that indescrib- 
 able elegance of pronunciation which so fascinates those who 
 can appreciate it. 
 
 Beth slipped away, to lay aside her snowy wrappings and 
 to order cake and wine. She did not return until the servant 
 entered with the tray. Mrs. Trescott and M. d'Isten seemed 
 to have recovered something of their usual manner, although 
 the gentleman was extremely quiet, and Mrs. Trescott never 
 looked at him without an eloquent reminiscence in her eyes. 
 
 " Beth shall be our Hebe," she said ; " she shall pour out 
 the wine, and we will forget everything, to drink to our long 
 friendship." 
 
 Beth obeyed her aunt in silence. The health was drunk 
 solemnly, Beth taking a sip from her glass while watching the 
 others. She was employing all her powers of discernment in 
 quick scrutiny of this man. 
 
 E
 
 50 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 He was pre-eminently aristocratic ; his manners were not 
 only courteous, but courtly. He appeared reticent, in spite of 
 a frank grace which was very attractive. Everything about him 
 was fine, yet Beth had to acknowledge that there was no lack, 
 of strength. The lower part of his face was less developed than 
 the upper portion, which was full of power, but the line from 
 ear to chin was excellent ; decisive and lenient at the same time. 
 As for the. eyes, Beth only knew they were dark, for whenever 
 she met them hers fell instantly. He was also studying her 
 with close, if unobtrusive attention. 
 
 It seemed to result in little, however, for when he left 
 there was no less coldness in her manner, and only a little 
 added deference in his. He responded with deep appreciation to 
 Mrs. Trescott's earnest wishes for a speedy return from Rome, 
 and bent over her hand as if kindness had been rare to him. 
 
 " You must return before it is too warm," she said, " so 
 that we can show you the sights. Beth and I know, all the 
 places worth seeing, and will gladly be your ciceroni; won't we, 
 Beth 1" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " And do take board here ; it is so much pleasanter to have 
 friends in the same house," continued Mrs. Trescott, who 
 seemed only anxious to atone for past misunderstandings, and 
 to prove that they were all forgotten. 
 
 " What can it mean?" thought Beth. This entire reversal 
 of circumstances bewildered her. It could only be explained by 
 the consistency of inconsistency, as Mrs. Jameson terms such a 
 character as Mabel Trescott's. 
 
 When the door closed Mrs. Trescott turned to Beth as if 
 to claim her admiration ; but, seeing the lack of comprehension 
 and the astonishment which Beth now allowed her face to 
 express, she turned away, and walked up and down the room, 
 thinking. 
 
 " So the explanation was satisfactory 1 ?" said Beth at last. 
 
 Before Mabel answered she put her arm around her niece 
 and drew her into the promenade. They took a few turns in 
 silence. 
 
 "Well?" said Beth presently. This lack of speech was as 
 remarkable as the rest of it. 
 
 " I am trying to think what I can tell you. Most that he 
 said was in confidence."
 
 CHAP, vi.] A MYSTERY. 51 
 
 " Indeed ! " remarked Beth, a trifle satirically. 
 
 " If you had been here it might have been But no ; 
 
 he would not have spoken then. Oh, Beth !" she cried, stopping 
 suddenly, " when I think of what he has done, what he is doing 
 now, to-night, I can unhesitatingly assert that his conduct is 
 a lifelong act of self-control and magnanimity unequalled in 
 history OP fiction !" 
 
 Her eyes blazed superbly, and she stood erect, as if proud 
 to be such a man's friend. 
 
 " That is high praise," said Beth. This was all mysterious, 
 and her reason desired something more solid to satisfy it. Pre- 
 sently she asked : 
 
 " You are going to be friends again, now V 
 
 " Of course we are ! The best of friends ! I admire him 
 more than any man I ever knew. He is so true, and pure, and 
 unselfish. You know nothing about it, Beth." 
 
 " I know I do not. If I am to meet him, can't you tell 
 me how this great change in your opinions came about ? Did 
 he have any sufficient apology for what you called, only this 
 afternoon, an insult 1" 
 
 11 1 can't explain that without your knowing the whole. 
 He could not himself. There was no explanation ; he did not 
 attempt to make any. But he begged my forgiveness with a 
 sincerity and humility which no one could withstand. When 
 he regretted his fault I could do nothing but forgive, could I?" 
 
 " I suppose not. But it was not this that made you so 
 extremely cordial 1 " 
 
 " No ; that was because of what he told me afterwards. I 
 said, ' We will let bygones be bygones,' but I could not help 
 feeling formal with him, and that hurt him. Finally he said, 
 as if he had been thinking of it a long time, ' I must tell you 
 what may palliate my error. I cannot go away feeling that 
 the friendship you gave me has become cold ;' and then he 
 asked me to consider what he might tell me as a sacred con- 
 fidence. I said, ' I never make promises,' but he trusted me, 
 and told me. Oh, I wish I could tell you ! " 
 
 Beth could not imagine a recital which would cause such a 
 change, and she felt that her aunt was too prejudiced in the 
 man's favour now, as she had before been against him, to be 
 entirely trustworthy. 
 
 "I think I can tell you this much," resumed Mabel. "It
 
 52 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 is relative to his wife, and lie has acted in the noblest, the 
 most disinterested way I ever could imagine." 
 
 She stopped, and laid her hand on the girl's arm to give full 
 effect to her next words. 
 
 " Beth, you know I am generally on the woman's side, and 
 that I have high ideas of what a man's duties are to his wife. 
 Well, I tell you I that this man is an ideal husband." 
 
 " He told you this himself 1" suggested the girl timidly. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I know," was the impatient reply ; " but it is 
 not from words I judge, only acts. He tried to keep himself 
 in the background as much as he could. And, Beth, there 
 was the ring of truth in it all ; you could not mistrust him. 
 Why, his face worked so with emotion that, after the first 
 glance, I dared not look at him ! It is the only time he has 
 ever mentioned it, and you would have been overcome by the 
 sound of suppressed suffering in his voice, just as I was." 
 
 Beth was considerably touched by her aunt's emotion at least. 
 
 " Why did he come here 1" she said finally. " Is he going 
 to stay in Italy long ?" 
 
 " Why did he come ? To consummate his act of sacrifice !" 
 Her eyes fired anew at the thought. " He is going now to 
 Rome to do what no other man would dream of doing. I can 
 only admire him while I regret it. He told me it all. He 
 has never had any one in whom to confide, and this was 
 
 almost Why ! it was like a dying confession. It is a 
 
 question of life and death to him ! " 
 
 The full lips began to tremble, and another outburst was 
 imminent. Beth was startled by the last words, but said 
 lightly : 
 
 " Take care, auntie ; you will prejudice me against your 
 friend again. I shall hate him if he is going to make you feel 
 badly." 
 
 " It isn't that so much," said Mabel somewhat incoherently, 
 " as because I was all used up before, with with Agatha's 
 letter. It seems as if love never did do any good." 
 
 Beth passed her hand caressingly over the dark curls. 
 
 "Whatever this M. d'Isten may have had in his life, 
 auntie dear," she said, " you have at least one heart which is 
 devoted to you. Isn't that something ?" 
 
 " Indeed it is," said Mabel, trying to recover herself. " You 
 are all I have, Beth, but you are a great deal more than he is."
 
 CIIAP. vii.] ANXIETY. 53 
 
 Beth went away in a few moments to her little study. Her 
 mind was in coldfusion among all these tumultuous ideas, and 
 her predominating thought was, that her dear auntie was pre- 
 paring sorrow for herself. 
 
 " But what can I do ?" she thought helplessly. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " Every spendthrift to passion is debtor to thought." 
 
 OWEN MEREDITH. 
 
 FOR the next few weeks Beth worried constantly about her 
 aunt. She did not seem to recover from what had begun with 
 her sister's letter any more at the end of a fortnight than 
 she had the first day. The influence of M. d'Isten's visit 
 had lasted only while he was present. She had fallen again 
 into abject depression. 
 
 The intangibility of the affair was what routed every idea 
 for bettering matters. Beth suggested that they should take a 
 little trip through Northern Italy. No, Mabel would not hear 
 of it. She would not deprive Beth of her lessons, at which, 
 now, she had her last chance. It was a thing she must 
 endure, she said, and one place was the same as another. 
 
 Beth coaxed her out on excursions through the beautiful 
 spring land, with the fragrant air blowing in their faces, and 
 the exquisite sky overhead. Mabel would seem to enjoy it 
 while she was out, but came home to cry in a doleful manner, 
 which made Beth feel hopeless. 
 
 " She must be going to have the fever," she said one day 
 to Evra, in an extra hour of anxiety. 
 
 " If she does, mamma and I will take care of her ; but it's 
 much more likely you will have it, my pet, with those great 
 circles growing under your eyes, and actual hollows coming in 
 your cheeks. Do take care of yourself, darling." 
 
 " I only want to take care of auntie," replied the girl. 
 
 But still, finding herself impotent to do anything actively 
 for her aunt, who preferred solitude, and shut herself into her 
 room many hours alone, Beth allowed herself to be coaxed 
 away oftener than she should have done. This, again, made
 
 54 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 Mabel feel neglected, and so the trouble grew and grew, like a 
 snowball rolled over innumerable times. 
 
 Mingled with this, and increasing it, was the state of 
 affairs with Monsieur d'Isten. 
 
 At first Mabel had often talked of him, and would read 
 aloud parts of the letters which she received frequently. They 
 aroused Beth's interest by their style and language, but she 
 felt the constraint of the secret between him and her aunt, 
 and being obliged to take everything on trust where her 
 disapproval had been excited and not allayed, could only be a 
 spectator of the friendship. This Mrs. Trescott felt was cold 
 and selfish, and gradually she came to not mentioning him, 
 except when something directly occurred to introduce his 
 name. 
 
 It was the first time that there had ever been any prolonged 
 misunderstanding between Beth and her aunt, and they both 
 felt it keenly. Each made valiant efforts to overcome it, but, 
 after the first expansion, the result was always the same, for 
 there was a mutual disapproval, and neither could give way. 
 Now came the recognition that their principles were opposed. 
 Mabel laid it all. to Agatha's influence, and Beth knew it was 
 the growth of her own individuality, and the fact that she held 
 opinions which she would not allow to be melted into oil to 
 make the wheels of life run smoothly. 
 
 When the answer came to Mrs. Trescott's passionate epistle, 
 which she had, of course, sent, it showed the corresponding 
 disappointment and sorrow on the other side ; and Mrs. Tres- 
 cott asserted that the sisterly bond which had united Agatha 
 to her was broken for ever, and that there was nothing to be 
 done but to accept the fact as an irreparable loss. If she 
 could have had something to fight she would have grown 
 strong with the necessity, but this sudden collapse of her 
 past, present, and future, as she put it, left her nothing but 
 despair. 
 
 " You must have patience with me, and let me adjust my- 
 self to circumstances as best I can," she would say to Beth 
 drearily. " It is hard, hard, any way." 
 
 " The only way is to have them meet, and meantime give 
 auntie something to do," thought the girl at last ; and she 
 determined to take the reins from her aunt's listless hands, and 
 use all her influence to leave Florence, and start towards home
 
 CHAP, vn.] IDOLAfTKY. 65 
 
 earlier. In Paris there would be the interminable shopping, 
 and this would keep her aunt busy, and occupy her mind. 
 
 Whether Mrs. Trescott felt the relief of another's deciding 
 for her, or saw the advisability of Beth's plan, and was glad of 
 change, she yielded with little difficulty, and stipulated only 
 that they should be in no hurry. She was willing to please 
 Beth, but she could not get in a flurry ; that would only be to 
 make her ill. 
 
 Evra meantime felt somewhat hurt that her Lily did 
 not respond more adequately to her devotion. Her love for 
 Bethesda, who represented to her all that was uplifting, calm, 
 and pure, was absorbing in its intensity. She wished the girl 
 to feel and call her dearest, but Beth could not allow her to 
 deceive herself with the thought an instant. 
 
 " My sister is the nearest to me," she said gravely. " I 
 don't think I can love any one better than I do her. And 
 then there is Aunt Mabel and Aunt Agatha. But, Evra, you 
 are the dearest friend I have." 
 
 " Friend ! " exclaimed the passionate woman, putting un- 
 utterable meanings in the word, and looking down on Beth from 
 her superior height almost scornfully. But only for a moment. 
 Then she would fall at her feet and cry out, as if in actual 
 pain: 
 
 " Be my friend, Lily ! Don't give me up ! I can't lose 
 you. My heart ached for you for years. Be my dear, wise, 
 faithful friend." 
 
 " I will try," said Beth, distressed. " You know you can 
 trust me, Evra, to be always your friend." 
 
 " I know it, I know it," sighed the artist. " I will try to 
 be content." 
 
 All this pained Beth. She felt the weight of being loved 
 unwisely, if not too well. She was coming to a vague concep- 
 tion of the difference between being idolised and idealised. 
 One is slavery, the other freedom. One says : What you are 
 now is to me perfection ; I never wish you to alter or move. 
 Let me bow down before you. This incases a living being in 
 stone, and death inevitably ensues. The other says : I see 
 great possibilities in you. You have the strength to develop 
 them to their utmost. I trust in you. This gives the spirit 
 wings, and the fullest life is the result. 
 
 Beth was feeling the restriction of her pedestal. It made
 
 56 BETHESDA. ' [PART i. 
 
 a very narrow platform. She was afraid to stir lest she should 
 fall off, and to stand still was inimical to all growth. What 
 could she do 1 
 
 At last one day in April Beth came home from a ride with 
 Evra, in which her aunt had not cared to join. She heard Mrs. 
 Trescott's voice, in unusually gay tones, evidently conversing 
 with callers. The door was open, however, and she could not 
 slip by unperceived ; so in her habit, with her hair considerably 
 shaken by a brisk eanter, she entered, to find herself confronted 
 by that person before whom she someway especially wished to 
 appear formal Monsieur d'Isten. 
 
 He rose instantly, becoming grave as he did so ; but Mabel 
 exclaimed, laughing : 
 
 " Oh, you are caught, Beth ! Never mind. Our good 
 friend has taken us by surprise, hasn't he ? " 
 
 By this time Bethesda had recovered her self-possession, 
 and greeted the guest with quiet stateliness. In any guise she 
 could appear both beautiful and dignified. Seating herself at 
 some little distance she thought she would excuse herself in as 
 short a time as politeness would allow ; but during that period 
 she discovered that her aunt was quite changed from her late 
 self, and was brighter than she had seen her in a long time. 
 M. d'Isten also seemed to have lost all his seriousness in Rome, 
 and there was a continual play of words between the two which 
 was pleasant to witness. Beth had a keen appreciation of wit, 
 and found her severity melting under these clever hits. 
 
 " Perhaps it is just what auntie needs," she thought. 
 "Some one she likes, and yet who is new to her. He may 
 entertain her, and while they are going around Florence to- 
 gether I can spend these days freely with Evra." 
 
 And she went into luncheon more cordially disposed than 
 she had cared to be before. 
 
 The conversation was about Eome, its wonders and its con- 
 trasts of ancient -and modern life; not a new subject by any 
 means, but Beth found herself often surprised by some quiet 
 originality, some sure criticism, or a turn of thought which pre- 
 sented the matter in a broader light, and connected it subtly 
 with many diverging facts. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott seemed delighted. 
 
 " Stay a fortnight," she said to her entertaining friend, 
 "and we will have some charming days. This is just the
 
 CHAP. VII.] A CASTLE. 57 
 
 time to see Florence. There is nothing so lovely as an Italian 
 spring, is there 1 " 
 
 11 1 can hardly admit that," answered M. d'Isten. " My 
 own land is in the south, you know, and what is familiar is 
 always most beautiful. And we have the sea." 
 
 " Oh yes ; I had forgotten your devotion to that. Beth 
 can sympathise with you there. She finds nothing so grand as 
 the ocean." 
 
 "Mademoiselle is surely right," he said, glancing at her 
 with a veiled curiosity. This reserved maiden was a new study 
 to him. "If you like the sea, mademoiselle," he added, ad- 
 dressing her directly for almost the first time, " I am convinced 
 you would find N charming." 
 
 "Did you say it was in the Pyrenees, monsieur?" she 
 asked with interest. " I have always wished to travel there." 
 
 "It is the most beautiful corner in the whole range," he 
 replied, his face lighting. " Imagine a valley opening at the 
 south to the sea, with lofty peaks rising at the north and east, 
 and a long spur extending into the water at the west. It ends 
 in an abrupt cliff, where the waves always dash high, even in 
 the calmest weather. That is where I intend to build my 
 castle," he added, turning with a smile to Mrs. Trescott. 
 
 " Yes 1 Well I hope you will finish it by the time we go 
 there. We certainly must some day. And now let us plan 
 about what we are going to do here." 
 
 Beth noticed the slight shade that fell again upon M. 
 d'Isten's face. 
 
 " Why doesn't auntie lend herself to his mood ? " she 
 wondered. " He must be very fond of his home, and that is 
 always a good trait in a man; but I thought he was from 
 Algeria." 
 
 At this point she was appealed to by her aunt. 
 
 " I suppose you are too tired, Beth, to go out this after- 
 noon 1 So we will put off our drive to Fiesole until to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, don't wait for me," said Beth quickly. " This will 
 be a lovely afternoon for the view. You had better not post- 
 pone it." 
 
 " Indeed we will. It would not be half the pleasure with- 
 out her, would it, Kene' ? " 
 
 "Mademoiselle's presence would necessarily enhance our 
 pleasure ; but she may not desire "
 
 58 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 " She is always delighted with driving," interrupted Mabel. 
 "And she can tell you a great deal more than I can about all 
 the things you will see. So we will consider it settled for to- 
 morrow at three, if convenient to you." 
 
 " I am entirely at your command," said M. d'Isten ; and 
 Beth acquiesced silently. 
 
 She was not going to be tied to entertaining this man, 
 however, she told herself. She wanted to be with Evra ; and 
 he was her aunt's friend, not hers. Besides, she was not 
 attracted by him. He was a refined and cultured m*n, un- 
 doubtedly ; he might be wonderfully noble she knew nothing 
 about that ; but there was something hard about his eyes it 
 had disappeared for an instant when he mentioned his home 
 and he was self-conscious, she thought, in his very self-forgetful- 
 ness, as if that were a duty and not a spontaneous impulse. 
 He lacked fire, she decided, and she never did like a man who 
 failed in warmth. 
 
 At this juncture she glanced up, but met his eyes, and hers 
 instantly fell. 
 
 What flash of comprehension was there in his face 1 Had 
 he read her thoughts 1 In any case it rebuked her. Was her 
 penetration so sure that she should condemn a man on that 
 hasty proof alone ? There was no call for her to plunge into 
 the depths and discover all the hidden meanings of his physi- 
 ognomy. He was her aunt's friend, and all she had to do with 
 him was to be grateful for his rescuing Mrs. Trescott from the 
 slough of despond. 
 
 When he held the door open for her to pass out she smiled 
 up at him and said : 
 
 " My aunt is already brightened by your coming. She has 
 not been well, and the pleasure of showing Florence to you will 
 benefit her, I am sure." 
 
 " She will confer upon me a great favour if she can make 
 me of use. I thank you for suggesting the possibility, 
 mademoiselle," he replied, with a politeness as impersonal as 
 her own. 
 
 During the next few days Mrs Trescott thought of nothing, 
 to all appearance, but to feter M. d'Isten. 
 
 " He has had such a sad life," she would say to Beth, " that 
 I want to make this time as pleasant as possible to him a 
 kind of oasis in his life."
 
 CHAP, vn.] AN ANTIPATHY. 59 
 
 " Does she never think," remarked Evra one day, when 
 Mabel had left them with some such words still echoing in the 
 air, " that she may make it too pleasant for him ? " 
 
 " I don't think there can be any danger of that," replied 
 Beth gravely. "Aunt Mabel is always most sensitive to any 
 such possibility. You see she is nine years older than he is." 
 
 " That may be ; but it is none of my business. And you, 
 certainly, are not over cordial to him. Don't you like him, 
 dear?" 
 
 " I hardly know him," said Beth, a little troubled. " He 
 seems to be more pleasant than ordinary acquaintances one 
 makes, and yet " 
 
 "I understand. Don't let's bother over him any more. 
 You and I are enough for one another, aren't we, sweet ? " 
 
 The truth was, they were too much absorbed in one another. 
 It annoyed Mrs. Trescott. 
 
 "You don't pay any attention to my friend," she cried 
 one day, in a fit of exasperation. " I am much more cordial 
 with your friend than you are with mine. How would you 
 like it if I avoided Evra, and were cold with her, as you are 
 with M. d'Isten 1 You would think me very unkind and hard." 
 
 " Excuse me, Aunt Mabel, but it is not the same. You like 
 Evra for herself; I do not like M. d'Isten." 
 
 " Why don't you like him, then ? It is mere prejudice, of 
 which you ought to be ashamed." 
 
 " It is a prejudice you gave me." 
 
 " / have wiped all that out. / have forgiven it. What 
 is it to you ? You don't even know what was the matter. If 
 you met him in an ordinary way you would have to take him 
 on trust as I did when I first met him." 
 
 " Then my aunt would not have told me he had ' insulted' 
 her." 
 
 1 ' Don't say that ! It is altogether too strong a word any 
 way. And since you know nothing about it, and I do, and 
 I know him and his whole life, can't you believe me when I 
 tell you he is noble and well worthy any woman's friendship 1 " 
 
 " I can take him as your friend on that, which is what I 
 have tried to do." 
 
 " It is only as my friend that I wish you to take him ; but, 
 instead of being cordial for my sake, you treat him more coldly 
 than you do any one else."
 
 60 BETIIESDA. [PART i. 
 
 " I did not mean to. I am sorry if I appeared to do so. 
 I am ill at ease with him ; he does not appeal to me at all ; I 
 suppose that is the trouble." 
 
 " At any rate, you ni^ht treat him with ordinary courtesy," 
 exclaimed Mabel. 
 
 " I think even he, who is certainly most courteous, would 
 say I am never otherwise," replied Bethesda proudly, and went 
 away. 
 
 She took herself to task, however, when the heat of this 
 little passage had evaporated, for she was almost morbidly 
 sensitive to rebuke. Why did not she like him ? He was in 
 many respects what she most admired, as her aunt often insisted ; 
 distingue, intelligent, and cultivated ; an admirable conversa- 
 tionalist, and quick in mind, but Well, he did not touch 
 
 her. She could not like a person who was unsympathetic to 
 her, but she would try still more to be cordial to him on her 
 aunt's account. Yet she was determined not to let it interfere 
 with being a large part of her time with Evra. The girl knew 
 that the artist's career Guinevere had chosen was full of trial, 
 because in voicing the emotions she stirred all that portion of 
 her nature condemned to silence. Bethesda understood that 
 she was interposed between the artist's triumph and the woman's 
 grief. She, and she alone, could be the instrument to respond 
 to every touch of Guinevere's complex nature, and unite them 
 in harmonious accord. Was this to be given up for the sake 
 of being constantly with M. d'Isten ? No indeed ! 
 
 The next morning, however, a riding party was formed, in 
 which all joined. It was a perfect day, with a cool breeze 
 blowing over the blossoming orchards, and as they entered the 
 carriage to drive around for Evra, Beth had the brightness of 
 anticipated pleasure in her face, and was more natural than she 
 had ever been with M. d'Isten present. 
 
 He did not fancy ladies riding. Amazons did not appeal 
 to his keen sense of the womanly, and Beth was very well 
 aware of the fact. She had tried to avoid the party from her 
 natural dislike to doing anything another did not find pleasur- 
 able ; but Mrs. Trescott was longing for a gallop, and thought 
 that in the informality of an excursion Beth and Rene' might 
 break through the dignified reticence which separated them ; so 
 she insisted, and Beth was now silently defying with a gay heart 
 the equally silent disapproval of his lordship.
 
 CHAP, vii.] A RIDE. 61 
 
 When they reached Mrs. Conover's, however, and Beth 
 went in through the sunshine that flooded the southern arch- 
 way, her -violet habit outlining the rounded figure to perfection, 
 and the long plumes of her velvet cap mingling with the solid 
 coils of bronze hair, he could not help admitting that a true 
 woman will be womanly in any position. He turned to Mrs. 
 Trescott with the first compliment for Beth that he had ever 
 uttered. 
 
 " Your niece, madame," he said deliberately, " is one of the 
 most exquisite of women." 
 
 " I knew you would like her ! " exclaimed Mabel triumph- 
 antly. " Even your difficult taste would be conquered by her. 
 She said you would be bored by the riding, but I told her you 
 would find her and Miss Conover so charming en amazone that 
 you could not be bored." 
 
 "Certainly not, with you," he replied courteously, but 
 Miss Hamilton's quick intuition did not escape him. 
 
 In a few moments the two girls reappeared, Miss Conover 
 a very Diana in her green dress, with golden curls breaking out 
 from under the stiff English hat, and shortly after they had 
 reached the four horses awaiting them with the grooms outside 
 the Cascine gates. 
 
 They had planned to go to a villa and chapel off towards 
 the sea-coast, where the views and works of art were alike 
 beautiful. To reach it they could pass through the Cascine and 
 strike off across the meadows, and all were in the mood for a 
 rustic day. 
 
 The bijou park looked irresistibly lovely as they entered it. 
 A quadruple avenue of trees arched feathery branches overhead 
 in a tangle of fine lines against the deep sky. At one side of 
 the carriage-way was a grassy space shaded by live oaks inter- 
 twined with ivy, now fresh with tender green. A bridle-path 
 ran parallel with the road, and on the outer side was a wide 
 ditch separating the park from a meadow where troops were 
 practising military manoeuvres. Beyond were the villa-dotted 
 mountains rising in purple beauty to where the snow crowned 
 them with brilliants. 
 
 It was an exquisite scene, and the soft charm of spring- 
 time was hushing while it thrilled every nerve. Beth had 
 fallen into silence, and was recalling that day beneath Michel 
 Angelo's great David, when it seemed as if each breath of
 
 62 BETHESDA. [PART r. 
 
 air were striving to tell her a message, when suddenly she heard 
 a smothered exclamation, and, looking back, saw Nero, Mrs. 
 Trescott's horse, rearing and pawing the air, while M. d'Isten's 
 bay had started aside with a snort of terror. 
 
 Before Mabel could regain control of her obstreperous steed 
 he had faced about, made a rush across the road, and, springing 
 high, leaped hedge and ditch, to land several feet beyond on the 
 turf of the meadow. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott was a woman of great courage, and when 
 Nero came to the ground, although she looked a little pale, 
 she nodded reassuringly to the breathless group above, and 
 let him scour off with her across the plain, into the very 
 midst, as it seemed, of the drilling regiments. The black-robed 
 lady, who rode so well, would be somewhat of a surprise as 
 an impromptu visitor on the scene of action. 
 
 "Do go after her ! " exclaimed Beth, appealing to M. 
 d'Isten. He had already turned to do so, and now, putting 
 spurs to his horse, took the ditch, and in a few moments Evra 
 and Beth saw him gaining on Mrs. Trescott's curveting beast, 
 which some officers had headed off. 
 
 " It is not a bad joke to have your disapproving monsieur 
 obliged to go after Mrs. Trescott in such a scrape," said Evra, 
 laughing, as they put their horses to a trot. 
 
 " He doesn't ride badly, though, does he 1 " 
 
 " Well enough," answered Evra carelessly ; " but, I say, 
 Mrs. Trescott does know how to keep her seat ! That was a 
 stiff jump, and you aren't accustomed to such things in America, 
 are you 1 " 
 
 " No ; auntie learned to ride on an unbroken colt, but it 
 was never at hurdles ! She ought not to ride that horse, or 
 else she should have him obey her. I don't believe in half-way 
 measures myself." 
 
 " Nor I. The measures you have used with Major meet 
 with my approval. He is as spirited a horse as Nero, yet he 
 obeys every touch on the rein." 
 
 "An Englishman taught me to ride, you know," answered 
 Beth, with a glance of amusement at Evra, who was not a little 
 jealous of Clarence. 
 
 " But you were a born rider, witch ! " 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon. You should have seen me going 
 up Vesuvius on horseback at night during an eruption. It was
 
 CHAP, vil.] FLOWEKS. 63 
 
 the first time I had ever mounted anything but a donkey, and 
 wasn't I frightened ! You can't think what a coward I used 
 to be about horses. That was what made me so anxious to 
 ride. I never could bear to have any weakness stronger than 
 I. It makes me ashamed until I can afford to laugh at it from 
 the safe side of triumph." 
 
 " I am sure no one would dream of accusing you of being a 
 coward, and I don't believe you ever were. You have not one 
 whit of anything but bravery in you. And anyway, if you ever 
 were timid with horses, it's all the more credit for you to be so 
 fearless now. So you see, darling, anyhow you can fix it, you 
 are my perfect, spotless Lily." 
 
 " Don't say that ! " exclaimed Beth hastily. " You don't 
 know how how afraid I feel when you talk so." 
 
 "Afraid, childie?" 
 
 " Yes, as one feels on a dizzy height. I am always afraid 
 of falling." 
 
 "Pshaw, dear; you won't fall." 
 
 They had now crossed the Piazza, bordered by glistening 
 magnolias, and entered the wilder portion of the Cascine. Here 
 nature had not been disturbed. Great branching ivies draped 
 the budding trees, which were knee-deep in underbrush and 
 earth-loving vines. Looking into this forest, one fancied one- 
 self a hundred miles from any habitation, and the constant 
 twitter and occasional jubilant songs of birds favoured the de- 
 lusion. In some more open spots myrtle blossoms made the 
 ground like "a bit of the sky, fallen through from on high," as 
 Beth quoted softly, and Evra immediately beckoned to the 
 groom to pick some. 
 
 They had each a cluster of long sprays, mingled with white 
 violets, before their sylvan solitude was interrupted. Then, 
 happening to glance toward the end of the arcade, Beth saw 
 two equestrian figures outlined like statues against the sunny 
 atmosphere beyond. Both tall, slender, and graceful, they 
 were immediately recognised ; but it was only for a moment 
 that they remained thus in the light, photographing a picture 
 on Beth's mind ; then they entered the shadow of the glade, 
 and soon overtook the pastoral couple. 
 
 "What are you doing here? "exclaimed Mabel as they came up. 
 
 " Picking myrtle," answered Evra, holding up the swaying 
 bouquet.
 
 64 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 "During interludes of gathering laurels," remarked M. 
 d'Isteu quietly. 
 
 " Merci, monsieur," said Evra, smiling, " I see you rescued 
 our distressed lady ! " 
 
 " Oh, I wasn't at all in distress," cried Mrs. Trescott. 
 " You are not to flatter him at my expense, you know. But I 
 confess I was glad to have a friend by me, among all those 
 officers. They were very polite, though. Quite an adventure, 
 wasn't it?" 
 
 " One can always be sure you will entrap an adventure if 
 there is one possible," said Evra, laughing. " Beth and I will 
 have to chaperon you, as she says." 
 
 Beth had not spoken since they came up, but as they now 
 all naturally turned towards her she said abruptly : 
 
 " Let us go on ; we are late," and started forward. " I 
 am sure I don't know what it is," she exclaimed impatiently to 
 Evra, as they rode on, " but I am actually growing to dislike 
 this friend of auntie's." 
 
 "I cannot see any reason why you should, dear. He is 
 a gentleman in every sense of the word, and he really wishes 
 to become acquainted with you. Give him a chance. It is 
 not like my 'just judge' to condemn a man unheard, and 
 you are always so cold and dignified with him, he cannot 
 approach you." 
 
 " You think I am at fault with him, then ? " 
 
 "You could not lack in courtesy to any one, if you mean 
 that ; but you might be a little less severely haughty with him. 
 He seems to be everything one could ask." 
 
 " But he is not simpatico, and don't let's talk of him any 
 more." 
 
 However, this conversation had some effect upon Beth. It 
 was easy for her to be pliant to others' wills when they were 
 not dictatorial ; so, during the excursion she allowed Evra to fall 
 back with Mrs. Trescott, and tried to be more freely receptive 
 of M. d'Isten's courteous advances. Presently she found it was 
 not so hard as at first, and that he really entertained her. 
 
 They talked of life in Algeria. He was charmed with her 
 interest, and she was delighted to hear one familiar with it 
 speak of a country which exerted a strange fascination over 
 her. 
 
 " You were born there, monsieur 1 "
 
 CHAP. VII.] SUBTLETIES. 65 
 
 " Yes, when my mother was hardly sixteen. They marry 
 young in the South." 
 
 " But if Algeria is your native country, how is it you come 
 to speak so affectionately of the Pyrenees ? " 
 
 "Ah, that is the home of my ancestors. The place where 
 one's own little life comes into existence has small claims com- 
 pared with that where fathers and grandfathers have been born 
 and died." 
 
 "It seems unfortunate that one who appreciates such a 
 home should not date his own birth from there." 
 
 "My mother had a great antipathy to France," replied 
 M. d'Isten quietly. " She was devoted to her own land." 
 
 " I should have been in her place," remarked Beth care- 
 lessly. He flashed a penetrating glance across her. 
 
 "Pardon me, mademoiselle, if I doubt that." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Beth, a little startled ; " you think one would 
 not like Algeria 1 " 
 
 " I did not mean that ; it was not a question of places. 
 You might love your own free land, for instance, mademoiselle, 
 but there are other things to which you would sacrifice it." 
 
 He spoke in a tone of quiet assurance which amused Beth. 
 
 " You trust much to your impressions, I see." 
 
 " To what else than his perceptions can a person trust in 
 character 1 " 
 
 " To experience, most would say." 
 
 " I am glad you add that. It is unnecessary for me to 
 point out to you that if one waits for experience to judge char- 
 acter, one's opportunities fly by like those birds across the 
 sky." 
 
 "And if one trusts to one's impressions, and they are 
 incorrect ? " said Beth half reluctantly. 
 
 " They should not be," was the prompt reply. 
 
 " You have caught yourself there ! " thought Beth, with a 
 sudden flash in her eyes. 
 
 " Nay," he answered, with that quick reading which to Beth 
 seemed miraculous; "one who judges from impressions must 
 be sure of what and why the impressions are. Vagueness is 
 injustice." 
 
 Beth gave her horse an impatient touch of the whip. 
 Why should she be thus dissected, and why should he presume 
 to instruct her ? But presently he rode beside her again, 
 
 F
 
 66 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 calling her attention to some unnoticed beauty in the landscape 
 with so sympathetic a manner that she soon allowed herself to 
 be disarmed. 
 
 Later, when they arrived at their destination, the far- 
 reaching views seemed to touch both M. d'Isten and Beth in 
 a kindred spirit, and the works of art in the marble chapel, 
 built in commemoration of " a Laura dearer than Petrarch's," 
 appealed to the same sensitive sense in each. Thus a truer 
 comprehension quietly built its foundations beneath them, and 
 there was hung by imperceptible threads a bridge over the icy 
 stream that had heretofore separated them. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 "The most powerful feeling with a liturgy is the prayer which seeks 
 for nothing in especial, but is a yearning to escape from the limitations of 
 our own weakness, aud an invocation of all good to enter and abide with 
 us." Daniel Deronda. 
 
 ' ' Only I discern 
 Infinite passion, and the pain 
 Of finite hearts that yearn. " 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 IT had been arranged that after their return from their ride 
 Mrs. Trescott and Beth should go to the representation of a 
 French drama, given by an excellent company, with M. d'Isten. 
 
 Evra could not go, as she was to sing the next night, and 
 did not wish to get the bad air of the theatre into her throat. 
 Great was the surprise of all, therefore, when Miss Conover 
 made her appearance in handsome toilette just as the others 
 were about to start. 
 
 " You have changed your mind ? I am so glad ! " exclaimed 
 Beth, hastening to welcome her friend. But she found there 
 was unusual cause for this change when her hand was almost 
 crushed in a fierce grasp. 
 
 "What is the matter 1 ?" she asked, alarmed by Evra's 
 manner, and the defiant light in her eyes. 
 
 " Nothing ! " said Guinevere abruptly. " I am going to 
 Milan to-morrow, and I would be with you to-night." 
 
 " To Milan ! Why, you are advertised to sing ! " said Mrs. 
 Trescott.
 
 CHAP, viii.] A BROKEN BOND. 67 
 
 " I know, but everything is upset. A telegram calls me to 
 Milan. There is no putting it off." 
 
 " I hope it is not bad news 1 " 
 
 " Bad enough, and I want to forget it ! " exclaimed Evra, 
 drawing Beth's arm through hers. " I beg your pardon, Mrs. 
 Trescott, but I am so angry I can hardly speak. You will 
 forgive me ? Thanks. Now, shan't we go down 1 I did not 
 intend to detain you." 
 
 As the three women passed M. d'Isten, who held aside the 
 portiere, he classed them instantly. The airy, languid grace 
 and sudden energy of Mrs. Trescott ; that, he knew well. The 
 passionate intensity of the artist ; that he was already weary 
 of. The delicate sympathy and reliance of Miss Hamilton : 
 
 " I must know her," he decided quietly, and it should be 
 admitted that he did not adequately regret Miss Conover's near 
 departure. 
 
 The next day, when Beth went down to stay with her friend 
 and see her off, she heard the news. It was of a character to 
 depress any one. 
 
 The man to whom Evra had been engaged and later refused, 
 was taking a manly revenge by endeavouring to shut off her 
 opportunities in London, spending his money with a lavish hand 
 in the praiseworthy endeavour. It would retard the artist for 
 years, wasting precious time, if he should succeed, and her 
 former maestro had telegraphed her to come immediately if she 
 wished to foil the machinations. There was no choice possible, 
 so she had paid the forfeit to the Florentine impresario, had 
 been obliged to forego her benefit, and all because she had 
 refused to marry a man whose actions made her despise him. 
 
 " But aren't you glad you are free ? " exclaimed Beth, when 
 Guinevere thus ended the story. 
 
 "Ah, for that, yes ! But shouldn't I have led him a pretty 
 life when all this fine character came out after marriage f He 
 wouldn't have had an easy time of it, you better believe ! " 
 
 " And you would have had a horrible life ! Imagine being 
 bound to such a person ! Oh, I am so thankful for you ! 
 After all, this is a small price to pay for your freedom." 
 
 " Hum ! To-day I would be almost willing to be ' bound ' 
 to him for the pleasure of tormenting him. He wouldn't find 
 life a bed of down, you may rest assured ! But there ; I am 
 talking nonsense," she said, pulling herself up short, as she
 
 68 BETHESDA. [I-AIIT I. 
 
 noticed the pained expression on Beth's face. She stopped 
 packing, and came to take Beth's hands. 
 
 " Do you know, child, what makes me feel this more than 
 all is the leaving you. I can't bear to go away from you. It 
 tears my heart." 
 
 There was a tone of intense emotion in her voice which 
 almost frightened Beth. Evra was scanning her face with wild 
 eyes. After a moment she said, in suppressed tones : 
 
 " You like me, you are fond of me ; all in your cool lily-like 
 way. And what are you to me ? " She snatched the girl into 
 a suffocating embrace. "You are my dearest on earth. I 
 thought this power of loving any human being was killed in 
 me. I could have sworn there was no one in the whole world 
 who could ever hold my heart as you do. I tell you, child, it 
 is tearing my heart out to leave you. I may never find you 
 the same. No, you need not protest. I know I am a friend 
 to you a dear friend if you like ; but you are inexpressibly 
 more than a friend to me. You are all the love I have in the 
 world ; all I can give or take. You are my heart itself ! " 
 
 " What can I say, dear Evra ? " began Beth, but the artist 
 interrupted her passionately. 
 
 " There it is ! You ask, ' What can I say ? ' while I speak 
 and find words only too poor ! I know you can't help it ; you 
 don't feel as I do, and that is the despair of it. Yet you will 
 love some day. It is not that you lack passion; it is all 
 slumbering within you ; and when it is awakened oh, shan't 
 I be jealous 1 " 
 
 She pushed the girl away almost roughly, and returned to 
 her trunk. Beth did not know what to do. This intense love 
 weighed upon her heavily. She did not feel Evra supreme, nor 
 did she desire to do so. And yet she was so sorry for Evra, so 
 grieved that she could not give all that was asked of her, that 
 she almost blamed herself. 
 
 Thus it had gone on in alternations of passionate outbursts 
 and constraint all day. Evra would not let Beth out of her 
 sight, and Beth wished to do everything she could to please her, 
 and remained with her until the train left. 
 
 It was with a sigh of mingled relief and depression that she 
 turned away from the station. This absorption was wearying, 
 and yet the world seemed cold without it. 
 
 " If I ever find a man who loves me like that, and whom I
 
 CHAP, viii.] ACTIVITY IS LIFE. 69 
 
 can love : But the thought would not be completed. 
 
 " Of course it is impossible," she said aloud severely ; and then 
 she had reached the house and found everything lonely and 
 chill. She could hear her aunt's voice and M. d'Isten's in the 
 parlour, but the sound only made her more lonely. The rooms 
 were dark ; heavy clouds had obscured the sunset, and the 
 twilight was fast fading into night. It was too warm for a fire, 
 but the threatening rain chilled the air. Everything seemed 
 dreary and cold ; and her sympathy for Evra emphasised her 
 own feelings until she felt very near the region of tears. 
 
 But this would never do ! She was not a woman who 
 appreciated the luxury of a " good cry ; " so now she sprang to 
 her feet and lit the candles, casting about her for a new thought. 
 The first rays revealed a book lying on the table. It was 
 Bones and /, a weird favourite of hers. With a momentary 
 hesitation she opened it and read : 
 
 " You talk of suffering being pure waste ; I tell you it is all 
 pure gain. You talk of self being the motive to exertion ; I 
 tell you it is the abnegation of self which has wrought out all 
 that is noble, all that is good and useful, and nearly all that is 
 ornamental in the world. It is not the dreamer, wrapped in his 
 fancied bliss, from whom you are to expect heroic efforts, either 
 of mind or body. Wake the dreamer roughly ; drive spurs and 
 goad into his heart. He will wince, and writhe, and roll, and 
 gnash his teeth, but I defy him to keep still. He must be up 
 and doing from sheer tortures, flying to one remedy after 
 another, till he gets to work, and so finds distraction, solace, 
 presently comfort ; and, after a while, looking yet higher, hope, 
 happiness, reward." 
 
 Beth stopped and looked out into the darkening garden, 
 where a few dim stars were striving to pierce a rainy mist. 
 There would come a time, she knew, when these words would 
 be throbbing truth to her ; when the thought of the book would 
 be unendurable, because she, too, would be going through the 
 mill. 
 
 She sat thinking a long time. In the play the night before 
 an innocent man had accused himself of murder to save an 
 innocent friend and the honour of the woman he loved. Beth 
 felt the power within her to do something of the kind. She 
 was hungry, not to be loved, but to love. She wanted some one 
 on whom she could pour out the whole wealth of her affec-
 
 70 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 tion, and not feel that it had been wasted, but given to the 
 highest use. She believed she could walk to the stake steadily, 
 proudly, for one thus dear to her, or for what she knew was right. 
 
 There was no danger of tears now. Heroism, even in 
 thought, blots out the possibility of such weakness. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. Mrs. Trescott went to church 
 alone, to the American chapel, where a " union " service was 
 held, supposed to unite all the sects for a time at least under 
 the national flag. Beth did not wish to accompany her, and 
 her aunt let her do as she liked. She had always made a 
 principle of this in religious matters. She was a Unitarian 
 herself, and believed, as she said, in freedom to worship God. 
 
 In the present age any thought makes room for a million 
 doubts, and these had attacked both Margaret and Bethesda as 
 soon as they were old enough to understand anything but 
 obedience to custom. Margaret became involved in the toils 
 of that false philosophy which cramps through making tests for 
 the spirit by material things. It was only after years of struggle 
 and desperation that she found relegating things and thoughts 
 to their true places brought her peace, and learned to lift herself 
 from independence of thought to true knowledge and dependence 
 on the love of God. 
 
 Bethesda was quite her opposite in temperament. Margaret 
 had to be convinced before she would yield her opinions one 
 jot; Beth obeyed instinctively. Everything in Margaret's 
 nature had been drawn from chaos, as it were, and consciously 
 formed into a rounded world ; Beth's was a sphere launched 
 into space with only its orbit to discover. But Margaret was 
 steadfast to her central sun, while Beth was drawn hither and 
 thither by the attraction of different planets, and had no definite 
 aim. She had been accustomed from infancy to hear of her 
 sweetness of character as much as her lovely face, and she 
 rested in the assurance of one as of the other, thinking it un- 
 necessary to cultivate either. 
 
 The trials and temptations of a lovable temperament, as it 
 is usually termed, are not, as a rule, understood. We are apt 
 to think that such persons have no difficulties to solve, no 
 struggles to undergo. To them we say everything comes rose- 
 coloured and perfumed ; it is no task to them to be good. But 
 this is a mistake. Such natures have an inevitable tendency 
 to weakness. They lack that conscious principle, formed by
 
 CHAP. VIII.] A MODERN MIND. 71 
 
 sturdy endeavour, which is the only enduring cement of a 
 worthy character. They are liable to the error of considering 
 their instincts, generally true, an infallible guide, or of follow- 
 ing blindly the guiding hand of one they have been accustomed 
 to depend upon. Just because they are equally developed on 
 many sides they are subject to many attractions which draw 
 them from their individual orbit. They are sensitive to 
 influences, and yield with a plasticity which makes them take 
 on different forms as well as colours until they are insecure of 
 their own. 
 
 Bethesda had partially recognised these errors during her 
 illness. It had been a serious period to her. For the first time 
 she had comprehended that to stand erect, not to be carried, or 
 to lean, is of vital importance to integrity. 
 
 In the recognition of self-responsibility she had found the 
 hollowness of her childish faith. It was as empty to her as one 
 of her china dolls, and she cast it from her as she would any 
 lifeless illusion of childhood. But the loss of the symbol left 
 her with nothing to take its place. The idea of religion was a 
 blank to her. A habit, a vague sense of something others 
 knew about and she would experience some time, was all 
 religion had been to her ; and now her awakened mind would 
 not be lulled by imagination or any hereditary faith. She had 
 a strong feeling, not altogether unshared by greater minds, that 
 some new revelation was at hand ; that this was the eve of a 
 transforming era ; and she took a certain pride in holding her- 
 self undefiled for that new religion. She must see now, and 
 clearly, to believe, and meantime the highest she could appre- 
 hend was her own perception of right. 
 
 In this state of mind formal churchgoing was a mockery to 
 her ; she shrank from it as hypocrisy ; and Mrs. Trescott left 
 her behind with a comfortable conviction that these worries had 
 to come to any one with brains, and that some time Beth would 
 waken and discover the world knew more than she did, in spite 
 of her foolish dream. 
 
 But it was very real to Beth, and to still her uneasy 
 craving she would dress as inconspicuously as possible, and, 
 with the faithful Assunta on guard beside her, walk or drive 
 swiftly to the Santissima Annunziata, or Dante's Santa Croce, and 
 give herself up to the aesthetic religion which was now her refuge. 
 
 George Sand writes that her grandmother on her deathbed
 
 72 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 said solemnly : " J'ai toujours cru en Dieu, mais e'coute ceci, 
 ma fille, je ne 1'ai pas assez aimd" With Bethesda, up to this 
 time, it might have been said that she always loved God, but 
 she did not sufficiently believe in him. Her nature was always 
 going out blindly towards some perfection which she could 
 worship, to some absolute power which should be sure. She 
 was empty, as it were, and the first feelings of hunger, a vague 
 pain, a faintness, a desire for she knew not what, made them- 
 selves felt. She tried to find something to satisfy her some- 
 thing to quell that indistinct disease which intuition told her 
 was dangerous. Morally, her conscience was a staff whose 
 soundness she did not doubt ; but mankind, and particularly 
 womankind, feel the need of something besides morality to fill 
 their lives something beyond and above it. A noble nature is 
 essentially a hero -worshipper; and if it has not a real, and 
 eternal, and absolute hero to worship, it will find a great 
 temptation to throw itself at the feet of this or that idol as the 
 better, if not the best. 
 
 Happily, Bethesda had too natural a cleaving to the unalter- 
 able and highest best for her to yield to this temptation. When 
 she believed, it must be in something verifiable, something 
 which would appeal to a higher court than that of the senses 
 or the emotions to that highest of all, which dwarfs suffering, 
 hushes complaint, and gives one strength to bear all, and rejoice 
 in the bearing. 
 
 Meantime she stood alone. 
 
 As she came out of church, half envying Assunta, who was 
 wiping her eyes beside her she had been praying that her 
 dearest signora might be admitted into the holy Church 
 Monsieur d'Isten quietly stepped to her side. She shrank, just 
 perceptibly, in recognising him. She had had no idea he was in 
 the church. She was not at all aware that he had been watching 
 her with that keen discernment which was one of his most 
 marked characteristics. She felt a certain shock of intrusion in 
 his presence which she tried to cover instantly; but he, of 
 course, had seen it. 
 
 He accompanied her to the carriage, speaking only a few 
 grave words by the way, and when she turned to ask him to 
 join her found him already lifting his hat as he moved swiftly 
 away. She admired his quick perception, and yet it annoyed her. 
 She scolded herself roundly. She had been rude and to him !
 
 CHAP, ix.] CHARACTEK-STUDY. 73 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Our sympathy is a gift we can never know, nor when we impart it. 
 The instant of communion is when, for the least point of time, we cease 
 to oscillate, and coincide in rest by as true a point as a star pierces the 
 firmament." THOREATI. 
 
 ' ' Sympathy, viewed from the passive side, on the active side is called 
 benevolence." W. H. MALLOCK. 
 
 RENE D'ISTEN'S character was of an essentially foreign quality. 
 The courts and customs of Europe educate persons in a school 
 entirely different from any American's experience, and it is 
 difficult for them to gain just impressions of the Latin mind. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott understood him only superficially. She 
 recognised him as a refined and courteous aristocrat, with a 
 republican liberality; a remarkable uniting of frankness and 
 reserve, of cordiality and distinction. Further, into the motives 
 of his life, the causes of these results, she did not look, unless 
 during the time when she was under the vivid influence of the 
 secret he had confided to her. 
 
 Bethesda was more of a psychologist, but only an intuitive 
 one. There was much to admire in him. His mind was as 
 well-poised as his head, and there was a firmness of steel in 
 his decisions as in his muscles. He was keenly appreciative 
 of- sentiment, while the hazy raptures of sentimentality disap- 
 peared like mists under the sunlight of his clear mind. He 
 had a marvellous amount of tact, and his perceptions were 
 acute ; not a quiver of sensitive lips escaped him, nor the subtlest 
 tremor of thought. 
 
 Bethesda also apprehended instinctively a certain wariness 
 and suppleness of mind a duality in the man, which, when 
 she was out from under his direct influence, confused and blurred 
 her impressions. Not that he was insincere his ardent devo- 
 tion to certain causes and persons barred such suspicions but 
 she was aware that he exercised a self-control, which had be- 
 come a second nature, and presented himself to the world only 
 as he wished to be seen. Who could tell, then, where this 
 ended and his real self began ? 
 
 Now this duality, which Bethesda did not justly under- 
 stand, is peculiarly European. The intrigue of society nur-
 
 74 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 tures the man from his cradle. He is taught self-control and 
 tact before he is taught frankness and truth, and, when after- 
 life builds a superstructure, one cannot be sure on which founda- 
 tion it has its basis. In any case, the man is dual ; he has two 
 selves ; one that he himself knows, or thinks he knows, and 
 one that the world thinks it knows. These intermix and 
 fuse their qualities so dexterously that finally no one can say 
 which is the body, so to speak, and which the spirit ; they are 
 quite as interactive as this problem of the philosopher's. The in- 
 dividual, meanwhile, is neither one nor the other : he is actually 
 both. 
 
 M. d'Isten had used many of the qualities of both sides of 
 his nature in his acquaintance with Mabel Trescott. She was 
 proud of her power to make persons feel insecure of her, and 
 between her and M. d'Isten there had been a continual warfare, 
 in which now one, now the other, was conquered and conqueror. 
 On the whole, however, M. d'Isten triumphed. He had patience, 
 as well as versatility, and his will-power was a carefully de- 
 veloped capacity, in which he had received much training from 
 himself and others, while Mabel's was capricious and incon- 
 stant. She delighted as much in giving full blossoms, when 
 green buds alone were expected, as in giving a thorn-prick when 
 one bent to inhale a tropical fragrance. And Rene* d'Isten 
 knew how to receive the flower with grace no less well than he 
 knew how to avoid the thorns, and after their reconciliation he 
 had secured himself in her friendship, she hardly knew how, 
 but much more decidedly than before. 
 
 This left him comparatively free to follow up his resolve of 
 knowing more of Miss Hamilton, and Mrs. Trescott was very 
 willing to aid him. Bethesda herself was passive in their 
 hands. The sudden separation from her friend, who had en- 
 grossed the girl to an almost exhausting degree, left her in a 
 subdued and listless state of mind. The approaching farewell 
 to the scenes she loved, to Italy, and the life she had lived 
 there, gave a tinge of wistful sadness to all her thoughts ; and 
 the enervating influence of an Italian spring made her yield 
 to her aunt unquestioningly, drifting with the stream of her 
 desires. 
 
 Thus they were either driving through the still air, looking 
 on scenes of rarest loveliness, or visiting churches filled with 
 the art of centuries, and mystically solemnised by the glamour
 
 CHAP, ix.] DRIFTING. 75 
 
 of a symbolic religion, or sitting in their own shadowy parlour, 
 talking and listening to gradual unfoldings of character. 
 
 What wonder, then, that M. d'Isten, with his thorough 
 savoir-faire, was able to make the barrier of prejudice crumble 
 away unnoticed 1 He knew how to impress himself upon 
 Bethesda's mind by imperceptible means that could arouse no 
 surprise or even recognition. He talked to her no more than 
 formerly, but in his conversations with her aunt he allowed his 
 inner nature to come to the surface, and show itself in a thousand 
 delicate ways, which could not but win attention from one so 
 sensitive to all refinement as Bethesda. 
 
 One afternoon, the day before their projected departure 
 from Florence, whence they were to go to Paris in company, 
 they came up from luncheon a little wearied by the exertion of 
 packing on a warm day. Bethesda seated herself by the shaded 
 window to enjoy the jessamine and tiny cream roses which 
 wreathed it in a multitude of delicate lines. The outline of 
 her face and figure was cut clearly against the dark-blue damask, 
 while an eager ray of sunlight found and rested on the bronzed 
 gold of her hair. Mrs. Trescott threw herself on an ottoman 
 near by, and leaned her head against Beth's knee. The 
 girl idly broke off clusters of the rose-vine, and weaved them 
 in among her aunt's dark curls. 
 
 M. d'Isten paced the room in a silent mood of repressed 
 excitement. The languor of a southern mid-day, the surround- 
 ings of the beautiful room, the atmosphere of domestic woman- 
 liness, threw a charm around the group to which this man was 
 almost painfully sensible. 
 
 " I wish you could have known my mother," he said 
 abruptly. "I often feel as if she knew you." 
 
 Mabel looked up in surprise, while Beth said simply : 
 
 " Tell us about her." 
 
 It was a subject on which he seldom spoke, but it was be- 
 coming no new thing for him to give expression to ideas and 
 feelings that had previously been unspoken. Now he answered 
 as simply as he had been asked. 
 
 " You know she was an Orientale. Her father was a man 
 of great influence in Algiers, and she was his favourite child. 
 She was educated as few Eastern women are even when my 
 father married her, and she was then, as I told you, mademoi- 
 selle, only fifteen. She was very beautiful. My father took
 
 76 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 her to Paris soon after they were married, but he returned with 
 her to Algiers quickly. She disliked Paris, and the attention 
 she attracted there seemed to hurt her. It made her shrink 
 and wince. She was essentially Eastern," he went on, twining 
 a jessamine wreath slowly around his hand ; " her nature had 
 the grace and warmth of the tropics. Her very soul was given 
 to my father, and yet I have heard him say that she inspired 
 him with a reverence that made him feel afar off at times. 
 Some women seem to reach higher than any man can." 
 
 He paused a moment, and his mind appeared to be absent 
 from his surroundings. Neither of the ladies spoke. Presently 
 he said : 
 
 " My father, too, was very young when he married. He 
 did not realise that he would be giving up his country in marry- 
 ing an Algerian. But when he found she would be unhappy 
 elsewhere he made the sacrifice quietly. Perhaps no one knew 
 what a sacrifice it must have been so well as I." 
 
 "Your father and mother were a great contrast to one 
 another, were they not 1 " asked Beth. 
 
 " Markedly so. He is reserved and quiet, and has an iron 
 will. He is somewhat cold also, but a man must not show too 
 much feeling. You see, he is quite my ideal," he added, smiling. 
 
 " A Bayard, Beth once called him," said Mabel teasingly. 
 
 The words recalled, as by magic, the conversation in the 
 train between Genoa and Florence, and Beth was silent, think- 
 ing how strangely events had come round that they two should 
 be sitting there conversing intimately with a man whom that 
 day they both disliked. And how about her presentiment 1 
 
 She pushed the obtrusive thoughts away by saying : 
 
 " You are a great deal with your father 1 " 
 
 " Not of late years. When I was a lad I used to be with 
 him as constantly as school duties would allow ; but not now." 
 
 " Have you brothers and sisters, monsieur 1 " 
 
 11 Two step-brothers. My sister died when I was a child." 
 
 The girl looked up at him with sudden pity. She felt the 
 meaning that lay under the reticence of his tone. He was a 
 man of domestic nature, and fate had made all his family rela- 
 tions cold. To Beth, whose only fear of death was the thought 
 of its loneliness, this life of continued heart-solitude was terrible. 
 She felt that she could never bear such a burden, and yet he 
 was always so cheerful and sunny !
 
 CHAP, ix.] EXTEKIOR AND INTERIOE. 77 
 
 " Monsieur," she said, with one of her rarely tender smiles, 
 " you must be either very strong or very hard ; which is it ? " 
 
 " Which is it 1 I ask you, mademoiselle." 
 
 " I will not flatter you," she replied ; and Mabel glanced up 
 well pleased. The remark was a milestone which showed the 
 distance traversed during these quiet, dreamy days. 
 
 " You are a judge of character, mademoiselle," resumed M 
 d'Isten presently. " Will you tell me what you think of my 
 father's face ? I have a photograph here." 
 
 On her cordial assent M. d'Isten took from his pocket a 
 book which was stamped with his name and crest. 
 
 " What a charming little affair ! " exclaimed Mabel ; " may 
 I see it ? " 
 
 He had taken out the photograph, and now handed it to 
 Beth, while Mrs. Trescott examined the coat-of-arms. 
 
 " May I see what is inside 1 " she asked mischievously. 
 
 " If you like." 
 
 " Oh, you are altogether too amiable. Come, Beth, let me 
 see that ; you have been studying it long enough." 
 
 "It is a fine head," said Beth, glancing at M. d'Isten. 
 There was a strong resemblance between father and son. " He 
 is quite what I had imagined him : severely noble, and yet a man 
 I would trust for liberality and charity without limit. I wish we 
 had met him. I don't think I should be afraid of him." 
 
 "You would have no cause to be, you would understand 
 one another," he said, with a proud light in his eyes. " He is 
 a man you could appreciate." 
 
 "A handsome old gentleman," remarked Mrs. Trescott, 
 carelessly putting the photograph on a table near by. " You 
 will have white hair like that one of these days." 
 
 " Yes, we turn gray early," he replied, opening his book to 
 replace the card. As he did so another photograph was half 
 disclosed. 
 
 " Who is that 1 Let us see that," exclaimed Mabel. 
 
 He flashed a glance across her, but without a word gave 
 her what she desired. 
 
 " Oh," she said deprecatingly, as she saw a woman's face, 
 " it is your wife." 
 
 He did not answer. Mabel was studying the picture, and 
 Beth, after an involuntary glance at M. d'Isten's pained face, 
 kept her eyes steadily downcast.
 
 78 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 How could her aunt have made such a mistake 1 And he 
 carried his wife's photograph always with him, in spite of what 
 must have happened. He had a devoted nature to be so fond 
 of his home, his father, and his wife. Her .notion of his " chilly 
 disposition," "unwarmed intellectuality," and so forth, began 
 to dissolve and disappear. 
 
 " It is a discontented face," said Mabel at last, with an 
 accent of dislike in her voice. " Otherwise, she is a handsome 
 woman." 
 
 As Mrs. Trescott returned it to M. d'Isten he offered it to 
 Bethesda in silence. 
 
 " Thanks," she said, refusing to receive it with a slight 
 gesture, and not looking up. 
 
 If she had seen his expression of satisfaction then it would 
 have puzzled her. This impulsive girl, with her keen sympathy 
 and desire not to intrude, would have found it difficult to 
 understand how any action of hers could have the slightest 
 effect at such a moment. But he was not one to lose intellectual 
 perception through emotion, and when his insight was verified 
 it gave the pleasure of a gratified faculty. 
 
 Such a man, brought into familiar intercourse as he now 
 was with a woman like Bethesda Hamilton, found a forceful 
 charm in her mobile sympathy. The play of feeling in her face 
 had an unceasing fascination. There was an iridescence of 
 thoughts and moods, which, like the sea, rippled over an under- 
 lying strength on which one could buoyantly repose. She was 
 fully his equal in quick comprehension, although from different 
 causes, and her depth of emotion and spontaneity were a con- 
 trast that unconsciously answered to his own need. 
 
 Now, however, the former good understanding was for the 
 time disturbed. The shadow of this dark secret fell over all 
 three. Beth had risen, and was wandering around the room, 
 while the others kept up a disjointed conversation. She felt 
 an intruder when she came up against this blank wall through 
 which the others had a gate. Presently she bethought her of a 
 letter to be finished for the evening mail, and slipped unnoticed 
 away. 
 
 She had been writing for some time, and had forgotten all 
 her worries, when Mabel startled her into making a great dash 
 by throwing aside the curtains and exclaiming : 
 
 " You truant ! it's a shame "
 
 CHAP, ix.] AN OPEN SECRET TOLD. 79 
 
 " It certainly is !" interrupted the girl. " See what you 
 made me do ! Isn't she naughty, monsieur?" 
 
 " Perhaps it was unkind to interrupt such an interesting 
 letter," he said, with just the least tone of depression in his 
 voice. 
 
 " A most interesting letter, I assure you," she said demurely. 
 
 " I will tell him your secret if you don't come," cried 
 Mabel, "take care !" 
 
 " I will be there as soon as I have finished this. You see, 
 you have put me back, and it must be ready for to-night's 
 mail." 
 
 M. d'Isten had been watching her closely; he saw the 
 slight flush in her cheeks, the brilliance in her eyes, and he 
 thought he knew it all. Somewhat abruptly he turned away. 
 
 " See, Kene* is hurt," said Mabel in a low tone. " I think 
 you might leave your letter. Anyway, if you don't," in a 
 louder voice, " I shall tell him." 
 
 " Very well," answered Beth carelessly. She never could be 
 forced in anything, and certainly her aunt could entertain her 
 friend for a few moments unassisted. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott chose her for the topic. 
 
 " Guess to whom she is writing, Eene' ?" 
 
 " Her fiance" he replied, as if there were no doubt about 
 the matter. 
 
 " Hardly ; but I sometimes wonder if she will care for a 
 fiance more than she does for this. She sends a weekly letter 
 to one of our best papers ; isn't she clever?" 
 
 M. d'Isten turned sharply. 
 
 "Mademoiselle writes?" he exclaimed; "she writes and 
 publishes ?" 
 
 " She does indeed. It surprises you ? She would not let 
 me tell you before ; she is very sensitive about having it known. 
 But really, she has no need to be. She receives good pay ; 
 that shows her letters are worth something. Money is the test, 
 especially with us, you know. But why should it amaze you 
 so?" she added, noticing his absent manner, and a peculiar 
 luminous appearance in his eyes. 
 
 " I cannot say it is so unexpected " He put his hand 
 
 over his eyes a moment; then presently asked in his usual 
 tone, but with eagerness : 
 
 " On what subjects does she write ? On art ?"
 
 80 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 "0, 110 ; mostly bits of foreign life, descriptions of this 
 and that. Anything interesting, you know." 
 
 "And what name does she use V 
 
 " Her own. She did not like the idea of a nom de plume" 
 
 " What is her own 1 Simply ' Beth'?" (He pronounced it 
 " Bet") 
 
 " No ; that is the abbreviation. Her real name is Bethesda, 
 from the Bible, you know. She has always had a romantic 
 notion that it meant something in her life. She is full of such 
 fancies. I think she will always like Algeria, because it was 
 from there she first wrote. Not but that she has always been 
 inclined to scribble ; and even before she was old enough to do 
 that she made her dolls talk to one another, like a story-book. 
 We used to find it an excellent method to discover what had 
 made an impression on her, for she would repeat conversations 
 she had heard, weaving in her own fancies, and imaginary 
 incidents, until we could hardly tell ourselves where what we 
 had said left off and her own notions began." 
 
 " But she first published from Algeria ?" said M. d'Isten, 
 with repressed eagerness. 
 
 " Yes, she was very deeply impressed with the country 
 there. Ah, ha, Miss !" she cried, as Beth here came in ; "your 
 secret is yours no longer. And Kene" was greatly shocked to 
 hear of your presumption ! I doubt if he will ever speak to 
 you again." 
 
 " On the contrary, I beg you to accept my profound con- 
 gratulations, mademoiselle." 
 
 " Thank you," she said, blushing prettily. " I was afraid 
 you would think me silly." 
 
 " How could I ? You knew well I would not. The supreme 
 thing one can do is to exercise one's faculties for the benefit of 
 others, and you are allowing many the privilege of looking 
 through your eyes." 
 
 " Yes, that is what some of her critics say," remarked 
 Mabel. " ' She makes us see what she sees,' they say, ' not 
 coloured, but what it actually is.' We are very proud of that !" 
 
 "Don't, auntie!" 
 
 " And why not, if you please ? I have a good right to 
 praise my niece, if I wish. It gives me a reflected glory." 
 
 " Don't tease, Aunt Mabel." 
 
 "Mademoiselle Bethesda." said M. d'Isten, drawing nearer
 
 CHAP, ix.] PEESUASION. 81 
 
 her, " will you let me take your hand, and wish that this may 
 bring you all the happiness I desire for you 1" 
 
 His tone struck Beth as a little odd, but she held out her 
 hand cordially. He took it in his, which was well-formed, thin, 
 and ascetic ; its clasp, rarely given, was possessive, not alone of 
 another, but of himself; now it closed around Beth's, until she 
 felt hers unbreakably bound. 
 
 " Understand," he said, " all the happiness I can desire for 
 you. You may never know what that is, but pray accept the 
 assurance that no wish was ever more sincere." He released 
 her hand, and then asked : " May I see your letter ?" 
 
 "Oh no!" she exclaimed; "it really isn't worth your 
 reading." 
 
 " Let me be the judge. You need not be afraid to have 
 me see what thousands read and praise." 
 
 " But it is all about little traits of foreign life, which would 
 be a twice-told tale to you." 
 
 " And what is more charming than a glimpse of a scene 
 familiar to us through a stranger's discerning eyes ? Don't we 
 all enjoy a painting better of something we know ? You will 
 give a new gem to my. collection." 
 
 " But you will be so disappointed, with such ideas in your 
 mind ! I think I had better leave you in undisturbed posses- 
 sion of your fancy rather than interfere with the reality." 
 
 " You could give me a great pleasure," he answered quietly. 
 
 Bethesda wavered at this. There was something, she could 
 not tell what, that took from her all desire to refuse. He had 
 a persuasive quality, that relied little on words, but made one 
 feel, insensibly as it were, that what he wished was easiest and 
 best. 
 
 " Well, since you are kind enough to care about it, I will 
 give you a printed letter," she said, after a momentary hesita- 
 tion. " But don't read it until you are away from us," she 
 added, with a deprecating glance ; " then you can skip all you 
 like." 
 
 He was wise enough to be content with this ; and, when 
 she had found and given him the letter, still with a shy re- 
 luctance, he pressed her to sing, knowing she would thus lose 
 her unwonted self-consciousness quickest. 
 
 Her vocal accomplishments were not at all ambitious, and 
 perhaps for that reason they pleased him the more. In any 
 
 G
 
 82 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 case he would listen attentively as long as she could be pre- 
 vailed upon to remain at the piano, surrendering himself to the 
 charm of a voice in which pathos and passion mingled. 
 
 Her last soug was " The Minstrel Boy," and as its stirring 
 chords stopped she wheeled towards him with a patriotic fire 
 in her eyes. 
 
 "You were in the war, monsieur?" she exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes," he answered shortly. A dark look came over his 
 face, and his mouth set in a stern line. He replied to Beth's 
 startled glance by saying : 
 
 "The war was a trick, a cruel deception. The gambler 
 made the throw as a last resource, and when it failed, France 
 was the one who paid. I led a few companies to the slaughter," 
 went on M. d'Isten, his voice gaining a tense resonance. " I 
 saw how our men gave their lives gladly for their country, 
 and how they cursed when they found it was only to bring her 
 to dishonour ! Louis Napoleon tarnished his country's fame ; 
 he outraged what should have been dearer to him, more sacred 
 than his own mother; what Frenchman can forgive 1 ?" 
 
 Here was what aroused the self-controlled man. He stood 
 with his arm lifted as if he would strike every enemy of France 
 to the earth, his tall figure erect and martial. He never had 
 looked more of a man. Then his hands dropped and clasped 
 before him. 
 
 " I love my country," he said, with a tone of deep tender- 
 ness ; " I would give my life to keep one grain of dust from her 
 robes. All Frenchmen feel the same ; and yet that man, our 
 soi-disant emperor, made us soak her skirts in the mire of blood 
 and wrong. He brought us to such a pass for his own selfish 
 ends, that we were obliged to do it ; then, to complete the igno- 
 miny, he deceived us, so that we fell. The iron foot of foreign 
 tyranny was placed on the neck of our nation, of our country, 
 of our France ! " 
 
 He broke off suddenly. Something rose in his throat and 
 impeded utterance. He had never spoken in this way before. 
 He had never inown what it was to give way in abandon. 
 But because a man is slow to fire it does not follow that he has 
 no passion, as Bethesda now began to comprehend. 
 
 The impetus of the pent-up stream finding egress, carried 
 him on now past even this curious faltering. 
 
 " I do not say that we were guiltless. We should have
 
 CHAP, ix.] NOTRE PATRIE. 83 
 
 recognised the wrong it was to France to place her in the power 
 of a Louis Napoleon. We should have flung far from us the 
 shame of the coup d'etat. We should have shown the world 
 that we could not be made into slaves even by ourselves. But 
 we did not, and the fruits of slavery came. We were shown 
 the tyranny of a master by subjection to a foreign power. 
 There may have been treachery ; there may have been deceit ; 
 but if we could not rise above these to the height of loyalty and 
 honour we deserved to fall as we have." 
 
 " Have you 1" said Beth bravely. " It seems to me that 
 France was never so noble as now. She has thrown off the 
 chains of the past and commenced a truer government. She 
 first sowed the seeds of liberty throughout Europe, and she is 
 now leading it in action. Has she not risen instead of fallen ? 
 She is whole-souled in her devotion to a cause. Just think how 
 she broke through all the machinations of her enemies when 
 she paid, in an incredibly short time, the debt Bismarck expected 
 would cripple her for years ! I think she is more worthy of admira- 
 tion than she has ever been. She is not cast down ; she is not 
 despondent ; and it is better to lose all than to fail in striving." 
 
 M. d'Isten had listened to her with a grave face, and eyes 
 fixed upon the floor. He raised them now, and Bethesda was 
 startled by their shining. 
 
 " You are right, mademoiselle. I shall not forget. France 
 and America exchange their gifts. They are comrades in arms. 
 France gave America the idea to work upon; America gave 
 France the solid encouragement of example, the sturdy child of 
 her theories. I believe France can be a republic. She will 
 have strength to carry her government, as you say, like *a 
 lantern before the eyes of Europe. She will not desert the 
 cause, nor her sons their ambition." 
 
 "What a patriot you are, Rene' !" exclaimed Mrs. Trescott. 
 " I never knew you so enthusiastic before." 
 
 "Perhaps I never have been, at least in words; but I 
 cannot imagine life without France." 
 
 He took a turn or two in silence, and then added, with a 
 smile : 
 
 " I remember in Algeria, when I was hardly out of dresses, 
 how I used to long for noire patrie. It warms my heart to find 
 you so eloquent in its defence, mademoiselle." 
 
 " She is a perfect blue stocking in her devotion to the
 
 84 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 French Revolution," said Mrs. Trescott ; " she is always reading 
 about it." 
 
 "It is the most interesting period in modern history, 
 surely," returned Beth quietly, as she crossed to a seat. " And 
 it was your love for France which made you choose diplomacy 
 as a profession, monsieur 1" 
 
 " No ; I entered the career in obedience to my father." A 
 cloud of remembrance took the light from his face, but he con- 
 tinued cheerfully : " The work suits me. It brings into action 
 each quality of the mind, and gives occupation to one's thoughts. 
 It is also a position of considerable power." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said Beth. " If I had been a man I should 
 have tried to be a statesman. Why, everything is in their 
 hands. They crystallise theories into action, and show the result 
 in a State." 
 
 " Where did you find that idea, mademoiselle 1 " 
 
 " Where should I ? In my brain, I suppose." 
 
 " It is an excellent brain if there are many such thoughts 
 in it." He was silent for a moment. " Do women take much 
 interest in politics in America ?" he asked then of Mrs. Trescott. 
 
 " Some do ; Beth, for instance. She is like her mother in 
 that. I never could take the trouble to originate any ideas. 
 Of course I could have done it had I taken the trouble ! Cela 
 va sans dire. It was only during our war that I kept trace of 
 affairs. Then, I assure you, women were interested !" 
 
 " And then it was, doubtless, that mademoiselle first took 
 her interest in la politique ? " 
 
 " Oh, certainly ; a child of four years ! " 
 
 " Patriotism can burn in a child's heart as well as in a 
 woman's," said Beth ; " and I can remember well my ambition 
 to do something for the soldiers, and putting my whole little 
 strength into making pincushions ! " 
 
 " You should have her marry a statesman, madame." 
 
 " Ah ! she will marry whom she chooses without being 
 much influenced by me, I fear. And I don't want her to marry 
 for ever so long yet. What should I do without her ? " 
 
 " What indeed," murmured M. d'Isten. 
 
 Beth had been wandering around the room, and did not hear 
 these last phrases, which were spoken in an undertone. The 
 sun had set in a golden radiance, and the twilight now grew 
 and deepened. Beth's white dress shone dimly in the darkening
 
 CHAP, ix.] .A DETEKMINATION. 85 
 
 atmosphere ; and as the breaking up of this dreamy period 
 drew near, as the delicious perfumes of the garden were drifted 
 through the open windows, as Kene' d'Isten thought of them and 
 they of leaving Florence, a silence commenced, and grew, and 
 lingered, until not one of the three knew how to break it. 
 
 Who can say what impulse it was that made Bethesda go 
 to the piano and let fall on the stillness a low, minor melody, 
 which bore these words : 
 
 " Parle-moi ; que ta voix me touche ; 
 Chaque parole sur ta bouche, 
 Est un echo melodieux ; 
 Parle-moi ! parle-moi ! 
 
 "Quand ta voix meurt dans mon oreille, 
 Mon ,me resonne, et s'eveille, 
 Comme un temple, a la voix de Dieu. 
 Parle-moi ! parle-moi !" 
 
 Her hands slipped from the keys when she had finished, and 
 she sat motionless, unsatisfied. 
 
 The wide regret of her nature for Italy, the sympathetic 
 sorrow for this man, which was hardly more than a wistful 
 wonder, the yearning for something steady throughout change, 
 secure beyond pain, found too restricted a meaning in the words 
 she had sung ; but the pathos of the music stole into every 
 vein and made her heart swell. 
 
 Kene' d'Isten was watching her as she sat against the win- 
 dow. His arms were crossed and pressed close to his slow- 
 throbbing breast. He noted every tremor of the fine lips ; he 
 saw how the eyes grew big with moisture, and the long lashes 
 feared to move ; and he saw, and grasped, a fixed resolve. 
 
 " Are we all spellbound ? " exclaimed Mrs. Trescott, rising 
 with an abrupt rustle of silken skirts. "King for candles, 
 please, Beth ; that will send away the spirits. I don't like 
 ghosts."
 
 86 BETHESDA. [PART I. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 It has been remarked that in life, as in music, if two cannot strike the 
 same note, or repeat it in different octaves, there must be a certain distance 
 to avoid discord. But when they harmonise, there is an unsubstantial 
 link which is inexpressible, yet unbreakable; unbeseechable, yet ever 
 besought. Where sympathy fails, nothing can join ; where it joins, 
 nothing can separate. 
 
 " Merue quand 1'oiseau marche, on sent qu'il a des ailes." 
 
 THE last Florentine morning dawned with a soft effulgence ; 
 the sky was of rose-leaves and marigolds, the earth tremulously 
 sweet and fresh. 
 
 Bethesda was up early, and while the dew still sparkled on 
 the creamy roses she went into the garden for a parting reverie. 
 She could not be sad with all this joyous beauty around her, 
 but neither could she fully respond to its gladness. She let her 
 eyes follow the forms of trees and slender campanili to the deep 
 sky, and rest there with a yearning too impersonal for sorrow or 
 pleasure. The sea affected her in the same way; the ocean 
 stretching out to the sky, the sky curving down to the sea, 
 seemed to her like a great truth bending over an earnest mind, 
 and she never wearied of such sublime monotony. It was with 
 reluctance, therefore, that she obeyed her aunt's imperious sum- 
 mons to breakfast. 
 
 It was a fussy meal, for Mrs. Trescott was troubled by many 
 things, although nearly everything was ready for their evening 
 start. 
 
 " Can I relieve you in any way, Aunt Mabel V asked Beth 
 as they rose from the table. 
 
 " No, no ; nothing. I must do it all myself, except what 
 Graziella can do better than either of us. You tend to your 
 own things, and leave mine to me." 
 
 " Very well," replied the girl quietly, and, having thus seen 
 how the land lay, presently took Assunta, and went to hear 
 some music that she knew was to be finely rendered at the 
 Sautissima Annunziata. 
 
 She found a prie-dieu in the shadows of one of the great 
 columns, where she had the wide nave before her, with its altar
 
 CHAP, x.] YEARNINGS. 87 
 
 lights, and clouds of rising incense ; but other things made only 
 a slight impression upon her when the music began. 
 
 The soaring tenor notes, the throbbing pain of the baritone, 
 the earthly despair of the bass ; the organ sending its dirge-like 
 tones through the solemn arches, which now echoed to the joyous 
 peal of resurrection, and again to the subsiding hush of peace 
 attained, to all this Bethesda responded with a spellbound 
 intensity; and as, at last, she bent her head on the cushion 
 before her, who will say that the great yearning in her heart 
 was not a prayer ? 
 
 When, a while later, Beth came out of the shadowy church, 
 with its atmosphere of holiness, into the hot square, where the 
 statue of the Grand Duke whom Browning has immortalised 
 ever looks up to the window in which his once-bespoken and 
 never-forgotten love sat day after day to receive the salute 
 which was their only intercourse, M. d'Isten stepped to her 
 side. She welcomed him with a quiet glance. There was no 
 shrinking now, no sense of being jarred. She even pursued her 
 own train of thought uninterrupted. 
 
 "You said, mademoiselle 1 ?" questioned her companion 
 presently, as they walked home together, Assunta following. 
 
 " 1 1 I did not speak," she replied. 
 
 "I thought there was a question you would ask me," he 
 answered with calm assurance. 
 
 "Ah!" she exclaimed, smiling, "I understand now. My 
 sister has a way of saying : What would you say if you said it? 
 You are doing the same." 
 
 He did not mind being found out ; all he said was : 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I don't know that I should ask you But it might 
 
 help 
 
 " You were thinking of the sermon we just heard ?" 
 
 " No, not of the sermon. I don't care for those. They 
 seem rather to interfere than to assist. I was thinking of the 
 symbolism of the Catholic Church, and how beautiful it was." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 And and I was wondering if that was what satisfied 
 Catholics. How can it?" She was growing bolder now. 
 " There must be something more to grasp ; they cannot be con- 
 tent with just this." 
 
 " But, mademoiselle, there is faith."
 
 88 BETHESDA. [PAET i. 
 
 " Yes, it must be your faith," she answered slowly. " You 
 all rest on what the Church gives you, without looking into it. 
 You don't feel the need to see. It must be very restful." 
 
 " If we inquire, Miss Bethesda, what should we find more 
 than the Church gives us ? And if less, why should we wish to 
 know that ? We must be like little children, and believe." 
 
 " Ah, but I can't ! " she cried in a low tone, that expressed 
 more than Rene" d'Isten could understand. " One can't be a 
 child for ever ; one cannot accept blindly 
 
 " But the Church sees ; one can follow her," he said softly. 
 
 She shook her head, but did not reply. He did not under- 
 stand her ; it was impossible that he should, different as had 
 been their religious educations, different as were their character 
 in this. Bethesda could obey until she began to doubt ; then 
 her doubt must be solved before she could again trust. Rene' 
 accepted some things as he did his nationality ; it was not a 
 thing to be disputed ; there could be no doubts. 
 
 The same evening they left Florence, and at the train was a 
 pleasant surprise at least to some. An official handed Miss 
 Hamilton a great dewy mass of lilies of the valley, which he 
 said had been given him by a gentleman who, after designating 
 la signora when she left her carriage, had immediately gone 
 away. 
 
 Beth knew then that Signer Straora was aware of her 
 departure, and she sat thinking of him for some time. Mon- 
 sieur d'Isten asked Mrs. Trescott meanwhile if he should not 
 open the window ? The fragrance of the flowers was somewhat 
 heavy, he thought. 
 
 Later, when Mabel had composed herself to sleep, Monsieur 
 d'Isten and Bethesda sat divided by the length of the carriage, 
 both quite still for hours, thinking and feeling. 
 
 Beth realised that she was being carried onwards to an un- 
 known future, a new life, and looked back with a curious sad- 
 ness that was not pain or sorrow, but a keen appreciation of 
 what this life in Italy had brought her, and an instinctive 
 shrinking from the future. She did not feel the passionate 
 dread that had oppressed her in entering Florence, but rather a 
 passive knowledge that fate was speeding her onwards, irresistibly 
 onwards, as the train through the night. 
 
 It was a mystic scene without to favour this illusion. The 
 meadows and hillsides were glittering with fire-flies, as if the
 
 CHAP, x.] AEErVAL IN PAKIS. 89 
 
 overheated earth were sending up slow sparks of fire ; the glow- 
 worms burned their green lamps in the grass, and in the sky 
 there was heat-lightning, like involuntary thought. Sometimes 
 it was eerie moonlight, such as pure elves might find among the 
 ice-caverns of the glaciers ; again it lit the clouds with the 
 flaming rose of a wild hope ; again it was the bright amber of 
 assurance, or the rich purple of suffering made into joy; and at 
 times it seemed to the entranced girl like a vision of heaven 
 itself. 
 
 Meantime M. d'Isten's busy brain was working as incess- 
 antly, and creating as marvellous visions in his own mind. The 
 future was his thought, and there was all the difference between 
 him and Bethesda that lies between activity and passivity. 
 She was feminine in her readiness to be worked upon, uncon- 
 scious though it were, and Ren6 d'Isten was thoroughly mascu- 
 line in the vigour with which his mind resolved to work. 
 
 It was a chilly evening when they arrived in Paris thirty- 
 six hours later. The city had always been a distasteful place 
 to Bethesda. She felt a dislike to it, which she attributed to 
 the frivolous and unclean atmosphere that seemed to taint 
 every breath of Parisian air. She felt as if she were entangled 
 in the meshes of a French novel as soon as the gay boulevards 
 and glaring gaslights came in sight. 
 
 On this occasion, however, her feeling was less insistent, 
 for M. d'Isten's pleasure in a return to his capital communicated 
 itself to her, and the rest after the long journey was certainly a 
 relief. 
 
 Then, too, when they arrived at their hotel, the same at 
 which Mrs. Trescott had first met M. d'Isten, and were shown 
 to the large salon reserved for them, they saw upon the table 
 a rich basket of flowers that filled the air with a fragrant 
 welcome. 
 
 M. d'Isten had remained below a few moments, and when 
 he came up he was assailed with exclamations of praise and 
 gratitude by Mabel. 
 
 " In memory of the Flower City," he said, with a smile, 
 standing framed by the portieres, hat in hand, and his dark 
 eyes seeking Beth, who had not spoken. 
 
 "It is a bit of dear Italy itself," she said, with a swift 
 glance of thanks. 
 
 " That is good ! et apres ? "
 
 90 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 " Apres '/ " echoed Mabel, " what can there be aprds f " 
 
 " Not the deluge, I trust," he returned, still waiting. 
 
 Beth had looked around quickly, and now espied on a tiny 
 table in the corner, half hidden by the wine -red curtains, a 
 Venetian vase of exquisite delicacy, containing one moss rose. 
 
 " Ah ! " she exclaimed, " I have found the apres ! " 
 
 11 Let me present to you ' Bdthesda,' mademoiselle," said 
 M. d'Isten, now joining her. " This rose," he added, " contains 
 my criticism and my thanks." 
 
 He watched her curiously as the light beamed over her 
 face, which the mention of her writing always brought. Some 
 confusion was in her manner ; then she said : 
 
 " You are very gentle with me, monsieur. I appreciate it, be- 
 lieve me. And how lovely the flower is ! I never saw a white 
 moss rose before with that warm colouring towards the heart." 
 
 " I thought you would like it," was all he said. 
 
 In spite of this good understanding on their arrival, when 
 there was no room for anything but liking, Kend d'Isten found 
 Miss Hamilton difficult to win from her instinctive reserve 
 more difficult here than in Florence. The truth is, that he 
 was a man of remarkable personal magnetism ; and a woman 
 of as positive a nature as Bethesda, and one who possessed no 
 little mental electricity herself, naturally sprang away from the 
 attraction to which she had for a time half unwillingly and 
 half unconsciously yielded. 
 
 Quite a number of friends, too, were glad to find Mrs. 
 Trescott and Miss Hamilton in Paris, and insisted on having 
 them to little quiet dinners or lunches, and called on them 
 frequently. But M. d'Isten contrived, through his intimacy 
 with Mrs. Trescott, always to make one at the impromptu 
 entertainments that took place in the red and gold salon. He 
 soon, indeed, made himself indispensable, and knew how to aid 
 the ladies unobtrusively, as well as how to avoid any appear- 
 ance of being other than a guest. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott, who enjoyed leaning when she felt at perfect 
 liberty to change her attitude at any instant, found him "a 
 great comfort ; " and Beth herself could not help but notice how 
 much more smoothly the evenings passed when he was present 
 than when absent, as he took care to be once or twice after he 
 had quietly established his position. 
 
 One of his opportunities to break through Beth's easy and
 
 CHAP, x.] SPRING-GROWTHS. 91 
 
 half -indifferent reserve he improved towards the end of the 
 week. They happened to be side by side in the embrasure 
 of a window, and he detained her by saying : 
 
 " You have been writing to-day, Miss Be'thesda." 
 
 "Why should you think that, monsieur?" she asked, a 
 little startled, for in truth she had spent all the afternoon on a 
 Parisian letter. 
 
 " I am not blind," he answered, noting the unusual brilliancy 
 of her eyes, and the delicate flush in her cheeks. 
 
 "Have I an ink-blot anywhere?" she exclaimed. "That 
 is all I can fancy should betray me." 
 
 " I give you credit for more comprehension, mademoiselle." 
 
 "You flatter me, monsieur." 
 
 " Presently you will not say that." 
 
 " Ah, you are a prophet as well as a seer 1 " 
 
 " Sometimes." 
 
 " You find a great heretic in me, I fear." 
 
 " I shall convert you." 
 
 "Self-depreciation is not one of your failings, then?" 
 
 " There are some things one may know," he said, catching 
 her eyes with a steady grasp of his own. 
 
 Her attention was aroused, and this was all he wanted. 
 Indifference is the one thing to be dreaded when one wishes to 
 make a friend. And, during the long hours of resurrecting 
 spring sunshine, while he worked, as well as the starry nights, 
 when he dreamed, he had allowed his fancies to caress the 
 thought of securing a friendship which should indemnify him 
 for the disappointments life had given him to bear. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott could not at all take this place. She was a 
 charming acquaintance delightful just where she was. There 
 was a kind of camaraderie between them which was piquant 
 and entertaining to both ; but, for any serious friendship for 
 anything, in fact, more than momentary her capriciousness 
 could not be relied upon. 
 
 Bethesda was "of an entirely different nature, and she it 
 was of whom he had determined to make a friend a true 
 " American " friend. He had established a committee of ways 
 and means to this end within the closed portals of his own 
 mind, and it held its meetings frequently. The spring (it 
 seemed sometimes that this spring had lasted for months, and 
 again it seemed but an hour since it commenced) had entered
 
 92 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 into him with its restless longings, and he wished something 
 definite, if nothing more than freedom to grow, to ensue. 
 
 He thought he should accomplish his purpose also, for 
 Bethesda was in many ways as transparent as crystal to him. 
 He saw her innocence, her earnestness, her purity, with as 
 reverential a recognition as Indians would see the limpid ball 
 into which they believe pure hands can roll water. He also 
 perceived her quick distrust when anything equivocal came 
 near ; her virgin dignity which drew itself aside from anything 
 she felt to be wrong ; and, in full view of these facts, he here 
 took his stand. She never should feel anything to excite her 
 distrust in him. He had seen her soul step back in her eyes 
 from the mere approach of a tainted thought or glance ; there 
 was a terror in such chastity a terror and a glorious pride ! 
 He was more proudly thankful than the world could guess that 
 his youth had not been squandered. He had not understood 
 its value before ; now it came to him immeasurably increased. 
 She, the pure Be'thesda, whose sensitiveness felt like a mirror 
 the blurring of a too-close breath, should become his friend by 
 the exercise of their best selves ; she should recognise that here 
 was something higher than had ever appealed to her before, 
 and " awake to the renown " of her own perfect womanhood. 
 
 His steel-like determination to succeed in anything he had 
 planned made the affair seem to him a fait accompli, at the 
 same time that it exerted the fascination of creation ; and, after 
 the departure of the compatriots who had claimed so much of 
 the ladies' attention, his deft manipulation, aided by Mrs. 
 Trescott's liking, soon succeeded in overcoming Beth's instinct 
 to hold herself aloof. 
 
 The days, indeed, presently took on a settled method which 
 had for its aim to bring M. d'Isten and the ladies together as 
 much as possible. In the morning shopping and various 
 affaires divided them, but in the afternoon they would take 
 drives to the Bois, or Passy, or some of the other lovely and 
 historic environs of the capital, M. d'Isten being now the host, 
 and returning with empressement the courtesies he had received 
 in Italy. 
 
 The ladies enjoyed them thoroughly. Mrs. Trescott delighted 
 in the brilliant and changing life of Paris, the sense of being deli- 
 cately cared for, and the interesting society of M. d'Isten, whom 
 every day she more enthusiastically liked. Beth, too, felt that
 
 CHAP, x.] OPINIONS. 93 
 
 Paris held some uncontaminated pleasures after all. The reaction 
 from her magnetic repulsion had set in as she came under the 
 sway of M. d'Isten's more continual presence, and her miscon- 
 ceptions of him, as she now called them, had all faded away 
 like the morning mists when the sun is high. She allowed her 
 mind to open to him without fear fear indeed never suggested 
 itself. He was married, and she knew it ; knew too that he 
 was loyal to his wife, and keenly sensitive to every tie of 
 honour. They often spoke incidentally of Madame d'Isten, and 
 there was never the slightest blame in his accents, or anything 
 but interest in hers. 
 
 The girl was exceedingly innocent, not through ignorance, 
 but dauntless faith in those she once liked. She would as soon 
 suspect an apple tree of poisoning her as a friend of harming 
 her. Some trees did, she knew, but hers was not of that kind. 
 Nor was her confidence, in this instance, unshared by others. 
 
 " Monsieur le Comte would be charming if he were not so 
 deplorably serious," said a French lady, whom they met one 
 day at the house of an American resident. 
 
 "Why, we find him very cheerful and entertaining," ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Trescott. 
 
 " Oh, for that, yes. But I mean " and she waved her 
 
 hand airily. "You know there is a something some men 
 have, an audacity, an I know not what, which renders them 
 truly irresistible ! But then our friend is not frivolous ; he has 
 not profited by Paris; you understand ? Au contraire, he has a 
 position ! and a reputation ! Eh, bien, I wish my husband 
 had such a one!" and the small-brained exquisitely -dressed 
 woman actually smothered a sigh. 
 
 " Do you know his wife ? " another acquaintance asked Mrs. 
 Trescott. "No ? You miss little ! It did not cease to astonish 
 all the world, while she was here, the attention her husband 
 paid her. He was foolish enough to be a lover rather than a 
 husband, and she, of course, repaid it by the most ill-mannered 
 disagreeability. Spanish, you know. For me, I don't care for 
 those fierce, self-engrossed southern women. She does not come 
 any more to the city, and we do not grieve. We see a great deal 
 more of the count ! " 
 
 " I hope we may never meet those women again ! " ex- 
 claimed Beth indignantly, when they were driving home. 
 
 "You probably never will," answered Mabel carelessly.
 
 94 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 " But I am glad to have seen them. It makes one proud to 
 know a man of whom women will complain in that way. Oh, 
 Beth, we have a good, good friend in Rend ! " 
 
 Meantime the spring was blossoming fast into summer, with 
 the vividness of new life on every leaf. The blue skies lifted 
 themselves, and intensified more and more like the beloved 
 Italy, which did not seem far away, and the three were never 
 weary of being out of doors, and found a constantly -re- 
 curring interest in the patriotic incidents M. d'Isten would tell 
 them, with all the fervour of his character shining in his face. 
 
 They were mostly tales of heroism, courage, and self-abne- 
 gation, and Mabel remarked it one day. 
 
 " It is the French temperament, auntie," said Beth. " They 
 are always sacrificing themselves for some noble idea." 
 
 M. d'Isten gave her a glance of pleasure. 
 
 " It isn't much self-sacrifice usually," said Mabel. " Glory 
 is their goddess, and" when anything promises to bring her they 
 don't much care what they do." 
 
 " Oh, madame ! " exclaimed M. d'Isten. 
 
 " It's true," she insisted. " See how you overran Europe, 
 and destroyed your much-lauded liberte, and gave them all only 
 an egalite of slavery, and no fratemite at all ! And that is 
 your most glorious epoch ! " 
 
 " It may well be," exclaimed Beth, before M. d'Isten could 
 speak. " See how everywhere they went the people rose to help 
 them, because the French had first shown them how tyranny 
 and manhood are opposed ! There is not a monarch in Europe, 
 not even the Czar, who has such despotic power as he did have, 
 just because France has risen and pealed through the Continent 
 the one word : Freedom ! It is the ' Let there be light ' of the 
 modern world." 
 
 Bethesda's eyes were flashing as she sank back in her seat. 
 M. d'Isten had an expression of proud gratitude on his face, and 
 Mrs. Trescott laughed. 
 
 " Gracious, child ! what an explosion ! I didn't know you 
 were so devoted to France ; what has happened 1 " 
 
 " You know I have always admired the French," said Beth, 
 her lips quivering with that sensibility which ever delighted M. 
 d'Isten. " They are extremists, may be, but they are impas- 
 sioned by an idea as no other nation ever was. And I do hate 
 lukewarmness ! "
 
 CHAP. X.] WHY ? 95 
 
 " I fancy I remember," mused Mabel, with a teasing twinkle 
 in her eyes, " a certain young woman who wanted to kiss the 
 ground when she landed in France last. My dear, it's becom- 
 ing dangerous. I shall have to hurry you home ; you might 
 like France best yet ! " 
 
 " Never ! " exclaimed the girl, her cheeks now rosily tinted, 
 for M. d'Isten was watching her with curiosity. " I shall 
 always like my own dear land best, especially when I am 
 away from it." 
 
 " Ah ! you like it best when away from it 1 And you were 
 glad to reach our France 1 That is good ! " said M. d'Isten, 
 with immense satisfaction. 
 
 " She was glad, indeed. You ought to have seen her in 
 Dieppe, just crazy at being back again." 
 
 " It is true," acknowledged Beth ; " and what I can't un- 
 derstand is why I was so pleased to touch France. If it had 
 been Italy, now. But then I did not particularly like France 
 as France. I had not been in it enough, you know." 
 
 She added this apologetically, with a glance at M. d'Isteu. 
 He did not look as if he needed any apology ; he was simply 
 radiant. He bent forward to arrange some wrap for her, and 
 there was a new, happy security in his manner. He always 
 treated her as if she were a frail queen, who must have every 
 wind shielded from her with solicitude ; but now there was a 
 delicate tenderness in every touch, as if she had been consigned 
 to his protection. 
 
 "You have forgotten your hatred of Paris, haven't you?" 
 asked Mabel. 
 
 " Yes, I like it now. It is really homelike to me. Some- 
 how, I never saw it this way before." 
 
 M. d'Isten caught his breath, and did not dare look up. He 
 felt an inexpressible relief when Mabel remarked : 
 
 " I always told you it was your illness that prejudiced you. 
 I read you pretty well, cherie ; you can trust to me." 
 
 And Bethesda did not say nay. 
 
 They drove home swiftly, because a little late. Every one 
 was hastening to dinner; the boulevards were full, and the 
 shopkeepers were like children out of school. The labour 
 and struggle of the day seemed on every side to give 
 place to a buoyant sense of enjoyment which is peculiarly 
 French.
 
 96 BETHESDA. [PART I. 
 
 " This is the hour I like Paris best," said Bethesda. " How 
 happy each one seems ! Don't you suppose one is better, truer, 
 in being happy?" 
 
 " I am sure one is," answered M. d'Isten gravely. 
 
 " Ah, look ! " exclaimed the girl. 
 
 They had rolled out from the Boulevard into the Place de 
 la Concorde, and now the broad Elysian Fields rose gently 
 before them, lined with deep-green trees, bearing spikes of rose 
 and snowy bloom. At the top it was crowned by the triumphal 
 arch, uplifted against the sunset sky, and seeming the gateway 
 to a golden world. 
 
 Bethesda leaned forward in the landau to catch the full view ; 
 the light irradiated her face, and brought out the glory of her 
 hair ; her eyes gazed at the dazzling splendour unblenchingly, for 
 she felt a joy that made her strong to bear any radiance. Her 
 soul seemed to expand with a twofold life, and leaped within 
 her. She felt an intense desire to spring forward and delay the 
 sun in its setting, just that time might let her drink deeply of 
 the happiness this hour held. 
 
 But she was not afraid even of darkness, and as they sped 
 up the avenue amid the whirr of wheels and tramp of horses' 
 feet, she watched the glowing light pale without fear. She 
 trusted in the new elixir which had come to her here. 
 
 Ever after, the fragrance of the chestnut blossoms, and the 
 home-coming atmosphere, recalled that sight in magical clearness. 
 She could see it all, and she could feel, too, as she did then 
 almost unnoticed, Rend d'Isten's eyes shining upon her. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "Two things fill me with awe the starry heavens, and the sense of 
 moral responsibility in man. " KANT. 
 
 " Choose well, and your choice is 
 Brief, but yet endless." GOETHE. 
 
 THE great hour came ; finally, of course, without premedita- 
 tion. 
 
 Bethesda had done much writing lately ; nothing connected 
 except her letters, but many scraps of felicitous similes, of char- 
 acter sketches, of word painting ; all of which had a strain of un-
 
 CHAP, xi.] HEADINGS. 97 
 
 conscious pathos in them, suggesting that, like her golden 
 sunset sky, they might be painted only on the material of 
 tears. 
 
 She had much thought suggested to her now, for every 
 evening Kend d'Isten read aloud to them from some French 
 author, introducing them, with consistent choice, to that fine 
 analysis of human nature which makes the French mind, like 
 the Greek, stand alone. He read in a manner that let the 
 words fall together into the vividness of reality, bringing each 
 thought into relief, yet combining all so admirably that one could 
 not detach any separate expression without its losing much of 
 its value. 
 
 Then there would be discussions, or comparison of ideas, on 
 what they had read, in which opposing views would be brought 
 forward and reconciled, at least between Bethesda and M. 
 d'Isten. He was verifying preconceived ideas with a sense of 
 the fitness of things which was indescribably keen ; and Beth- 
 esda glided from surprise to surprise, in finding that M. d'Isten 
 had a multitude of opinions like hers, only more developed and 
 posed ; and that there were a number of points which they had 
 each reached with equal certitude by widely -diverging paths. 
 Each hour showed how much further back than their acquaint- 
 ance dated their mutual tendencies toward one another. It was 
 the destiny of their characters that they should meet. 
 
 About ten every evening they separated, for M. d'Isten had 
 social engagements which his diplomatic duties did not allow 
 him to neglect. Politicians, especially where the intrigues of 
 Courts lead, well understand the necessity of social power to 
 compass any end ; and the very charm of this friendship which 
 now subsisted between the three was greatly owing to the fact 
 that in no way did it interfere with former duties or habits, but 
 simply rounied the whole. 
 
 Occasionally, it is true, Mrs. Trescott would try to detain 
 M. d'Isten, just to test her power ; but he understood her too 
 well to yield ; and, if she played the abused, he was always 
 rewarded by at least Bethesda's approval. 
 
 So the days and evenings came and went smoothly, sug- 
 gestively, instructively until an evening in the last of May 
 struck its date ineffaceably on their lives. 
 
 Bethesda had been writing all day, hastening to send off a 
 couple of delayed letters. It had been difficult for her to fix 
 
 H
 
 98 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 her mind on the incidents she needed, and she was tired. She 
 acknowledged it when M. d'Isten inquired if her pretty work 
 was done, that she should sit with idle hands ? 
 
 " Tired hands, and tired brain too," she replied, letting her 
 head rest on the back of her wine-red fauteuil. " Don't read, 
 please. I have been pinning my mind so assiduously to its 
 work to-day that it is full of holes, and ideas would go through 
 it as if it were a sieve. Talk to us, won't you 1 Shan't he, 
 auntie 1 " 
 
 "I am never averse to that form of entertainment," said 
 Mabel, smiling. 
 
 " Well, then, I will be speaker to-night," said M. d'Isten, 
 his long-contemplated schemes suddenly crystallising into action. 
 " Shall I tell you what I have been doing to-day ?" 
 
 He addressed Mrs. Trescott, but moved his chair so that he 
 could include both ladies in one glance. Madame Mabelle was 
 fairly entangled in the meshes of her silk embroidery. Bethesda 
 sat leaning her head, with its low masses of bronzed gold, in 
 profile against the passionate colour. She looked somewhat 
 sad, as usual, when in repose. Her hands were crossed listlessly ; 
 small, maidenly, firm hands, capable of all devotion, so delicate 
 yet strong were they ; and her eyes rested with an indistinct 
 pathos on Rend d'Isten's face. 
 
 It seemed to him then that a current, invisible, mysterious, 
 and irresistible united them. Her glance seemed to penetrate 
 without refraction into his inmost being. But his soul could 
 not open to it ; not quite yet. He let his eyes fall as he 
 went on : 
 
 " To-day I have been writing also. I was at my desk be- 
 fore six o'clock. You are surprised, mademoiselle? It is 
 not so unusual, for I rise early. This morning, however, I 
 was unusually interested. I received a letter last evening 
 from Madame d'Isten. It is a rare occurrence for her to so 
 favour me, and it held me awake for several hours. And need 
 I say so long a time could not pass, without my also thinking of 
 you?" 
 
 His glance lingered on each of his companions, and at 
 last rested on Bethesda's hands. When he spoke it was with 
 slow emphasis. 
 
 " You three and my father are those who stand together, 
 and alone, in my gallery of the world."
 
 CHAP, xi.] A REVELATION. 99 
 
 Madame Mabelle beamed upon him, and he returned it 
 gratefully. Bethesda looked at him in momentary surprise. 
 How could she belong to that select circle 1 But of course it 
 was only his politeness. 
 
 " I came to an understanding of it during the night," he 
 went on, " but I can always determine best in writing, so I 
 have it written here. May I read you a little V 
 
 " We should be delighted," said Mabel. 
 
 "I call it : My Friends : and I take them as they came to me." 
 
 It was written in French, of course ; its delicacy will be 
 ruined by translation, but it must be done for truth's sake. 
 
 "My father is my friend of all time. He has held ever 
 before me the inspiring example of integrity and honour. To 
 him, after my country, are due my allegiance and highest 
 esteem. 
 
 " Louise accepted me as her husband. To her I owe will- 
 ing service, ready sympathy, untiring care and affection. 
 
 "Madame Mabelle has conferred upon me the knighthood 
 of her American friendship. To her I lend admiration and 
 deferential homage. I may add that she has given me much 
 of the keenest pleasure of my existence. 
 
 " Bdthesda is my intellectual counterpart. She incites me 
 to activity in every field. She inspires me to believe I am 
 capable of doing what heretofore I have only dreamed. She 
 completes each half-formed thought. She fills the ideal form 
 of womanhood. To her I give fealty, reverence, and im- 
 pregnable devotion." 
 
 As the last words fell from his lips he looked up. Bethesda 
 had grasped the arms of her chair, and was sitting upright, her 
 eyes dazzling, and her cheeks flushed. 
 
 She lost remembrance of everything previous in the surprise 
 of that last paragraph. She was amazed, astounded ; and yet 
 she felt it was true. Her eyes did not sink before his as he met 
 her quivering glance. It quivered through every barrier, every 
 veil, to the real core of the man. It was a marvel that 
 he could bear it unshrinkingly, but his long education served 
 him well at this supreme need. He saw, and knew, and under- 
 stood ; and at the same instant held fast to his self-possession. 
 He was not afraid of what she should see, and he was aware 
 now of what he should do. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott watched them in some confusion. This was
 
 100 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 an unexpected tearing away of the veil for her. It not only 
 surprised her, but aroused some alarm. What did it all mean 1 
 And where might it lead ? As long as the paramount attraction 
 in the tripartite friendship was held to be herself, she had no 
 fears. Was she not nine years his elder ? But here sprang 
 up danger. The little piece of paper had sent a lightning 
 flash over the land, and disclosed it to be a strange one, where 
 she had supposed it thoroughly familiar. 
 
 She looked keenly from one to the other with her now 
 black eyes. 
 
 Beth was certainly excited, and as certainly pleased. To 
 inspire such a man's intellect was no small thing ; the trouble 
 might be, was it not too great a thing ? 
 
 She turned to him. There was some excitement mani- 
 fest in his manner also, but he was gravely answering Beth's 
 eager, deprecatory questions as to how it could be true, by 
 showing her that her American birth, her education, her life, 
 had all combined to make her a new person to him, and 
 one who appealed strongly to what he was pleased to name 
 his unwarmed, but not insensible mind. 
 
 "Your mental vigour," he went on to say, "when you 
 are so fragile, inspired me with admiration before I had 
 ever seen you ; and since there has been conferred upon me 
 the pleasure of an intimate acquaintance my impression has 
 been indelibly fixed. This is one of the pleasures Madame 
 Mabelle has given me." 
 
 He looked towards her with a smile, and some hidden 
 anxiety. 
 
 " I hope it will always be a pleasure," she said seriously. 
 
 "You are good," he answered, purposely misinterpreting 
 her phrase. He took her hand, and, rising, kissed it. 
 
 " Be careful," she said, in a warning tone so low that pre- 
 occupied Beth did not hear. 
 
 He gave her a sharp, inquiring glance. She shook her 
 head in doubt. 
 
 " See," said he in a reassuring voice, seating himself in his 
 old position, and spreading out his hands with a frank gesture, 
 " I will tell you all I have in my mind. Ever since I was a 
 boy I have been fond of literature, but I have not had 
 sufficient faith in myself to pursue it as a career. I am not 
 satisfied that my thoughts are original or worth recording, or
 
 CHAP. XL] A DOUBLE FOCUS. 101 
 
 my fancies either poetical or just. In spite of these doubts 
 I have written some, and have felt a new power since I have 
 known Miss Be'thesda. With this in view I have a sug- 
 gestion to make. It has been gradually maturing in my mind 
 until I am convinced of its success." 
 
 He looked from one to the other to judge what might 
 be safe to say. Bethesda was all eager anticipation, with 
 a shadow of humility softening her face. Mabel, relieved 
 by his words and manner, had resumed her work. He pro- 
 ceeded : 
 
 " Mademoiselle is about to return to America ; her corre- 
 spondence will then be stopped, you tell me. I propose, to avoid 
 this, that in my letters to you, madame, I shall enclose some 
 pages of incidents, which I am fortunately situated for obtain- 
 ing, and which she can then mould and amplify as she would 
 her own notes. What do you think of it, madame 1" 
 
 " It would be very lucky for her, I'm sure," replied Mabel. 
 There was no danger in this. 
 
 " But do you think I could do it V hesitated Beth. 
 
 " Certainly," was M. d'Isten's prompt response. " They 
 should be identical with your own notes. You know the life 
 here, and could give them fulness and colour to perfection. 
 The political portions I would, if you desired, write out more 
 amply. You could undoubtedly make it successful." 
 
 "I don't see why you couldn't," added Mabel. 
 
 " I had not expected to do anything for the papers when I 
 went home," remarked Beth, still timidly. " I thought I would 
 try magazine articles, or stories, perhaps." 
 
 " There, too, I could aid you," persisted M. d'Isten. " Your 
 ideas are different, and yet in many ways the same as mine. 
 We study humanity from a similar point of view. You ana- 
 lyse and idealise man as I analyse and idealise institutions. 
 We appreciate the same characteristics ; we admire the same 
 qualities. But you are a woman I am a man ; we will, 
 necessarily, see different sides of life ; we will have different 
 experiences. I could give you suggestions, with, perhaps, some 
 virile force, and you could lend them body, and form, and 
 grace. It would make your books have an unusual character, 
 and give them the power of appealing to a larger audience, 
 mademoiselle." 
 
 " Indeed it would," exclaimed Bethesda, catching a glimpse
 
 102 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 of how much wealth would in this way reach her work, and 
 how much good might be done by it. "I wonder if it could 
 be accomplished." 
 
 " Why not ? We could at least try, and I have no doubts 
 of the result. If we accustom ourselves to write together, I 
 am convinced it will be an imperative need not again to be 
 eliminated. My trust is not wholly unfounded," he added, 
 after a moment's pause ; and then he told them of the feuille- 
 tons he had written ; that others had been solicited, but 
 refused, because he was himself dissatisfied with them. 
 
 " I know now that this is what I have always desired. 
 You could round my whole intellectual life, Miss Be'thesda ; 
 you could develop sources of enjoyment and benefit which 
 never have, nor ever could be, otherwise developed ; and who 
 can say what benefit may accrue to others, from thoughts 
 thus combined, and perceptions doubled in strength and 
 feeling?" 
 
 He was bending upon her the whole force of his will, and 
 the magnetism to which she was so sensitive. He held her 
 under the control of his mind, as it were, but with the con- 
 sent of her own will, free from all other influences. The 
 existence which animated him was no longer simple, but 
 complex ; he had no consciousness outside the focus of this 
 concentrated life. It must be. 
 
 Bethesda rose and paced the room to and fro. Her hands 
 were clasped behind her ; warm colour was in her cheeks, and 
 her eyes gleamed with constantly -changing lights. Each 
 instant she raised them to M. d'Isten's intent face, as if 
 studying and appealing to him at the same time. 
 
 It was an immense temptation. Nothing could have 
 been more absolutely in consonance with her tastes (didn't 
 Rene" d'Isten know this ?) ; to help another, to please 
 one she liked, to be of use, were passionate desires with 
 her. And how much it would benefit her ! The strength, 
 and surety, and precision which she knew she lacked would 
 thus be gained ; and perhaps sometimes, as he said, it might 
 do good. 
 
 There is a vigour of purpose, a vivid comprehension of the 
 difference one soul can make, that infuses youth with a grandeur 
 all its own. Each soul is the possible pivot on which the 
 world may turn, and youth feels this with an intensity which
 
 CHAP, xi.] FEARS. 103 
 
 make promises seem deeds, and tendencies fulfilment ; and 
 Bethesda was in the glamour of all this now. But could it be 
 done ? There were a thousand difficulties which she, her mind 
 suddenly enlightened, could apprehend ; and which he, per- 
 haps, did not. In any case hers would be the responsi- 
 bility, and if he were not content ? She suggested this 
 
 frankly. 
 
 " But I should be," he answered with emphasis. " My 
 part would always be one of suggestion : nothing less, nothing 
 more. You would have absolute freedom to accept or reject 
 any expression, any idea. And what you did I should not 
 question. To me it would be right because you did it." 
 
 " No, no ; I must have the benefit of your criticism, as you 
 say you wish mine. I shall need it vastly more." 
 
 "But it would not be feasible," he replied firmly. "I 
 shall send you everything, and you could not send it back 
 before publication. No; what I once give you is yours for ever. 
 You can keep it or discard it. You do with it what you 
 choose." 
 
 They talked the plan over a long time. Mrs. Trescott, 
 because this concerned others entirely, and, perhaps, for another 
 reason, saw more clearly than the others where it tended. Her 
 fears, dispelled at first by M. d'Isten's business-like manner, 
 returned as this remarkable conception took form and reality 
 before her. All confused as the fears were, they made her 
 uneasy. She asked each of them to write out calmly the con- 
 ditions of this compact, and follow it out to its furthest results ; 
 they would be better able then to judge whether it were 
 advisable to consolidate it. She even suggested to Eene the 
 specific danger of future developments. This was when Beth 
 had gone to her room for something. She returned before he 
 had time to answer, but his dignified self-possession and un- 
 ruffled security again calmed her especially as they acquiesced 
 in her suggestion without hesitation. 
 
 But they were both, consciously or unconsciously, deter- 
 mined to carry out the plan. Kene" d'lsten had long ago 
 resolved upon it, and Bethesda was swayed to forget the 
 scruples which only questioned her own inability, and to enter 
 into it with enthusiasm. 
 
 She looked at him as she would on one transformed 
 in her sight. All their intercourse suddenly took on a new
 
 104 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 meaning. Her place, from being that of a casual friend, below 
 many others, was changed to that of one elected to stand alone 
 by the side of this man, alone, separated from the whole 
 world, as his intellectual companion. 
 
 Rene' d'Isten hardly dared to glance at her ; he was con- 
 scious in every fibre of his being that she recognised her 
 position, that she had already left her aunt, her friends, her 
 former associations, her old self, to step into the richness of her 
 womanhood, and take the place he had chosen her to fill. Be- 
 cause of the very intensity of this knowledge he ignored it, 
 and shielded himself in his consummate self-control. 
 
 All his skill was needed in winning over Mrs. Trescott. She 
 was of a deeply jealous temperament ; he knew half of her 
 uneasiness which he clearly understood, and also its well- 
 founded reasons was an unconscious stirring of this fatal 
 poison. It is human nature, he told himself, to dislike seeing 
 some one unexpectedly preferred before oneself. Heretofore 
 he had been her especial friend ; through this evening's work he 
 became far more closely united to her niece. It was human 
 nature in him also, that her preoccupation and visible uneasiness, 
 thus explained by him, should flatter him enough to make him 
 throw much earnestness into his persuasion, and to use eloquence 
 with the finest art. It was highly necessary, moreover, that 
 she should be won to their plan ; which, in the present stage, 
 could not go on without her ; so, with the most delicate dis- 
 crimination, he allayed the fears she never suspected had been 
 aroused, and won her to a tacit consent "in the experiment. 
 
 They were surprised, at last, by midnight. M. d'Isten 
 took a hasty and apologetic leave. Mabel detained Beth, after 
 he had gone, to warn her to look carefully before she bound 
 herself to this compact. What if she should find this in- 
 tellectual companionship meant more to her than she now 
 thought it would 1 What if it should make her unhappy ? 
 Supposing it filled her mind so as to keep her from marrying 1 
 Think what a lonely life that would be. She, herself, without 
 husband or children, often found life hard, and yet she had 
 had her nieces to educate. She did not want to see her darling, 
 whom she had sheltered so long, saddened in the brightest 
 period of her life. She wanted her to be always a sunbeam, 
 carrying light and pleasure wherever she went. 
 
 At these tender words Beth embraced her aunt, and pro-
 
 CHAP, xi.] FEELINGS OR THOUGHTS? 105 
 
 mised her she would think ; she would confront the question in 
 its whole extent, and judge without bias. 
 
 And Mabel sent the girl off to bed, feeling as if an earthquake 
 had taken place, and that her little girl's life had suddenly 
 diverged far from hers. But she would resign herself if only 
 the child might be happy. 
 
 Bethesda, once in her own room, did not think of sleep. 
 There were two windows one looking out on the street, the 
 other over a garden full of trees, fragrant bushes, and vines. 
 Some of the Virgin Vine wreathed the arched window and crept 
 in over the low sill. She went and knelt there, leaning her 
 arms among the tendrils, the first of many times when the 
 small hours found her in the same position. 
 
 She felt as if her mind had an immensity as large as the 
 deep-blue heavens, and with as many points of palpitating 
 white light. They might be worlds, or they might be unknown 
 fires ; she scarcely cared which. The universe was filled with 
 the glad exultation now thrilling through her. Her heart 
 throbbed with swift fulness ; her limbs, even as she knelt, 
 trembled under her ; yet she felt a conquering strength, an 
 illimitable power of action and devotion which caught her up 
 into an uncalculating rapture. 
 
 Gradually, however, the hour, the silence, the distant 
 stars, calmed her. She began to think instead of only feeling, 
 and finally rose, lit candles, and paced up and down her room. 
 
 In writing thus together it would become of great value to 
 both of them undoubtedly. But just here came a danger, as 
 Aunt Mabel suggested. If they met and harmonised thoroughly 
 in intellect, was there not a possibility of their meeting in other 
 ways, warmer and more perturbed ? 
 
 For him 1 he must decide. 
 
 For herself 1 Well, she found him, outside their compact, 
 a noble, unselfish, and pure man. He was strong ; he had 
 conquered himself, and thus gained the force to conquer others. 
 He grasped her with quiet firmness ; he appealed to much of 
 what she believed was the best in her ; but this all mentally 
 and morally. She wondered sometimes that she did not have 
 to guard herself more with him ; the secret was that there was 
 nothing against which she needed protection. They met as 
 minds alone, and would do so more and more as their inter- 
 course was confined to that only. Of this she felt sure.
 
 106 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 But taking it at the uttermost ; supposing that she would 
 find no man who could efface him, so but that he would stand 
 high above them all ; supposing that the thought of him should 
 prevent her marrying ; what then ? 
 
 He was noble ; it would not be degrading to admire, even 
 to love, mentally, a married man, so that they remained ever 
 on those heights where base fogs could not reach them. It 
 could do no harm ; he would never know it, or, in knowing it, 
 would recognise it as a crystal-pure affection that contained no 
 danger to either of them. And she would have a noble ideal, 
 a cultivated mind, a self-sacrificing life to love. What harm, 
 almost what sorrow, could that be to her ? It would be a lonely 
 life, perhaps sad, but an elevated one, which would in the end 
 raise her from the tumult of an impulsive woman's existence to 
 serene heights, whence a wider vision of the world could be 
 obtained. 
 
 She wrote the argument out in her diary, and ended it with 
 these words : " I see no danger that can deter me. I accept 
 the compact." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " Is there naught better than to enjoy ? 
 No deed which, done, will make time break, 
 Letting us pent-up creatures through 
 Into eternity, our due, 
 No forcing earth teach heaven's employ ? " 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 * 
 
 THE next day was Sunday, a balmy beautiful day. Everywhere 
 was the atmosphere of festivity which characterises a Continental 
 Sabbath. All the world intended to take the fullest enjoyment 
 from the mild May fete, and Mrs. Trescott and Bethesda were 
 going to do the same. It had become a custom to them to be 
 out-of-doors all the pleasant Sundays with M. d'Isten, who was 
 then free, and delighted to devote his whole time to them. 
 Often they went to church to hear high mass, Mrs. Trescott 
 yielding the American chapel because there was a clergyman 
 there she disliked, and then wandered out into the country, 
 or to some of the pleasure-grounds which are numerous in Paris, 
 taking a light luncheon where they could find it, and sharing 
 an innocent gaiety with the people of the great city.
 
 CHAP, xii.] A MOMENTOUS ACCEPTANCE. 107 
 
 Sometimes they spent the long sunny hours in a country 
 ramble, driving out fairly beyond the city, and then strolling 
 through the woods, or idling under the trees, or visiting rural 
 farmhouses ; many of which were afterwards sent intact to 
 America by Bethesda's pen. To-day, however, it had been 
 previously arranged that they were to go to church ; and, after 
 a luminous night's rest, when she never fell so soundly asleep 
 but that she was conscious of an unusual brightness in her mind, 
 Beth rose and took her coffee alone. It was not until the 
 morning was well advanced that her aunt appeared. 
 
 " Well, cherie, how is it this morning 1 Have you been up 
 writing since daybreak 1 " 
 
 " Not quite, auntie ; one does not need to rise so very early 
 to be ahead of you ! " 
 
 " Impertinente ! But what have you written ? Won't you 
 read it to me ? " 
 
 Bethesda paused a moment, and turned over the pages 
 thoughtfully before she replied : 
 
 " Yes, if you like." 
 
 " I would very much like to hear it," said Mrs. Trescott, 
 seating herself opposite Beth. 
 
 She watched her, trying to see between the lines, while she 
 listened to the earnest tones in which the young woman read 
 what she had written before she slept. Bethesda finally looked 
 up with a somewhat solemn bravery in her eyes as she pro- 
 nounced the words : 
 
 " I accept the compact." 
 
 Mabel's face was curiously tender and admiring. 
 
 " So," she said, with a long breath which seemed of relief, 
 " you have decided. I hope it will prove all you think it, 
 darling." After a moment she added : "I wish Rene' could 
 see that." 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed Beth, flushing. 
 
 " I do ; all but the very last, at any rate. It would make 
 him understand, and appreciate you even better than he does." 
 
 " Do you think the last is wrong ? " asked Bethesda, with 
 a searching glance. 
 
 "No; not wrong. Sorrowful, maybe, sweetheart." 
 
 She put her hand on Beth's lap, and the girl took it in 
 both her own. 
 
 " If it is not wrong, I won't find it sorrowful, rest assured,
 
 108 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 auntie. It is a greater richness than most women have in 
 their lives. Besides, that is only an extreme case, which I 
 never should have thought about if you had not suggested it." 
 
 She met her aunt's fond gaze with open sunniness. 
 
 " You must be married some day, dear," said Mabel ; " but 
 for me alack the day." 
 
 " You wouldn't be sorry if this kept me beside you 1 " asked 
 Beth archly, 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I don't want you to remain unmarried. It is 
 not a happy life." 
 
 Here the sound of a knock on the parlour door disturbed them. 
 
 " It is M. d'Isten ! " exclaimed Bethesda. " We are late." 
 
 He had come to see, he said, if they still had the desire to 
 go to church 1 Thanks, he would not come in. 
 
 " You wish to go, Beth ? " asked Mrs. Trescott. 
 
 " Indeed I do, greatly," was the answer. 
 
 " La petite devote ! " said Kene", smiling, and left them. 
 
 The Madeleine was full when they arrived. M. d'Isten 
 took them in by a side entrance, and Mabel was seated on one 
 side of the small door, Bethesda and M. d'Isten on the other. 
 
 Bethesda had brought her little Imitation, with the prayers 
 in the front and directions for joining in the mass. It was 
 one M. d'Isteii had given her. She was in a devout mood ; she 
 felt an unwonted drawing towards religion. There was a deep 
 yearning for communion with One all-seeing and all-mighty ; 
 with One who could guide her, absolutely, to the best. Con- 
 science began to tremble as life pressed upon her with new 
 thoughts and new questions. Bethesda had yet to learn that 
 abstract right is above any conscience, and that it we must obey. 
 Principle was not yet developed in her. The instincts of her 
 nature were true and noble, but the quivering needle of a 
 compass is not more unsteady in comparison to the polar star, 
 than conscience in comparison to principle. Let some iron 
 force, or some electric current, come, and the index hand would 
 point far from due north. Even at the best sailors are obliged 
 to make allowances for the nails in their own ships, as well as 
 a thousand larger things, before they can rely upon their com- 
 passes ; and the bias of one's own nature, beside the many 
 influences of heredity and education, makes one's conscience a 
 very fallible guide. 
 
 But this was all unrecognised, and Bethesda only felt the
 
 CHAP, xii.] A FRIEND OF ALL AGES. 109 
 
 tendency which caused her to lend herself reverently to the 
 solemn rites performed before her. She and M. d'Isten knelt 
 and rose together ; he looked over the tiny book she held, and 
 read what she read ; occasionally he caught her eyes. They 
 were full of a deep wistfulness ; now soothed by a strengthen- 
 ing line, now awed by the mysterious, majesty of the music, 
 and the sacrifice offered at the altar. 
 
 These symbols appealed to her profoundly, but she could 
 not grasp a single satisfying idea. They soared around her, 
 above her, like the music; they escaped her as the incense 
 would have done had she tried to hold it ; there was nothing 
 she could touch, nothing she could make hers. 
 
 Again the question came to her : M. d'Isten was a Catholic, 
 could he really hold fast by this 1 
 
 She looked up straight and full into his eyes. The glance 
 startled him ; he did not understand what it meant. Here 
 was a side of her nature which, with all his quick perceptions, 
 he could not read. 
 
 Her eyes fell, disappointed. She turned over a few pages 
 of her book without noticing them. Then these words caught 
 her eyes : 
 
 " By two wings man is lifted up from things earthly : 
 Simplicity and purity. Simplicity ought to be in our inten- 
 tion ; purity in our affection. Simplicity doth seek God ; 
 purity doth find and apprehend Him." 
 
 " See ! " she whispered. 
 
 Her face was beaming; her eyes shone with a delicious 
 sweetness. He looked to where she pointed. Why should 
 these words have produced such a transfiguration ? Did she 
 really want God so much 1 
 
 He took the book gently, and found a page which he gave 
 her to read. 
 
 " Love is a great thing, yea, a great and thorough good ; 
 by itself it makes everything that is heavy light, and it bears 
 with equal serenity all the circumstances of life. 
 
 " Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing more courageous, 
 nothing higher, nothing wider, nothing more pleasant, nothing 
 fuller nor better in heaven or earth ; because love is born of 
 God, and cannot rest but in God, above all His creations." 
 
 Bethesda's eyes were blind with tears when she finished. 
 How well he understood her ! If she only could love God.
 
 110 BETHESDA. [PARTI. 
 
 Perhaps she did. It seemed to her that anything would be 
 easy to bear if she could only be sure God existed, so that she 
 might love Him. If she could see Jesus, how gladly she would 
 throw herself at His feet, and kiss them, and weep over them ! 
 But God 1 He was so far away ! 
 
 She dared not trust herself to look anywhere but on her 
 book, or she might have seen a flash of sudden jealousy on M. 
 d'Isten's face. 
 
 "That is truer to me of my friends than of God," he 
 whispered hurriedly. 
 
 She did not distinguish the words, for a thunderous peal of 
 the organ just then rolled through the temple. The sudden 
 start shook two big tears on to her cheeks, and when she had 
 brushed them away, and turned her chaste eyes up to him, he 
 had for the moment no desire greater than that she should not 
 know what he had said. Her purity of soul must not be dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 From the church their landau took them out through the 
 Champs Elyse'es, beyond the Bois, and on into the country, by 
 roads which M. d'Isten's schoolboy days had taught him. 
 
 They came finally to a group of trees on a bank above the 
 Seine. The city lay concealed behind them ; no house was in 
 sight, but blue wreaths of smoke beyond a hillock told of a 
 noonday meal. A suburban village was not far off, the coach- 
 man said ; he would put up his horses there. Marcot was a 
 devoted retainer of M. d'Isten's (the ladies did not know this), 
 and was perfectly reliable. He carried rugs and shawls down 
 to the shady nook by the river, and then drove away. 
 
 When he had disappeared there was not a sign of human 
 life but that delicate, treacherous smoke. 
 
 M. d'Isten arranged everything in the most convenient 
 manner for the ladies, and then threw himself at their feet with 
 a sigh of content which Bethesda noticed. She had been un- 
 usually silent ever since they left the church, but the quietude 
 was of pleasure. These Sundays were delightful holidays to 
 her ; how dear they were she did not know until afterwards. 
 Her aunt was in the especial humour for it to-day, and they 
 both enjoyed watching Rene* d'Isten, whose air of self-possessed 
 distinction never left him, while he relaxed under the influence 
 of nature, and became dreamy and content. 
 
 " What would Madame de la R , and Mesdemoiselles
 
 CHAP, xii.] AN INVISIBLE BUILDING. Ill 
 
 de St. H , who suppose you so repressed and unapproach- 
 able, think now ? " asked Mabel, smiling at his luxurious sense 
 of abandon. 
 
 " Truly it would be a revelation to them," answered Rene", 
 his head on his hand and his eyes reposing on Bethesda's 
 clasped hands. " One does not know me to the depths," he 
 continued presently. "It is no marvel, for I did not know 
 myself." 
 
 " Do you think, then, that you know yourself now ? " 
 
 " I am learning ; you teach me fast." 
 
 He included them both in a quiet glance, and then let his 
 eyes fall to the river sweeping almost silently past their feet. 
 It met with no obstacles to cause it to show its strength. 
 
 " What are you thinking about now ? " asked Mabel idly. 
 
 " My unbuilt castle by the sea," he responded, without hesi- 
 tation. " I often visit it. Every stone is as known to me as 
 this stream. The ocean is frothing now around the base of the 
 precipice, for it is calm ; but in stormy weather it dashes its 
 spray even to the windows, a hundred and fifty feet above." 
 
 " Windows ! It's all window there now, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Not in my dreams. The castle, and the chapel, and the 
 lighthouse are built, and inhabited, too, then. Do you know 
 by what name I shall call them 1 " 
 
 " The last I heard it was as undecided as the rest of it. 
 Some fanciful idea you have now, I suppose ? " 
 
 She spoke carelessly, but he answered with slow impressive- 
 ness : 
 
 " It is a beautiful name ; I have chosen it after long con- 
 sideration. It is Bdthesda." 
 
 " Not really ! " exclaimed Beth. 
 
 " You will let me ?" 
 
 " I could not possibly object," she said a little slowly. 
 
 "Do you remember in Florence, Madame Mabelle, when 
 you first told me your niece wrote, and that she used her own 
 name, Be'thesda?" 
 
 His foreign tongue lent this Hebrew word a sweetness of 
 pronunciation which was not lost on the ladies, and which he 
 seemed pleased to linger over. 
 
 " You said," he continued, "that she had always associated 
 some meaning, as yet unknown, with her name, and the story 
 in the Holy Bible. Last night I thought of this, and of the
 
 112 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 beacon I am to build off a dangerous coast. It will guide 
 weary mariners to safety ; it will restore hope to the despairing, 
 and they will bless the name it bears. I could think of none 
 so fitted to it as Be'thesda. Le Chateau de Be'thesda ; la Phare 
 de Be'thesda." 
 
 He looked up with the dreaminess of his tone in his dark 
 eyes, and met Bethesda's. They reminded him of some sha- 
 dowed cove of the shore near his home, where the limpid water 
 lay deep and still, only the tide throbbing far beneath the 
 glinting surface. 
 
 "I don't see why, if you are going to build really, you 
 banish yourself to that out -of -the -world coast," said Mrs. 
 Trescott in a practical tone. " Why don't you buy a place in 
 Brittany or Normandy, where it would be fashionable, and you 
 could spend the summer months 1 Madame d'Isten might join 
 you then." 
 
 " She does not like the sea. She prefers her present position 
 to any other." He gave Mrs. Trescott a glance of reminder, 
 and then continued : " This is to be my castle ; I shall have it 
 for my own. I may not live in it long during the year, but I 
 shall have a consciousness of its existence ; of a place that I 
 can go to at any time and be at rest." 
 
 " What a dreamer you are ! " exclaimed Mabel, somewhat 
 impatiently. " You might do a great deal better work with 
 your money. And besides, how are you going to explain giving 
 your ' castle ' such a fantastic name 1 " 
 
 " Is it fantastic, madame 1 However, if persons are inquisi- 
 tive I shall know how to silence them. To my friends I shall 
 say it is my nom de plume, and that I choose to name my 
 castle the same." 
 
 " Le grand seigneur ! " laughed Mabel. Then sobering : 
 " So you will say frankly that 'Bethesda' is your nom de plume ? 
 Shall you tell your wife of this compact 1 Have you decided 
 to adopt it ? You must each think for yourselves, you know. 
 Beth read me this morning what she had written ; will you ? " 
 
 Mrs. Trescott spoke hastily. The subject had been avoided 
 until she seized this opportunity. 
 
 " I will read it to you both one of these days," said Rene'. 
 " I am resolved upon the compact, if mademoiselle consents, 
 and I am assured she will." 
 
 His eyes met Bethesda's in a sure claiming, and she re-
 
 CHAP, xii.] JUNE GROWTHS. 113 
 
 peated with the almost solemn gravity with which she had read 
 the words to her aunt : 
 
 "Yes, I accept the compact." 
 
 Rene' d'Isten sprang to his feet as the words passed her 
 lips, thus giving expression to the bound of soul within him. 
 To such words he could trust ; his aim was reached. 
 
 " Thank you, Bdthesda," he said, standing close beside her, 
 and there was an intonation in his voice which Beth presently 
 learned she alone could cause. 
 
 Days passed, June came and brooded with a delicious 
 sweetness over land and sea; over flowers of the earth and flowers 
 of the mind. Nature unclosed, and let the warm sunbeams 
 steal into the furl of every leaf; white lilacs bloomed and filled 
 all Paris with their perfume; roses smoothed their creased 
 young petals, and expanded their delicate filaments in rich de- 
 velopment. Everything, in fact, was redolent of life, and shook 
 into the air new vitality, and beauty, and strength. 
 
 The compact concluded between Rend d'Isten and Beth- 
 esda drew them more and more intimately together. It was as 
 if an isthmus had been cut away and the waves of two seas 
 were allowed to flow freely into one another. Each hour of 
 intercourse told, by some driftweed of conversation, how far the 
 waters of one had advanced into the other, and every sign spoke 
 of a surprising distance traversed. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott felt them gradually receding from her, and 
 towards one another, but was unable to do anything to avert 
 the danger, if danger it was. The isthmus was gone ; nothing 
 was to be dene now but watch and wait. It would not be long 
 anyway ; they were to sail in a month or six weeks. She 
 supported herself, meantime, by the belief that two such extra- 
 ordinary beings as were her niece and her friend, could do 
 extraordinary things without ordinary results ; and ignored the 
 sovereignty of natural laws. 
 
 But it was a necessity to her to " speak her mind," and she 
 did so, both to Rend and Bethesda. She only spoke, however ; 
 and, in constant references to what might be the dangers to 
 others, let none of their tendencies come upon them with the 
 enlightening shock of surprise, but thus blunted their sensi- 
 bilities, and helped them to remain, ethically, asleep. 
 
 Rend d'Isten, however, was not wholly asleep. He had 
 recognised very clearly, on the evening of announcing his plan, 
 
 I
 
 114 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 that it would lead Bethesda aiid himself to a unity of more 
 than minds. He saw the inevitability of growth in a sprouting 
 plant, unless some one pulled it up by the roots, against which 
 catastrophe he guarded with utmost care. For he did not think 
 it wrong that this beautiful arbuste should grow and blossom ; 
 the fruit alone would be wrong to touch. And he had no fears 
 that either of them would be tempted to touch it. Bethesda 
 was pure as an angel, and he was going to be unlike other men. 
 Had he not been, all his life ? Why should he now become 
 commonplace and vulgar, just when all the best in him was stimu- 
 lated and increased 1 Bah ! it was sacrilege to think of it ! 
 
 Not one of the three realised the importance of thoughts, 
 how they are only the buds of deeds, and that, even if they 
 never reach fruition, their fragrance may be fatal. Not one of 
 them recognised that it is possible to transgress all the com- 
 mandments of every school of morality in one's heart, yet keep 
 the outward life irreproachable. 
 
 Still the instinct of principle, the moral sense, which 
 responds, as the intellect does not, to the actual right and 
 wrong, will not let one transgress without remonstrance. 
 Night after night Bethesda knelt in her open window, and let 
 the stifled conflict surge within her. If at any time she had 
 known it absolutely to be wrong, she could have summoned 
 strength enough to break off the whole affair and leave the 
 city. But there was nothing to assure her it was wrong. Her 
 aunt vacillated ; she herself felt the purity of her intentions, 
 and an utter confidence in Rene' ; and he did not speak. 
 
 For M. d'Isten was one of those men who did not deceive, 
 he only did not expose. He considered that character which 
 allows its whole self to be seen by any one who cares to look, 
 as a boorish, ungraceful, and almost immoral one. Garments, 
 he would have said, are as necessary to the soul as to the body 
 in civilised society. We cannot go around telling our inmost 
 thoughts, or holding up our hands, that each person may read 
 our fortunes in our palms. Let us drape ourselves as gracefully 
 as may be, and then we will respect ourselves and one another 
 vastly more. 
 
 Only, such a man would not say any of this, he would live 
 it ; and this is what others are to see and understand, and 
 guide their own actions accordingly ; and it is also what neither 
 Mabel nor Bethesda did.
 
 CHAP, xin ] A STORY. 115 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " What might have been is sad indeed ; 
 
 What should have been is sadder still ; 
 The happiness our spirits need 
 Is not of circumstance, but will." 
 
 "Your pity is the suffering mother of love : its anguish is the very 
 natal pang of the divine passion." Jane Eyre. 
 
 ONE evening, in the second week of their compact, the con- 
 versation drifted, or was guided, towards what they were first 
 to write in unison. The letters were already arranged ; in 
 fact, one had been written the previous week, worked up from 
 Rend's notes and Beth's observation into what was really 
 excellent, and pleased Mrs. Trescott hardly less than it did the 
 double Bethesda. 
 
 But both were eager to commence something more notable 
 and continuous; something they could plan now and execute 
 later. 
 
 Bethesda suggested a story. 
 
 " A story it shall be," said Rene", delighted. " But what 
 will we treat 1 What shall be chosen for the subject 1 " 
 
 Bethesda gave an outline which she had already sketched. 
 
 " No," objected Rend, with a smile, " we must have some- 
 thing original to the new Bdthesda. I am going to be very 
 jealous of what you have already thought. Let me give you 
 the germ ; that is my prerogative. Let it be a story based on 
 my life." 
 
 " But, Rend ! I never could write that ! " 
 
 " Pardon me ; I am convinced no one could do it so well. 
 Besides, I shall help you ! " and he plunged into the scheme 
 with ardour, for autobiography comes easiest to an inexperienced 
 writer. 
 
 " I shall tell you all," he said ; " I shall give you my opinion 
 of what has passed, and you can sift them, throw away what is 
 useless, and keep what you can make good. You shall judge 
 me and my actions, and write freely from yourself, as well as 
 from me. It will clarify everything, and let light on the 
 underground world of the past. Come, it will be excellent ! " 
 
 Was there some hidden reason why lie wished her to know
 
 116 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 him thus intimately ? Or was it only an artist's fervid desire 
 to paint what he knew best ? 
 
 Bethesda remembered the secret in his life, and hesitated. 
 
 "There must ue no concealments," he resumed, more 
 gravely. "You shall be my conscience, to dictate where I 
 have done wrong, and where I should alter my conduct in the 
 future. You need say nothing, but put it in the work, and I 
 shall understand. You shall know everything, Be'thesda, as I 
 know it myself. If expression fails me, your insight will 
 abundantly compensate. But, above all things, be frank. Do 
 not fear to write as you think ; speak as you would to yourself. 
 I shall understand each word, and shall be grateful to you for 
 making my duties easier to perform." 
 
 His voice had fallen into that low and persuasive intona- 
 tion which ever leaned on the tenderest chords of the woman's 
 heart. Long ago she had said it left her no power, or even 
 wish, to refuse. So she consented, faintly. Her fears for her 
 literary incapacity were mingled with a somewhat weakening 
 premonition of the events she would have to hear. She looked 
 forward to it with an indefinable dread. Could she bear to see 
 him so worked upon as her aunt had described when he 
 brought her from proud anger to tears that first night in Flor- 
 ence, so long, long ago ? 
 
 But once her consent won, Rene* had resumed his interested 
 manner. He said they must begin immediately ; there never 
 was a better time than the present when the present was 
 good. She could make her notes now, and he would look them 
 over to see there were no incorrect impressions. He roused 
 her from her passivity by threatening to look through her desk 
 for pencil and note-book, and by the time they were seated, 
 Rene' to talk and the ladies to listen, the three were in 
 thorough harmony. 
 
 He spoke with admirable perspicuity and ease; each in- 
 cident was pointed by that inimitable French faculty of seizing 
 the very arrowhead of thought to which the language lends 
 itself in an unequalled manner. There were many delicately- 
 drawn sketches of scenery, surroundings, and character which 
 Bethesda despaired of reproducing. At first she dotted down 
 this and that fact, a duty of which Rene' had frequently to 
 remind her, until he too became so absorbed that the page 
 before her remained empty.
 
 CHAP, xin.] BOYHOOD. 117 
 
 His father was already a familiar character, and the little 
 he knew of his mother had been reverently communicated to 
 them. But now, in leading them through the galleries of 
 memory, he could not truthfully refrain from pointing out 
 shadows and sadder pictures which hung there. 
 
 They commenced early. He was sent from home when his 
 father remarried, and had first seen France, a shivering child 
 of six, under the care of an old priest who knew nothing of 
 children, and had neglected him during the whole journey. 
 Still, he loved France from the first, why he could hardly say. 
 
 " It must have been in the little boy a feeling such as the 
 maiden had when she wished to kiss the ground at Dieppe," 
 said Kene', smiling at Beth. 
 
 The little fellow remained in the school at Paris for eight 
 years, without leaving it even in vacations, and it was only on 
 the occurrence of his sister's fatal illness that his father sent for 
 him to come to Algiers. He went, but reached home only in 
 time to see his sister lying at rest among the flowers, in her 
 casket ; and to wish, for a while, that he might lie there too. 
 
 His only possible companion seemed gone in the death of 
 this person, to whom alone, in her frequent visits to Paris, he 
 had been able to speak freely. His step-brothers, educated by 
 their mother to look upon him with envy and dislike, avoided 
 him ; his stepmother herself showed a petty spite towards him, 
 and his grief bit deeper and deeper into his heart. But his 
 father, looking up from the blow of the loss of his favourite 
 child, found her little brother in this sorry condition, and from 
 that time the boy was never allowed to leave him when they 
 could possibly be together. Rend had always felt that his 
 sister's tenderness and his mother's memory went hand in hand 
 with his father's new solicitude. 
 
 Two years passed in the delightful intercourse of a youthful 
 mind with a man in every way superior. An ardent passion 
 soon possessed the boy for his father, who became his world. 
 Gaiety of spirits bloomed, thought developed, independence 
 strengthened, as he felt the desire to make himself an agreeable 
 companion, and a son of whom his father need not be ashamed. 
 Meanwhile he disarmed his stepmother's prejudices, and won 
 his brothers heartily to his side. 
 
 At the end of this time his father thought it necessary that 
 he should again take up his studies ; but unwilling to send him
 
 118 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 so far away as Paris, he consigned him to a learned monastery 
 by the sea, near the family estates, and in the corner of the 
 Pyrenees which had become so dear to Rene'. 
 
 Here he passed a studious thoughtful period, filled with 
 alternate hours of reading and solitary wanderings along the 
 shore, filled with sombre romance, in which the atmosphere of 
 renunciation, the gray thundering ocean, the majestic rocks, 
 and his wholly introspective life, combined to accentuate the 
 grave cast of character which peculiarly distinguished him. 
 
 Of women he knew almost nothing. The memory of his 
 mother and sister had never been deposed in fact had never 
 been approached. In Paris he had seen no women ; in 
 Algeria the white -garmented and veiled creatures were like 
 wraiths to him ; and during his vacations his stepmother and 
 her coterie were so dissimilar to his tastes that they produced 
 no impression upon him. Perhaps from the cloistered monks, 
 their stories and legends, he had learned more of women than 
 in any other way; and he had seen none who could for an 
 instant be compared with the ideal being whom saintly stories 
 and lonely musings had formed and almost endowed with life. 
 
 On finishing his education his father offered him the choice 
 of travel or Paris. He declined both. He wished to be gradu- 
 ally introduced to that stream of life which had so long been 
 flowing past his secluded retreat without his knowing more of 
 it than its murmur. So he asked his father to let him go to 
 the town near by to mingle freely in the society then assembled 
 there. 
 
 Permission was readily granted. His father wished him to 
 marry young, and advised him to seek a wife, not alone French, 
 but from the Midi, who would be his own from the dearest 
 mutual associations. He told him, however, it behoved him 
 not to be in haste, but to remember his inexperience, his 
 responsibilities, and to consult those wiser than he. Still he 
 appreciated the uses and delights of a youthful marriage, and 
 would have been glad to have his son seek a similar experience 
 to that which had given him his own greatest happiness. 
 
 " Beware of taking a heartless woman, no matter what her 
 charms. Find a wife like your blessed mother, and I ask no- 
 thing more for you," he said, when they parted. 
 
 Rend immediately set up a bachelor's establishment in T , 
 
 and was warmly received in society, where his name was well
 
 CHAP, xiii.] A FIRST FANCY. 119 
 
 known, and his father's friends many. He was courted and 
 feted, and introduced at once to all the eligible maidens of the 
 country round. 
 
 An elderly marchioness, who had been a lifelong friend of 
 his father's, took him especially under her care. To her he 
 spoke freely : he told her that his fixed idea was to find a wife 
 who should be not so much a society queen as a womanly 
 woman ; he told her of his hopes and fears, and explained why 
 he did not seek Paris instead of this provincial place, which 
 she pressed him to do. He would have a wider choice there, 
 she urged, and he should " see Paris " before he settled ; he 
 would be better satisfied then. 
 
 But his determination was unshakable ; he had no desire 
 to know Parisian life ; rather, he wished to marry young so 
 that he should have no temptation to ever know it ; and more- 
 over, he wished his wife to be from southern France, with its 
 warmth and devotion, and not a frivolous leader of society. 
 
 So the marchioness turned her energies in another direction, 
 and studied all her young acquaintances with the eye of a con- 
 noisseur, resolved to find him a suitable wife. 
 
 He, meantime, took the matter into his own hands. 
 
 At a ball one night he saw a new face, brilliant with warm 
 emotions and joyousness of spirits. She was dancing with a 
 young hussar, and they made a notable couple. He found on 
 inquiry that she was the daughter of a rich Spanish merchant, 
 who had married into a French family ennobled by the first 
 empire. He was ambitious, the world said, and resolved that 
 his daughter should marry at least as high as her mother's 
 rank. To this all her education had tended. She was an only 
 child, carefully reared, accomplished, and beautiful, as he could 
 see. The blood that ran in her veins was said to make her 
 ambitious also, and the haughty condescension with which she 
 was received by her mother's equals rasped on her unbearably, 
 and it was asserted that her aim was to compel them to a more 
 conciliatory position. 
 
 In spite of these rumours Rend d'Isten, interested by her 
 face, and indignant at her undeserved humiliation, sought an 
 introduction. He was welcomed with emjrressement. The 
 father was flattered, the mother pleased ; the daughter did not 
 seem to object to his advances. But the marchioness was 
 seriously alarmed.
 
 120 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 She summoned Rend to her, and at the very first remon- 
 strated strongly. Here was not the woman to make him a 
 domestic wife, to answer his devotion with affection, to chain 
 him with new ties of sweetness to his home and land. This 
 woman was an intriguer ; she would marry the highest title, 
 and care little who possessed it. Well, if she would not, since 
 he defended her there, her parents would, and he well knew it 
 was all the same. 
 
 Rene" d'Isten listened, and said he would consider, and went 
 to judge critically this woman. Was she maligned by popular 
 report? or had he heard the truth from his good friend the 
 marchioness ? 
 
 He found mother and daughter together. The mother's 
 delicate blandishments and fascinations prejudiced him in her 
 favour, while the daughter's contrasting manner seemed to 
 him more truly maidenly than anything he had yet seen, and 
 impressed upon him the assurance that she would never yield 
 herself to an ambitious marriage, and would love passionately 
 if once aroused. He woidd be the chivalrous knight who 
 would reconcile parents and child, and rescue the beauteous 
 damsel from her distressing position. Now the marchioness 
 could no longer affect him : he had espoused a cause, and no- 
 thing would detach him from it. 
 
 Bref, he pressed his suit and won the consent of the 
 parents, who gave it eagerly, and of the daughter, who showed 
 a shy reserve very attractive to him. He saw his fiancee only 
 in swift moments, however, and the mother much more inti- 
 mately. She was continually talking of Louise, praising her 
 deftly; laying open apparently the girl's whole life for his 
 reverent inspection, and he looked at the pages she turned and 
 was content. The visionary ideal he had formed was thrown 
 into the background ; reality effaced imagination, and a happy 
 temperament surrounded the reality with a glamour of golden 
 possibilities. 
 
 Louise was dignified, reserved, unapproachable : he thought 
 them all qualities of virgin self-respect. Her wit, which was 
 tinged with bitterness, he thought the result of her position, 
 from which she would soon be freed. Her joyous gaiety dis- 
 appeared : he thought it the steadying effect of new ties upon 
 an earnest nature. When she vouchsafed him a glance he 
 thought its dark tumult meant a conflict between feeling and
 
 CHAP, xiii.] A WEDDING. 121 
 
 maidenly reticence, and eagerly anticipated the time when she 
 should give full liberty to a delicious emotion. 
 
 Somewhat to his surprise, however, her parents were the 
 ones to urge a speedy union. It was now deep into the 
 summer; the town was almost deserted. The marchioness, 
 among others, had gone away a little angry, hoping that before 
 long Rene' would awake from his delusion. 
 
 But the future mother-in-law invited M. d'Isten to their 
 new and magnificent castle amid the grand scenery of the 
 mountains, just the other side of the French boundary, and 
 once there they persuaded him to consent to an immediate 
 marriage. His father, whom he had wished to have meet his 
 fiancee, was absent on important affairs, and wrote anxious 
 letters ; but when Rene' asked him, as the first favour of his 
 life, to acquiesce in this consummation of his hopes, he did so, 
 although reluctantly. 
 
 The ceremony was to be performed in the new and gorgeous 
 chapel. The whole estate was resplendently illuminated ; the 
 house was thrown open, and filled with light and flowers from 
 turret to hall. A vast concourse of persons was invited, 
 and hastened to come. Rent's step-brothers were there, 
 but his father and the old marchioness could not be present, 
 and they were the only two real friends the bridegroom felt 
 he had. 
 
 At last, amid the splendour, the bride appeared. She was 
 pallid even to grayness ; her lips were compressed, her eyes 
 glittering. Superbly dressed, her figure drawn to its haughtiest 
 height, and her whole bearing that of extreme effort at self- 
 command, she looked handsomer than ever before, and yet she 
 made him shudder from head to foot. 
 
 But it was too late for hesitation. 
 
 When they met at the altar it would have been difficult to 
 say which hand was the coldest, which self-control the most 
 tense. For his part, he could remember nothing of the ceremony, 
 nothing of responses or oaths. 
 
 He saw nothing, heard nothing, until, when the blessing 
 was pronounced, Louise muttered low, he knew, yet it could 
 not have deafened him more had it been shrieked : 
 
 " God, strike me dead !" 
 
 Rend pushed his chair suddenly aside, and rose. Bethesda, 
 whose wide eyes had been fixed on him, dropped them \vith a
 
 122 BETHESDA. [PARTI. 
 
 shuddering sigh. Her soul was a sea of pity, which dashed its 
 spray even over herself. 
 
 Mabel looked from one to the other, and then said slowly : 
 
 " Poor creature ! " 
 
 " Yes," responded Rene", turning towards them, and leaning 
 on the high back of Mrs. Trescott's chair ; " I never grieved for 
 any one as I did for Louise at that moment. I thought of 
 nothing except that she was in agony, and that she was my 
 wife." 
 
 He seated himself again, and continued. 
 
 For the rest of the evening each sense was acutely clear, 
 each nerve strained to do its duty, in shielding her and himself. 
 For the moment they were more completely identified than any 
 other circumstance could have made them. 
 
 Her stern self-command did not again leave her. In spite 
 of the heat, the excitement, and the merry supper, not the 
 faintest colour tinged her face ; but, as the hours passed, her 
 eyes glittered more and more dangerously. 
 
 M. d'Isten kept her constantly in sight ; his watchfulness 
 did not importune, nor did it leave her. He, too, was dis- 
 charging his duties with successful self-mastery. That one 
 instant, flaming over the past, and lighting the future with a 
 cruel glare, had taught him more in concealment than had his 
 whole previous life of twenty-two years. All the force his 
 nature might possess was suddenly called into action, and it did 
 not fail him. The guests who had anticipated, it may be, a 
 brilliant scandal, as a continuance of the present entertainment, 
 saw the young husband already assuming the responsibilities of 
 his position, and doubted any further amusement. Had they 
 done otherwise they would have been disappointed, remarked 
 Rene' d'Isten quietly. 
 
 It had been a stipulation, made by the parents, that their 
 only child should not be taken from them, but that the newly- 
 married couple should, for a time at least, reside in their home. 
 They were to return to a suite of apartments provided for them, 
 after a honeymoon spent at the d'Isten's chateau, thirty miles 
 away. The next morning they would leave, escorted half-way 
 by a gay cavalcade of the marriage guests, but this night they 
 were to pass where the wedding had taken place. 
 
 M. d'Isten spent it entirely in his wife's antechamber, 
 either pacing noiselessly from corner to corner, or standing in
 
 CHAP, xiii.] SUFFEEING. 123 
 
 the open window. The room was dark, for nothing must betray 
 their miserable secret. This was the one point on which he 
 was resolved. 
 
 In his abstraction of fierce thought he at one time brushed 
 the portieres hanging before the door opening into the room 
 where she was. He recoiled from the touch ; it seemed to 
 poison him. He leaned far out of the window, to reach the 
 pure night air. He was still, but every sense was electrically 
 alive. The slightest sound, or touch, sent a shock through him 
 as if it had been from a battery. 
 
 In this state he could decide nothing ; but a tidal wave of 
 irresistible feeling rolled up, and marked with a deep line the 
 resolve to know all, and the determination that his name should 
 not be stained. 
 
 The short summer night wore away, and the dawn came. 
 Birds sang exultingly ; trees and flowers gleamed in the grow- 
 ing light ; a damp breeze blew over the forest, and refreshed his 
 hot brain. He longed to be away, amid the everlastingness of 
 nature. He would have given much for a ride over the desert, 
 through that grand monotony which dwarfs and stills human 
 suffering. 
 
 But the forest and the hills would be something. He 
 changed his clothing, and went out from the terrace window. 
 For hours he wandered through the morning glades, with 
 nature smiling in his face, and the birds carolling overhead. 
 His electric susceptibility decreased here, where all was the 
 same as for years and years. A forest could not be made, or 
 destroyed, in a day, an hour, an instant. How long had it 
 taken her to speak those words ? He wondered over it, in a 
 curiously minute calculation, which absorbed his whole mind. 
 Presently he roused himself with a start. Anything was 
 better than this idiocy, this appalling weakness. He must have 
 presence of mind. 
 
 He remained in the forest until the fiery spell, which alter- 
 nated with this apathy, was quenched, and he knew he could 
 depend upon his mind. In a few hours he would be alone with 
 his wife ; then all should be explained. No decision could be 
 made until facts were clearly known. 
 
 He returned to the house. Numerous domestics were 
 stirring lazily. He contrived to elude them all, and to return 
 by the terrace without being seen. He performed a scrupulous
 
 124 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 toilette, for appearances were now everything. Then he forced 
 himself to read, and understand, a book on some scientific 
 question in which he had been interested, until the morning 
 was far advanced. 
 
 A valet came and knocked loudly. M. d'Isten dismissed 
 him, and then tapped on his wife's door. 
 
 It opened almost immediately. Madame d'Isten, dressed 
 for her journey, stood before him. She met his grave eyes 
 with a glance of defiance and curiosity combined ; he read her 
 shrewdly now. He asked if he might speak with her, and she 
 gave a silent acquiescence, sending away her maid by a gesture. 
 
 He entered the room with a firm step, and took the seat to 
 which she motioned him. Each instant she shot inquiring 
 glances at him, her defiance gradually disappearing, and her 
 curiosity replaced by something like fear. He did not wish 
 this. 
 
 "Madame," he said, "you consented to become my wife. 
 You wear my name. We are married. Whatever may seem 
 strange to you or me we must conceal from the world. This 
 is due to your dignity and mine, and to the name we both now 
 bear. I trust you agree with me 1" 
 
 " Certainly," was the laconic response. 
 
 " Every incident will take place as expected by your guests. 
 Women understand dissimulation; it is not necessary to say 
 more. Shall I take you to the breakfast-room, madame ?" 
 
 She was somewhat confused. The sullen look which had 
 gathered on her face while he spoke was broken by conflicting 
 sentiments. 
 
 He awaited her pleasure. It was desirable that her confi- 
 dences should be postponed until they were alone ; but, if she 
 chose, it should be now. 
 
 After a moment she rose with an energy which threw 
 down her chair. M. d'Isten picked it up in silence. He 
 opened the doors for her to pass, and, when they reached the 
 gallery gave her his arm. They were immediately joined by a 
 gay bevy, and did not see each other again alone until they 
 arrived at his chateau the place selected for the bringing 
 home of his beautiful bride, and the fondly-anticipated honey- 
 moon. 
 
 Little by little, only by the utmost tact and timing of her 
 moods was the confidence he had determined upon securing,
 
 CHAP, xiii.] PASSION HAS NO TEUST. 125 
 
 given him. He studied her with care. Nothing escaped him ; 
 no trait was manifested that did not print itself on his mind 
 with painful distinctness. She took it for granted that he had 
 learned how she could not guess, not knowing she had spoken 
 aloud in that supreme moment her secret, and, won by the 
 sympathy which he sincerely gave her, relieved herself in an 
 impetuous outpouring. Through it he discovered what she 
 supposed he already knew. 
 
 It was a story bitterly common he knew now ; then it 
 seemed to him terribly strange. 
 
 She had met and loved a sub-officer stationed in the town 
 where she was at school. They bribed the woman who walked 
 out with the class to connive at their clandestine meetings, and 
 had sworn undying fidelity. In parting she had promised to 
 use all her influence to win her parents' consent to their marriage. 
 She returned to her home, and was immediately surrounded by 
 adulation, and her parents' ambitious intrigues. They refused 
 her request with scorn, and pricked her pride to a greater aim. 
 She wrote her lover, presently, that he must win her by 
 making a name ; and he, in return, reproached her for her lack 
 of affection, but assured her that, if she would but wait, he 
 would make a name she need not be ashamed to accept. 
 
 During the year which ensued she refused many good offers, 
 and won the name of a person who could only be secured at a 
 high price, while she was, she affirmed, only keeping faith with 
 a man whose patent of nobility was love. 
 
 Then Monsieur le Comte d'Isten, heir to the title of 
 marquis, appeared. His name and position, she acknowledged, 
 were not without their effect upon her. In fact, her ambition, 
 her pride, her desire for power, had been powerful advocates of 
 his cause. Her love, however, struggled rebelliously under the 
 weight of alien thoughts, and would have conquered had not its 
 death-blow been dealt, and her better nature ruined, by her 
 mother's machinations. She told her daughter that her lover 
 had deserted her and was betrothed to another woman. 
 
 " And she believed it ? " exclaimed Bethesda. 
 
 " She did. Had she not, I think she would have refused 
 my titles. She loved him well enough for that." 
 
 " But not well enough to believe in him," murmured the 
 girl involuntarily. 
 
 " No," answered Kene' gravely ; " few women have the
 
 
 
 126 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 capacity to love another better than themselves. Louise is not 
 one of the few ; she has many sisters in character." 
 
 There was a pause. Bethesda did not speak again. M. 
 d'Isten went on. 
 
 Despair and rage made the deceived woman willing to 
 submit to her parents' urging of a speedy marriage. She 
 would be married first. The traitor should see that she was 
 not to be left thus scornfully to break her heart unconsoled. 
 
 But on the very evening of their marriage, when she was 
 already dressed for the ceremony, a letter had been secretly 
 handed to her, and the lover explained, in the agonised language 
 of truth, that he was not unfaithful ; that the story of his new 
 betrothment was a fable of her mother's; that he had been 
 promoted, and transferred to a regiment which would be 
 quartered in the town of S ; and that he was then await- 
 ing her in the park, ready to rescue her from the ignominy 
 of this marriage, and replace it by one where her love, at 
 least, would support her ; if she slipped from the house, .if only 
 for a moment, he would save her at the cost of his life, and 
 even hers. It was better that she should die than sell her 
 soul 
 
 She suffered tortures while the few moments lingered during 
 which she could have gained her freedom and saved the happi- 
 ness of at least three lives. 
 
 But they passed unimproved. She was still convulsed in 
 the throes of alternate ambition and love when her solitude was 
 invaded and the crisis was over. She must now become 
 Madame la Comtesse d'Isten. She bent to her destiny, which 
 brought her a title and married freedom, and her wretched new 
 life began. 
 
 She was never for an instant content. Her satisfied 
 ambition left her defenceless before the onslaughts of her 
 outraged love. The honeymoon passed in torrents of tears and 
 convulsions of remorse. Always for herself and her lover. The 
 thought of her husband never occurred to her except as an 
 object of interference. He recognised it, and kept himself 
 strictly in the background. 
 
 The one thing, meantime, which she commanded, beseechcd, 
 implored, was that her husband should let her live in the city 
 where she could see him pass ; where, at the theatre, their eyes 
 might meet ; where she could know whether he was dead or
 
 CHAP, xiii.] A HOPELESS ENDEAVOUR. 127 
 
 alive ; and then she swore by her religion, by her love itself, 
 that she would remember whose wife she was, and that her 
 husband should never have cause to complain. 
 
 M. d'Isten took time to consider. He understood the 
 character with which he had to deal, and he deliberately marked 
 out the hard lines of his changed life. He would let her have 
 her will, and would do everything in his power, by patience and 
 kindness, so long as she kept her word, to win his wife's 
 affection, if not her love. 
 
 So he consented to her desires. When, in the long years 
 that followed, she would spring from her chair and rush to the 
 window at the sound of a horse's hoofs and a sabre, he would fix 
 his eyes on the opposite wall and never stir. When, at the 
 theatre, she blushed and her face was stirred by emotion, he 
 would never seek the place where she had looked, but rather let 
 his eyes fall that he might not see too much. Even when she 
 would throw herself on his neck and pour out her sorrow and 
 
 her undying regret for , he would stop her with tender 
 
 firmness, and insist that she should never mention that name. 
 
 With a kindness he tried to make invariable with constant 
 study, and a yearning she never suspected, he endeavoured to 
 win the affection which was still hers to give. His attentions 
 were those of a yet unaccepted suitor. In no way did he 
 exercise any marital authority except one : he made her under- 
 stand that the instant anything occurred to compromise his 
 honour he would put her away. She had not failed. Once, in 
 a fit of desperation, she was about to leave him, but the flight 
 was prevented ; she knew not how. She never dreamed that 
 he knew it, but there was nothing she did which he did not 
 know. He had his honour to guard, and it had not been 
 betrayed. 
 
 For four years he devoted himself to nothing but his wife, 
 and for success he was granted the knowledge that at any time 
 she would have inwardly rejoiced at his death, and that she 
 found life so unendurable that she had often threatened to kill 
 herself, and he had even taken a pistol from her hand when he 
 had once unexpectedly returned to her side. 
 
 Such was the domesticity marriage had brought him ; the 
 home which had taken the place of his glowing visions ; the 
 reality that had usurped his ideals. 
 
 At the end of four years every expedient had been tried
 
 128 BETIIESDA. [PART i. 
 
 which a hearty will could suggest. All had ignominiously failed. 
 There only remained now to change all the circumstances and 
 influences around them, and see what would ensue. 
 
 Rene' went to pay a long-delayed visit to his father. The 
 years since his marriage had been intensely reserved, self- 
 reliant years. Everything had been done from himself; no one 
 was his confidant or counsellor. He had not been away from 
 Louise except for the few bloody weeks of the war ; but now he 
 made a long visit to his beloved parent. 
 
 He then expressed to him his desire to choose a vocation 
 which should actively employ him, and signified his willingness 
 to follow his father's advice. The marquis was overjoyed, and 
 immediately obtained for his son a position under one of the 
 finest statesmen in France; a confidential position, which he 
 hoped would lead to the highest honours. 
 
 When this was arranged Rend d'Isten returned to his wife, 
 and asked her to accompany him to Paris. She refused, with 
 a torrent of passion. He then quietly forced her to see the 
 life she was compelling him to lead, and the misery to which she 
 was subjecting herself. He acquainted her with his resolve 
 to try a change. He had submitted to her wishes in large and 
 small things, only to increase their mutual unhappiness. She 
 must, in this instance, submit to him. He was going where 
 his duties called him; she should accompany him. Once in 
 Paris he would do all in his power to help her to find pleasure 
 or relief from ennui ; but to Paris she must go. 
 
 Of course she did so ultimately, but she apparently exhausted 
 herself in finding the means to render the preparations" and the 
 journey disagreeable. In Paris her days were spent in weep- 
 ing or tempests of anger, her only aim being to make it so 
 trying to her husband that he woujd perforce let her return 
 home. 
 
 He meantime kept his promise in providing her with every 
 distraction, but his manner had changed from what it had 
 been. He was no longer the suitor, but the husband. He 
 wished to make a complete alteration in their lives, and allow 
 his will to become active where it had been so long passive. 
 But no change could fulfil his hope of winning her affection, 
 and, after six mouths of unceasing struggle he escorted her back 
 to her parents, and returned to Paris alone. 
 
 "Our lives now flow in the separate channels she has
 
 CHAP, xiii.] SEVERANCE. 129 
 
 made," he said, " and they probably will to the end. I do all 
 I can for her. I write often ; I visit her frequently ; she is 
 not cramped or coerced in any way but the one : since she 
 wears my name it must be blamelessly. I have tried to be a 
 good husband." 
 
 " You are an ideal husband," exclaimed Mabel, the tears 
 again standing in her eyes. " I cannot imagine one more self- 
 abnegating or noble. Tell Beth the last. You must not forget 
 your crowning sacrifice. Tell her why you went to Rome." 
 
 " I should not easily forget my going there, since it brought 
 what has proved to be the happiest period of my life. I went 
 to Rome to see a French General then on a mission there. 
 The man Louise loved had been ordered to be exchanged into 
 an Algerian regiment. He had made a serious mistake dis- 
 obedience it was called and the punishment was temporary 
 exile. Louise was distracted with grief at the prospect, and 
 beseeched me to use my influence in his behalf. It was not 
 easy for me to do, but I undertook it. It might be a provi- 
 dential chance for her affection. If this would not win her, 
 nothing could. I went to Rome, and remained there some 
 time, as you know. When I had gained the favour I heard 
 from Louise. My efforts made no impression on her, except, 
 indeed, that she upbraided me for lack of zeal in being so slow. 
 That severed the last link which bound my hopes to her. It 
 became of small consequence whether she liked or disliked me, 
 and I felt freed from a nightmare of ignominy to be dependent 
 no longer. The man understood my position better. He wrote 
 to me, and I need fear him no more. Then I came to Florence 
 and met you." 
 
 He looked full at Bethesda with an indescribable expression 
 of gratitude. Her eyes were wide with pain, her cheeks were 
 flushed, her hair pushed back as it had been from an uncon- 
 scious gesture of distress. She had been leaning forward in a 
 listening intentness, but now she rose. 
 
 For an instant she lingered by Renews chair. He felt her 
 brooding over him with a tenderness of overwhelming pity. 
 
 " My pool of Be'thesda," he said, in a very low tone. 
 
 An irradiation as of white light crossed her features. It 
 flashed and disappeared, and she went quickly away. 
 
 Rene* d'Isten always held that he had seen the gleam of an 
 angel's wing reflected in her face. 
 
 K
 
 130 BETHESDA. [i'ART I. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " In Godhead rise, thither flow back 
 All loves, which, as they keep or lack, 
 In their return, the course assigned 
 Are virtue or sin. " COVENTRY PATMORB. 
 
 " The light and darkness in our chaos joined, 
 What shall divide? The God within the mind. " POPE. 
 
 THE change this culminating confidence made in the mutual 
 relations of all three was unmistakable ; and yet, to an outsider, 
 it might have seemed to have had no effect. It was only a 
 question of delight when Bethesda and Rene* were together; 
 when they were apart doubts came. 
 
 Rend felt deeply that the sorrows of his life were being 
 compensated. His fate had been accepted when it was hardest ; 
 now, when it was rendered brilliant and beautiful by the glad 
 devotion of a pure heart, he put from him all thought of regret. 
 This impotent emotion, indeed, experience had long since taught 
 him to look upon as deplorable weakness, and he was not going 
 to be weak, no, far from it. He would be unlike other 
 men. 
 
 This was what whetted his resolution not to let his heart 
 gain ascendency over his head, which he was very well aware 
 was the tendency of such close sympathy as now subsisted 
 between himself and Bethesda. He had no doubt of his power 
 to control himself. His life had taught him to crush all buds 
 of passion before they were large enough to enervate his strength, 
 and he thought he could trust himself without any danger in 
 the society of this woman who each hour made him feel more 
 blessed. 
 
 In looking back he could hardly believe his fate had been 
 at last so kind to him. Long ago he had been forced to 
 relinquish the thought of seeing his ideal realised. Not alone 
 his unfortunate marriage, but also his contact with a frivolous 
 and desecrated society, had made such visions seem baseless 
 and impossible. He had never lost sight of his dreams ; in 
 fact, his marriage, in throwing him back on himself so completely 
 as it had done, restored them with only more radiant colouring ; 
 but he had learned to regard them as poetic fancies, not to be
 
 CHAP. XIV.] DEVELOPMENT. 131 
 
 found living and treading the pathways of this world. Then, 
 in the midst of his shattered anticipations, which he regarded 
 with resignation ; in the midst of a society he despised ; in the 
 most barren period of his life, appeared his vision, incarnate, 
 and he was allowed to enter her intimacy. 
 
 He was the first ; the first who had been able to sway her ; 
 the first that had conquered her from herself; the "first who 
 had known how to cross the mystic stream about her impregnable 
 castle and claim a welcome from its regal inmate. 
 
 And Bethesda, meantime, had not an even 'dim conception 
 of where she was being led. While Rene' was fortifying him- 
 self, realising at least somewhat of the strength of the test he 
 was undergoing, Bethesda had not dreamed of there being any 
 test. She knew, of course, that such union of minds as this 
 might become, would probably, in other circumstances, mean 
 union of hearts as well. " But," she thought, quite simply, 
 " the possibility of this with us is precluded ;" never thinking 
 that circumstances are like straw, to be burned by passion or 
 whirled away by the wind of free-will. 
 
 Her life, however, was now a turrnoiL The fires beneath 
 were making the straw crackle, and hot springs bubble up 
 through the cool waters of innocence and purity. She would 
 kneel in the window till her brain refused longer to think, and 
 she threw herself on the bed, to awaken late in the morning 
 with a jubilant sense that the hour drew near when she should 
 again see Rene", and all questioning would be at rest ; at 
 least until she was again delivered to the solitary midnight 
 battle. 
 
 And Mrs. Trescott thought that it might be a second Dante 
 and Beatrice, and still half reluctantly consented. The two did 
 not meet except .in Mabel's presence ; but with the unveiling of 
 the secret which had separated them like a phantom during all 
 their previous intercourse, the most complete confidence was 
 established. Truly Rend told Be'thesda all. Each minute 
 circumstance that he could describe, every unimportant incident, 
 found a listening ear, an unbounded sympathy, and a proper 
 place in the annals of his life. This was the excuse which 
 accounted for the transference of absolute knowledge from him 
 to her, not alone of circumstances and intentions, but faults 
 and penitent confessions. She became quite literally his con- 
 science.
 
 132 BETHESDA. fi'AiiT i. 
 
 It has been well said that we expect one faculty to do the 
 work of another in mental and moral life. Especially in regard 
 to the functions of reason and conscience do we make this mis- 
 take. The conscience " is not alone expected to enforce doing 
 what is right, but to decide what the right is." Now this Avas 
 precisely Bethesda's fault. She looked to her conscience as the 
 leader of morality its judge instead of its executor. She 
 referred her daily life, and the lives of those with whom she 
 came in contact, to her conscience instead of her reason. The 
 latter was utterly untaught. Mrs. Trescott had in many ways 
 a high disdain for pure reason, and was apt to apply the term 
 " reasonable " to anything she wished to do, and the term 
 " unreasonable " to that which any one else wished to do in 
 conflict with her desires. 
 
 But fortunately reason does not consist of this fluctuating 
 quantity. It is the one absolute principle which thrones itself 
 above all others, and judges with accurate impartiality. It is 
 this which condemns our dearest desires, and makes us trample 
 them under foot to reach to the footstool of majestic virtue. 
 It is this to which we must cleave with our utmost tenacity, 
 and an ever-exercised strength, if we would not slip into igno- 
 rance, superstition, and error. Conscience is but its servant and 
 "ready sentinel." It enforces what has been commanded, and 
 reads the decree of reward and punishment. Bethesda was 
 trying to make it do its supreme lord's work, and, of course, she 
 signally failed. 
 
 Rene' d'Isten had, if possible, still less apprehension of this 
 high king, except as a recognised authority corroborated his 
 decisions. He had been educated in the Roman Catholic 
 Church, which is the destroyer of personal intercourse between 
 reason and humanity, and the dictator of uncomprehending 
 obedience. Rene' d'Isten's nature was, moreover, peculiarly 
 obedient. Wherever he gave confidence he gave obedience 
 to the Church, to France, to his father, and now to Be'thesda. 
 
 She was learning rapidly that what she said he did, what 
 she suggested he executed, what she affirmed he believed. It 
 was a terrible responsibility. Her conscience, weakened by a 
 tacit disobedience, and without any strength of reason behind 
 it, faltered more and more often under the double burden. But 
 this was only in the hours when she was solitary and despondent. 
 Her conscience was strong enough to execute what her reason
 
 CHAP, xiv.] COMING EVENTS. 133 
 
 knew to be right one step ahead ; but she wished to see the 
 whole road, and where it led, before she went against the rock 
 that seemed to bar her path the rock of an entire relinquish- 
 ment of Rene' and the consequences of such a step to him. 
 
 When she was with him, however, they mutually felt the 
 support of good intentions, and the self-control they constantly 
 practised. The difference between them lay in this : when 
 Rene" was away from Bethesda he was planning how he could 
 advance and not have it seem wrong to her; when she was 
 away from him she was trying to brace herself to the effort 
 of receding step by step, so that Rene' should not "feel 
 hurt." 
 
 Her forces were divided ; his, firm to one purpose. Need 
 it be said that he always won 1 
 
 One of his last steps was this : 
 
 They were talking about the correspondence. The steamer 
 tickets had been bought that day, and it made the time of 
 separation seem very near. Rend was planning, in his usual 
 orderly way, how often, and on what days, he would write. 
 
 " I shall be exactly regular," he said. " Twice a week I 
 shall send you letters. If they do not arrive, you may know 
 the steamer is late." 
 
 " What a devoted correspondent I shall have ! " exclaimed 
 Mabel. " I must admit, I am glad the necessity of answering 
 will not lie all on me." 
 
 Rend made some light reproach, but immediately relapsed 
 into his former preoccupation. Without a word having been 
 said between him and Bethesda on the subject in his mind, he 
 knew they were thoroughly of accord. Her petite mine melan- 
 cholique, which always fascinated Rend, was deepened this 
 evening into actual sadness ; for there hung over her the shadow 
 of a speedy departure from Europe, and, more than all Europe, 
 as she dimly realised, from her mind's companion. 
 
 There was a little silence, then Mabel exclaimed : 
 
 " Well, what is it, Rend ? You look as if you were ponder- 
 ing about a conspiracy." 
 
 " Not a conspiracy," was the quick reply, " for you are in 
 it; and you, we well know, would never be in a conspiracy. 
 But, if you will allow me, Madame Mabelle, I will tell you what 
 I was thinking." 
 
 " Out with it ! " she cried. " Of course you want some-
 
 134 BETHESDA. [PART I. 
 
 thing. I know your clever ways, and your cajoling ' Madame 
 Mabelle!"' 
 
 She imitated him quite successfully, and there was some 
 merry laughter before Rend resumed : 
 
 " I was querying whether it would not be better for me to 
 address you one letter, and mademoiselle the second. It might 
 be better understood." 
 
 He waited to see the effect of this hint on a delicate subject 
 before proceeding further. This matter, and one other, were 
 the only remaining points to be gained ; then the affair would 
 be between him and Esda, and therefore absolutely safe. He 
 watched Mrs. Trescott with a veiled intentness, remarking with 
 satisfaction that Bethesda had assumed the same attitude. 
 
 Mabel, however skilfully the question had been insinuated, 
 felt its importance ; but her energetic opposition was sapped by 
 that last sentence. What, indeed, would they think at home 1 
 Her impetuous refusal was checked on her very lips. 
 
 She glanced somewhat helplessly from one to the other of her 
 companions. Beth could not resist this appeal. At the very 
 moment that Mabel faltered: "I don't know I don't like it 
 but " Beth exclaimed : 
 
 "The letters are to be half for me in any case, auntie, and 
 if it is to make questions, I would much prefer being open and 
 frank about it. You would too, auntie. You always say so." 
 
 " Yes, but then " She stopped again, her usual ready 
 
 flow of speech checked by this misery of public opinion. 
 
 "You are, of course, to do entirely as you judge best, 
 madame," said Rend gently. "It rests with you to decide. 
 
 But I should think if you both received letters " He 
 
 paused judiciously. 
 
 "Well, well ! " exclaimed Mabel in some impatience. "Do 
 as you choose. After all. that is the frank way, and I hate 
 nothing so much as concealment." 
 
 Rene', having gained his point, now exerted himself to lead 
 conversation and thoughts away from it, and it was not until the 
 next evening that his final attack began. 
 
 It was introduced by Mrs. Trescott herself. 
 
 "I have been thinking, Rend," she said, at a time when 
 Bethesda was busied at the other side of the room, "about the 
 correspondence between you and Beth. It is right enough that 
 she should receive her letters openly. It would be wrong for
 
 CHAP, xiv.] A LESSON. 135 
 
 her to receive them at all if that were not the case ; but of 
 course the letters are all to be seen by me." 
 
 " That is for your niece to say, madame ; not me. I 
 would not dream of dictating her actions in however slight 
 a matter." . 
 
 " Beth, come here ! " called Mrs. Trescott rather sharply. 
 " I must have this affair well understood. In your correspond- 
 ence with Rend I shall expect to see all the letters. I cannot 
 permit it otherwise. You understand ? " 
 
 The tone was aggressive and harsh. Bethesda would always 
 have fired at it, now she sprang into defiance. 
 
 " I have always been in the habit of showing you my letters, 
 Aunt Mabel, but it has been entirely at my own option, and I 
 decline to allow it now to be compelled." 
 
 " Then I refuse to let you two correspond ! " 
 
 Rend took up a book from the table, and, as he did so, just 
 perceptibly brushed- Bethesda's hand. The touch recalled her 
 lessons in tact and self-control. She steadied herself, both 
 physically and mentally ; she stepped back to an inward support 
 before she lifted her eyes to her aunt's face, and said calmly : 
 
 "Why, Aunt Mabel?" 
 
 " Because this is a dangerous affair," burst out Mabel ; 
 " because your only safeguard, to either and both of you, is to 
 have no secrecy ; because gunpowder is most dangerous when it 
 is confined, and the only way for you to be saved from imminent 
 peril is to have everything open ; otherwise you will be com- 
 promised, otherwise " 
 
 Bethesda laid her hand closely over Mabel's nervous fingers, 
 and said in a voice of concentrated dignity : 
 
 " Pray, don't speak so. I never refused to let you see my 
 letters ; I only refused to be coerced. There is no call for me 
 to change a lifelong habit now." 
 
 " Then it is understood that there will be no letters pass 
 between you which I shall not read ? " 
 
 Mabel looked with still fiery eyes from one to the other, as 
 they stood side by side. Rend waited for Bethesda to speak, 
 and she replied in a firm voice : 
 
 " Understood as it always has been ; no more." 
 
 "Madame," said Rend, leaning forward, "I am sure you 
 understand that no letter I would write to Bdthesda could she 
 object to have you see ; but pray remember, dear madame, that
 
 136 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 our compact is singular ; and that between two writers, between 
 Be'thesda and Be'thesda, there might be much written which you 
 would not care to see." 
 
 " It isn't the caring I think about," exclaimed Mabel, speak- 
 ing no longer sharply; "you know I don't speak from that 
 motive. It is only my desire to save you two from the greatest 
 danger." She underlined these woTds with the full weight of 
 her emphatic voice. " The very fact of knowing your letters 
 are to be seen by a third person will probably avert it. You 
 need to take every precaution, I tell you. The risks of your 
 position cannot be exaggerated." 
 
 "You are quite right, no doubt, madame," said Rene' 
 gravely. " It might be a dangerous position for many. For 
 us, with you to advise, its danger can be easily avoided." 
 
 Bethesda moved a little away. He felt that his secure 
 words reassured her, even to herself. 
 
 "See," he continued, "we will do this, will we not, 
 Be'thesda 1 Madame Mabelle shall rest assured that, when you 
 return to America, she shall see all the letters I send you ; and 
 she shall agree yes, madame ? that our Be'thesda pages shall 
 be ours alone, even as they are here." 
 
 " Until they are published," added Beth innocently. 
 
 To this Mabel finally consented. 
 
 " I don't feel as if I ought," she said, " but I trust you two 
 so completely, that you can do anything with me. I never did 
 have a firm nature. I could always be coaxed out of anything 
 not really wrong." 
 
 The next morning, however, Mabel went to Beth's room 
 early, with a very sober countenance. 
 
 "Beth," she said, plunging in medias res, "I have been 
 thinking nearly all night, and I want you to go to London." 
 
 Bethesda was about to exclaim, but restrained herself. 
 Mabel went on : 
 
 " You see, matters between you and Rene* are maturing 
 fast. It is some time yet before we sail. I can't see where 
 this will end, and neither can you. If you go away now, nothing 
 further can happen. Evra will be delighted beyond measure 
 to see you ; I will stay here and finish our shopping, and you 
 will relieve me of great anxiety." 
 
 "What has made you so suddenly wish this, Aunt Mabel 1" 
 asked Bethesda, in a reticent tone.
 
 CHAP, xiv.] WORDS WORDS WORDS. 137 
 
 " Because every hour makes me more anxious. I am afraid 
 you two are walking into what you don't know. I am sure he 
 already loves you, Beth, and you may, if you stay, love him." 
 
 Bethesda did not start nor speak, but her face faded slowly 
 to a bloodless gray. 
 
 " I am afraid, my dear, dear little girl, I am afraid that you 
 are sowing seeds of misery for your whole life. How can I ever 
 forgive myself if your young and lovely and promising life should 
 be blasted in its bud, and through my agency 1 It is a terrible 
 risk to run; terrible for me as well as you, darling. Do go 
 away while the harm is yet undone." 
 
 " You think he loves me," said Bethesda, in an intensely 
 suppressed tone. " Why do you ?" 
 
 " Everything shows it, dear ; all his actions, all his words, 
 all his looks. I don't think it will harm him, or be anything 
 but happiness to him. He has nothing to lose, and every- 
 thing to gain. But you, dearie, you have all to lose, and 
 nothing to gain. It would break my heart if you should be 
 unhappy." 
 
 " I shall not be ; don't fear for me, auntie. But do you 
 suppose you are surely right *? Do you think he recognises it 
 himself?" 
 
 " He may, and he may not ; I can't say. Oh, if he were 
 only unmarried, how happy I should be to do everything to 
 favour this ! You are made for one another ; it would have 
 been a perfect 
 
 "Hush, auntie, please," said Bethesda, in a tone of unen- 
 durable pain. 
 
 "Now, perhaps it will be hard for you to marry, my 
 darling." 
 
 Bethesda tried to recover herself. 
 
 " I probably never would have married," she said. 
 
 She moved away the length of the room, and then turned 
 with a sudden flash in her eyes : 
 
 " Aunt Mabel, I can't believe in this supposition of yours ! 
 You have mistaken him, as you have me." 
 
 " I know he loves you, Beth, and you may love him. Do 
 go to London, dear." 
 
 " There is no necessity for it, at least not with me. I still 
 think you may be mistaken in him as well." 
 
 " If he should swear he did not love you, I would know
 
 138 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 better ! I have not lived as long as I have for nothing. But 
 his loving you I don't mind. He is honourable, and worthy of 
 the confidence I place in him. It undoubtedly makes him 
 happier ; he shows it in every fibre of body and mind. But 
 you, darling, are growing thin and tired -looking. Your sym- 
 pathies are too strongly excited, and this emotional atmosphere 
 is bad for you. It will be a rest to you to go away." 
 
 " To Evra? She would kill me !" cried Beth involuntarily. 
 " Besides, there isn't any need, auntie. If you are only afraid 
 for me, and think the joy will outweigh the pain for him, why, 
 I will certainly stay. I can assure you there is no need of 
 doing otherwise on my account." 
 
 " It would relieve me immensely if you would go away." 
 
 "You need not be anxious about me; but, to make you 
 quite easy, I will say this : If I feel the necessity of going to 
 London, I will do so without your asking me." 
 
 "That is a promise. Well, that does relieve me, for I 
 know you are only anxious to do right ; and I am glad for you 
 to have all the pleasure you can, and not take pain with it." 
 
 Mrs. Trescott left her then, but all day, through dressmakers' 
 chatter and clerks' prices and praises, the conflicting thoughts 
 Mabel had brought uppermost in her mind haunted Bethesda 
 like double and confusing shadows. What one would say, the 
 other would contradict ; what one would insist upon as the 
 absolute necessity, the other would assert to be needless and 
 silly. 
 
 She looked forward to the luncheon -table to decide the 
 question. Then she would see him, and each minute action 
 should be scrutinised. If he loved her, she ought to go away. 
 Ought she? Why not leave it to him, since it was his happi- 
 ness or unhappiness which was concerned 1 To herself, she did 
 not lend a thought. Even when her aunt had pressed it home 
 she had hardly thought of herself. That it would, of course, be 
 happier for her to stay she never doubted. The only question 
 was : Would it be right to him ? 
 
 Before entering the luncheon room she stopped to lay aside 
 her things, and caught sight of her face in the glass. Its pallor 
 and fatigue startled her; there were great rings around her 
 eyes, which seemed burning in their sockets. The fanciful 
 notion came to her that they were like inverted torches, with 
 ashes thick about them.
 
 CHAP, xiv.] UNCONSCIOUS REASONING. 139 
 
 She smiled at the fantastic idea, rubbed her cheeks hard to 
 rouse a little colour, and joined her aunt. 
 
 M. d'Isten was not there. She remembered, now, that he 
 had mentioned having an engagement at this time with one of 
 the ministers. She felt cold, and lonely, and dispirited. The 
 prolonged suspense seemed more than she could bear. If she 
 could have been set down in London that minute she believed 
 she would, just from weariness. But it was impossible for 
 her to decide if it were necessary for her to leave ; and, if not 
 necessary, why bring the pain sooner than must be 1 
 
 She went upstairs and found on the table a cluster of moss 
 roses, the stems held together by a ring Kens' had taken to have 
 made smaller for her. It was the one he had selected, and 
 which her aunt had given her on her last birthday. 
 
 The glowing ruby clasping the words, " Let not grass grow 
 on the path of friendship," seemed a direct answer to her doubts. 
 It made her glad and light-hearted, and, putting it on her finger, 
 she closed her hand softly over it, and so holding it on the sofa 
 a while later, she fell asleep. 
 
 Just before she awoke a dream came to her, short and vivid. 
 
 She went down, she dreamed, with a wrecked ship in mid- 
 ocean, but rising, caught the side of a raft, and was in compara- 
 tive safety. Then the raft began to crumble ; the waves broke 
 over her more and more. Suddenly a woman was tossed near, 
 and tried to catch the spar, too small, Bethesda knew, to save 
 more than one. At first she did not aid the woman, but allowed 
 her to have the same chance she herself had had ; then, with 
 a nobler impulse, stretched out her hand to assist her. The 
 drowning creature grasped it convulsively, and, in a moment, 
 shared her frail support. 
 
 But where had she seen that face 1 It fascinated her ; she 
 forgot everything in trying to solve the mystery. The woman 
 meantime, realising the raft could not save them both, and see- 
 ing Bethesda absorbed, gave her a sudden shove into the foaming 
 waves. And Bethesda, her mind now keenly clear, exclaimed : 
 Louise ! 
 
 She sank down, down into the green water, and the woman's 
 face, bent over the edge of the raft, followed her with wide-dis- 
 tended eyes. " He will hate me, hate me !" she cried despair- 
 ingly ; and Bethesda, still sinking, awoke.
 
 140 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " Love in thy heart like living waters rose, 
 Thine own self lost in the abounding flood ; 
 So that with thee, joy, comfort, thy life's good, 
 Thy youth's delight, thy beauty's freshest rose, 
 Were trash, thy unregretful bounty chose 
 Before loved feet, for softness, to be strewed. " 
 
 W. C. ROSCOE. 
 
 THE evening came and passed ; the dreaded meeting was over, 
 and her worries had slipped from her, leaving her light and glad. 
 Why worry about him 1 she asked herself. Women take so 
 much upon themselves ; they feel the weight of the universe, of 
 every man who likes them, upon their shoulders ! " They never 
 seem to remember," she exclaimed half aloud, her head defiantly 
 poised, " that men are also reasonable beings, quite able to take 
 care of themselves, probably much better than we could take 
 care of them at our best. Leave each his independence of 
 action, men as well as women ; let them decide what is right 
 for them, without question from us, and we the same. If we 
 carry our own trials worthily it is as much as we are able to do 
 often more ! " 
 
 She worried all night, however, in spite of her defiant words, 
 and at last resolved upon speaking to Kene' herself frankly, and 
 asking him to be strong with her in combating any equivocal 
 tendencies they might feel growing upon them. So she wrote 
 him a note, asking him to come to the parlour a moment. He 
 answered immediately in person, looking very grave, but with 
 the greatest consideration in his manner. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott had already gone out, and it was the first time 
 the two had met alone. He was well aware that it could only 
 be because of something Bethesda considered gravely important 
 that she would have asked him to come to her. 
 
 As he entered he took in the situation at once. She was 
 dressed for the street, and her hat lay upon the table. He saw 
 that she was similarly prepared to leave him, unless he could 
 set her anxieties at rest. 
 
 She was standing, and thanked him for coming so quickly 
 in a low, steady voice, which made him seat himself in the chair 
 to which she motioned him, ready to face the worst.
 
 CHAP, xv.] AN APPEAL. 141 
 
 There was a little pause, during which her hands clasped one 
 another closely, but in a moment she lifted her eyes and met 
 his bravely. 
 
 " I asked you to come here," she said, " because I feel that 
 we have not been doing quite right of late. I trust to you to 
 understand me. I wished to ask you to help me in never doing 
 anything which you could not repeat to your wife without em- 
 barrassment." 
 
 She stopped, and her breath came somewhat fast, but he did 
 not keep her in suspense. 
 
 " You know that whatever you wish is a command for me," 
 he said earnestly. " I shall do as you desire to the utmost of 
 my power." 
 
 " Thanks," she said, with a glance from clear eyes which 
 already repaid him for any sacrifice. " I was sure you would. 
 Auntie wished me to go to London, but I thought we could stay 
 together the short time that remained." 
 
 " Yes," he replied, not looking up now ; "we will be strong. 
 It must be. We cannot help that ; we must only strive to be 
 strong." 
 
 She did not understand all his meaning, but she knew that 
 her heart was crying out : Noble, noble Rend ! She had more 
 confidence in him than in herself. He was strong, and had the 
 habit of many self-controlled years upon him. But when she 
 saw him sad, his only opportunity for abandon cut off what 
 should she do then ? 
 
 Her eyes flashed to his face. It impressed her profoundly. 
 " I will follow his example !" she cried to herself; "I will be 
 brave, and pure, as he is." 
 
 " Monsieur," she said suddenly. " Will you tell your wife 
 openly of our compact and our friendship ? She should know 
 it all." 
 
 He hesitated just an instant ; then he said gravely : 
 
 " Since you think it best, I will." 
 
 "Ah, that takes a weight from one's heart ! " she cried. 
 
 She held out her hand to him with a frank gesture of grati- 
 tude, rising as she did so. 
 
 He also rose, and took her palm in his. 
 
 "Do not fear, Bdthesda," he said; "we will be strong." 
 
 He turned, bowed profoundly, and left her ; and she walked 
 away to the window, her hands pressed to her heart, which
 
 142 BETIIESDA. [PART i. 
 
 was in strange confusion, while her soul was relieved and 
 thankful. 
 
 Would she aid his wife, now, to ascend the breaking raft 1 
 Yes ; she believed she would, She could only try to make 
 herself worthy of him by all unselfish actions. 
 
 The following day was Sunday, and an atmosphere of 
 peace seemed to brood over Bethesda, strangely sweet after 
 the turmoil of the last days. She knew, too, whence it came. 
 The effort in the right direction brought its own reward. 
 A feeling of righteousness strengthened her to the fulfilment 
 of her resolve ; and her intercourse with Rend, chastened yet 
 constant, retained all its delight, without the sting of possible 
 wrong. 
 
 She won the others to her own feelings also. Mrs. Trescott, 
 to whom the interview and its results had been fully confided, 
 felt almost as much relieved as Bethesda. She thought the 
 earnest resolve of two such natures could not be without good 
 effect. And Rene", strongly influenced by Bethesda's dignified, 
 yet touching appeal, did as she had bidden him, and at least 
 followed where she led. 
 
 So to-day, spirit really seemed to be overcoming the laws of 
 nature, and the boon of peace descended upon them. 
 
 The hours winged their way slowly by, fragrant as the June 
 breeze ; still as a floating bird. In the morning they went across 
 the river to church, and, in the midst of holy pictures, with the 
 Gothic arches clasping hands in prayer above them, they listened 
 to High Mass. The intervals were mellowed by organs answer- 
 ing one another in rich harmony, that broadened and uplifted 
 their thoughts ; and, near by, the cooing of a happy child was 
 the sweetest of all the sounds. 
 
 Towards the end of the service the baby stretched out its 
 arms to Bethesda, and demanded imperiously to go to her. She 
 was not loath, and, once in her arms, the child became instantly 
 quieted by looking at her. She seemed to appeal to the little 
 one's affection, too, for presently it put a chubby hand softly 
 on her cheek. Bethesda caught the fingers to her lips and 
 pressed the tiny body close with a thrill of irrepressible feeling. 
 Involuntarily she glanced at Rend ; he was watching her with 
 curious and pitying eyes. He knew, and she knew then 
 that she would never hold thus a child of her own. 
 
 As they came out she turned from the church reluctantly.
 
 CIIAV. xv.] A DANGEROUS STEP. 143 
 
 " I never passed a happier hour," she said, " and it is our 
 last church going." 
 
 The next week they had planned to go to Versailles, and the 
 next to think of it ! they would have left Paris. 
 
 But this tranquillity was only the trembling stillness of a 
 spring when full to the brim, just ready to overflow, either 
 to sink into the ground or to go streaming down the hills. 
 The next day little signs and words were like the first trickling 
 drops ; the day after Bethesda was in the same perplexity, the 
 same half blind struggle for light and knowledge. 
 
 The same, and yet not the same; for the appeal she 
 had made and which had been answered, she was sure, in the 
 same earnestness of spirit that she had asked it, made her lean 
 with fuller reliance on the strength she had proved in Rene'. 
 She knew herself strong enough to go away, to .do anything she 
 could positively see to be right ; and she never doubted but that 
 he was conscious of the same. power of self-sacrifice to duty. 
 How could she doubt him when every event of his life had 
 evidenced his rectitude and nobility ? So at last she concluded 
 to ask him to tell her what to do. He could see, probably, 
 further than she ; he knew himself even better, and whatever he 
 said would surely be right. 
 
 She wrote a short note asking him if she should go to 
 London, and gave it to him when they met. She did not 
 mean to be underhand, but it would be easier for her to wait 
 until she knew his decision before she told her aunt. If he 
 said go, it would of course be instantly known ; if he said 
 stay, it would be the same as if she had not written, and the 
 subject was one on which she was glad to avoid unnecessary 
 agitation. 
 
 The evening passed with no disturbing elements. Rend 
 could not read the note until he had bidden them good-night, 
 but he was conscious of its presence, and suspected what it con- 
 tained. There was a perturbation in the girl's manner, an 
 almost pleading look in her eyes, which he interpreted aright. 
 But he was exceedingly careful not to frighten her. An in- 
 cessantly controlled tenderness, a surety of himself, quieted her 
 on. whichever side of her question she looked. Her confi- 
 dence grew as the evening proceeded. He would not send her 
 away ; of course not ; it was foolish in her to think of it. 
 
 But, once iu her room alone, with the charm of his presence
 
 144 r.ETliESDA. [PART I. 
 
 gone, and the heavens looking at her in their calm scrutiny, 
 she was no longer so sure. 
 
 She could not say then, or at any future time, why it was 
 that whenever she left Rend and entered her own room her first 
 impulse was to throw herself on to her knees. There she would 
 remain for hours. A few times dawn surprised her still kneeling, 
 still dressed. Once or twice she slept, her head pillowed on her 
 folded arms. 
 
 But to-night the eagerness to know, or at least to surmise, 
 what Rend would say, drove her up and down the room with 
 noiseless steps. She almost regretted having left him the de- 
 cision, and yet she had never relied upon him but he had proved 
 himself strong. So, after every wavering, she came back to the 
 thought that she could trust him. He would not send her away. 
 
 The night passed, as it did now more and more frequently, in 
 a slumber so light that not a breath was drawn unconsciously. 
 She awoke late, and there, under the door, was a letter. Her 
 breath fluttered on her lips. She could not reach out her hand 
 to touch this missive of fate. Must she go ? Or would he let 
 her stay 1 
 
 Finally suspense became unbearable ; any knowledge was 
 better. She tore it open and read. 
 
 It was not long, but it worked a transfiguration in Bethesda's 
 nature. 
 
 He had seized upon the unrecognised truth which had dictated 
 her note, and showed it in full stature to herself. What she had 
 not dreamed existed, he had exultingly seen. She was his now, 
 unmistakably. He knew it, if she did not ; and the sure 
 taking possession which fascinated her never hesitated. 
 
 " I hold thy two hands in mine," he wrote, " and bid thcc 
 stay. I rejoice that when an angel troubled the waters of thy 
 virgin heart I, unlike the afflicted man who waited for years 
 beside the pool in far-off Galilee, am able to step first into the 
 sacred waters, and come forth restored and glad. Ah, now my 
 name has a new significance ! I am truly reborn, through the 
 miracle of thy maiden nature stirred for me alone. 
 
 " Fear not, Bdthesda, and be not sad. We shall be always 
 together. The breadth of the earth, and the oceans, of heaven 
 itself, cannot divide us now." 
 
 Why, indeed, should she go away 1 Not distance, or time, or
 
 CHAP, xvi.] THE GOLDEN AGE. 145 
 
 eternity could alter this truth. She loved him ! The whole 
 world might marvel ; they stood side by side, above the world, 
 above circumstances, above man, and the devil. They were 
 supreme, and united by the divine law of Love. 
 
 And she ? Why, the sunshine danced, and the wind was 
 full of thrilling melody, and every atom was quivering with joy 
 like the air on a heated hill-top. There was no more perplexity, 
 nor trouble, nor sorrow. The golden age had come. All the 
 leaves were of pure silver, and the flowers priceless gems ; the 
 very dust was precious, and the rain a diamond shower. How 
 glad the world was ! there was no unhappiness anywhere ; and 
 what supreme happiness was hers ! And oh, poor auntie, who 
 had lost, perhaps, even such delight ! What would she, Bethesda, 
 do if she should lose it 1 But she would not, she could not. All 
 the peculiar circumstances that had brought her and Kene" 
 together could not occur twice, and his existence was now com- 
 plete ; he himself had said it ! All else would be superfluous. 
 And for herself t Well, he trusted her, and he knew her mar- 
 vellously well. She made no vows, but she thought he was not 
 mistaken. They would trust one another. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " What the law of nature is in regard to matter the moral law is to 
 man." 
 
 " Above all right and duty is love, leading lover and beloved to the 
 pure unfolding of their natures. Woe to those who desecrate its divine 
 mission. " AUERBACH. 
 
 PERIODS of happiness are, they say, blank pages in history. 
 Who indeed can describe the processes of growth, the blossom- 
 ing of a plant, the details of a sunrise ? Infinitesimal atoms 
 meet and coalesce and vibrate and increase, and after a long 
 period we perceive a colour. The vibrations quicken and inten- 
 sify, and another hue becomes sensible to us. But who can 
 trace the changing ? who can see the subtle causes and the still 
 subtler effects ? Finally, when white light is achieved, what is 
 it but dazzling radiance before which our eyes fall, blurred, 
 blinded, well-nigh destroyed through excess of sight 1 
 
 Rend d'Isten was almost as much astounded as Bethesda at 
 the effulgent joy which now broke upon them. He had of late 
 
 L
 
 146 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 known it must come, and had anticipated it with a calmness 
 which left him all unprepared for the onslaught of rapture which 
 assailed him. It was fiercely encroaching ; it almost frightened 
 him, and yet it was with a delicious fear. He was loved at 
 last ; loved by the fairest woman he had ever seen ; loved by a 
 noble character and a fine intellect. He was, yes, surely, he 
 was content. 
 
 Bethesda was more ; she was radiantly and gloriously happy. 
 She asked nothing of life; existence had blossomed into its 
 rarest flower and placed it in her hand. She was awed by its 
 beauty ; she was well-nigh overpowered by its fragrance. Each 
 moment throbbed with a million hearts, which yet seemed incap- 
 able of containing her bliss. Her mind could not conceive its 
 extent ; her being could not contain it. Over the whole world 
 it spread, making her charitable, pitiful, tender to both joy and 
 sorrow. Love could not come to her nature without thrilling 
 its finest fibres. She began to understand what God's love 
 must be like, which enwraps the universe in its warm folds. 
 
 Transcendently happy as she was, it made her only more 
 commiserating to the trials of those not blessed as she was. 
 Her aunt, Evra, Louise, were all bathed in a flood of sympathy 
 for their deprivations. She could not be quite content unless 
 her happiness was made to serve others, and she floated down 
 from the heights of her ecstasy to do some trifling service for 
 Mrs. Trescott with a bounteous grace never seen in her before. 
 
 Of course Mrs. Trescott noticed the change, for Beth grew 
 more beautiful and stronger hour by hour. She never looked 
 tired now ; her steps seemed winged in their elastic freedom ; 
 her form had lovelier curves, her flesh a softer lustre. Her eyes, 
 thought Rene', were a shining iridescence of light over unknown 
 and half-revealed depths ; her mouth was embodied tenderness. 
 
 Mabel asked her one day what had happened to make her 
 so light-hearted ; were all her anxieties gone 1 
 
 11 Yes," Bethesda affirmed with absolute sincerity, " there is 
 nothing more to fear. It is all settled and sure, and oh ! so 
 restful ! I did not know it had been wearing on me until now 
 the weight is gone." 
 
 "How did it go, dear?" 
 
 "All of itself,. auntie," said Beth lightly. "I don't know 
 quite how. I only know it is all clear now, and do rejoice 
 with me ! I am so, so happy ! "
 
 CHAP, xvi.] ACQUIESCENCE. 147 
 
 And Mabel did rejoice with her. It lifted much weight 
 from Mrs. Trescott's objections to see her niece so radiant and 
 well. She knew that Rene' loved Bethesda, and strongly sus- 
 pected that the love was reciprocated, although not acknowledged 
 even to the girl's own heart ; and, desiring to give them as 
 much pleasure as they could have, allowed them to be together 
 a large portion of the time. They were happy now, she argued, 
 and if the cost were large, it was too late not to pay it, and 
 there was all the more reason why they should take its full 
 value while they might. 
 
 Rene*, knowing all, could not comprehend Mrs. Trescott's 
 actions. He was aware that Bethesda had not told her aunt 
 of the two notes, for he had gently insinuated the prudence of 
 letting matters rest, and Bethesda was only too ready to do so. 
 It was hardly ten days now before they left, and she had no 
 doubt, no acknowledged doubt, but that her aunt, after a due 
 amount of persuasion, would consent to this, as she had to all 
 the rest. Her aunt could see all if she chose ; neither of them 
 tried to conceal their spontaneous actions; and since Mrs. 
 Trescott did not speak, she probably did not positively either 
 approve or disapprove. 
 
 Oftener and oftener now midnight found the three still 
 together, and when one night, in some veiled surprise, Beth 
 referred to their changed habits, Mabel said : 
 
 " It is not often that such pleasant hours come in life, and 
 I believe in taking the fulness of enjoyment from them while 
 they last. I don't care to sit up late just for the idea of it, 
 but when there is anything that makes it worth while, no one 
 is readier than I am to let time slip by unnoticed." 
 
 " You are a dear auntie ! " 
 
 " Am 1 1 Well, we are enjoying ourselves now, and on the 
 steamer we can makeup lost sleep when Rene' is no more with us." 
 
 "And what will I be doing then?" asked Rend, a trifle 
 reproachfully. 
 
 " Oh, you'll have the peace to make with all your friends," 
 said Mrs. Trescott. " How many of them have you neglected 1 
 you, who used always to leave us at ten to attend to social 
 duties ! Do you remember that evening when you were going 
 to some state affair and came in here just to show yourself in 
 all your orders, and then never went after all ? Tell me you 
 won't have plenty to do in conciliating everybody ! "
 
 148 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 " I will succeed," he answered confidently. " My friends 
 now think I am writing a book. They ask me each day how 
 it progresses. I tell them : Well, very well" 
 
 He smiled at Bethesda, and there was a merry peal of 
 laughter. 
 
 " When you go away I shall have finished my first volume. 
 Some will be eager to see it, but I shall make them wait until 
 it is published. You see I shall be quite frank." 
 
 " I wish you would be frank about everything," said Mabel, 
 a little soberly. 
 
 " And are we not, madame ? Our companionship is as open 
 as the daylight. We need not intrude details on all the world, 
 but if they look they can see." 
 
 " Yes ; I suppose that is true. As long as our consciences 
 are clear we need not inquire the opinions of others. If there 
 is one thing I detest it is pandering to public opinion ! Life 
 early took that weakness out of me." 
 
 " I don't know," said Bethesda, a trifle wistfully. " I like 
 the good opinion of every one. We were said in Florence, Rene', 
 to be the only foreign women about whom there was no gossip. 
 That gratified me exceedingly, I confess." 
 
 Rene' glanced at her with just a tinge of possible remorse. 
 But the present was her own choice, and every moment bore 
 witness to her happiness in it. 
 
 Often now Rend brought some manuscript for Bethesda to 
 criticise to the parlour in the mornings, and as Mrs. Trescott 
 was generally home, occupied with milliners and dressmakers, 
 but still affording chaperonage, he was gladly invited in. Then 
 they would take refuge in the deep embrasure of the window, 
 near which was the desk, and spend many happy hours oblivious 
 of the chatter and bargaining going on without their charmed 
 retreat. 
 
 Sometimes, in the interims, when the room would be for a 
 few moments empty, Rend would press his lips to Bethesda's 
 firm hand, now lying relaxed on the desk. Once his moustache 
 brushed her hair as he looked over a paper she held, and it 
 made her curiously faint. A few days before they left, in pick- 
 ing up a fallen book, the lithe man kissed her foot. 
 
 She started back at that, and looked at him with large eyes. 
 His face was glowing. He stood very close to her and whis- 
 pered :
 
 CHAP, xvi.] A LIGHTNING FLASH. 149 
 
 " I thought I never should abase myself to kiss a woman's 
 foot, but I am proud to kiss yours." 
 
 She moved away, not with coyness, nor indignation, but 
 a feeling of solemn responsibility seizing her heart. Here 
 was her woman's work, here duty was clear and imperative. 
 She must leave him while he was in this state ; but he must 
 understand it was not anger, only rebuke. She turned when 
 she reached her door and gave him a glance. 
 
 He darted after her as a needle to its magnet ; but she was 
 too quick for him. With a leap of the heart which nearly 
 stunned her she was in her room, and the door was close shut. 
 
 Then she fell on her knees and, for a moment, lost con- 
 sciousness. The gnawing pain in her heart roused her. She 
 did not mind it ; it was sweet to her. Was she not bearing it 
 for him 1 
 
 "Any other pleasures are not worth love's pains ;" and this 
 is true even of corporeal pains. The terror Bethesda had always 
 had of the disease which had killed her mother faded away in 
 the desire to prove herself, by fire and sword, worthy of her 
 love. 
 
 Here was now a palpable test. She who had been blind to 
 nature before suddenly awakened to its terrible force. In her 
 hands lay the controlling and guiding power of her own and 
 another's soul. She must, indeed, now, be his conscience ; and 
 to be this she must follow her own. Their love, their life, their 
 rectitude, depended upon her. The awful responsibility came 
 near crushing her as she contemplated it and felt her weakness, 
 felt the omnipotence this other will held over hers, and that, 
 in its despite, she must save them both. 
 
 While she was dressing for dinner, a couple of hours after- 
 wards, a white missive came under her door. Not a step was 
 to be heard, but there it lay, and presently she stooped to lift it. 
 
 He had probably realised the delicacy of their position, and 
 had written some apology. 
 
 She opened and read it, and the announcement of dinner 
 came while she still stared at the glowing epistle. The words 
 should have been traced in flame to express either the feelings 
 of writer or receiver. For it was not an apology in the least. 
 It was a revelling in imaginative visions, which wounded 
 Bethesda to the quick. 
 
 " Perhaps I should have gone to London," she murmured,
 
 150 BETHESDA. [VAIIT i. 
 
 as she held the letter to the caudle flame. " Perhaps I have 
 hurt him, been a temptress to him, my noble, pure Rene" !" 
 
 There was something of the mother's regret in her tone, of 
 the mother's forgiving solicitude. She would save him from 
 himself. 
 
 A swift knock came at the parlour door. Ren had called 
 for them to go down to dinner. She waited until she heard 
 her aunt come out, and then joined them, keeping close beside 
 Mrs. Trescott. 
 
 Rene' instantly saw she was grieved, and took the hint she 
 had given. He devoted himself to Madame Mabelle the whole 
 evening. He directed all his conversation to her, not neglecting 
 Bethesda, nor altering his manner enough for her aunt to notice 
 it ; and contriving, in an inimitable manner, to surround 
 Bethesda with a sense of entire submission to her will. 
 
 What with this quick yielding, and discriminating devotion, 
 her heart relented. She thought she had misjudged him. That 
 she should be in fault here ! It was too cruelly mortifying ; she 
 would never forgive herself. 
 
 So when they separated, a little earlier than common, he 
 understood that his peace was made. 
 
 A couple of hours later M. d'Isten came down the stairs 
 lightly. He could not sleep; indeed, he had not tried, but 
 since leaving the ladies had sat at his window watching the 
 movement of the river silvered by the moon. 
 
 What had been his thoughts during that long reverie ? Not 
 he himself could say. His mind was usually clear and precise 
 even in silence ; but to-night it was different. He was letting 
 his memory slip back and his imagination sweep forwards with- 
 out any attempt to control either. He was in that dangerous 
 state termed drifting. 
 
 Whither had the imperceptible waves carried him that he 
 should now descend to the lower hall, and cast on the dim out- 
 line of familiar surroundings an eager as well as pensive glance ? 
 Had the quiet quadrangle, with its closed doors and blank walls, 
 taken the place of those inexorable banks which imprisoned the 
 creeping waves ? Or was he simply indulging a fancy for pacing 
 up and down a larger space than his room afforded on this 
 dreamy summer night *? 
 
 He had made several slow turns, and was lingering in the 
 window to breathe the cool night air, when his attention was
 
 CHAP. XVI.] DREAMS. 151 
 
 called into sudden action by a sound in the room near which he 
 stood. The door noiselessly opened, and, hiding himself behind 
 the heavy curtains, he could see a slight figure in trailing white 
 draperies go quickly along the hall to the parlour where he had 
 passed so many delicious hours. 
 
 The door yielded to her hand, and she went in, leaving it 
 ajar. From Renews position he could see her cross the room 
 and go to the desk where they so often consulted together. 
 Paper after paper she took out and glanced over by the brilliant 
 moonlight. The attitudes she assumed, clearly cut against the 
 soft radiance, were exquisite. Once or twice, with the little 
 impatient gesture that was delightfully familiar to him, she 
 tossed the mantle of her hair aside, and in falling its duskiness 
 caught golden gleams that made it seem alive. Once in the 
 midst of her search she stood quite still. He knew she was 
 troubled. Was she thinking of him 1 grieving over something 
 he had said or done, or something he had failed to say or do 1 
 
 Finally she shut the desk with the same caution that had 
 guarded all her movements. Was she going back to her cham- 
 ber now, to sleep, to dream ? 
 
 The perturbed watcher took a step forward in the compara- 
 tive darkness caused by the closing of the door, but instantly 
 shrank back. She had hesitated a moment, and was now 
 coming to the very place where he stood. 
 
 He drew the draperies closer about him. The sound of her 
 garments on the wooden floor was the only one to be heard. 
 The hum of the city sank into abeyance ; the wind was suddenly 
 still. 
 
 The man had a remarkable capacity for blotting himself out, 
 of which he now made use to the uttermost, and the volumin- 
 ous window-hangings aided him so successfully that there was 
 not a thought in Bethesda's mind of any one being nearer than 
 her aunt as she stepped into the embrasure. 
 
 The moon shone here also, and he could see, in illuminated 
 distinctness, the soft pallor of her face and the tremulous curves 
 of her mouth. She was thinking of him, surely; she was 
 grieving with virgin sorrow over their inevitable separation ; 
 listening, in the silence of night, to the moan nature made deep 
 beneath the brave spirit which accepted a maimed lot as un- 
 rivalled happiness. 
 
 Lovely, beloved Esda ! her lot was joined to his, to his
 
 152 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 unhappy destiny. Perhaps for the first time he let a feeling of 
 bitterness towards Louise rise unchecked. That her weakness 
 and petty ambition should have ruined the perfect union these 
 two might have made ! 
 
 But that was all past an irrevocable past, and he was 
 going to be "unlike other men." 
 
 "Ma chere, belle France !" murmured Bethesda. 
 
 She had been standing quite still, her eyes wandering from 
 the sky and trees to those smooth links which had fascinated 
 Rene' a while ago. Now he was fascinated in another way. 
 At her low exclamation his heart beat tumultuously ; he feared 
 she would hear its quick throb. Would her sensitive ear allow 
 him to escape undiscovered t He hardly dared to breathe. 
 
 But she was absorbed in her own dreams. She did not 
 hear the hurried heart-beats so near her own ; she did not feel 
 the short breaths that almost touched her cheek ; but, peculiarly 
 open to sympathetic influences as she was, she did feel the 
 magnetism of his presence. She moved a trifle, and leaned 
 against the casement within a few inches of his breast. Her 
 face was turned away ; she was so close that he could not see 
 her figure, but only looked down upon her soft hair and brow. 
 
 He dared not look ! One slight movement would enfold her 
 in his arms, and not reluctantly, perhaps ! That unconscious 
 yielding to his presence ! it was maddening ! 
 
 A long shudder passed over him, and his eyes closed. 
 
 The woman started upright. Had she heard anything, 
 felt anything 1 He did not know ; he could not care. 
 
 He did not see her scan the enclosure with a swift glance, 
 nor witness the trembling of an uncomprehended fear, but he 
 heard an uneasy half laugh, half sigh, as she moved quickly away. 
 
 When he again opened his eyes everything was dim. A 
 cloud had come over the moon, and the darkness was empty and 
 chill. 
 
 He had to feel his way upstairs. He did not once look 
 behind him. Perhaps he, too, was afraid of ghosts.
 
 CHAP, xvn.] EETEEAT. 153 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 "Love is found to consist in the marriage of true minds, in a mutual 
 surrender, in a mental correspondence, on which, in spite of time and death, 
 constancy stamps the seal of immortality, and completeness impresses the 
 semblance of infinitude." SIMPSON'S Phil, of Shakespeare's Sonnets. 
 
 " There may be men who take every moral height at a dash ; but to 
 the most of us there must come moments when our wills can but just 
 rise and walk in their sleep." GEO. W. CABLE. 
 
 THE next morning when M. d'Isten entered the parlour, he saw 
 in an instant that Bethesda, sitting in the bay window, was, 
 if not angry, subdued. He immediately crossed over to her 
 and held out his hand. 
 
 " Bon jour, Be'thesda," he said, with a persuasive smile. 
 
 She did not refuse him her hand, but as the cold fingers 
 lay in his she said low : 
 
 " I must speak with you." 
 
 He was alarmed by her manner, and with his usual skill 
 had in a few moments arranged an excuse for a tete-d-tete. 
 
 " Behold me at your orders," he said then gravely, standing 
 before her. She motioned him to a chair, and in a low voice 
 began abruptly : 
 
 "Your letter yesterday made me sad, Rene'. Even in 
 imagination we must not go too far. Thought is free, you 
 say ; yes, it is free, and therefore it should be so guided as to 
 bring us the truest happiness. I am afraid we are both falling 
 away from our first conception of this compact : A uniting of 
 minds whose only aim was literary development." 
 
 "That was all," he said in a tone between a question 
 and a reproach, while he watched her keenly. Would she 
 fail him ? 
 
 "You said," she continued, with downcast eyes, "that I 
 helped you to recognise your trials for what they were, ' the 
 work of God.' There is nothing you could say to give me 
 more happiness than this. I wish always to be an aid, never 
 a burden either in thought or action ; but this cannot be unless 
 we remember the circumstances in which we are placed and 
 live accordingly ; otherwise we must separate now."
 
 154 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 " Bdthesda !" exclaimed Rend, in a low tone of pain. 
 
 " I am not angry," said Bethesda hastily. " Do not fancy 
 that for a moment. I am only sad because it hurts me to 
 give you pain, and yet I cannot do otherwise. I tried to 
 think last evening I could let it slip by without saying anything, 
 but it did not seem right. I wish you always for my friend, 
 Rend ; we are in a most difficult position ; we must look 
 closely where we step, and when your poetic fancy dazzles you 
 with its impossible possibilities I must be clear-sighted, and 
 turn you from the dangerous path." 
 
 Perhaps the effect of such words as these, with their en- 
 deavour to recall cooler relations by calling passion "poetic," 
 and fervour " fancy " by letting fall the snow of prudence 
 on the fires of tumultuous feeling can be somewhat imagined, 
 coming to Rend after an apparition such as that of the night 
 before, and the suppositions he had had of the fair ghost's 
 musings now so coldly belied. 
 
 He felt thwarted and hurt. If his emotions had not ob- 
 scured his usual insight he might easily have seen the subdued 
 yearning which underlay every sentence of the seemingly chill 
 words ; but no amount of insight could have taught him now 
 so well as the imperious instinct he followed. 
 
 He bent before her without a word, lifted her hands to his 
 trembling lips, and with swift steps left the enclosure and the 
 apartment. 
 
 He remained in his room the whole morning, feeling keenly 
 the poignancy of his position ; feeling thrown back upon him- 
 self as nothing had ever made him feel before. It was not 
 her fault nor his, he told himself; there was nothing to con- 
 quer or evade. She was right ; their cruel position constrained 
 them, and the outstretched wings were clipped and cramped 
 back into the cage. 
 
 At noon he let luncheon slip by unnoticed, and later, when 
 he was obliged to go to the ministere, he stole downstairs with 
 the utmost caution that Bethesda should not hear his step. 
 He returned, looking haggard. Like Bethesda, mental agitation 
 told quickly on his physique. He went to his room with a 
 springless -step, and let himself fall desolately into a chair. 
 
 A cynical observer might have said he was taking the 
 luxury of misery, but he would have been unjust. Rend 
 d'Isten's temperament was essentially poetic, that is, he felt
 
 CHAP, xvu.] SUBMISSION. 155 
 
 through the imagination as well as the emotions. Everything 
 was heightened by this double focus. It was his misfortune 
 in many cases, as it was his delight in others. His tendency 
 was to go to extremes, and only by the necessary education of* 
 exact self-government had this quality been subdued. Now, 
 in the relaxation of severe discipline, it had its revenge, and 
 his trouble was not exaggerated but intensely felt. 
 
 He went down to dinner before any one else, took a plate 
 of soup, and hurried away. He could not eat, and he did not 
 wish to meet any one. The ladies knew he had an engage- 
 ment that evening which must be fulfilled. It had been often 
 deplored in advance ; now, he was grateful for it. He could 
 not endure to enter their accustomed circle with the necessity 
 of repression upon him. 
 
 Yet he longed inexpressibly to see Be'thesda. The tears 
 stood in his eyes as he went blindly upstairs. He heard the 
 parlour door open and then their voices. Mabel was wonder- 
 ing where Kene" was, and looking up and down the stairs for 
 him. 
 
 No retreat was possible. He stepped into a recess to make 
 way for them, and to be in the shade. As Mabel swept past, 
 thinking he would, of course, follow them, she said reproachfully : 
 " Why didn't you wait for us ?" 
 
 He did not answer, and Bethesda looked up in quick alarm, 
 all the fears of the day crystallised in an instant. 
 
 Her searching glance called him forth from silence and 
 shadow. She saw his pallid face with lines of pain heavily 
 drawn upon it, and she stopped at once. 
 
 " I have been to dinner," he said in a husky voice. 
 
 "Can I do nothing for you?" she exclaimed from her 
 heart. " What has happened 1" 
 
 Her yearning eyes were fixed upon him, and the tears 
 sprang to his very eyelids in reply. 
 
 " I cannot say," he murmured ; " only, do not grieve." 
 
 Then, with a wild impulse of absolute submission, he 
 took her hand as she stood above him, and, bending low, 
 laid it upon his head. 
 
 A second later he sprang past her, and ran upstairs. 
 
 Bethesda joined her aunt, her brain in a whirl. "Was she 
 the cause of all this suffering ; she, who would not hurt him 
 for worlds ?
 
 156 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 " Where is Rend 1" asked Mrs. Trescott, surprised to see 
 her alone. 
 
 Bethesda composed herself to answer, and shield him. 
 
 " He has had his dinner. He is going out, you remember, 
 and took it early." 
 
 The evening, so rare to be spent alone, was lonely. 
 
 " Dear me, how we shall miss Rend ! " sighed Mabel, and 
 Bethesda shuddered. 
 
 Before she slept she wrote him wildly, beseeching him not 
 to think her cruel, that she was as much hurt as he ; more, 
 since she had to deal the blow. " Be the same as before your 
 last letter; those were happy days. I cling close to my 
 friends; even if unwise, I cling close to you. Don't hold 
 me away !" 
 
 She despatched this in the morning by the servant who 
 brought her coffee ; and Rend answered it immediately, a 
 delicate, deferential, yet tender letter, which added much to 
 Bethesda's admiration for him. He was always so ready to 
 admit a mistake, so fearlessly humble ; and to think that she 
 should hold the reins of such a nature ! 
 
 When they met Rend's old manner was entirely restored. 
 A healthier reaction had set in before he received Bethesda's 
 letter, and that, with its clinging dependence, never fully 
 evidenced before, compensated him for the misunderstanding, 
 which, after all, was not entirely pain. 
 
 He knew well that a stream cannot be turned backwards 
 by any slight means ; and that a fall, no matter how short, 
 makes the current surer and swifter for a while. How often 
 had Bethesda fondly imagined a few words would restore the 
 waters to their tiny spring, there to be safely contained, and 
 never, oh, never, to overflow again ! 
 
 Rend knew better. The spring had made a stream, and 
 the stream a river ; the current was strong, the waters many ; 
 it must inevitably flow into the sea ; indeed, it was already 
 exchanging its onward current for the recurrent tide. What 
 Bethesda mistook for a turning of the flood in an old direction 
 was but the ebb of an everlasting sea ; and the ebb was only 
 a gathering of forces for the new flow. 
 
 Slowly, imperceptibly to her, yet how fatally swift ! the 
 tide crept up. What had been at one time forbidden or 
 deplored was now accepted without a thought; what had
 
 CHAP. XVIL] THE FLOOD-TIDE. 157 
 
 been the cause of gentle rebuke was now an unquestioned 
 pleasure. The shining ripples played about Bethesda's feet, 
 and she delighted in them, standing on the shore of that fatal 
 sea. The spray shone crystal -clear, and threw itself lightly 
 to her lips, her eyes ; she brushed it away at first, then en- 
 joyed the fresh free touch, and let it blind her sight. 
 
 The waves crept higher, and she threw herself in a delicious 
 rapture on the smooth surface, and let herself drift with them 
 to feel their buoyancy and strength. She did not doubt an 
 instant but that she could touch her feet, and the waves 
 would, in any case, carry her back presently ; and she smiled 
 at the receding shore. 
 
 It all seemed to her so peaceful and calm that she could 
 not believe it was fraught with the most imminent danger. The 
 mighty power to which she and Rene' were now equally subdued 
 asserted its supremacy over all circumstances, over all adven- 
 titious facts. Thought was free ; love was free ; sympathy of 
 mind and heart could not be chained ; it overarched all as the 
 sky does trees, and shrubs, and men. 
 
 But deeds could be controlled. Here the clear-sighted 
 resolve of a lifetime strengthened Rene* to obey what he knew 
 was right in Bethesda's prohibitions, and the intuitive cleaving 
 to purity held Bethesda to moral action. 
 
 The terrible undertow of passion they did not recognise at 
 the time. It was only an instinctive effort that they made to 
 keep on the surface ; and the waters were exquisitely beautiful, 
 and elastic, and strong ; and soon, oh, so cruelly soon ! they 
 were to take separate paths along the shore, and might never be 
 again together. Let them enjoy it while they could, since life 
 would be dry hereafter. 
 
 Their separation was, indeed, now drawing very near, and 
 already darkened their hopes. 
 
 "I shall come to America, do not fear," said Rene', for 
 Bethesda was haunted with a horrible sense of the frailty of 
 their imaginative fabric. " I shall come," he repeated. " Every 
 step I advance in my career will bring me nearer to the day 
 when I shall meet you there. Trust me, Esda ; before many 
 years I will be in the corps diplomatique of Washington." 
 
 Bethesda did not reply. She had often wondered why it 
 was that Rene' looked forward to the coming years with so much 
 less apprehension and intolerable weariness than herself.
 
 158 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 After much veiled scrutiny and careful study, however, 
 through a judgment unobscured by pique for she was of a 
 large enough nature to give gold for silver and never count the 
 cost she came to the conclusion that it was because he had 
 long looked forward hopelessly, decades stretching before him in 
 sterile monotony, and that now he saw them transfigured by a 
 warm light, and blossoming with all the delectable flowers of 
 sympathy, so that, naturally, the change was only a delight. 
 
 With herself, she thought quite simply, it was different. 
 
 When she once comprehended this she listened without fear, 
 but feeling a strange sense of incompetence in understanding, to 
 his plans for six, eight, ten, twenty years ahead. Was she 
 going to live all these alone *? Her mind refused to grasp the 
 sum of this enormous debt. It was just as well, better indeed, 
 that it did. We can take step after step for a long time, but 
 if we had to leap them all at once, well, we should probably 
 break our necks. 
 
 "Kemember, Esda," said Rene", after a pause, "remember, 
 thou must never desert me. Promise me that if thou art ill 
 unto death, thou wilt send for me. From the furthest point of 
 the earth I will come to thee." 
 
 " It might not be right. Never let me interfere with duty. 
 But auntie is the one to ask for that." 
 
 " I will, to-night." 
 
 "And if you are ill?" 
 
 " Thou shalt know it, and when I die, all our letters and 
 papers will be sent to you. I have arranged it. I can make 
 myself obeyed even in death." 
 
 In spite of these lugubrious conversations the last days 
 were happy ones. Kene', except in moments on which he re- 
 fused to let himself dwell, felt his life full. And Bethesda felt 
 that pain slept while he was present. Deep in her conscious- 
 ness she was aware of something ready to spring upon her like 
 a wild, ravenous beast, but now it was chained, and she turned 
 her back upon it. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott was sick at heart in watching her. Without 
 knowing that the girl recognised it, she did know that Rene' 
 d'Isten held her darling's love, and she cried out passionately 
 against the sorrow and suffering such a lot would bring. The 
 girl had changed before her eyes. She was no longer her little 
 niece ; she was a deep-souled woman, with wide capacities which
 
 CHAP, xvii.] A QUEEN. 159 
 
 no one knew. Even Mrs. Trescott doubted if she knew her 
 thoroughly now. And extraordinary natures must be extra- 
 ordinarily treated. A few days, and this dangerous intimacy 
 would cease ; a couple of weeks, and the ocean would gradually 
 , divide these characters now being welded into one. 
 
 With cruel celerity the last day approached. It was the 
 evening before their departure, and at an early hour next morn- 
 ing the train would leave. Mrs. Trescott was in her travelling- 
 dress, but Bethesda wore a black dress, long, and plain, with 
 deep lace cuffs and collar, from which her head rose, on its full 
 throat, unusually severe and classical. 
 
 She was looking every inch a queen o'er herself, and yet 
 Rene' knew what turbulent vassals she had to control. 
 
 He could not believe the hour was so near ; but he braced 
 himself to bear the inevitable with his usual firmness. When 
 they went how much happiness they would leave behind them ! 
 Paris would no longer be the same hollow city, with an empty 
 heart beneath its gaiety. 
 
 He said something of the kind ; he knew it would comfort 
 Bethesda, and he knew, too, she needed comfort. Her large 
 eyes shone upon him, now, in the deep devotion which yet did 
 not wholly fill their capacity. 
 
 "You are happier for our coming, Rene' ?" she said, the least 
 bit wistfully. 
 
 He answered by holding out his hand towards her across 
 the table. She put hers in it, thimble, needle, and all. 
 
 " Are you not afraid of my pricking you 1 " 
 
 " I know you would not hurt me." 
 
 " True," she replied, with undue solemnity. " The needle 
 would have to pierce my finger before it reached yours." 
 
 " Such a remark should come from ReneY' said Mrs. Trescott. 
 " He should be the one to save the other pain." 
 
 " Of course he would ; but need I be behind him in it ? A 
 woman may suffer to save, as well as a man." 
 
 " You will be your husband's slave yet, with such notions, 
 Beth." 
 
 " I think not, auntie," said Bethesda gravely, letting her 
 eyes fall, and drawing away her hand. 
 
 " A man loves a woman just in proportion to the amount 
 she exacts from him. If you accept all, and do nothing, he will 
 be absolutely devoted."
 
 160 BETHESDA. [PART I. 
 
 "I would prefer losing love than degrading myself to ob- 
 tain it." 
 
 "You'll get over all that when you are dependent on a 
 man's affections. You'll have to learn wisdom then. When 
 you marry we'll see." 
 
 " I shall never marry." 
 
 "How are you going to avoid it, Esda?" asked Rene', 
 quietly. 
 
 " How 1 " was the startled response. " What do you mean ? 
 I can decline if need be, I suppose." 
 
 " But what if Madame Mabelle should marry again, and 
 you should be left alone V 
 
 " There is Margaret, and Aunt Agatha too. But Margaret 
 and I could easily live alone together, if it were necessary." 
 
 " She may marry too." 
 
 " Well, I am not incapable of living entirely alone. Others 
 have done it, and I can. Certainly, nothing should force me into 
 a marriage contrary to my inclinations. I despise -" 
 
 She broke off short. She had been about, inadvertently, to 
 blame Louise. But Rene' did not notice the abrupt termination, 
 for he was thinking deeply. 
 
 " Oh, see the moon," exclaimed Mabel just then, and she 
 went to the window. " Come, Beth," she cried; "look at our 
 last European moon." 
 
 The others rose at this, and joined her. The sky was still 
 bright with the sunset reflections, and the slender crescent was 
 reaping in a green field. 
 
 " I shall never see the western glories henceforth," said 
 Rene', " without remembering that they are caused by the trea- 
 sure beneath the sky." 
 
 " Oh, if you are going to talk poetry I will withdraw ! " 
 exclaimed Mabel, and went back to her seat restlessly. 
 
 There was a little pause on the balcony, then Rend whispered : 
 
 " Thou art like the moon, Esda, and thou drawest me in 
 every drop of my veins, as the moon draws the sea," 
 
 She did not reply, but her face was eloquent. 
 
 Presently she began to say : 
 
 " You know sometimes it is said that the old moon is in 
 the arms of the new, and that the effect is caused by the earth's 
 light shining on the shadowed portion, and the sun's Jight on 
 the other. There's a little lesson in science for you, and here's
 
 CHAP, xvii.] POSSIBLE ENEMIES. 161 
 
 one in a deeper science perhaps. You can think, if you like, 
 when you see the moon so, that where others shine on me, and 
 where you shine on me, Rene", there is the same difference." 
 
 Her voice sank to a pathetic loveliness in the last words, 
 and Rene* felt almost a sense of awe at the thought of his having, 
 for ever, this woman's devotion. 
 
 " I am as far from you, Esda, as Endymion from Diana," 
 he said, somewhat sadly ; and he did not even touch her hand. 
 
 " Three weeks from day after to-morrow," remarked Mrs. 
 Trescott, as they returned to the parlour, "we will be with 
 Margaret and Agatha. I would like to see you try to win her 
 over," she added abruptly, " if she didn't take a fancy to you, 
 Rend." 
 
 He laughed a little, as he asked : 
 
 " Is she so very obdurate 1 " 
 
 " No cajoling could cloud her judgment an instant," was 
 the decided answer. 
 
 " That is hardly the way Rene* would take to win her 
 esteem," remarked Bethesda. "She is eminently one whose 
 respect can be commanded, for she is very just." 
 
 Rend gave her a sharp glance, and presently led her to talk 
 about this Aunt Agatha and her husband. It was highly advis- 
 able that he should know as much as possible of the characters 
 with which he would have to deal in meeting Bethesda in 
 America. 
 
 These two might be somewhat formidable, he soon surmised, 
 but he had no fear. Bethesda was bound to him by all the 
 fidelity of her nature ; he believed she would rather leave all 
 her friends than cast him off; and within a few months she 
 would be her own mistress, and with money at her arbitrary 
 command. He did not hesitate to look clearly in the face the 
 possibility of her living alone with some staid chaperone, of 
 course alienated from her friends, because of her devotion to 
 him. His ideal woman would rather suffer this than submit 
 to any strictures on her love ; and, with all his experience, he 
 had come to have such confidence in Bethesda that he believed 
 her to exemplify his ideal in every respect. 
 
 But this life alone was only a matter of extreme emergency. 
 She had tact ; he counselled her, directly and indirectly, to use 
 it. There was no need of offending her family; no sacri- 
 fice would be asked if she concealed what little Madame 
 
 M
 
 162 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 Mabelle did not know, and go her own way without consulting 
 others. 
 
 He stimulated her ambition also, both as woman and as 
 artist. He wished her to shine in society ; to take her place as 
 queen of her peers. He desired to have increasing cause to be 
 proud of her, and to think that this beautiful, cultured woman, 
 whom many adored, was inalienably his. The more renowned 
 she became, the loftier grew his station ; the more suitors she 
 refused, the more triumph for him. She should be a brilliant 
 woman, and a woman of intellect, and, in both positions, feel 
 her dependence on him. 
 
 She was not slow in responding to the carefully concocted 
 excitant. If she wondered at his lack of jealousy, she argued 
 that it only proved his absolute faith in her, and no vows were 
 needed in her determination to be worthy of such trust. 
 
 At no time were the anxieties and embarrassments of the 
 life she had planned, ignored. Neither were the shadows and 
 sorrows unrecognised ; indeed, she comforted herself with the 
 thought that, since life can never be unmixed joy, the very 
 rocks in her path were assurances of its stability. Were it 
 otherwise, it would be too ethereal to endure. 
 
 The transmutation of forces gained mutually by Rene' and 
 Bethesda caused him to feel far more deeply than even before, 
 and had developed in her the use of her eyes. No longer was 
 one to be controlled by simple intelligence, or the other by 
 intuition. They exchanged their distinguishing masculine and 
 feminine attributes, and each partook of the strength of the 
 other. In seeking Bethesda's intellect Rene' had been roused 
 to the enthusiasm of her emotional nature, and that now in- 
 undated all primary aims. In responding to the claims of 
 Renews intellect, hence finding the need of reason and discrimina- 
 tion, Bethesda developed her natural capacities with rapidity. 
 Through her he found the passion which warms ; through him, 
 she found the reason which steadies. She no longer was tossed 
 from this to that, but had some things in which she could 
 trust, some ideas by which she could hold firm ; and his life 
 was no longer that of an observer from a lonely standpoint, 
 but the intense existence of eager participation, striving for the 
 best. 
 
 Such were they to one another, and now they were to 
 separate.
 
 CHAP. XVII.] A VOW. 163 
 
 The last evening lingered, and refortified itself, and lingered 
 again. How could they break it off? But, finally, Mrs. Trescott 
 insisted on prudence, called attention to Beth's weariness, and 
 reminded them of the fact that to-morrow they would meet at 
 an early hour. So the last good-nights were said, and Kene' left. 
 
 Bethesda proceeded to gather up her work in silence, and 
 with an unconquerable languor ; Mabel, watching her, did not 
 even dare say, Be brave ! for fear the recognition of her trial 
 would overpower her. It was hard now, but once away, once 
 in America, matters would change ; she was confident of that. 
 Beth was a girl naturally absorbed by the present, she reasoned ; 
 the future would be a new present, and she would be absorbed 
 by that. It may be seen that Mrs. Trescott's philosophy was 
 easy, and, fitting herself, fitted every one else, in her opinion, 
 equally well. 
 
 When Bethesda bade her good-night, and went out into the 
 now dark hall, and was just about to open her own door, a voice 
 close beside her said softly: 
 
 "Esda!" 
 
 She started, but made no sound. 
 
 " I could not leave you so, this last night," whispered Kene". 
 "Tell me now, Esda, good-night." 
 
 He held both her hands in his, and drew her towards him. 
 For a moment she did not resist. She was longing for paralysis, 
 for death, for anything that would not tear her away. 
 
 Then she conquered her weakness, and stood upright, dis- 
 engaging even her hands. He allowed it, but said in a tone of 
 reproach her name again. 
 
 "Oh, Kene'!" she exclaimed, in an agonised whisper; "I 
 cannot bear it !" 
 
 "Courage!" he said, startled by her voice. "We will 
 never be apart. And now, only good-night ! " 
 
 He had secured her hand as she thrust it from her, in the 
 sudden access of despair, and pressed it to his forehead, and 
 eyes, and mouth. He knelt before her in the glimmering dark- 
 ness, and laid the soft palm on his head a proud head that 
 had never bowed to any one but her. 
 
 "I am all yours, Esda," he said solemnly, as if taking a 
 vow. 
 
 His outstretched arms sank until they formed a circle 
 around her feet ; he pressed his lips to one arched instep, and
 
 164 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 then the other; and she, wildly, let him do it. Her whole 
 soul was in a tumult, a deafening uproar of passion and woe ; 
 and yet not a sound escaped into the still night. 
 
 At last, with a violent effort, she moved, and said, in accents 
 he never forgot : 
 
 "Go! Go!" 
 
 He sprang to his feet, without touching so much as a fold 
 of her long black robes, and she, laboriously, painfully, turned 
 and entered her room. 
 
 Not a word was spoken, and before the door closed he went 
 quickly away. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 " She felt like one locked in the Garden of Eden all alone alone with 
 all the ravishing flowers, alone with all the lions and tigers. She wished 
 she had told the secret when it was small. ... At first it had been but 
 a garland, then it had become a chain, now it was a ball and chain." 
 
 GEO. W. CABLE. 
 
 " No one can save you but yourself, for no one can so often tell you 
 the truth." AUERBACH. 
 
 went with his friends as far as Calais, and as the train 
 sped through their dear France with a swiftness Bethesda longed 
 unceasingly to clog, a quietude in her companions made Mabel 
 declare she would try a nap. Rene' assisted her to make herself 
 comfortable, and then returned to his seat beside Bethesda. She 
 was pale this morning, but brave, and Rend kept constantly in 
 both their minds the fact that she or her aunt should have a 
 daily good-morning from him while in England, and frequent 
 letters in America ; and Bethesda responded to it all with an 
 eagerness to be hopeful that was akin to pain. 
 
 There came a somewhat serious pause at last, however, which 
 Bethesda broke by saying : 
 
 " Who would ever have thought we should like one another, 
 from the way we first met ? Do you know, auntie has never 
 told me what that quarrel was 1 " 
 
 " Don't speak of it ! It was a foolish affair ; I cannot 
 understand myself in it now." 
 
 " Had you not better tell me 1 " asked Bethesda, a grave 
 trust in her voice. " Auntie will be sure to make me know
 
 CHAP, xviii.] CONFESSION. 165 
 
 some time. I have already avoided it many times. I thought 
 perhaps you would rather I should hear it first from you." 
 
 " My invaluable guide ! " exclaimed Bend. But he hesitated ; 
 his brows contracted, and he flushed a little. Then he said : 
 " Yes ; I will tell it to my conscience. She should know all. 
 It was a small thing, but it makes me ashamed, especially 
 before your eyes." 
 
 " Therefore I ought to know it ; yes ? " 
 
 Her manner was of the gentlest, and expressed a desire to 
 do only what was truest for him. He fully appreciated it ; but 
 it was no easy task his conscience required of him. However, 
 with a new imperious instinct, he did as she bade him. 
 
 " When I first met your aunt," he began hurriedly, " Louise 
 had left me only long enough for me to feel my loneliness and 
 bitter disappointment, and yet not sufficient time had elapsed 
 for me to have become accustomed to my position. Then there 
 was a something, I know not what, about Madame Mabelle 
 which puzzled me. I know now it was the contrast of American 
 and French customs, which I did not appreciate in its real 
 extent. Well, I took her at last as my confidante, for an 
 imaginative fancy for some being whom I wished I might know 
 and love. The quality of exaggeration which you are aware 
 she possesses made this seem to her very wicked. She knew I 
 was married she knew nothing more. She took the matter 
 far more seriously than I ever meant it, and she became ex- 
 tremely angry, and wrote that she renounced me with scorn 
 for ever. I do not pretend to defend myself; but I could not 
 bear the imputation she had put upon me. I determined to 
 meet her and eradicate that impression, for I knew it was only 
 the weakness of a weak moment. Now, I blush at my folly ; I 
 hate it as much as you can do, Esda. It was like talking in 
 my sleep ; I did not know what I said, and then you came and 
 wakened me." 
 
 " I am glad you told me," said Bethesda, when he had 
 finished. 
 
 "You are not angry, dear Esda 1" asked Kene*, leaning for- 
 ward to look full in her face. She raised her eyes to his with- 
 out hesitation. 
 
 " No, I am not in the least angry." 
 
 " And you do not blame me very severely ? " 
 
 " I am your conscience," she said, with a faint smile. " I
 
 166 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 blame you no more than it." After a moment's pause she 
 added : " It was weak, but I believe, as you say, it was only 
 momentary. You asked forgiveness of yourself, as well as of 
 Aunt Mabel. In the future it can be forgotten." 
 
 " Yes, we will not think of it more," he answered, with a 
 long breath. "I am relieved that you know it, but now it may 
 fall into oblivion. Give me your hand a moment, Esda." 
 
 She put her gloved hand in his with her usual sweet dignity, 
 and the train sped on several miles while silence joined instead 
 of separating them. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Trescott roused herself, and then came 
 Calais, and the blue, foamy Channel. 
 
 " To-morrow a letter from me will be crossing it," said Rene", 
 seeing Bethesda blanch. 
 
 " And in two weeks or less we will be on the ocean," added 
 Bethesda. 
 
 With her all this was but the prelude. Where the Channel 
 would now interfere with their meeting the interminable ocean 
 would divide them then. But she strove to be brave, and suc- 
 ceeded. She still defied that hungry beast of grief, stealthily 
 creeping towards her, ready to spring. 
 
 As the boat cast off she threw back her head proudly, and 
 looked to the land with shining eyes. He was on the quay, 
 and she on the vessel, and the blue waters grew wider and wider 
 between them, who perhaps would never meet again. It was 
 only the beginning, she knew, but her face was quiet, even 
 glad. How great was her gain ! Immeasurable; imponderable. 
 Grief could have little effect upon it. 
 
 And Rend stood watching her, so beautiful, so graceful, so 
 brave, until he longed to leap to her, never again to part. Each 
 throb of the engine, each turn of the wheel, seemed to hit and 
 hurt him as long as he could hear or see. And, as he turned 
 away at last, when the ship had become a speck, and the smoke 
 was all that could be distinguished, he felt a serrement du coeur 
 which frightened him. 
 
 She had taken not only herself away, which meant much, 
 but she was draining his veins of their life-blood by her absence. 
 He commenced now to understand that this unity of life means 
 pain as well as joy ; that to disintegrate a double spiritual life 
 is like disintegrating a physical life, which produces agony. 
 She had suffered it all a thousand times in anticipation ; he,
 
 CHAP, xviii.] INADEQUACY. 167 
 
 man-like, did not know what it meant until it was upon him. 
 But he had to endure it at its worst now, while she was counting 
 over the treasure she had amassed, and finding it golden. 
 
 In London Evra and Mrs. Conover were at the station to 
 welcome them, and when they reached the house everything was 
 cosy and bright. It was almost like a home-coming, so warm 
 were the motherly cares of Mrs. Conover and the tender solici- 
 tudes of Evra. Indeed, to Bethesda it was but a foretaste, as 
 each incident had been since they left Paris. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott was lodged in a stately room upstairs, but 
 Evra carried Bethesda off to her own room, and, showing a 
 dainty boudoir beyond, said : 
 
 " Here, darling, you are to share these with me. Now, no 
 denying, sweet ; you would break my heart. I know you like 
 to sleep alone, so I have had a little bed put in the dressing- 
 room. It is comfortable, but I hope sometimes you will be 
 persuaded to make me a little visit. Now, let me look at you ; 
 I have not had a chance yet. My loveliest of women ! I did 
 not remember you were so beautiful, and yet I have only dreamed 
 of you since we parted." 
 
 She caught Bethesda to her in a passionate embrace. The 
 girl submitted at first, then freed herself with a slight shudder. 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked Evra quickly. 
 
 " Oh, I am so tired ! " 
 
 " True, dear ; I should have remembered. May I help 
 you ? You will let me be maid ? I wouldn't lift a finger for 
 myself, but for you ! " 
 
 Bethesda yielded, more submissively than gladly. She felt 
 a miserable sense of inadequacy before this frank and craving 
 love. She was barren of the power of giving, because she was 
 asked too much. It was, as it had always been, with this 
 difference : now her capacity for passionate devotion had been 
 tested, and found ample ; and still there was none none of the 
 kind asked for Guinevere. 
 
 The supple lady served Bethesda with swiftness and delight ; 
 occasionally a little awkward in her humble position, but only 
 sufficiently so to occasion a laugh now and then, which made 
 feeling between them less tense and healthier. They chatted 
 incessantly meanwhile ; Evra with an excited pleasure in being 
 able to talk once more to this queen of her heart, Bethesda 
 eagerly, not to let a pause come.
 
 168 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 Just as they were leaving the room Bethesda, fresh as a 
 dewy tea rose in her Parisian toilette, her hair showing all its 
 character beside Evra's golden curls, as it showed its sunniness 
 beside M. d'Isten's dark head, and a new dignity and repose in 
 her carriage, Evra turned towards her and seized both hands, 
 scrutinising her an instant. 
 
 " Lily, there is something new come to you. Don't deny 
 it. You are not the same as you were. You shall tell me to- 
 night," and without allowing Bethesda to speak, she drew the 
 girl's hand through her arm and led her into the parlour. 
 
 Soon after dinner some callers were announced, much to 
 Evra's vexation, but they had to be admitted, and the evening 
 passed very agreeably to Bethesda in music and conversation. 
 When the last guest left Mrs. Trescott bade the others a tired 
 good-night, warning the girls not to talk too long. 
 
 " Leave your confidences until to-morrow," she said ; but 
 when were girls ever known to follow such wise advice ? 
 
 Bethesda would gladly have done so ; she dreaded the next 
 two hours inexpressibly. Only the night before had her limbs 
 been weighted by that faintness which a woman surmounts with 
 a half-numbed struggle, such as an opium-eater feels when fear- 
 ing to succumb to his fatal drug. So much had happened 
 since then, and here was another trial to endure. 
 
 But to-morrow she would rest ; to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
 and to-morrow ! How many days were before her ! Not even 
 one had passed yet, and it seemed aeons of time ; for the long 
 years to come weighed upon these moments, and made each 
 seem crushing in its excessive heaviness. After all, perhaps it 
 was as well that she should be actively employed, and not be 
 left to her thoughts. 
 
 Presently the two white figures were seated in the dim 
 parlour, face to face. They were both silent for a while. 
 Bethesda was waiting, bracing herself, and slowly succumbing 
 to a half -remorseful pity. Guinevere was feeling intensely, 
 sending word after word back from her lips to seek the one 
 that should not offend and yet should lead to enlightenment. 
 
 At last, with a sudden impulse that shattered the impotence 
 of her strivings, she laid her hand over Bethesda's, and broke 
 out in a suppressed and choking voice : 
 
 " Tell me, Lily, what has changed you 1 ; ' 
 
 "Am I changed? .How, dear?"
 
 CHAV. XVTII.] EENOUNCEMENT. 169 
 
 She was no longer apprehensive. She might reserve a part 
 of the truth, but this true friend should know a part also. She 
 felt herself the stronger of the two. The woman, with her 
 myriad resources, had replaced the inexperienced girl. 
 
 Meantime Evra answered her questions passionately. 
 
 " How ? Why, in everything ; in yourself, Beth. You are 
 not what you were. You turn the same face to me, but I can- 
 not reach you, you are so far away. You are unapproachable," 
 her voice fell with a hopeless break in it ; "I shall never reach 
 you. Before, there was a chance ; now, there is none." 
 
 Her head sank on the arm of the causeuse, and lay there 
 helpless and forlorn. 
 
 Bethesda did not attempt to answer her half-incoherent 
 utterances, but she laid her hand on the golden tangle caress- 
 ingly, and kept silence, while every echo of the impassioned 
 words died away. Then, very low, she said : 
 
 " Dear, I will tell you why I am changed. I have renounced 
 definitely all thought of marrying." 
 
 " But why 1 " asked Evra, straining her eyes to read the 
 fair face so near her. 
 
 " I have decided it is best ; why, I cannot say. I can only 
 tell you this : I go home to think only of my writing." 
 
 "And is this sadness for you are sad, darling because 
 you have determined this 1 " 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 The little word trembled away into stillness before another 
 was said. It was a peculiar faculty that Bethesda possessed of 
 making commonplace expressions contain the meaning of her 
 own nature. Guinevere keenly appreciated it. 
 
 " If you are so sorry," she ventured presently ; but Bethesda 
 interrupted her. 
 
 " It is done, dear." 
 
 " So you are to be a vestal virgin," resumed Evra after a 
 pause, a pause that said much. " It is what you should be, 
 dear ; you were made for it. No one person ought to mono- 
 polise you." 
 
 " I think I have been living towards this from my cradle," 
 said Bethesda in a far-away tone. 
 
 "We are only closer together for this, pet," said Evra, 
 bending forward to take Beth in her arms. But she was 
 prevented.
 
 170 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 " I am farther from all my friends for this ; farther from 
 all I have heretofore known. My work will unite me to all 
 those who work, but personally 
 
 "You will have adoring friends, of whom I shall be the 
 first," interrupted Evra. " We are alike in many things ; we 
 must give one another mutual aid ; we will never marry, but 
 we will always be friends, and, dear knows, I need one 
 enough !" 
 
 She showed her relief by immediately beginning to talk of 
 her own affairs. 
 
 She had had a trying time in Milan, but had been success- 
 ful. She had met the man to whom she had once been en- 
 gaged, and her whole nature shrank from him in a crawling 
 repulsion. He had done everything he could to injure her, and 
 finally climaxed his insults by offering her again his hand, 
 which she must accept as the price of his desisting from an 
 active enmity. She had of course refused it with scorn, and 
 had finally triumphed by being engaged for the next London 
 season. The whole affair had worn upon her, however, and 
 given her a fierce contempt for human nature, which made her 
 look upon Bethesda Hamilton as the one pure, true soul in the 
 universe. 
 
 The remainder of the tete-cl-tete passed easily, and the 
 sitting broke up in the wee hours, both relieved if weary. But 
 the following week was most trying to Bethesda. Evra could 
 not endure a moment out of her sight. Callers were snubbed, 
 and all but the most important engagements broken, because 
 she was determined to extract every possible drop of companion- 
 ship out of these fast-fleeting hours. Bethesda felt an uneasi- 
 ness almost amounting to pain in this exigent intercourse. 
 How was she to conceal her feelings from so suspicious and pas- 
 sionate an adorer ? For her whole existence inwardly was now 
 absorbed in longing. The beast did not spring upon her, but 
 numbed her at times into a deadly anguish. Misery, too deep 
 and black to be accounted for, engulfed her in its resistless 
 waves. Resistance, indeed, was impossible; passivity alone was 
 left. 
 
 To Evra she accounted for this by physical fatigue, and 
 begged her not to worry Mrs. Trescott with it, and Mabel sus- 
 pected nothing of it. They saw one another comparatively 
 little, as she still had some shopping to do peculiar to London,
 
 CHAP, xviii.] AN UNTEUE COMPASS. 171 
 
 and, absorbed in her own affairs, fancied Beth led an easy, en- 
 joyable life, while the hard work was kept from her. And 
 Bethesda called on her pride to an unlimited extent in seeming 
 happy before her aunt. She would have considered it an un- 
 forgivable sin to let a suspicion suggest itself that the new 
 interest in her life was other than unalloyed delight. More- 
 over, this curious black oppression that suffocated her at times 
 seemed alien and causeless. It came upon her without reason, 
 and left her likewise. To lay it to the charge of her rare 
 happiness would have been the extreme of illogical foolish- 
 ness in her opinion ; but had it been otherwise, she would not 
 have wavered an instant in thinking she was happy beyond 
 most. 
 
 The only lightings of real relief that came to these alterna- 
 tions of smothered struggle and smothering despair were when 
 Rend's letters arrived. They usually came before Evra was up 
 in the morning, and when the maid appeared, bearing on her 
 salver the welcome epistle, what a reveille sounded in Bethesda's 
 ears ! All the bat -like horrors hastened away, and joyous 
 daylight reigned supreme. 
 
 " When I look at the sky luminous with stars, or at all 
 that God has made the symbol of His omnipotence, I see 
 nothing that shines in immensity as thou dost in my existence. 
 Picture to thyself a man as he prays before the altar absorbed 
 in devotion. He is penetrated by God, and adores Him. In 
 this moment 1 1 am enwrapped in a similar enthusiasm. I adore 
 God, but through Bdthesda." 
 
 Such words as these came in detached pages of the letters 
 Beth handed to her aunt. They were marked " Be'thesda," and 
 thus were free from oversight. From the girl herself half their 
 sweetness was stolen by this concealment, but she let it serve 
 her purpose. She laid the blame all on society. Love was 
 pure ; their love was pure. Had he been unmarried, every one 
 would have considered the two eminently suited to one another, 
 as her aunt often declared ; and Bethesda had unconsciously 
 fallen into the position of considering Rene' d'Isten virtually 
 unmarried. Only superficially did society hold him to Louise. 
 Interiorly society could not bind him, and here he could give him- 
 self to her, as he did and should. But with the rights of Louise 
 Bethesda had no thought of interfering. Just in so far as she 
 recognised them she respected them. She and Rene' would
 
 172 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 take what remained, and what made her great happiness ; no 
 matter what tristesse might lurk beneath, she was profoundly 
 grateful. For there was in the deepest earnestness of Beth- 
 esda's nature a devotion which made all suffering in its service 
 insignificant. Those who, even through martyrdom, gained the 
 heights of self-sacrifice in some great cause, she looked upon 
 with reverence as enviable beings. 
 
 Mabel Trescott, on the other hand, was very willing to lead 
 an easy life if fate would let her. The ecstasies of self-abnega- 
 tion, the delight of self-development at any cost, did not appeal 
 to her so much as comfort and quiet every-day living. 
 
 Could there have been a greater contrast ? One straining 
 after the high, far stars of absolute truth and love, regardless 
 of her footing; the other wrapped, Cleopatra -like, in the 
 Oriental folds of a luxurious ease, which in spite of desires 
 could not give her content. And it seemed the very irony of 
 fate that the one to swerve from rectitude of life was she who 
 had its highest ideals and strived with earnest purpose to 
 embody them. 
 
 Meanwhile some curious renewals of old experiences linked 
 the present to the past. 
 
 One day a box came to Miss Hamilton from her bankers. 
 It was some five feet square, and marked from Italy. Interest 
 was high as the four gathered round it, and presently when it 
 was discovered to be a picture, frame and all, Mrs. Conover 
 remarked : 
 
 " My dear, I believe it is a parting gift from Signor Straora." 
 
 The last wrappers were undone, and the canvas was lifted 
 out. Bethesda flushed as she saw it, and was silent ; but the 
 others compensated by their exclamations. 
 
 It was a two-thirds portrait of Bethesda ; and yet it was 
 not alone a portrait but a type. The artist seemed to have 
 seized the spirit of past centuries, whose meaning is constantly 
 recurring in the individual development of humanity. There 
 was a suggestion of the most ancient of civilisations in the 
 straight lines of the chair in which the figure was seated ; the 
 white robe, disclosing faultless neck and arms, had a broidered 
 zone around the waist which Isis might have worn ; and the 
 hair was so caught that it seemed precisely the girl's way of 
 arranging it at the same time that it recalled something beyond 
 and before the classic.
 
 CHAP, xviii.] KNOW THYSELF. 173 
 
 There was no denying that it was an admirable picture. 
 Evra went into raptures over it ; Mrs. Trescott congratulated 
 herself that she had forwarded its accomplishment, and even 
 Bethesda recognised herself and something seons before herself 
 in it. The eyes, which met the spectators' fully, yet inscrut- 
 ably, fascinated her. She found herself constantly trying to 
 elucidate their character. 
 
 They were yearning, and mysterious, and haunting in a 
 certain undefined pathos. She thought if Signor Straora should 
 see her now he would find that changed ; her yearning satisfied, 
 her mystery revealed. Yet, was it 1 Was there not something 
 deeper and larger than the most complete individual life could 
 satisfy 1 The connection of all humanity with this one human 
 soul made her see herself greater and smaller than ever before. 
 The marriage of minds was eternal as the ages and the spirit 
 which vivified them ; but could any one person absolutely 
 satisfy another ? She was an atom, and yet she was an integral 
 part of her race, which are "as gods;" could, then, another 
 atom fill her whole being ? 
 
 Here she pushed thought away, as Uze majeste. She would 
 not listen to treason, she asseverated, but her mind inevitably 
 returned to the same idea. 
 
 No one thing could have taken the teacher's part in this 
 dim time so effectively as this inanimate canvas ; and Signor 
 Straora, in his loneliness, and the aching void which had been 
 left anew by the despatch of this semblance of his won- 
 drous maiden, would have been content had he seen Bethesda 
 in some solitary hour, leaning on the table before his painting, 
 and trying to find her way, with its help, into the depths of 
 self. 
 
 No word came from the sender of this precious gift, but 
 Bethesda and Mrs. Trescott both wrote him. Bethesda's letter 
 was a curious betrayal of the intimacy the picture had estab- 
 lished between the artist and his model : 
 
 " I have always wished," she wrote, " that I could have an 
 objective ideal towards which I could live, and have sometimes 
 wondered if a portrait depicting my best qualities in their full 
 development would not inspire me to improvement. You have 
 seized the very kernel of my thought, but have presented it in 
 a new way. You have given me myself, my possibilities, as a
 
 174 BETHESDA. [PAUT i. 
 
 problem to be solved. I shall not be content until I have 
 explained the mysteries you indicate. The Sphinx must speak, 
 if but a whisper in my ear ; and then we shall see if you can 
 find that answer 1 " 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " Then my soul went out to him. . . . And where there had been 
 selfish pride before, was written Rama ; and where there had been hope, 
 or joy, or beauty, was written Rama ; and where there had been dreams 
 of unknown bliss, was written Rama ; and where there had been God and 
 heaven, was written Rama." Iliad of the East. 
 
 " There cannot be a pinch in death more sharp than this is." 
 
 Cymheline. 
 
 ONE morning, two days before Mrs. Trescott and Bethesda 
 expected to leave London, a letter came from Rend to Bethesda. 
 She had incidentally mentioned in one of her letters that they 
 were going to hear Patti that evening, and he now declared 
 that this (?) attraction made it impossible for him to stay longer 
 in Paris, and that he would arrive by the night boat, and 
 appear in the box as a surprise to Madame Mabelle ; but he 
 could not keep it as a surprise for one who must know all his 
 actions and divine every thought. 
 
 This letter was handed Bethesda when she was just awake, 
 and she felt her brain whirl as she thought he was already in 
 the city ! To-night I shall see him ! To-night ! her heart 
 cried. 
 
 Then she bethought herself. He must not be allowed to 
 stay in the city all day and they not meet, no indeed ! He 
 had mentioned the hotel where he would stop, and she would 
 take the responsibility of asking him to breakfast. It was a 
 very irregular meal, which each one generally took at a different 
 time ; she usually alone. Perhaps this morning she would not 
 be alone ! 
 
 After sending her message she flitted around like a hum- 
 ming-bird. Every fear and vestige of gloom had fled. The 
 vague stirrings towards a new life were charmed into slumber 
 by this renewal of loved bonds. She had half expected some 
 such sudden decision on Rent's part. In his place she would 
 have done the same, and now her secret impatience gave
 
 CHAP. XIX.] JOY. 175 
 
 colour to her cheeks, and winged her footsteps, as if by moving 
 quickly even around the house she could hasten towards him. 
 
 When she went into the parlour she ran up to her portrait 
 and fluttered the letter before its insistent eyes. " Now, now 
 you will be satisfied ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 But, as she waited, she found herself too often confronted 
 by that questioning glance which finally turned into a reproach, 
 so that at last she caught up a shawl, and threw it over the face. 
 
 " There ! " she exclaimed aloud, and tried to forget it. 
 
 The clock must surely be wrong ; she had said nine, and it 
 was now only a quarter after eight. No, her own snail-like 
 watch agreed with it. Now time was so long, and how swift 
 it would fly if he were there ! Why couldn't the long moments 
 be given then, and the short ones now 1 
 
 She stopped her impatient steps before the mirror ; did she 
 really look like that haunting picture ? A slender figure, all in 
 white, with a crimson rose against the throat ; a head exult- 
 antly carried ; a fair face, with dark eyes shining joyously, was 
 what she saw. She could not help smiling as she tucked back 
 a wilful lock of hair. It surely was more golden than usual 
 to-day, because it knew he liked it so. 
 
 Hark ! a carriage ! And stopping here ! She rushed to- 
 wards the door to run and meet him, but the thought of the 
 servants deterred her. She forced herself to sit down and 
 open a book. The letters were gigantic, and grew dark and 
 light before her eyes. 
 
 She rose as he came in, but she could hardly stand ; and, 
 as soon as the door closed, he sprang forward, and bowed before 
 her, and clasped and kissed the little hands nestling in his. 
 
 Then he led her to a sofa, and they sat down side by side. 
 Before long in a moment, it seemed the servant returned to 
 announce breakfast. Bethesda, now restored to quick thought- 
 fulness, sent the maid to see if Mrs. Conover was up, and sped 
 herself to Mrs. Trescott. 
 
 " Auntie ! auntie ! " she cried, and, in her first wakening, 
 Mabel guessed Rene' had come. 
 
 "You dazzle me like a sunbeam, child. Run down, and 
 take breakfast. Don't wait for me. You must both be 
 hungry," she said, when told of the surprise. 
 
 " Hungry ! " exclaimed Beth, but she was off with childlike 
 impetuosity.
 
 176 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 Rend found her, in this sweet excitement, simply entrancing. 
 The ordinary English breakfast was a feast for gods waited 
 upon by her. The little hands fluttered among the china and 
 silver like self-important birds, and the coffee that ensued was 
 nectar. 
 
 A dozen times he rose when the waiter was gone on the 
 pretext of passing her things, just to have her throw back her 
 head and look up at him, with the clear, joyous, loving soul 
 in her eyes. The morrow's parting was forgotten in to-day's 
 reunion. 
 
 When they finished Bethesda excused herself to call 
 Guinevere ; her daily duty, as she explained, " and I must not 
 neglect it, for she is dreadfully jealous." 
 
 " And what am 1 1 " asked Rend, smiling. 
 
 " I don't think you could be jealous of me," she replied 
 simply. As he opened the door for her he bowed reverently. 
 No ; one who held her heart had no cause to be jealous. 
 
 When Bethesda returned to the parlour Mrs. Trescott was 
 with Rend She had thrown off the shawl from Bethesda's 
 portrait, and Rend was studying it keenly. 
 
 " Well 1 " said Bethesda, somewhat nervously. 
 
 " It is not Esda," he said, in a rather sharp tone, which 
 softened curiously in pronouncing her name. 
 
 " No, it is not like me now, is it ? " she cried. 
 
 The strange, haunting, rebuking eyes checked the warm 
 blood in her veins. She looked appealingly at Rend, and he 
 gave her a warm, reassuring gaze. 
 
 " I have not seen you so of late. It is beautiful, but too 
 solemn for one who is happy. It is not our sunny Bdthesda, 
 and we will hide it away again." 
 
 The girl gave a sigh of relief as just then Mrs. Conover came 
 in and welcomed M. d'Isten cordially. Evra soon joined them 
 also, but her courteous phrases were a little cool. She at once 
 proceeded to tuck Bethesda under her arm with a claiming 
 authority, and Monsieur d'Isten devoted himself discreetly to 
 Mrs. Trescott. 
 
 The ladies were to leave on Wednesday afternoon to catch 
 the steamer, which sailed on Thursday too early for the morning 
 train. M. d'Isten asserted he should not leave them until the 
 last minute now. They pressed the Conovers to accompany them 
 also, part of the way at least, but Mrs. Conover took Bethesda
 
 CHAP, xix.] A HALF-LOAF. 177 
 
 aside, and represented to her how important it was that Evra 
 should be in the city, until the plan was reluctantly relin- 
 quished. 
 
 Guinevere during these last days was silently unhappy. 
 She felt hurt, thrown back upon herself, and bitterly disap- 
 pointed in this longed-for visit. She could not have told the 
 reason for this, and when Bethesda came with the little caresses 
 that would have been glad to comfort and please her, Evra 
 would stifle what she then termed her miserable suspicions, and 
 try to satisfy her hunger on this meagre food. 
 
 The evening before their departure the party broke up 
 late, and when the others had retired Bethesda and Guinevere 
 lingered together, talking not altogether easily for a while. 
 At last Evra rose abruptly, and bringing a finely -carved box 
 unlocked it, and showed Bethesda its contents her own letters. 
 
 " These are what I have read and re-read, night after 
 night, child," she said, with a mournful accent, "even since 
 you have been here." 
 
 Bethesda looked at her, dazed and remorseful. If they 
 only had let her speak, at least of the literary compact, she 
 might perhaps have made the change better understood. 
 Neither Kene' nor Mabel had approved, however, and she 
 yielded. Now she wished she had not, but the affair told 
 at this juncture would take on undue proportions, or would tell 
 more than she could tell, for her secrets were entwined with 
 another's, and she must guard his honour even more carefully 
 than her own. 
 
 So she said nothing. In a moment the cover fell, and 
 Guinevere turned the key, and moved to go. 
 
 Bethesda sprang after her. She could not endure this 
 silence. She laid her hands on the tall shoulders before her 
 and lifted her face in the full blaze of the chandelier. 
 
 " Evra," she said, "do you trust me ?" 
 
 " Next to God," was the solemn reply. 
 
 " Then listen," spoke Bethesda breathlessly. " I cannot 
 tell you what has changed me ; that I am changed you quickly 
 discovered, but that is something of which I dare not speak. 
 I ask you to rest in this : I am as true to you as I ever was ; 
 I am no more unworthy your love than I always have been. 
 Love me, Evra, dear, and don't be afraid that there is not a 
 large, warm place in my heart for you, whatever its changes." 
 
 N
 
 178 BETHESDA. [PAET I. 
 
 Her eyes were deep, and shining with a deeper purpose. 
 Evra's were swimming in tears. 
 
 " I do believe you," she said, winding her arms around the 
 girl. "I believe you and love you; how much, God only 
 knows." 
 
 The hours came in swift succession. Hardly had the good- 
 nights been said, it seemed, than the good-mornings were to 
 say. The two girls went into the parlour the next morning 
 arm-in-arm. There was a closer feeling between them than at 
 any time since they had parted in Florence, but they were both 
 subdued. Guinevere was oppressed by the sense of the long 
 separation to come, and Bethesda was insensibly allowing the 
 .undercurrent of her life, during this fortnight, to come to the 
 light of recognition. All this was only the overture the over- 
 ture where the wailing sorrow to come is foretold, and the mind 
 prepared for a tragedy. 
 
 Alas, only until to-morrow ! 
 
 As they waited for the train in the station Guinevere held 
 her Lily with a painful grasp ; and when they were off the last 
 thing Bethesda saw was a pale face set in golden curls, whose 
 features were drawn with pain. It haunted her for long, with 
 a dim sense of being unworthy of such affection. But the next 
 farewell ? 
 
 When they reached Liverpool they found Marcot, who had 
 been engaged by the ladies for their American home, had 
 secured them pleasant roonre, and M. d'Isten outdid himself in 
 surrounding the ladies with delicate attentions. The fact that 
 he had them once more to himself was evidently satisfactory 
 to him. 
 
 To Bethesda, too, it was a rest, and when presently Rene" 
 proposed reading aloud to them, nothing could seem to have 
 been more happily chosen, as it suited the fatigued indolence 
 of Mrs. Trescott as well as Bethesda. 
 
 The piece he had selected was a eulogy of women ; 
 sincere and ardently poetical, and he read it with fervour. 
 Instances of devotion were gathered from every land, and as 
 they were told Bethesda felt the power to do each one. Still she 
 felt strangely within herself the capacity of being more utterly 
 filled. She wished the thought of Rene' to fill every recess, 
 each small and large space in her soul, as air would any vacancy, 
 and she was perplexed that her love did not make it so.
 
 CHAP, xix.] DEATH A BOON. 179 
 
 But of one thing she was sure ; she was inseparably bound 
 to him, and through life and eternity nothing but unworthiness 
 could separate them. 
 
 He looked up from his book as she thought this, and found 
 Bethesda's eyes shining on him with a glory of surrender. She 
 had risen in the last few moments, and now stood by the 
 mantel, leaning upon it. As she met his eyes he sprang to his 
 feet and would have thrown himself at hers, had they been 
 alone. As it was he turned away abruptly to regain his 
 startled self-control. 
 
 Why should she feel differently to him to-night than ever 
 before? he asked himself. Why should she now, just now, 
 when they were about to part, melt the incomparable pearls of 
 her nature in one peerless draught, and offer it to him with such 
 imperial grace ? 
 
 Why, indeed, except just because they were about to part, 
 and the woman's heart cried passionately : 
 
 " These are the last moments ; we may never see each other 
 more. Let our spirits meet now while they may." 
 
 In her rapture, in her almost agonised rapture, she could 
 have rejoiced had there been some supreme way in which she 
 could prove her love and so die. Shrink from what other 
 women have done ? Rather, their acts were miserably petty ; 
 yet she envied them ! They could at least prove their love 
 to all the world, but she must seal her lips, and hide what 
 she would have been proud to proclaim to every creature. 
 And their eyes meeting, both realised at this moment that 
 death would be the dearest boon of life. 
 
 They went on board early the next day, and as Rend 
 felt the little quiver of Esda's hand he said cheerily : 
 
 " The next time I am on an ocean steamer will be coming 
 to you. You can rest in my coming." 
 
 And Esda clung closer to his arm, resting on the present, 
 in any case, whatever she might do on the future. 
 
 The two were constantly together ; they promenaded the 
 deck arm-in-arm, and talked and laughed quite as if a week were 
 still before them, only in Bethesda's mind there was that half- 
 insane, half-numbed sense that soon she would awake with the 
 grip of a monster agony at her heart. She said nothing of it, 
 however, and her conversation and appearance were as bright 
 and sunny as the rippling abysses of the sea.
 
 180 BETHESDA. [PART i. 
 
 Rene" did not surmise what she felt, for he felt nothing of 
 the kind. Last night's anguish had passed for him, and the 
 future, if not all sunshine, had never looked so surely happy to 
 him as now. He could look forward to tens and twenties of 
 years, and see that same light shining on his existence still, 
 that same immutable tenderness permeating his being, and 
 rendering everything it touched beautiful and sweet. He was 
 a man of strong habits, and the wearisomeness of continuity 
 was never to be feared with him ; rather, the longer he pos- 
 sessed a thing the more attached he became to it. And there 
 was a rarity about Be"thesda Hamilton which made him well 
 aware he should never find her equal ; indeed, had he not 
 been seeking her in vain for thirty years'? He had never 
 spoken a truer word than when he said she completed his 
 existence. 
 
 This completeness, too, was not disturbed by what he 
 considered the inevitable fate of their walking their paths 
 separately, divided even by the sea. For he was not a dis- 
 honourable man. Brought up in the surroundings and traditions 
 of his country, such a passionate amitie as this had become was, 
 to his conscience, no sin. It was more than excusable, it was 
 justifiable, even praiseworthy. He occupied precisely the same 
 position to his wife that he had done for years, and one she 
 had deliberately chosen ; he wronged no one. Be'thesda was 
 entirely free ; he claimed nothing from her. What she gave he 
 accepted as the bounty of a generous heart ; what he gave to 
 her was, as she had told him, and he was glad to believe, her 
 greatest joy. 
 
 That she should not marry could not, with his experience, 
 seem any great sacrifice, and she would not be lonely with her 
 sister, her writing, and the knowledge that he was always 
 devoted to her. The whole matter seemed to him inalienably 
 settled ; it could not be altered now ; no one could interfere. 
 They had agreed together that they should not take any one's 
 word but each other's in regard to their relations, and thus all 
 misunderstandings were definitely precluded. 
 
 They were so engrossed with one another that they noticed 
 no one on board, although most of the accumulating six hundred 
 souls who weighted the vessel had seen and commented on 
 them. No wonder that both thought Mrs. Trescott guessed 
 their open secret when outsiders saw through it at a glance.
 
 CHAP, xix.] A HARD FAKEWELL. 181 
 
 No wonder, either, that they thought she did not disapprove 
 when she left them alone as much as possible, while appearing 
 as affectionate to both as she had ever been. 
 
 Rene' was, perhaps, more guarded than Bethesda, but only 
 because he thought Madame Mabelle might not care to ac- 
 knowledge what she did not mind countenancing indirectly, 
 and then he understood her to think also, that time and absence 
 would change all this, and that she was willing to rest in this 
 security. 
 
 He was, too. He smiled to think how harmless these 
 enemies of mankind would be to him and Esda. 
 
 A shrill whistle blew. Rene', with Bethesda clinging closer 
 and closer to his arm, went to inquire when the fatal moment 
 would arrive. 
 
 " All friends leave immediately ! Ship sails in five minutes," 
 answered the officer. 
 
 They hastened to the lower deck, and Rend kissed Mrs. 
 Trescott's gloved hands without a word. Then he caught 
 Bethesda's, from which she had drawn the glove, and put the 
 soft palm over lips and eyes. Only an instant, but during it 
 they both blanched terribly. With one foot on the gangway, 
 and still holding her hand in his unbreakable clasp, he waited 
 until the last person had left. Then he sprang to the little 
 deck below, and the two stood gazing at one another with dry 
 eyes, while the distance widened slowly, implacably, then 
 swifter and swifter, until they were lost to sight.
 
 PART IL
 
 ' Yet more, life's music holdeth more than these, . . 
 There is a golden chord whose harmonies 
 Have deeper echoes ; . . . 
 Our lips will smile, although our eyes are wet, 
 Till we life's earnest mystery have solved ; 
 And then, weak heart, . . . 
 
 Know that the soul which breathes immortal breath, 
 Stronger than joy, stronger than grief, must be, 
 And trample both, to reach, God, to Thee ! " 
 
 ISA BLAGDEN.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "To train people to be men by keeping them children, to train people 
 to be free except by making them free, by letting them bear the conse- 
 quences of their sins and mistakes, is seen to be more and more of an 
 impossibility. What does the whole history of the world mean, but that 
 it is impossible, even to God?" 
 
 OF all outward experiences, there is nothing like a sea-voyage 
 to wrench one from old associations and habits of life. The 
 long silence of every friend ; the weary, dreary passage, where 
 one is conscious that each turn of the screw takes one further 
 from what one loves, and fastens the distance with unevadible 
 decision, this is a close enough symbol of death ; and another 
 land, bearing a general similarity to the past, yet with every 
 part changed, is recognisable as our idea of what a new life 
 may be. 
 
 Bethesda found this true as she went up on deck, just at 
 dawn, the morning they reached New York. A still, calm 
 gloom environed the ship, allowing faint outlines of the low 
 hills to be seen. They had cast anchor, and were waiting for 
 daylight to steam into dock. The cessation of sound and 
 movement had given her a dizzy sensation, after the long rock- 
 ing and straining of the vessel, and she had come upstairs to 
 see if the fresh air would not dissipate it. What a voyage it 
 had been ! Not stormy in the elements ; the trip had, on the 
 contrary, been a very calm and swift one ; but what a battle- 
 field of murderous spiritual conflict this ship represented ! In 
 every corner she saw the face of some dead hope, the ghost of 
 some ghastly agony. 
 
 When she had left Europe, and watched Renews figure grow 
 less and less as distance widened between them, she had at 
 least felt secure of a mental unity which abolished space. 
 They were to write frequently, and thus would be still held
 
 186 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 together by a palpable means of communication. But now, 
 alas ! she knew the letter below, ready to be mailed, was the 
 last she would write him for six months ; perhaps the last open- 
 hearted one she would ever write him. 
 
 This bitter change had been brought about ostensibly by 
 Mrs. Trescott. She had only waited for Beth to rouse herself 
 from what was more a swoon than a slumber into which she 
 had fallen on the day they left England, to accuse her of deceit 
 in concealing from her trusting aunt her own knowledge that 
 she loved Rene' d'Isten. 
 
 The fact that both the man and woman knew it had 
 flashed upon Mabel during that last, hard good-bye, and she 
 had been thinking of it, with a cumulative rancour, while 
 Bethesda lay for hours wan and half lifeless before her. 
 
 She had failed in action, she had trusted too much, she 
 told herself ; she would not so fail or trust again. This affair 
 must be seen in its true light at all hazards. She would use 
 her authority as a knife, if need were. " If thine eye offend 
 thee, pluck it out," was one of her favourite pieces of advice. 
 She did not notice that the Bible command is couched in such 
 language that it makes the plucking out of an offending eye a 
 matter of self-subjection, of free-will, not of compulsion. She 
 thought it emphatically her duty to pluck out her niece's organ 
 of sight, so dimmed and unreliable was it, and then the girl 
 might lend herself more docilely to her aunt's guidance, which 
 was the only road to salvation out of this swamp of evil into 
 which Beth had sunk. 
 
 " Where did this begin ?" she had broken out abruptly one 
 day. "In London? In Paris? Have you deceived me for 
 weeks, and if so, how far ? Oh, Beth ! am I awake, or in a 
 nightmare, that I can say such things and you not deny them 1 
 Do you know that he is married, married, I say, and do you 
 know nothing of the world ? Heavens, assure me of something, 
 Beth, or I shall go mad !" 
 
 " Of what do you accuse me 1 " said Bethesda. Her figure 
 was drawn to its full height, and her brows were a single tense 
 line above eyes whose expression made even Mabel Trescott 
 speechless. 
 
 " Of nothing, nothing," she said at last brokenly. " I only 
 ask you, what am I to believe 1" 
 
 Bethesda felt a sentiment of pity and self-rebuke begin to
 
 CHAP, i.] FKANKNESS AT LAST. 187 
 
 dilute her indignation. She remained silent a few moments, 
 thinking fast. Rend and she had agreed together that if con- 
 cealment was not wrong, deception was, and now she ought no 
 longer to remain silent. Since Mrs. Trescott had gone so far 
 beyond the truth, Bethesda decided that it was best for all 
 concerned that she should be frank. 
 
 She was so ; completely as far as facts were concerned, and 
 there was a sense of freedom and upright defiance in speak- 
 ing openly of what it had been a trial to her to conceal, even 
 passively. She had consented to keep silent from motives of 
 expediency alone, not from any sense of shame or guilt. She 
 told her aunt, indeed, that she would be proud to have the 
 angels in heaven look at her connection with Rend, and felt 
 assured they would not disapprove. It was only the pettiness 
 and earthiness of this world which had made them see fit not 
 to proclaim it on the house-tops, if need were. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott listened sombrely. She knew Beth was 
 speaking the truth. She saw she was ignorant as to the wrong 
 of this, that her conscience was perverted ; but her darling was 
 still innocent and pure. It was an error, a misapprehension, 
 into which she had been unconsciously led, perhaps by an uncon- 
 scious hand. The lofty tone in which Beth mentioned Rend 
 impressed Mabel with an involuntary sense of his worthiness, 
 which she was the more ready to accept from not believing 
 it possible she could have been so mistaken in her confidence 
 in him. 
 
 "It is a hideous wrong," she said, when Bethesda had 
 finished. " I cannot understand your lack of perception, still 
 less his. But that it is only blindness I see. You must be 
 guided by me now : it is your only safety. I will go and 
 think about it. The next step may be into an abyss or to 
 safety." 
 
 Mrs. Trescott left her, and Bethesda had leaned against the 
 railing at the stern, and watched the seething waves, with 
 thoughts which were incoherent and restless and perturbed as 
 they. The pristine clearness of her mind was beaten to an 
 opaque mass by the repeated shocks of circumstance against 
 emotion. It seemed to her that the whirling, eddying, foaming 
 track would deafen her with its conflict ; and yet she must be 
 quick to hear both the voices within and without and to dis- 
 tinguish which edicts were the right.
 
 188 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 Something within her was meantime working slowly, labori- 
 ously, to an unseen end. It was as if her heart were a besieged 
 garrison, and the dull thud of toilers in an underground mine 
 should half reach her ear. Every sense must be on the alert, 
 and yet she knew not which way to look for danger. As such 
 a garrison would, however, visit every foot of wall and tower 
 to discover any hidden weakness, so she visited the fortifications 
 built around her heart, and was forced to admit that there were 
 many places not impregnable. 
 
 Once conscious of this, she hastened to take treacherous 
 conscience from the side of her foes by writing to Rene", and 
 expressing her dissatisfaction in remembering their actions 
 during the last days they were together. 
 
 " I believe you felt this as well as I," she wrote. " You 
 did not find me keeping you on a high plane as you would have 
 desired me ideally to have done. I should have had clearer 
 perception, and been less blinded by emotion. I was, on the 
 contrary, less clear-sighted than you. And I believe, deep in 
 your mind, you blame me for it, as you should. Once I said 
 to you do you remember ? that we were not to forgive any 
 evil, even to one another, until the wrong -doing had been 
 repented. Now I repeat it, Rene'. You must not forgive me, 
 I must not forgive you, until we have proved our repentance 
 for the errors we have committed." 
 
 It was when she had just finished writing this that Marcot 
 brought her a message from Mrs. Trescott, who wished to see 
 her downstairs. When she reached the close state-room she 
 found Mabel sitting on the sofa with a portentous face. She 
 made place for Bethesda beside her, and tried to take her hand. 
 The girl evaded it. There was something in her aunt's manner 
 which proved caresses only sugar-plums to buy some desired 
 action, and Beth proudly resented being treated in so childish 
 a manner. 
 
 " You wanted me 1 " she said. 
 
 Mabel bent forward and looked in Beth's face, while she 
 tried to broach the subject in an easier manner. But Bethesda 
 was on the defensive, and reiterated her question briefly. 
 
 "Yes, I did want you; I do want you," then returned 
 Mabel; " I am yearning to do for you." 
 
 " To do what 1 " asked Bethesda.
 
 CHAP. I.] A TERRIBLE REQUEST. 189 
 
 " Well, I will tell you," began her aunt, and stopped. 
 
 Bethesda waited, with clear observant eyes on her com- 
 panion's face. 
 
 "Beth," commenced Mabel again, this time in hurried 
 accents, " you have often said you loved me, that you would 
 like some way to prove your affection and gratitude to me. 
 Now I ask you for the greatest proof you can give." She 
 waited a moment, with one of those impressive pauses which 
 often italicise silence as well as speech. Then she went on : 
 " This between you and Rene* seems dreadfully wrong to me ; 
 absolutely wicked. The past we cannot alter, but for the 
 future you are responsible. You cannot judge clearly now, so 
 I ask you for one year not to write to Rend, to let entire 
 silence reign between you ; and this, darling, because of your 
 love for me." 
 
 Bethesda sat staring at her, wounded, stunned. How 
 could she thus destroy for ever, perhaps, the happiness of two 
 lives 1 And yet the long love for her aunt, the keen desire to 
 prove herself not wanting in this crucial test, made her heart 
 bleed on every side. 
 
 She could not speak at all for a while, and Mabel lavished 
 caresses on her with a fondness not free from terror. 
 
 " Go away, please," said Bethesda at last, with itnconscious 
 authority; "I must have a chance to think." And Mrs. 
 Trescott, taken aback, found herself to her own surprise 
 obedient. 
 
 Presently Bethesda had slipped quietly up on deck and told 
 Marcot to bring her portfolio without disturbing Mrs. Trescott. 
 The man obeyed with a respectful solicitude which always re- 
 minded her of Rend. He had told her that Marcot had been 
 a faithful retainer of his, and at his request she had said no one 
 else should know it. Now she felt him an innocent link with 
 the past, and it comforted her to think that through Marco t's 
 devotion to Rend he was quick in observance of her own wishes. 
 
 After a little the fresh wind, the strong air, and salt expanse 
 cleared the blurring mist of incapacity which had shrouded her 
 mind, and she seemed to have a wide gray level in it, similar 
 to that spreading beneath and around her. A sunbeam would 
 have flawed it ; a bird's wing would have hurt it ; a ship would 
 have destroyed it. In the lifeless calm she thought it out. 
 
 From their arrival in America until the New Year she
 
 190 BETHESDA. [FAET n. 
 
 would sacrifice to her aunt all communication with Rend. 
 This would assure Aunt Mabel of her deep devotion, and would 
 serve the same purpose that a longer probation would ; for 
 what questions could not one solve in six interminable months ? 
 And she acknowledged there were -doubts to be solved ; she 
 told Rend so. 
 
 " During these months," she wrote, " we are to earnestly 
 try to judge our past dispassionately, and see the light of truth 
 on our future. This I believe we equally wish to do. You, 
 no more than I, would live wilfully in the dark, covering our 
 eyes from the sunlight. Our positions towards one another are 
 too delicate for any but elevated minds to understand ; should 
 we not make it a rule to command their respect 1 Can we 
 afford to lose one atom of self-respect, or respect for each other 1 
 I am sure you will answer these questions as I do. The only 
 real question is : Where is the wrong ? I cannot decide. I 
 am sure of nothing, except our mutual confidence, which is as 
 this ship bearing us across a sea of waves, the only thing stead- 
 fast on the tumultuous ocean. It does not lose its integrity 
 and solidity, no matter how it is rocked ; and I believe it will 
 bear us safely to port at last." 
 
 She put away the sheet, and went with a light firm step to 
 her aunt's side. 
 
 " I have decided," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott glanced quickly into the pale face, whose 
 dark eyes shone starry with self-conquest. 
 
 " I knew you would do right ! " she exclaimed, catching 
 Beth's hand and kissing it rapturously. " I knew you would 
 do as I said." 
 
 " Yes," said Bethesda in a low clear tone. " I have told 
 Rend that he must not write me, after his answer to this 
 letter, until the first of next January. Neither shall I write to 
 him until then, after we reach America." 
 
 " But that is only half as long as I asked," said Mabel. 
 Her clasp on Beth's hand loosened, and Miss Hamilton drew it 
 quite away as she replied with steady determination : 
 
 " It is all I can give ; and it is long enough for anything 
 you can desire. Do you remember, Aunt Mabel, that it is only 
 four days since we left Rend ? " She paused a moment to col- 
 lect her strength for the next words. "You must know," she
 
 CHAP. I.] FUTILE SACRIFICES. 191 
 
 said then, " that it seems to me a cruel thing that you have 
 asked ; unnecessary, and destructive, perhaps, of two lives' hap- 
 piness. I tell you this plainly, auntie, because I wish you to 
 realise that I do as you ask me, even when it is hardest." 
 
 Mabel kissed her hand again, and said fondly : 
 
 " I do see you love me, darling, and I think you are a very 
 noble woman. But it is a frightfully short time, only six 
 months. Won't you make it the year, dear 1 It is not much, 
 a year in a young life like yours." 
 
 " It is not much, did you say 1 " asked Bethesda, in an in- 
 credulous tone. 
 
 "No; if there were objections to a marriage, a daughter 
 would always wait a year, and think howmuch worse this is ! " 
 
 " I have given you a proof of my love written in my heart's 
 blood," said Bethesda, " and you consider it nothing ! I can 
 do no more, and what I have done is useless." 
 
 Then, feeling the despairing inutility of more words, she 
 went away. 
 
 It was this which made the voyage so hard. No concession 
 brought peace, but, on the contrary, Mrs. Trescott's appetite 
 seemed to grow with what it fed upon. She ceaselessly en- 
 croached. Bethesda was thrown to and fro, beaten by Mrs. 
 Trescott's ever-unsatisfied demands, until she felt herself, and 
 all about her, dividing, and shattering, and writhing into new 
 forms, which were no sooner made than destroyed. 
 
 If she could only have been left to herself these days the 
 constant incursion of new thoughts, springing from the very 
 nature of her relation to Rene', would have enlightened her 
 without arousing resistance. But Mabel was indefatigable in 
 her efforts to pluck out her niece's offending eye, until at last 
 Bethesda barricaded herself from assault by announcing that 
 she would make no more concessions whatsoever, and that what 
 her aunt wished must be asked of Rene', not of her. Nothing 
 would stir her from this position, and Mabel finally desisted, to 
 throw her whole strength into a letter to Rend, urging him, by 
 his knowledge of the world, his generosity, his love itself, to 
 accord the year's silence which Beth had refused. 
 
 The evening before reaching port Bethesda had written 
 him with a heart-wrung abandon, realising that it was her last 
 opportunity of speaking to him freely for many dreary months ; 
 possibly, just possibly, for ever.
 
 192 BETHESDA. [PAET n. 
 
 " We are alone in the world together," she wrote. " We 
 are outside the limits of society, and our only aim should be to 
 keep our conscience free, our lives noble. Kemember, Rene', I 
 do not think it any gift of mine, that you hold my faith ; I do 
 not give it, it is yours. Nothing can alter this fact. You are 
 to remember it through all these months, to begin, for me, 
 BO soon ! " 
 
 It was this poignant sense of last moments which had been 
 all through their peculiar temptation. The consequences of 
 present acts seemed to be cut off short by the iron hand of 
 circumstance, which, from the first, they knew must inexorably 
 separate them. Had it not been for these outward compulsions 
 Bethesda would have more quickly recognised the import- 
 ance of self-subjection. She was now becoming dimly conscious, 
 through suffering, that free-will, rightly trained, is the aim of 
 the whole discipline of life. 
 
 The day grew silently around her as she stood this last 
 morning on the upper deck, thinking of what the voyage had 
 brought her, and what it had taken away. A deep purple, 
 lightening to amethyst and dull gold, then flushing to a soft 
 rose, replaced the grayness of the east. The responsive waters 
 brightened into opaline hues, with fire gleaming under the pearly 
 ripples. The sky grew more and more brilliant ; a few floating 
 clouds were touched into flame, and the water answered with 
 iridescent fervour. Finally, a golden hand of dazzling glory 
 curved itself from the horizon to the zenith, while the water, 
 thrilled to ecstasy, ran quivering towards the shore of the New 
 World. Another instant, and, with a burst of splendour which 
 thrilled like an organ peal through every nerve, the sun rose 
 and beat down Bethesda's eyes with its shining. 
 
 Presently they were in sight of the city, sparkling in the 
 level sunbeams, where, Bethesda knew, Margaret was awaiting 
 them ; asleep, probably, and yet impatient for their arrival. 
 
 Already the new protecting element was coming into her 
 life as she thought of the fair-haired sister, who had always 
 been so dear to her, and now, in her innocence and devotion, 
 peculiarly appealed to Bethesda's lacerated heart. It pacified 
 her to remember that Margaret knew nothing of these last 
 weeks of intense passionate life. The story of even the literary 
 compact with Ken had been reserved until they should meet
 
 CHAP, i.] HOME-COMING. 193 
 
 face to face, and now, perhaps, it would never be told. Ah, 
 well, it would be restful to be with some one who did not know 
 too much ; it would be good, and sweet, and comforting. 
 Margaret would trust her ; Margaret could trust her. There 
 should be no doubt of that. 
 
 What a thrill of familiar tenderness stirred Bethesda's heart 
 as she espied her sister and Aunt Agatha actually on the pier, 
 in spite of the early hour ! It was totally unlike any of the 
 emotions which had made her vital existence of late. It was 
 the warmth of home affections and home knowledge ; of the 
 unspoken communion of memories, and of temperaments long 
 accustomed to one another. It was simply, and all, of a family, 
 and a sister, and a native land. 
 
 . They went ashore, and Margaret cried a little as she held 
 Beth fast, and Bethesda tranquillised her with her own eyes 
 moist. Agatha Stanhope meantime saw that the girl had been 
 living ahead of her strength, and that she had been experienc- 
 ing far more than a mere year would account for, and she em- 
 braced her with a supporting tenderness. Then they all went 
 off to see about the luggage, and, finally, to the hotel. 
 
 " You are to rest here until to-morrow evening, when we will 
 go home," said Agatha, with her usual decision and searching 
 glances at every one in turn. She saw now what made her 
 address Mabel directly. " You will like to come 1 You have 
 no plans to conflict with this 1 I had promised myself that we 
 would make one another's acquaintance there, and the girls 
 would console themselves for their long separation." 
 
 The rupture between the elder sisters had been bridged over 
 roughly, leaving the chasm yawning beneath, but making it 
 possible for them to meet in apparent amity. An affection of 
 habit had mingled with the veering tendency of Mabel's mind 
 to effect this, while with Agatha love and confidence were 
 strong enough to arch over many fissures, and unite even deeply- 
 divided lands. Moreover, she could with difficulty believe that 
 the strange stream between her and Mabel would not fade 
 away like a mirage as soon as nearness should prove its exist- 
 ence or unreality. It would therefore be hard to describe the 
 keenness of her disappointment in seeing the unanswering chill 
 in Mabel's manner. 
 
 " It is very kind of you to ask us to your house," she began 
 
 now, formally. " I supposed you had already left S . Isn't 
 
 O
 
 194 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 it terribly hot there ? I expected to go somewhere on the coast, 
 the girls and I, and that you and Raleigh would, perhaps, join 
 us later. But it was very good of you to come on here, if you 
 were intending to go right back," she added, with a sudden 
 impulse, and one of her warm smiles. 
 
 " I wished to see you," replied Agatha, with some quiet 
 emphasis. " I think you will be quite comfortable with me 
 for a week, or a month as far as that goes. I, of course, stay 
 there as long as Raleigh does. But I would not urge you ; you 
 must do just as you prefer." 
 
 She stood with a certain royalty in her carriage and a keen 
 light in her eyes during the instant's silence which followed. 
 Bethesda was about to speak, but was silenced by a flying 
 glance from Mrs. Stanhope. This was a matter between her 
 and her sister ; she was sure of the girls. 
 
 " Well, thank you, perhaps it will be best," said Mabel, 
 after that eloquent pause. Agatha turned with a sigh of relief 
 and a quick gentleness to Bethesda. 
 
 " What do you say 1 " 
 
 " I don't need to speak," replied Beth, with a dainty caress. 
 " You know how glad I am to be with you." 
 
 Mrs. Trescott moved away with some impatience. 
 
 " Beth ought to rest now," she said abruptly ; and they all 
 adjourned to their rooms. Mrs. Stanhope went around softly 
 after the girls were on the bed, adjusting the blinds and closing 
 the mosquito bars, and petting them with that unobtrusive care 
 which proves the habit of consideration for others. It was new 
 and charming to Bethesda, and she found herself, to her own 
 surprise, going to sleep more easily than for weeks. The tender 
 serenity of Mrs. Stanhope's face was always before her, and in 
 her arms nestled Margaret, softly breathing. As the fair head 
 rose and fell on Bethesda's breast she felt as if she- had taken 
 refuge in a sanctuary, a divine stronghold where no enemy could 
 reach to injure her. She was protected by the sweet power of 
 an undoubted innocence.
 
 CHAP, ii.] FOREIGN WAYS. 195 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " The great moral combat between human life 
 And each human soul must be single. The strife 
 None may share, though by all its results may be known, 
 When the soul arms for battle, she goes forth alone." 
 
 OWEN MEREDITH. 
 
 "To foster and develop good in all its forms is his vocation." 
 
 KUNO FISCHER. 
 
 THE next evening they started for S . Their party was a 
 
 genial and cosy one. Mrs. Stanhope had travelled so much that 
 the cars had become a second home to her, and she knew how 
 to make the porters and officials as attentive as her own domestics 
 would have been. 
 
 Poor Marcot, who was quite confused and dazed by all this 
 new life and strange customs, was useless, and felt himself so ; 
 and Bethesda, with a smile, dismissed him to his own car. 
 
 " What did you bring him home for ? " asked Margaret ; 
 and Agatha remarked : 
 
 " I should not have been surprised at it in Mabel ; she is 
 so foreign I have difficulty in understanding her " 
 
 " But, Agatha ! " remonstrated Mrs. Trescott. 
 
 " It's true," asseverated Mrs. Stanhope, " and I should have 
 thought it quite fitting had you brought home a French servant ; 
 but I hear it was Beth's idea." 
 
 " Yes ; she came back from here full of the notion. She 
 thought it would be quite distingue to have a garqon, and was 
 looking out for one in Italy, but we found none. There was 
 one creature there who would be just a pleasure to have in the 
 room, a perfect Adonis, you know, but I told Beth it would 
 never do. He couldn't be kept in his position here, you see ; 
 he would have become insufferably vain. You don't see such 
 handsome men in America as in Europe, especially Southern 
 Europe, and, en revanche, you see nowhere such pretty women 
 as in America. Ma foi ! what a number of them there are ! 
 Why, at the Windsor, there were at least half a dozen girls who 
 would be stared at from every corner on the Continent, and 
 here they seem to be considered nothing remarkable. A propos, 
 how do you think Beth is looking ? "
 
 196 BETIIESDA. [PART n. 
 
 A sudden anxiety betrayed itself in her words as she turned 
 to look at her sister, who had been studying her quietly. 
 
 " Beth is not well," said Agatha gravely ; " she seems worn 
 and harassed. She is not looking nearly so well as you do. 
 The voyage must have agreed with you." 
 
 " Hum ! And yet I have had all the hard work while Beth 
 was resting in London. But she is tired now. Travelling 
 fatigues her. Why, how English this looks ! " she exclaimed, 
 breaking off from her former speech abruptly. 
 
 They were going up the Hudson River, and the daylight 
 was still sufficient to show them the beautiful banks covered 
 with parks and country seats. Mabel leaned across the car to 
 attract the girls' attention. 
 
 " Wouldn't you like to live somewhere here in the summer 1 
 It would remind you, Beth, of Mrs. Randleth ; and Clarence 
 might come some time to row you up. and down the Hudson 
 instead of the Thames." 
 
 " He never did that, and I fancy he never will this," replied 
 Bethesda indifferently. 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope noted the tone. She and Margaret had 
 heard of this Clarence, and Agatha was seeking a reason for 
 Beth's change. It evidently was not here. 
 
 " But wouldn't you like a summer place here, even without 
 that inducement 1 " insisted Mabel. " There ! that house, par 
 example. Shall we take it, girls 1 " 
 
 " I had rather not talk about plans now," said Bethesda. 
 " Aunt Agatha told us to rest first, and I feel like obeying her." 
 
 She leaned back in her seat wearily, and the loving eyes of 
 Margaret were quick to discover it, and to see the look of 
 troubled sadness which replaced all other expression in Beth- 
 esda's face during any lull of interest. There was something 
 here which Margaret would leave to time to explain, or would 
 trust to Beth without explanation. She was one of those with 
 whom absolute confidence is the kernel of love. 
 
 All night and the following day they sped on through the 
 strangely familiar land. They talked much, exchanging experi- 
 ences the lighter ones telling anecdotes of travel and home 
 life; of friends to one only, or old mutual acquaintances; of 
 new thoughts ; of memories ; in fine, enjoying that renewal of 
 old associations with congenial friends, and gauging their de- 
 velopment, which is, to sensitive minds, a fragrant delight.
 
 CHAP. II.] SEEKING A CLUE. 197 
 
 But Bethesda felt herself, at times, a stranger here. It was 
 as if she had corne with a carefully-stored memory of unimportant 
 personal events, and the names of friends, to foist herself on 
 them as a Bethesda Hamilton they once knew. Then, suddenly, 
 shaming this alienation, would come a flood of tenderness, of 
 affection, of gratitude to these dear ones, and she would give 
 them some mute caress as an apology, or a frank acknowledg- 
 ment of her feeling ; at least to Mrs. Stanhope. 
 
 " It will come back," said Agatha once. " We must try to 
 be patient, my dear ; then some day, perhaps, these years that 
 have intervened will be as strange to you as this is now." 
 
 " Oh no ! " exclaimed Bethesda, with a startled shrinking ; 
 " that could not be." 
 
 " Perhaps not," replied Agatha, wisely not insisting. " You 
 are different than you were last year, Beth. America did not 
 seem so unfamiliar to you then, and yet you had been longer 
 without seeing it." 
 
 " I know I have changed, Aunt Agatha. I am trying to 
 find my way to the why of it all," she went on uncertainly. 
 " I think it began when I came home last year ; that is the way 
 it looks to me now. Somehow, it all disappointed me ; not you, 
 dear auntie, nor Margaret, nor anything about you, which, 
 indeed, delighted me as much as the rest dissatisfied me. I 
 suppose I had some foolish ideal of my country which was 
 merely a girlish notion ; but the current of American life was 
 not as pure and simple as I had expected to find it. It had 
 lost its pristine clearness, and yet had not reached the stage of 
 filtering, and so what I saw was turbid, I thought ; at any rate, 
 distasteful. Probably my view was very superficial and inap- 
 preciative. I have too much faith in America not to believe it 
 was my mistake, but it influenced me strongly. I went back 
 to Europe really feeling that was more natural to me than 
 America, that it was to Europe I belonged. I think I think 
 that was where it began." 
 
 She ended more undecidedly than she had commenced, and 
 looked with a certain appeal at Mrs. Stanhope's reliable face. 
 It would inspire confidence in any one ; every line and curve of 
 it, as of her mind, was nobly proportioned, so that one felt no 
 pettiness obscured her judgment or interfered with her large 
 charity. She was pre-eminently one who helped others to help 
 themselves, and Bethesda needed such assistance sorely then.
 
 198 BETIIESDA. [PAET ii. 
 
 The silence grew quite long, however, before Agatha spoke. 
 
 " I was thinking of your mother," she said then. " You 
 are like her in many ways. I remember when you were born 
 your eyes went following the light around the room as soon as 
 they opened. I told her of it, and she said : ' I trust my little 
 daughter will always follow the light.' They were almost the 
 last words she said." 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope spoke with an undertone of feeling and com- 
 prehension which made the familiar story take on a startling 
 meaning to Bethesda's seeking mind. Of course Aunt Mabel 
 
 had often told it to her, but now Why, it was like a voice 
 
 from Heaven, and that voice a mother's ! 
 
 Presently Agatha began talking easily on casual subjects, 
 not seeming to notice Bethesda's silence. Her conversation was 
 always interesting, and generally witty and merry ; but there 
 was not a sentence she uttered, no matter how light, which did 
 not convey to a ready mind some result of penetration or trait 
 of character, or give one an idea as a clue to the problems 
 which abound in life. She studied every one she met, knowing 
 human nature too well to "classify" individuals that odious 
 habit which is born of ignorance and breeds all manner of mis- 
 understandings and thus had been developed in her a dis- 
 criminating love of humanity which constantly tended towards 
 a wise development of those around her, and especially of reason 
 and true freedom. 
 
 Bethesda found herself often shrinking involuntarily from 
 remarks which made gashes in her past, to let the light of 
 truth shine through ; but there also came an invigoration and 
 strength such as is gained from bitter tonics, which makes one 
 willing to drink deep for the health gained. And there was 
 no dear disease to which Bethesda Hamilton clung when she 
 recognised it as such. The only thing necessary to renounce- 
 ment was to convince her that what she felt was disease, and 
 this was often hard to do. 
 
 She was being subjected now, however, to a new alchemy, 
 and the nights were the only time when she found herself, as it 
 were, and fused the different metals of her past and present 
 together. It would have been difficult to accomplish this 
 except for the ardent and ceaseless flame of her devotion to 
 Rend The fidelity of her nature to one who had been acknow- 
 ledged supreme to her was as a golden chain on which her life's
 
 CHAP, n.] CORRESPONDENCES. 199 
 
 incidental beads were strung, to make yes, it should be so a 
 rosary. 
 
 Lying in her berth with the window-curtain drawn back, 
 and all dark and silent in the car, she seemed to herself like a 
 shadow fleeing through space and gazing down on her future 
 life. It was glorious moonlight, and the prairies now spread 
 about her with the same long lines as had done the sea. The 
 wide grassy billows undulating away to the horizon, where 
 rarely a tree disturbed its low line; occasionally a pond 
 covered with water-lilies, the white blossoms like stars, amid 
 which the moon reflected itself in the still depths ; and over 
 and around all that air which to one new from Europe seems 
 to allow no illusion of atmosphere to heighten effect, but shows 
 abruptly each object, even in the moonlight, and makes one 
 realise constantly that one is in a different land. 
 
 "And it is different," thought Bethesda, with the earnest- 
 ness of resolve. " My life now will be like these prairies ; 
 monotonous, yet not petty, from the very extent of their 
 monotony; rolling in grass and flower -covered curves to the 
 unseen distance, with an atmosphere granting no enchantment, 
 only clear following of one's path of duty ; and above may 
 they always be reflected among the lilies ! a pure ambition, 
 and the sky." 
 
 The moon crossed the cloudless heavens, while the fleeting 
 scene repeated itself for mile after mile. It shone on Bethesda 
 with a white radiance, and she welcomed it with a smile. It 
 was the same moon which, as a crescent, she had pointed out to 
 Rene'. She thought of what she had told him he might remem- 
 ber, and that now its whole surface was resplendent in the 
 light of the sun. 
 
 In the morning they reached S . Raleigh Stanhope 
 
 was at the station to meet them, and welcomed them with 
 hearty cordiality. The carriage was waiting, and Marcot 
 climbed to the driver's seat, while Mr. Stanhope stood a 
 moment at the door with uncovered head, and the upright, 
 manly attitude Bethesda had always admired. 
 
 " I can't go home with you," he was saying, " but Agatha 
 will take better care of you than I could, and will make you 
 welcome to our house for as long as we can prevail upon you to 
 stay. Good morning, ladies. Home, Jessup." 
 
 He waited on the curbstone until they had rolled off.
 
 200 BETHESDA. [I-AUT n. 
 
 " What hungry eyes that girl has ! " he said to himself, as he 
 turned and walked towards his office. He was usually on the 
 alert when in town, but to-day two or three acquaintances 
 passed him without recognition. " She has come to the right 
 place for food ; my wife will give it to her," he finally solilo- 
 quised, and with this confidence let the haunting face slip from 
 his mind, and soon was engrossed in affairs. 
 
 The home to which the wanderers were welcomed was a 
 beautiful house, situated on the best corner of a fashionable 
 street. One could always be sure that whatever Raleigh 
 Stanhope possessed was excellent. It was a double house, 
 planned by Agatha, with spacious rooms and few stairs, and 
 the large hall, shadowy, with a stained -glass window at the 
 division of the staircase, was its chef d'oeuvre. There were a 
 few fine pictures and statues against a chocolate-coloured wall, 
 and the wood-work was handsomely carved. Nothing about 
 the house was common. The ornaments were elegant and of 
 pronounced value, but never showy ; while each apartment 
 presented an aspect distinctively handsome and stately. Mrs. 
 Trescott thought it a little cold and stiff; but Bethesda 
 delighted in the house, and found it eminently characteristic 
 of its owners. One could see at a glance that money or treasure 
 of any kind was a means, not an end, in this household, and 
 that an intelligent generosity held the purse-strings. 
 
 "It is all so beautiful and solidly restful ! " exclaimed 
 Bethesda, her weariness forgotten, as her spirit often did ignore 
 the cries of her body. " It is just like you, Aunt Agatha," and 
 she went to lay her cheek against Mrs. Stanhope's shoulder 
 with a momentary caress. 
 
 " How much you two are alike," said Margaret ; " aren't 
 they, Aunt Mabel } I never noticed it before." 
 
 The resemblance was indeed quite marked. Mrs. Stanhope 
 was somewhat taller than Bethesda, and the slender grace of the 
 one had developed into a noble maturity in the other ; but the 
 long, fine lines of each were alike, and the colouring similar. 
 Agatha's hair was a darker shade of Bethesda's ; her eyes a 
 clear blue, not large, but extraordinarily searching, and capable 
 of great tenderness. But the loveliest feature of her face was 
 her mouth. It was well shaped by nature, and the lips were 
 pink as an oleander blossom. No one noticed, however, these 
 attributes in considering the complete beauty of expression that
 
 CHAP, ii.] HOME A LARGEK SELF. 201 
 
 gave its supreme attraction. It was tender, sweet, chastened, 
 resigned; it was cheerful, hopeful, dainty, devoted; it was 
 expressive of a rounded development of character as rare as it 
 is priceless, and as comforting as it is inspiring. This it was 
 that caused Bethesda to remark a little sadly : 
 
 " There is no one I would more like to resemble, but I fear 
 I never shall." 
 
 " Thank you, dear," said Agatha softly. " Now, shall we 
 go upstairs 1 " 
 
 "Aunt Mabel," exclaimed Bethesda a moment later, "I 
 want you to notice how comfortable everything is. There is 
 not a single article which is not of use, either in suggestion or 
 action. That is what makes the house so perfect to my mind." 
 
 " It is not perfect yet," said Agatha, smiling at her niece's 
 enthusiasm. " There is still much to be done. When I have 
 it quite perfect, of which there is no immediate danger, I shall 
 wish to build again." 
 
 " That is a bizarre notion," exclaimed Mabel. " I am so 
 different. The longer I live anywhere, and the better it suits 
 me, the more devoted I become to it. I like even a chair and 
 a window that I am used to. But you never did have the love 
 of place I have." 
 
 " It is possible that one who judged from the facts might 
 not agree with you," remarked Agatha in her quiet way. 
 
 " Oh, it hasn't been my fault that I have been tossed around 
 the world so. It has always been a sacrifice of myself to others. 
 I should have had a home long ago if it had not been for these 
 girls, especially Beth's health and studies. Oh ! " she broke 
 oft' suddenly at the door of the apartment assigned to her 
 " what a ravissante room ! And how Frenchy it is ! " 
 
 Then, for the first time since her arrival, she turned and 
 gave her sister a spontaneous kiss, 
 
 "Your trunks will be up soon, I suppose," said Agatha, 
 an amused twinkle in her eyes ; " but don't wait for them. 
 Here are wrapper and slippers at your disposal. I am glad you 
 like the room. You had better take a good rest. Come, 
 girls." 
 
 " I'm coming too," cried Mabel. " I must see the rest of 
 your pretty house now." 
 
 Margaret's room communicated with Agatha's, and was the 
 cosiest nook in the house. The harmony of colour and arrange-
 
 202 BETHESDA. [PAKT II. 
 
 ment was perfect. Olive -green and sky-blue intermixed and 
 interwove, until the chamber seemed like a mossy dell with 
 the blue air of Italy seen through the interstices. There were 
 numerous pictures on the painted walls, and the ceiling was 
 frescoed with symbols of Margaret, in which the daisy and pearl 
 predominated. As a frieze there was an inscription in old English 
 letters of a sentence taken from one of the Alhambric halls : 
 
 " In this garden of delights I, am an eye, 
 And the pupil thereof is indeed our Lord." 
 
 The tears came to Bethesda's eyes as she looked about and 
 found herself in this pure refuge, where the air was sweet with 
 noble aims. Her sister seemed very much like Saint Margaret 
 to her then. 
 
 Mabel was in ecstasies. 
 
 " Where did you ever find such ideas ? " she exclaimed 
 again and again. " You are really a genius, Agatha. There is 
 not another such room in the universe. How did you ever 
 think of it all 1 C'est cela qui m'etonne ! I don't remember 
 any such ideas in New England." 
 
 " It is ten years since I lived there," said Agatha quietly. 
 
 " Tant pis ! " exclaimed Mabel, striking her forehead with 
 a theatric gesture. " "We are ten years older ! " 
 
 "We will grow old faster if we don't sleep," said Agatha, 
 somewhat drily. " The girls look very tired." 
 
 " That's true, and I am simply ecrasee" said the incorrigible 
 Mabel, letting her arms fall with sudden lassitude. "Andiamo." 
 
 As this third language was introduced there was a general 
 laugh. 
 
 " What have I done now V asked Mabel, with wide, innocent 
 eyes. "You are all laughing at me. What have I said so 
 witty?" 
 
 " No one would attempt to repeat you," said Agatha. 
 
 It was very warm weather, but a strong wind was blowing, 
 and no one but Mabel minded the heat. Indeed Margaret and 
 Bethesda felt warm days peculiarly luxurious, especially in a 
 house such as this, where every comfort was at hand. Mrs. 
 Trescott, however, complained loudly of "this atrocious American 
 climate, always in extremes, and with heat like a furnace, 
 not " 
 
 "A bath," as Agatha suggested when a comparison was 
 wanting.
 
 CHAP, ii.] RE-ACQUAINTANCE. 203 
 
 " A bath indeed ! Fie ! Italy is the most delicious place 
 in the world. The climate never takes you by surprise. If 
 there is to be a change you are prepared gradually, and don't 
 have your ears boxed by these sudden antipodes of heat and 
 cold." 
 
 "You have not experienced any such changes yet, have 
 you ? " asked Mr. Stanhope courteously, for they were now at 
 dinner, and Mrs. Trescott was in the seat of the honoured 
 guest. 
 
 " No," said Mabel, with a quick shrug ; " our welcome has 
 been warm in more ways than one." 
 
 " You would like it to change 1 " asked Raleigh, a flash in 
 his keen eyes. 
 
 " Oh no ! quite on the contrary, I assure you," exclaimed 
 Mabel, covering her faux pas with voluminous compliments. 
 " You have greeted us with such delightful cordiality that we 
 could not wish even the weather to change, if that would alter 
 it. But I trust there is no such danger," and she beamed upon 
 him one of her most tropical smiles. 
 
 Raleigh bowed with a look of bewilderment which amused 
 his wife and caused her to say : 
 
 " We find her almost as difficult to follow as she does the 
 weather, don't we 1 Would you recognise her, Raleigh 1 Sup- 
 pose you met her accidentally, do you think you would immedi- 
 ately call her Mabel ? " 
 
 " The family resemblance is too strong for it ever to be obli- 
 terated," he returned ; " but foreign life certainly has changed 
 her." 
 
 "Improvement, I hope ?" said Mabel coquettishly. 
 
 "No doubt," was the prompt reply. "Are not the changes 
 of a fair woman always from good to better ? " 
 
 " Ma foi ! You are quite a Frenchman, Raleigh. But I 
 remember you always did have a pretty way of turning things." 
 
 When this little tilt was over Mr. Stanhope felt authorised 
 to give some of his attention to Bethesda, who sat at his left, 
 and the manner in which he addressed her was, in spite of 
 intention, more easy and solicitous. There was something 
 touching to the strong, satisfied man in her hungry yet brave 
 eyes. He seemed to look upon her as a frail vessel which a 
 touch might break, and yet which needed support. And she in 
 turn admired him heartily.
 
 204 BETHESDA. [I-AKT n. 
 
 The prevailing characteristics of his face were rectitude and 
 warmth of feeling. His mind was active and deep ; alive to all 
 the questions of the day, and probing beneath them to the 
 principles that made them good or ill. Philosophy and political 
 economy, finance and social duties, were equally familiar to 
 him. He was one of those men one meets on rare occasions 
 who seem to have every subject chambered in their brains, and 
 each occupant alert. He was punctilious in regard to the 
 observance of conventionalities, and stern, almost rigid, in his 
 opinions on any point of honour or honesty. Otherwise he was 
 very coaxable, and always generous. There were a dozen young 
 men in town whom he had started in individual careers, and 
 who were proud of being called " Mr. Stanhope's young men." 
 A willing hand and a well-trained brain found a faithful friend 
 in Raleigh Stanhope ; a shitless, lazy fellow found sharp words 
 and, up to a certain point, an easy kindliness of heart. But 
 let integrity, in whatevej form, be touched, and no man lives 
 who was quicker to unsheathe the sword and deal trenchant 
 blows than Raleigh Stanhope. 
 
 The unity which reigned between him and his wife, who 
 could not be divided in thought any more than in deed, was 
 remarkable and complete. The consummate tact and calm 
 audacity with which she treated him were without rival, and 
 her accurate perceptions often aided him through close places, 
 " which," he was fond of saying, " a man without such a wife 
 would have been squeezed to death in." 
 
 Now, as they sat on either side of their richly spread table, 
 dispensing hospitality to their guests, entertaining and invigo- 
 rating them at once, an occupation which seemed peculiarly 
 suitable to both, Bethesda looked from one to the other with 
 unconcealed admiration, and also a sigh, which was imme- 
 diately smothered. 
 
 The conversation turned upon jokes which Mrs. Stanhope 
 was constantly playing on her husband, who took so boyish an 
 enjoyment in them that he would remind her of one story after 
 another to be told at his expense. It was Mrs. Trescott's turn 
 for amazement at this, and she turned astonished eyes from 
 one to the other with a wonder which only added to the fun, 
 as anecdote after anecdote was detailed about this man who 
 was the only person in the world, she asseverated, of whom 
 she was afraid.
 
 CHAP. II.] TENDERNESS. 205 
 
 "When they ended the repast it was in a burst of merriment 
 which made the contrast that followed the more effective. Off 
 from the library was a wire -screened porch, where there were 
 easy chairs and a swinging lamp turned down to a dim lustre. 
 The delicious perfume of tea-roses, with which the garden was 
 filled, came in soft gusts, like the passing of some sweet pre- 
 sence ; the stars shone through the clear air, far away and fine ; 
 a branch over the trellis was blown now and again to touch 
 Bethesda's cheek, and it made her quiver with a thrill of 
 memory too keen for pleasure, yet which she would not move 
 to avoid. 
 
 The yearning, the intense longing of her whole being for 
 Rene" then, made it seem as if she could actually see her spirit 
 leaving her, and cleaving the air as it flew swiftly to its bourne. 
 Oh, to be for once, just once, at rest ! 
 
 " Beth, dear, are you cold 1 " asked Margaret, touching her 
 hand. It was burning. " I thought you must be cold, you 
 shivered so," she added simply. 
 
 Bethesda roused herself at this, and talked with a deafening 
 uproar in her ears which often made her obliged to strain her 
 hearing to the utmost to be able to understand what persons 
 said. 
 
 Presently Agatha excused herself, and a few moments later 
 called Beth. 
 
 " There is some wine for you," she said. "Are the perfumfes 
 from the garden oppressive ? I see you are not feeling well." 
 
 "Oh no ; the roses are delicious. I am only tired, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " Come with me, then, a while." 
 
 They went into the study, where every draught was caught, 
 and which was only lighted by the reflections of the street 
 lamps. Mrs. Stanhope bade her niece lie down on a bamboo 
 sofa, and then sat and fanned her, talking with gradually 
 lengthening pauses between her words. 
 
 Silence at length prevailed. Bethesda's eyes were shut, and 
 her hand rested on her aunt's knee with a clinging confidence. 
 She would like, she was thinking, to be alone with Aunt Agatha 
 and Margaret for a long, long time ; that is, if she could without 
 hurting any one. Possibly for Aunt Mabel too it would be 
 best ; but, if not, she did not wish to be selfish. This half- 
 hour was hers at least. She could lie here, soothed and rested
 
 206 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 by the silence, the sympathy, and an occasional glance at 
 Aunt Agatha's self-contained and chastened face. A willing 
 renunciation, and thence peace, was what spoke so eloquently 
 from these features. What would be her advice if she could 
 see her niece's heart ? Bethesda rose presently, restless with 
 encroaching thoughts. 
 
 "You are so good to me ! " she said fondly, as Agatha rose 
 also to join the others. 
 
 " You have liked it 1 " asked Agatha, bending to kiss her. 
 She always loved persons best when she could do most for 
 them. And Bethesda did not answer except by a touch. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " We have one element that makes fo' peace ; and another'h element 
 that makes fo' strhife ; but, my-de'-seh, the peace element is that 
 which ought to make the strhife, and the strhife element is that which 
 ought to be made to keep the peace." GEO. W. CABLE. 
 
 "My-de'-seh, you mus' crhack the egg, not smash it." Ibid. 
 
 THE next day came the first letter from Rene', What a 
 rush of conflicting emotions swept through Bethesda's mind at 
 the sight of the familiar writing and crest. Delight, poignant 
 memories, satisfaction, and trembling uncertainty, were all 
 finally engulfed in a deep and sure tenderness. 
 
 She took the letter into her own room to read. It was 
 written while he was still in Liverpool, and when he was in 
 the full surge of a passionate grief which swept him off his 
 feet. To the woman, struggling for pure light, for equipoise, 
 and stainless chastity, it was inexpressibly painful. Alas ! that 
 this should be the letter written when he was most vividly 
 under her influence ! 
 
 Mabel had heard that Beth had received a foreign letter, 
 and came in to see it. Her face was accusing and obdurate. 
 Nothing, Bethesda knew by experience, could possibly please 
 her then. But of course the letter, the showable letter, had to 
 be given her; and Bethesda did not conceal that there was 
 one enclosed. The whole affair made Mabel excessively angry. 
 She had been duped and cheated, and there was no way in 
 which she could indemnify herself. She could not break off
 
 CHAP, in.] A SCENE. "207 
 
 the correspondence, because it was already broken, and before 
 the time came for resuming it Bethesda would be of age and 
 independent. She tried to get the girl to say she would not 
 read any of the letters from Rend that came before his answer 
 to her steamer letter; but all requests on this head were 
 steadily refused. 
 
 Still, Rend had taken his strongest advocate away in robbing 
 himself of Bethesda's approval. The torrent of anger and abused 
 feeling, which Mabel gave more force by somewhat striving to 
 control, found the dykes of Bethesda's precious land already 
 partially undermined. But she made a loyal defence, and 
 worked hard to draw the tide towards her own delinquencies 
 where the land was less precious instead of Rent's. She was 
 not very successful. Had not Mabel reared Bethesda from 
 her cradle ? Did she not know every tendency of the girl, as 
 though her soul had been crystal ? Was it any education of hers 
 that had fostered concealment and deceit ? Had she not always 
 been frank as the day herself, and brought up Beth to revere 
 frankness 1 She scorned the idea that her niece, her darling, 
 had been most to blame in this unworthy affair ! She had 
 been tempted, been beguiled in the Eden of her innocence, and 
 Rend, whom she, the too fond Mabel, had trusted, was the 
 odious serpent ! Well, not quite that, perhaps. Some sense 
 of fairness still slumbering under the tumultuous swervings of 
 her nature turned uneasily in its sleep, and she smoothed the 
 pillows by granting that it might be he was an Adam the 
 wicked Adam ! who at all costs must be driven out of the heaven 
 of her niece's heart. 
 
 When Bethesda emerged from that conversation she looked 
 exhausted to an alarming degree. Margaret felt a smouldering 
 fire of resentment against Mrs. Trescott for treating Beth in 
 such a manner when she was already miserable in health ; but 
 she said nothing. 
 
 Agatha, as usual, acted. She drew Beth down on the 
 lounge, ordered some iced wine, and then, when the two girls 
 were sipping and talking easily, she slipped away for a moment, 
 and was gone an hour in Mrs. Trescott's room. 
 
 But Mabel was not amenable to reason or prudence. She 
 hated that word ! she must be frank ; she would be frank with 
 Beth if it cost her her life, or any one's ! Then, less excitedly, 
 but with a great air of determination, she told her sister that
 
 208 BETHESDA. [PAIIT n. 
 
 this matter, that Beth, must be left absolutely to her. She 
 would brook no interference in an affair of which she alone 
 knew the importance, and which she alone could manage. She 
 knew what she was doing, and she knew, Dieu sait / what she 
 had failed to do. She was not going to make that mistake again. 
 
 " It is possible," here said Agatha, " that you are trying to 
 repair past errors by a greater one now " 
 
 "That only proves how little you know about it," inter- 
 rupted Mabel. 
 
 " I know this, at least : Beth is not strong enough to endure 
 what she is now undergoing, and yet she has a character which 
 will not yield to importunity. Between the two her body will 
 be mangled." 
 
 " There are some things of more value than health or life 
 even. And as to importunity, didn't Christ himself say that 
 we should even importune God when we wished what was 
 right?" 
 
 " He certainly in no place told us to coerce others to do as 
 we thought right. That is a doctrine which made the Inquisition. 
 Look to it, Mabel, that you do not work more harm than good. 
 If it is a question of honour, as I judge from your words wait 
 a minute, please ; let me finish remember that there are three 
 thousand miles between her and Europe. Moreover, if you are 
 afraid they will be crossed, leave Beth with Kaleigh and me. 
 I will warrant you no one can harm her then ! " 
 
 "No," exclaimed Mabel quickly; "no one can do anything 
 for her but I myself. It isn't enemies without but enemies 
 within that I fear. And yet there is not a thought of harm in 
 her ! She is deceived ! deceived ! I must and will protect her. 
 You know nothing about it ; you must leave me alone." 
 
 " She is like her mother," said Agatha. " You may con- 
 vince her, or you may kill her ; you never can force her. And 
 she is not in a physical condition to bear argument now. Can't 
 you see that she is worn out, just ready to be ill ? If you 
 compel her to endure such scenes as this she has had to-day 
 you must be prepared for disastrous consequences. If you tem- 
 porise you may help both body and mind." 
 
 " Temporise ! " cried Mabel, starting up almost with a 
 shriek ; " temporising has been a poisoned dagger to her ! 
 Every instant it remains in her flesh it becomes more dangerous ! 
 It shall be pulled out ! Doesn't the Bible say : ' It is better to
 
 CHAP, in.] PLANS. 209 
 
 go into heaven maimed than with two hands to be cast into 
 hell-fire 1 ' I tell you, you know nothing about it. And yet 
 she is as pure as an angel ! " 
 
 Agatha saw the worse than uselessness of more words, and 
 left her. She was amazed, even astounded, at the condition of 
 her sister, and with every word that had been spoken she had 
 realised more the imperative need of Beth's being separated from 
 Mabel for a while. But how could it be accomplished 1 Mabel, 
 she perceived, was extremely jealous, and would allow no one to 
 exert any influence counteractive to her own. It would be im- 
 possible to overcome this Agatha clearly saw. The next best 
 thing would be for them to be altogether, where she could screen 
 Beth somewhat ; and, iijdeed, as she had long since planned, on 
 grounds of pleasure alone. 
 
 The household was not so congenial, with Mabel fretting 
 against the heat and laying Bethesda's tired appearance all to 
 that, for plans to be long delayed. 
 
 " I don't see why we shouldn't go to-morrow," exclaimed 
 Mabel. " It is blistering here." 
 
 " Where do you think of going ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. There are plenty of places. The 
 Catskills, the Alleghanies, the White Mountains." 
 
 " How would you like the Rocky Mountains ? It will be 
 something new to you both, and it is well worth seeing. Raleigh 
 and I are expecting to go in a short time now." 
 
 " Oh, you couldn't induce me ! I abhor the west. The 
 east may be endurable ; I am sure I hope so ; but deliver me 
 from this rough, ugly western life ! And it must be a great 
 deal worse out so far." 
 
 Agatha quietly explained the advantages and pleasures of 
 Colorado, the grand scenery, and curiosity of pioneer civilisa- 
 tion. She also remarked that the dry air there would probably 
 invigorate Beth as nothing else could do. It would be a com- 
 plete change for her, and would benefit Margaret as well. They 
 could make a pleasant family party if they all liked it. 
 
 " Of course it would be charming for us all to be together," 
 said Mabel; "but," conclusively, "you see I hate the west. 
 Why don't you come with us 1 There is fishing and hunting 
 east, no doubt." 
 
 " Raleigh has found that there is none worth seeking," in- 
 terposed Agatha, studying her sister keenly. 
 
 P 
 
 I
 
 210 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 " Well," exclaimed Mabel, with a toss of her head, " I don't 
 know why we should all go where it will best suit one man. 
 It hasn't been my habit to let others dictate my actions, and, 
 for my part, I had rather be alone than not go east." 
 
 " You certainly have a great love of places," remarked 
 Agatha, with controlled satire. " But how about the health 
 question 1 Physicians have told me repeatedly that it would be 
 excellent for Margaret, and probably it would be the best thing 
 to be done for Beth." 
 
 " Oh, they are not in the least alike. I have heard, too, 
 that rare air is very dangerous for heart troubles. I don't think 
 it would be right at all to risk it. I never would consent 
 to it." 
 
 She seemed to consider the matter qiu'te settled by this, 
 but Agatha had no thought of yielding to so flimsy a reason. 
 
 " Have her heart examined and leave it to the physician," 
 she said, a trifle shortly. 
 
 " She never would consent to that, and if she did, I have 
 no confidence in physicians. They are miserably ignorant." 
 
 " It is possible, however, that they may know more than 
 we, since they devote their lives to the study of medicine," 
 replied Agatha, and let the subject drop. 
 
 Later she called Bethesda aside and asked her if she would 
 object to having her heart examined. Beth shrank from it, 
 and Agatha explained her reasons. 
 
 " Oh, if you think Margaret needs Colorado, let us go with- 
 out minding me," said Bethesda eagerly. 
 
 " I think it would be as good for you as for Margaret if 
 your heart is sound ; but, dear, I don't wish you to run any 
 risk." 
 
 " I confess I would rather not know the state of my heart," 
 said Bethesda at last. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because well, it has troubled me some of late, and " 
 
 " That is sufficient reason in itself, then, why you should 
 have it examined. Be reasonable, dear. I could always appeal 
 with confidence to your reason when you were a child. If you 
 think about it calmly you will see that you should have all the 
 light you can. It is never well to hide our eyes for fear of what 
 we may see, nor did it ever use to be your way." 
 
 Bethesda was " reasonable," and an hour later Mrs. Stan-
 
 CHAP, in.] A PHYSICIAN'S DECREE. 211 
 
 hope was always expeditious a physician somewhat celebrated 
 for his treatment of heart troubles appeared. He inquired 
 minutely into Miss Hamilton's heredity, looked grave on hearing 
 of the circumstances of her mother's death, made his examina- 
 tion, and studied on the case. 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope .took him into the next room to hear his 
 opinion, and Bethesda was left palpitating more with hope than 
 fear. Heart disease ! that would mean that any sudden shock 
 or long strain would kill her. Life need not be prolonged 
 beyond the loss of hope and love. In case of the worst, death 
 would relieve her. 
 
 They returned. 
 
 "Have I heart disease 1 ?" asked Bethesda, looking up in 
 the physician's face with a peculiarly bright smile. It was as 
 if she had asked : Can I really be happy soon ? 
 
 He stood and looked down at her half a minute before he 
 answered. 
 
 "No," he said then slowly, and he saw her face fall. "No, 
 you have not heart disease, but you have a functional disorder 
 which will terminate in organic trouble if you are not extremely 
 careful. You know neither one nor the other means death. 
 You should understand clearly that heart disease means suffer- 
 ing much more frequently than it does death. If you are like 
 your aunt here, that will make it more emphatic to you when I 
 say you must avoid all strong emotions and all excitement. 
 You must lead a lazy life, think little, take tonics, and live in 
 the open air. If you do this you will perhaps escape the disease." 
 
 She glanced at him, and away, with an incredulous smile 
 trembling around her sad lips. To tell her she must avoid 
 emotion, excitement, thought, and in her present circumstances ! 
 He read her better than she guessed, however, and he appre- 
 ciated the hopelessness of that smile. 
 
 "And you said about Colorado?" suggested Mrs. Stanhope. 
 
 " She had better try no experiments. It might help and 
 might injure her ; I would not undertake to say which. I 
 should advise her going to the seashore, or not very high among 
 the White Mountains." 
 
 He turned to bow profoundly as he bade them good-morning, 
 and gave another keen glance at his patient. She interested 
 him as a curiosity. The fortitude and mobility that mingled 
 in her face indicated how foolish his advice must seem to her.
 
 212 BETIIESDA. [I-AIIT II. 
 
 He knew it was foolish too, and yet it was true. Probably if 
 he ever saw her again, it would be in the clutches of an incur- 
 able agony. 
 
 So Mrs. Trescott had it her own way. Mrs. Stanhope was 
 seriously concerned for Beth, but did not see her way to doing 
 anything for her at present. It was hard for her to be inactive, 
 and to this was added the shock of finding Mabel insensible 
 to old ties, when her own heart had ached for the far-away 
 sister, her nearest relative. Domestic love made the very warp 
 of her nature, and each thread had to be pulled out with per- 
 sistent effort before she could or would relinquish the band of 
 rich colour each loved person wove into her life. She had not 
 now the slightest intention of giving up her sister, but would 
 patiently wait and work waiting always meant working with 
 her to the end of a complete recovery. 
 
 Mabel herself was much shocked in discovering Beth's criti- 
 cal condition. Mrs. Stanhope told her quite plainly, not sparing 
 the details and prognosis. She wished to impress Mabel with 
 the necessity of avoiding these exciting discussions, and Mabel 
 was quite sufficiently impressed, for the time at least. She 
 went to Beth, and put her arms about her, and begged her to 
 take care of herself, to spare herself these wearing questions, to 
 put them all away by simply agreeing to the year's silence, and 
 then waiting until she was stronger before she thought them 
 out. But when she found Bethesda unshaken in her resolution 
 to guide her own soul, to do as she thought right, come what 
 might, then Mabel asked herself how she was to do anything 
 when Beth would not consent? How could she shield her 
 niece from bodily terrors when her soul was in the clutches of 
 evil, and she alone could loosen the grasp ? 
 
 They remained in S but a few days longer, and then 
 
 went over the long dusty road east again. It was a silly thing, 
 in Mabel's opinion, their ever having gone west. Business 
 could liave been attended to some other time just as well, and 
 this was an unnecessary expense and fatigue. As to pleasure, 
 what pleasure could there be in going back and forth over this 
 rough railroad, through the scorching land ? 
 
 Margaret was silent when such things were said, and Beth- 
 esda was too weary to argue, nor would it have done any good 
 if she had. To fight with a windmill was nothing to fighting 
 with Mrs. Trcscott's variable opinions.
 
 CHAP, in.] NECESSITY OF SOLITUDE. 213 
 
 Moreover, Bethesda's whole strength was strained in solving 
 the questions daily, hourly, thrust in on her attention. It was 
 an appalling change that had come to her. The complete differ- 
 ence in mental and moral atmosphere between the old world 
 and the new, altered every glimpse of every fact that Bethesda 
 saw. Her position was changed, and her past and present and 
 future had all fallen into chaos together. If the central point 
 of the universe were suddenly removed to its outer circumference, 
 the stars and planets would not fly more wildly through space 
 than did the shattered thoughts of Bethesda's mental system. 
 
 Mrs. Trescott also felt it, and the confusion it engendered 
 was proved by her saying to Beth once : 
 
 " I believe you never could have endured this coming to 
 America and its influences if I had not known. You would 
 have had brain fever ; there is no doubt of it." 
 
 "I do not think so," said Bethesda; nor did she at any 
 time. Her aunt's knowledge of the affair only thwarted and 
 exhausted her; more within even than without. Had Mrs. 
 Trescott not known more than when Rene' left them, it doubtless 
 would have been hard, the struggle, the awakening, would in- 
 evitably have come, but it would have been less hard for 
 Bethesda than now, when she felt her aunt's incessant pushing 
 weight behind her, and the watching that made each throe 
 observed, and computed as so much done or undone. She 
 sometimes felt it to be absolutely unbearable, and she would 
 have given the world for a little privacy, for an instant blank 
 of scrutinising eyes. To be alone at times is a vital necessity 
 to those in great trouble. There are sacred moments when the 
 dearest cannot intrude without causing pain, and they often are 
 the hours of travail when the priceless gift of peace is born. 
 
 So Bethesda, with the instinct of self-preservation, avoided 
 being alone with her aunt, and this was easier to do since Mar- 
 garet accompanied them for their summer east, and the sisters 
 of course were almost constantly together. Margaret was taking 
 now the undisputed place of a loved child to Bethesda. She 
 was really the elder, and yet Beth was always the one to be 
 addressed as Miss Hamilton, and given, without hesitation, the 
 position of eldest. 
 
 There was an innocence and simplicity about Margaret which 
 was essentially childlike, and her petite figure and extreme fair- 
 ness aided the appearance of youth. Her hair was like a tangle
 
 214 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 of sunbeams, not golden, but recalling the morning light while 
 the shadows are yet long : her delicately -finished eyebrows 
 arched over " myrtle-eyes," as Bethesda called them, which were 
 capable of much passion, as well as a steely glitter when dis- 
 pleased. Generally, however, she was gentle and sweet. She 
 reminded one, indeed, of a virgin by Raphael, and possessed the 
 mystic devotion and absorption in higher things which, com- 
 bined with purity, may have been the traits of Mary. 
 
 She clung to Bethesda as to one for whom alone life was 
 worth living, and yet held her in a large enough embrace for 
 her to be able to turn freely in it : even to turn away at times, 
 and yet, upon return, to find the same warm light in the tender 
 eyes. But this capacity for devotion only balanced an inevit- 
 ability of judgment which might otherwise have been stern, 
 perhaps merciless. Had any one done wrong, whether Margaret 
 loved much or little, the love she had given would swiftly return 
 into her own bosom, although it might force life out in the pro- 
 cess. An absolute incapacity for worshipping a fallen idol made 
 her look upon another who did so with nothing more pitiful than 
 a stare of amazement. Yet if one did wrong, and repented in 
 act, her forgiveness would be full and obliterating, and one 
 would have considered the effort made to obtain it well spent. 
 She would help, she would try to help, neither one nor the 
 other of these instincts. Her whole character was so built on 
 this fatality of cause and effect that to conceive anything else in 
 herself was impossible, more, indifferent to her. Worth and 
 love went together with her ; reciprocation would have been of 
 little consequence, so that her ideal remained intact. That 
 fallen, and the pride which was inherent in her would have 
 lifted her above all possibility of kneeling in the dust to pick up 
 and piece together the fragments, and fancy it was as perfect as 
 before. A dent in the sword of life was always a dent to her ; 
 there was no compromise or illusion about that ; but it might 
 be rendered ignoble or glorious as defeat or victory followed. If 
 defeat, the sword was broken, and useless to her ; if victory, she 
 would have been capable of sheathing it in her own heart, could 
 such a deed protect it from injury. 
 
 And this was the woman who now nestled close to Beth- 
 esda's side, and encompassed her with an unobtrusive tenderness. 
 Her unsuspicious exterior. and intelligent confidence tranquil- 
 ised Bethesda unspeakably, and she felt a great gratitude
 
 CHAi'. in.] RETROSPECTIONS. 215 
 
 growing in her heart which made her little sister hourly more 
 precious. 
 
 The three left New York for the White Mountains on a 
 shady afternoon in midsummer. As the hills appeared, and 
 seemed to increase in height, they were seen through a shimmer 
 of opal, that rendered their blue tints soft and ethereal. 
 
 Mabel was in raptures. 
 
 " Just to be east again is a joy to me ! And look at those 
 hills ; why, one could almost fancy we were going to see the 
 Italian lakes ! Alas ! for la bella Italia !" 
 
 "It is hardly like Italy," said Bethesda. " One never sees 
 the violets, purples, and amethystine shades in America. Here 
 it is a deep, true, perfect blue. It is like a clarion note that 
 never changes into any other, but only grows surer and fuller 
 as it increases." 
 
 " You speak as if you liked it better," said Margaret. She 
 herself longed for Italy. 
 
 "No, not better," answered Bethesda slowly. "There is 
 something steadfast and reliant about it, but the tenderness and 
 loveliness of Italy does not belong to us. Browning would call 
 this, I suppose, a masculine land, and Italy feminine. I think 
 Mrs. Randleth described the difference better, when she said 
 that Italy was like a lover and England like a husband." 
 
 " What queer fancies that woman had !" exclaimed Mabel. 
 
 "Poetic ones, I should say," returned Margaret, with interest. 
 " Tell me more about her." 
 
 " If you once get Beth on that subject, you will never get 
 her off ! " said Mabel. " I'll leave ! " 
 
 In spite of this remark, and perhaps because of Mrs. Trescott's 
 move to the other side of the car, and her novel, Margaret suc- 
 ceeded in leading Bethesda into a frank description of her friend, 
 and, almost before she was aware, Beth found herself talking 
 with ease of all her friends, and frequently mentioning M. 
 d'Isten. 
 
 "What is he like?" asked Margaret at last. "You have 
 spoken very little of him, yet he was quite intimate apparently." 
 
 " Yes, he was a warm friend of both auntie's and mine," 
 replied Bethesda, commanding her voice. 
 
 " Aunt Mabel does not speak of him much." 
 
 " No ; they had a misunderstanding just at the last, but I 
 hope it will be satisfactorily explained."
 
 216 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 " You like him very much, then ?" 
 
 "I admire him, and honour him," replied Bethesda, -with a 
 proud steadiness. 
 
 "Tell me about him; what kind of a man is he?" said 
 Margaret simply, and Bethesda chose tempered words, and 
 wandered back through the flowery fields of her life before the 
 denouement, hand-in-hand with this pure-hearted sister. 
 
 It has been told us by a man who knew the human soul 
 marvellously well, that to remember happiness in grief is our 
 greatest misery, but there do come hours when what made the 
 past radiant is lost for ever, and yet its remembrance is our 
 sole light ; as, when the sun is set, its reflection on the moon 
 is all that relieves us from black darkness. Bethesda found 
 herself in this moonlit land to-day, and it was a sweet, fine 
 pleasure to her. It seemed to lift the stigma of confusion and 
 possible dishonour off from her soul, in returning thus to those 
 surely innocent hours in Florence, in their dear Italy. 
 
 As she talked, the sunset tinged rosily the mist which still 
 lingered in the atmosphere, gathering and dissolving in ever- 
 varied forms and colours. The wooded slopes, the towering 
 crags, the lofty peaks, were all suffused by this transparent 
 blush, which came and went with a shy waywardness, of itself 
 indescribably lovely. On every side soft clouds clung with 
 white arms to the stalwart necks of the rocks, or lay trembling 
 on the bosom of the hills. Little streams rushed down im- 
 petuously to mingle with the calmer river, while above arched 
 the heavens, luminous with amber and gold, amidst which shone 
 a brighter point, the evening star. 
 
 The dreamy monologue melted into this landscape and 
 became a part of it, as silence fell at last. Margaret was im- 
 pressed with she knew not what unselfish sadness, and Bethesda 
 felt refreshed and sweetened by the aspect of these everlasting 
 hills clad in the colours of love and truth.
 
 CHAP, iv.] CHARACTER ALONE DIVIDES. 217 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Growth is the condition of love, as it is of life." 
 
 "In things evil there is a soul of goodness, and reformation consists, 
 not in annihilating the evil thing, but in developing that soul of goodness 
 within it, which gives it life and vigour, and in directing it to the good 
 which it erringly seeks. " SIMPSON'S Philosophy of Shakespeare's Sonnets. 
 
 THE summer passed in alternations of conflict, victory, and 
 despair. Every letter of Renews, written before he could receive 
 hers, marked an era ; for Bethesda's was one of those natures 
 " whose roots strike deep, clear their own way, and win the 
 light by growing." She was not a person who could rest with 
 an unsolved doubt, implying wrong action, in her mind. It 
 was an ever-present goad to her; it pricked her on to inde- 
 fatigable thought and ceaseless searching. Sometimes she 
 tottered under the weight she carried, and yearned for some 
 sure support until she thought her soul would die for the want 
 of it. There must be something outside and beyond herself, or 
 Rene", or her aunt," or any one, and this must be what else 
 could it be 1 ? the right. 
 
 And then a vivid remembrance would come to her of how 
 on shipboard Rene' had said, with long pauses between each 
 phrase, and a strange foresight in his eyes : 
 
 "My Esda will trust me always; if I am old, or ugly, 
 or ill, or unhappy, or wicked 
 
 " No," she had interrupted, " not that." 
 
 " Not that, then," he repeated, yet hardly seeming to notice 
 the interruption, "or poor, or cross, or distant, she will 
 always, always trust me." 
 
 Later, he had said that it hurt him at first to think she 
 would not trust herself to him were he wicked, that her affec- 
 tion would not be inalienable under no matter what circum- 
 stances ; but now he knew she was right ; he must be always 
 worthy. 
 
 " Otherwise you would not be yourself," she had said. 
 " You would not be the noble Rene' I haA r e known, and I could 
 not transfer my confidence from the real You to that unknown 
 one." 
 
 The same, she thought now, would apply to herself. They
 
 218 BETHESUA. [PART n. 
 
 would each be worthy, no matter what the cost. She must 
 not desert him a moment. If she were unsatisfied, she must 
 think what she would have him do, so as to be able to ade- 
 quately help him when the time came. 
 
 Presently this earnest thought brought its sure result. 
 The blindness fell from her eyes as a veil that is dropped. One 
 thing was setttled : Rend must belong all to Louise. Bethesda 
 could only claim him, or write to him as a friend, or as a co- 
 labourer. Nothing more could be thought of. This was one 
 rock under her feet. 
 
 And it remained a solid rock in spite of the wild waves of 
 passion which surged over her at night, when she felt the 
 presence of Rend near her, and in trouble. She would have 
 given a whole life of happiness for the power to annihilate 
 time and space, and comfort him then. But the doubly -woven 
 curtain hung stiff between him and her, and she could only beat 
 herself against the unyielding folds with impotent despair. 
 
 Then there came the consoling thought that the answer to 
 her letter was yet to come. He would show himself strong in 
 that, and support her. And finally one rainy day, suddenly 
 illumined, it came ! The last ! 
 
 It was very long ; in fact a diary, as Bethesda had ex- 
 pected. Perhaps in other things her suppositions as to what 
 its contents would be had not been wrong ; but still it threw 
 her on to her own feet as nothing else had done. 
 
 She saw that she could not depend on him to help her ; all 
 the strength of denial must come from her; all the earnest 
 seeking and truth-compelling thought. He would follow where 
 she led ; this was the utmost she could expect of him now. 
 They could no longer judge each by the other. There was one 
 side of her nature to which she must recognise that he did not 
 respond. Where was it, she asked herself quickly, that she did 
 not answer him 1 
 
 However, the writing under the same dates in their journals 
 proved their difference. On one day she wrote that she must 
 do her utmost to reinstate him in his highest self esteem ; while 
 he, far from his self-esteem having been lowered by their inter- 
 course, wrote : " Thy glance ennobles me. Thou personifiest 
 my duty, my honour, my conscience, and something even more 
 than these. Thou raisest me above myself. If thou shouldst 
 abandon me, what would I become 1"
 
 CTiAi'. iv.] DIFFERENCES. 219 
 
 When she felt an icy hand on her heart in seeing the first 
 effect of her letter was dead silence, his heart was burning 
 within him, and he cried : " There is no law, no distance, no 
 malignity capable of sundering us ! " 
 
 What gave her confidence in being able to help him to see 
 the right and do it were such sentences as these : " If I leave 
 thee, it would be replacing joy by suffering ; I acknowledge I 
 have not the courage except as thou desirest it." And again : 
 " I resign myself to my fate, whatsoever it may be, if Bethesda 
 imposes it upon me. Any other hand I defy ! " 
 
 She must go alone from the seductive waves, must set her 
 feet firmly on the shore, and thence help him. She would save 
 him if he were passive, which she had confidence he would be. 
 Perhaps, later, he might even help her. She took up the double 
 burden without regret, but with a yearning patience, and a lone- 
 liness she had never felt so deeply before. But she was resolute. 
 It should be her life's work to win him to the sight of truth and 
 duty. Through her he had fallen ; if through her he could gain 
 a higher standpoint, by force of having met and conquered a 
 great temptation, she would feel her life well spent. If he 
 failed ? She could never forgive herself. 
 
 In the evening of the day the letter came, parts of which 
 Bethesda had read to her aunt, through which she learned that 
 her request had been refused, Mrs. Trescott appeared in a 
 black dress, unrelieved by any colour, and took occasion to say 
 to Beth : 
 
 " This is the death ; there only remains now the funeral." 
 
 Bethesda drew herself up proudly, with a flash of disdain for 
 her only reply. In pushing him oft thus cruelly Mabel had but 
 thrust him closer to Bethesda, and : 
 
 " I shall not desert him," she told herself. 
 
 " Come into my room," said Mrs. Trescott sharply, maddened 
 by that expression on her niece's face. " I see you approve of 
 that cowardly, sneaking letter ! " she burst out, as soon as the 
 door was closed ; but Bethesda shut down the flood-gates right 
 there, standing regally in the centre of the apartment. 
 
 "Aunt Mabel," she said, "I shall not listen to invectives 
 against any one ; certainly not against Rene'. If you have 
 nothing else to say, I shall ask you to excuse me." 
 
 " Oh, it's very fine for you to be so proud with me ! But 
 sit down ; I must talk to you. Don't you see, can't you see,
 
 220 BETHESDA. [PAKT n. 
 
 that Rene* hasn't one impulse of veracity, not one moment of 
 remorse for having spoiled your life " 
 
 " He has not spoiled it." 
 
 " I say he has ! Every one notices it notices how much 
 you are changed ; I notice it more than all. You don't care for 
 me a quarter, no, not a tenth part as much as you did, and it is 
 all because of Rene' ; while I lie awake nights, and tire myself to 
 death to think out an escape from the dangers around your path." 
 
 " I am sorry." 
 
 Mabel came and knelt down beside Bethesda, and put her 
 arms around the girl's waist. 
 
 " Darling," she pleaded, " you are being worn out with this 
 struggle, and a gulf is widening between you and me. I can't 
 bear it. I would be so glad to suffer all for you, but I cannot. 
 You will not even let yourself be guided by me. I want to help 
 you more than you can know. I don't feel as if I could meet 
 your mother in heaven with this load upon my soul " 
 
 " It is no fault of yours," exclaimed Beth. 
 
 " Yes, it is ; partially at least. I should not have trusted 
 either of you. I ought to have known that I could see clearer 
 than you. I ought to have had more confidence in myself. I 
 have helped to undo you, and I have now a duty I owe to myself 
 to reinstate you. Think of me a little, Beth. Don't let all 
 your sympathy go out towards him I am suffering too." 
 
 " Dear auntie ! " murmured Bethesda. But her position 
 was now unendurable. She loosened her aunt's clasp, and rose 
 and walked away. If only she could answer, alone, for her own 
 soul ! No one could take that responsibility from her in any 
 case, and it would be so much easier if she could but fight it 
 out her own way. 
 
 But for Mabel Trescott, with her imperial love of domina- 
 tion, it was simply impossible for her to leave her niece free. 
 It was said of Thomas Jefferson that " he loved his country, and 
 would have died to save it ; that is, to convert it permanently to his 
 way of thinking." A better description could not be given of 
 Mabel Trescott at this time. If Beth would only lie passive in 
 her hands, and let her present and future be determined for 
 her, by one who considered her own judgment absolutely correct, 
 Mabel thought she could have died content. But, as it was, 
 an impassable gulf seemed to yawn wider and wider between 
 them, a sight which made the woman, jealous of both affection
 
 CHAP, iv.] ME11KIMENT NOT A SOLID DIET. 221 
 
 and power, frantic in her efforts to have it close. But her 
 endeavours were all in the wrong direction ; nothing but the 
 sacrifice of self could effect it, and this was something of which 
 she had never thought. 
 
 A day or two after this a long rain set in ; the house was 
 empty and bleak, and Mrs. Trescott tired of her inactivity, so 
 she decided to go to New York immediately. It had been 
 already agreed upon that this should be their future residence, 
 the girls acquiescing in what their aunt urged, as any city, 
 except S , was indifferent to them. So they left the moun- 
 tains, and Bethesda found herself, one late September day, 
 in the port whence steamers sailed direct for France, and the 
 monotonous billows were all that divided him from her. All 1 
 There was a distance far more insuperable than any space which 
 now separated them, and she was beginning to know it. 
 
 Early in November they were well settled in their new 
 home, and friends were finding them out, and were empressis 
 in their attentions. But no one of the three found the society 
 altogether congenial. Mrs. Trescott was very critical. Every 
 one was too " shoppy," and busied about matters in which she 
 could take no interest, to please her taste. Persons who were 
 merry and promised "a good time," however, were vigorously 
 cultivated, so that she soon became the centre of a circle of 
 boisterous young people who made her laugh, but could give 
 her no more substantial food ; and this was not of a quality to 
 satisfy any woman of thirty-five. 
 
 Margaret often found herself longing for the cultured and 
 earnest persons who surrounded Mrs. Stanhope ; a suggestive 
 company which gave one thoughts that remained long after the 
 echo of voices had ceased. It would take years before she and 
 Bethesda could collect about them those who would be of a class 
 at all similar to the friends of fifteen years' standing, who 
 gathered to Aunt Agatha as their lamp of wisdom. Indeed, 
 not being of a buoyant disposition, she thought the possibility 
 hopeless of achievement. 
 
 Bethesda meantime was in too listless an outward state, and 
 of too concentrated an excitement within, to care much what went 
 on about her. Trouble often makes persons selfish, and this Beth- 
 esda undeniably was during these autumn months. She had, 
 it may be, considerable excuse, but selfishness is a fault which 
 can never be excused. She tried to take her part in the duties
 
 222 BETHESDA. [PAUT n. 
 
 of the house, aiding Margaret in the housekeeping, which Mabel 
 did not care to assume ; and to her sister at least she was 
 always tender. But she was careless of her physical welfare, and 
 was so wrapped in the clouds of smoke that constantly ascended 
 from the battlefield, where she fought day and night, that she 
 saw little of what was going on outside. 
 
 Her increasing weakness, pallor, and disability caused her 
 sister great distress, and Mrs. Trescott but little less. Finally 
 Margaret wrote to Aunt Agatha desperately, and with prompti- 
 tude Mrs. Stanhope telegraphed and wrote for Bethesda to come 
 to her, alone. She was not one to let a creature fade away 
 without vigorous trial of various methods of cure. 
 
 Bethesda went, but reluctantly. Her body was so heavy 
 now, and her mind so full, that she would have preferred re- 
 maining still to any change, however agreeable. Mrs. Stanhope 
 had, however, understood how to so express her loneliness with- 
 out Margaret, and her desire to visit with Beth, that, encouraged 
 by Margaret, she finally yielded ; and the middle of November, 
 accompanied only by Marcot, found her received with the ten- 
 derest cordiality in S . 
 
 " This is the recruiting station," said Mr. Stanhope gaily, 
 offering her his arm to escort her to breakfast. " I think my 
 wife would be perfectly happy if she had the control of a 
 hospital, and a limitless purse to do what she chose for them. 
 You couldn't have relieved her loneliness, nor filled her heart 
 better than by coming here to be coaxed into health ; and you 
 know what a gratification it will be to us all when she succeeds." 
 
 " Thank you," murmured Bethesda. She felt almost guilty 
 under this solicitous affection ; for, did she wish to recover 1 
 
 The change in her since the summer affected both Mr. and 
 Mrs. Stanhope powerfully. He found himself speculating upon 
 the features, thin with conflict, and rigorous at times with self- 
 control, and felt when the evening was over as if some far-away 
 heroine had been telling him the incidents of her daily life and 
 listening with courteous attention to his remarks, while really 
 living only in the tragedy which made her for ever memorable. 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope devoted the first week to close, if unobtrusive 
 study of her patient, doing a hundred things for her restoration 
 meanwhile, from massage to providing a table so daintily nour- 
 ishing that it was, as Raleigh quoted one day, "As if Juno had 
 been sick, and she her dieter."
 
 CHAP, v.] GOETHE'S ELECTIVE AFFINITIES. 223 
 
 Mentally she gave her no less stimulating food. Early in 
 her visit she put into the girl's hands Goethe's Elective Affinities. 
 
 " See what you can make out of it," she said. " Many 
 persons consider it immoral, and yet Goethe asserted that it 
 was the only book he ever wrote with a deliberate moral aim." 
 
 Bethesda was soon absorbed in it, finding it marvellously 
 suited to her needs. A thousand questions were suggested, 
 which Aunt Agatha helped her to elucidate by a clear reasoning 
 unobscured by prejudice, and which constantly led one from the 
 small fact to the large principle ; from the particular instance 
 to the universal truth. 
 
 The lesson Bethesda learned was very definite and clear. 
 It was, perhaps, what each one has to learn by experience some- 
 time during life : that only in obedience to law is true freedom. 
 Within certain limits we are free ; overstep those limits and we 
 are inexorably bound on every side. If we choose what is right 
 and good we have all truth to expand in ; if we prefer evil we 
 have to take it with being constantly closer and closer bound. 
 Order is the foundation of the universe ; try to destroy that 
 order and we injure ourselves without in the least altering cir- 
 cumstances. Law is unchangeable and absolute ; we but dash 
 ourselves to death in trying to shape it to the form of our desires. 
 
 Thus awakened the sense of the " majesty of virtue " in 
 Bethesda Hamilton's mind. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " This mount is such that ever 
 At the beginning down below 'tis tiresome, 
 And aye the more one climbs the less it hurts." 
 
 Purgatorio. 
 
 Love and immortality are twin thoughts of life. 
 
 IT was on the evening that she had finished this book, and was 
 still under its arousing influence, that a Mr. Blythe called. He 
 had been a friend of Margaret's, and still frequented Mrs. Stan- 
 hope's parlours, round which the scent of the rose seemed to 
 linger. He was shy of Bethesda, however, and she found her 
 best method of enjoying the thoughts he brought was in keep- 
 ing herself as unobtrusive as possible while he and Mrs. Stan-
 
 224 BETHESDA. [PAUL u. 
 
 hope talked together on subjects which she was glad to hear 
 discussed. In fact Mrs. Stanhope probably led the conversation 
 to these subjects, for she believed in climatic influences on 
 thought as on nature. 
 
 There were some elections taking place, in which, as usual, 
 Mrs. Stanhope was interested. 
 
 " Coke upholds that a statesman should practise expediency, 
 I believe," she said, in answer to some rather sceptical remark 
 of Mr. Blythe's. " God, indeed, acts so towards us, but he 
 always gives us real truth as far as we are able to accept it." 
 
 "Well, I don't know," replied Mr. Blythe; "it seems to 
 me I could endure a good deal more than I receive." 
 
 " I think it often seems so to us all. Beth was telling me 
 to-day that Dante, in his Purgatory, makes the power to ascend 
 to heaven simultaneous with the will to do so ; but this power- 
 ful desire, which is at one with our whole will, only comes after 
 long striving. So the greater your desire is to receive a revela- 
 tion, the more must you patiently labour for it." 
 
 " But how can I labour for a thing I don't believe exists 1 
 That is where I am in regard to religious truth. I must grasp 
 it, and hold it, and feel it there, before I begin to labour to gain 
 it as my own. I cannot accept a thing on faith ; it must be 
 demonstrated to me, and it seems to me if it cannot be demon- 
 strated its inability is a proof against it." 
 
 " So it would be. But you are looking for a physical proof 
 of a spiritual fact. How can you prove to my senses that you 
 think?" 
 
 " By speech." 
 
 " Then anything you don't speak I can assert you do not 
 think ? But let that pass. You cannot see with your eyes, nor 
 feel with your hand, your intellect, and yet you would acknow- 
 ledge it was as much, if not more, you as your cranium. 
 You cannot prove that you love, but cannot you believe in an 
 unmanifested affection?" Mr. Blythe moved uneasily, for such 
 had been his feeling for Margaret. " You cannot prove your 
 own individuality, and yet it is just that which is you, is your 
 true self. Your body is merely a manifestation of you, as heat 
 is of fire, as the spark is of electricity. We must not cramp 
 ourselves into sense proof alone ; we must progress beyond that, 
 and in each advancing stage we will find we have wider limits 
 and more soul room."
 
 CHAP, v.] DAWN. 225 
 
 " That sounds true," said Mr. Blythe slowly, while Beth- 
 esda glanced from one to the other in eager interest. 
 
 Just then there was ushered in another caller, a young 
 clergyman, who was peculiarly alive to the needs of the time, 
 and ready to flow with the current of new ideas, so that he 
 might find their truth and controvert their error. Mrs. Stan- 
 hope immediately introduced him to the subject they had been 
 discussing, and he entered into it with readiness. 
 
 " You should read Hegel," he said to Mr. Blythe, smiling. 
 " I call him the fifth gospel. For any one who understands 
 him he is simply salvation. If you once understand the mean- 
 ing of history, the use of epochs, the reason of law, you see God 
 in everything. It is all in the Bible ; only few read it there. 
 Such men as Hegel are expounders, almost new revelations." 
 
 "Do you suppose we ever will be given a new revelation 1 ?" 
 asked Bethesda suddenly. 
 
 " I certainly do," said Mrs. Stanhope emphatically. 
 
 " Ah ! do you, indeed 1" remarked Mr. Connough, surprised. 
 " I would not have expected that of you, Mrs. Stanhope." 
 
 " I am sure I see no reason against it. I should be sorry 
 to think that humanity had all the truth it ever would or could 
 receive." 
 
 " You are right !" exclaimed Mr. Blythe, his face irradiating; 
 "you are really sensible !" 
 
 " Excuse me, but I don't see that," returned Mr. Connough. 
 " Christ manifested to us the perfection of humanity, and the 
 realisation of divinity. He showed us God as a person, and 
 there can be nothing higher than the manifestation of the Ab- 
 solute. If a person asks for something higher than this it is as 
 if he innocently inquired, ' What is there beside the whole 1 ' " 
 
 " Yet," said Mrs. Stanhope, " each nation has believed that 
 its religion was the 'whole,' and in spite of this it has been 
 transcended. Why may not the future transcend Christ 1 " 
 
 " Your question refers to the condition of religions before 
 Christ came. They were constantly transcending one another 
 because they had not yet reached the reconciliation. Christ was 
 the first infinite, and the first is the last. Each religion before 
 that grew beyond and beyond ; since Christ it is growing into 
 itself. Christ taught us how the finite can grow into the 
 infinite ; how the individual can become universal. What can 
 there be beyond 1"
 
 226 BETIIESDA. [PART n. 
 
 " But," said Mr. Blythe, " there was Buddha ; wherein did 
 he differ from Christ 1 Where was he so inferior 1 He taught 
 his people self-sacrifice and morality, and that is what Christ 
 taught after Buddha." 
 
 " Christ never taught self-sacrifice as an end, only a means. 
 He taught us to sacrifice our lower selves to our higher selves ; 
 our higher selves to our highest self. For every death he taught 
 a resurrection. Buddha taught : Do good that ye may cease to 
 exist. Christ taught : Do good that ye may have everlasting 
 life. The ultimation of Buddhism is self-extinction ; the ulti- 
 mation of Christianity is self-realisation, as Christ showed us. 
 In him we have the infinite grown out of the finite ; the abso- 
 lute 'being' out of the limited 'becoming.' In him we sec 
 what humanity can be, what it is potentially, as, therefore, 
 what it must be in its final development." 
 
 "And you find this all in Hegel?" asked Mr. Stanhope. 
 
 " It is all there and in the Bible. Every man who teaches 
 the truth is a disciple of Christ's. He must be ; he cannot 
 help himself if he would. History shows us that great ages 
 blossom forth into great men. One man sums up the meaning 
 of his time, and catches the light of the future on his uplifted 
 face. The world is like a great century plant : it grows slowly 
 from joint to joint, and then holds up a glorious flower to the 
 admiration of mankind. Presently that withers, but the 
 century plant progresses, and its second blossom is higher than 
 the first. Hegel tells you how the natural is the first blossom. 
 Experience alone satisfies us. Then comes the artistic. Greece 
 and the Eenaissance make the cycle of art, which is higher 
 than nature; it is nearer the reality in its symbolism. But we 
 have passed beyond that to the moral cycle, which began with 
 the Reformation, and which is going through the strict analysis 
 of science in the present. It is the fashion of our time to see 
 infidelity everywhere, for it to be everywhere ; but do you 
 think for this that the world is really growing worse 1 Do you 
 suppose God thinks it is suddenly rolling backwards ? No, 
 indeed ! Where we see decay, God sees growth. Growth it 
 is, though the apple may fall with a shock that causes an earth- 
 quake, though its decay may poison thousands. The seed will 
 sprout, will push itself steadily up through the dark ground for 
 a while, but at last it will raise itself in the light of heaven, 
 and we will see its beauty and call it good,"
 
 CHAP, v.] REASONABLE CHRISTIANITY. 227 
 
 > 
 
 "Then you think," said Mr. Stanhope, "that all this 
 atheism and confusion of morals will result in something better 
 than what went before it ? For my part I think the good old 
 times of our fathers were best." 
 
 " It is because you have not looked into the question suffi- 
 ciently deeply," said Mr. Connough with earnestness. " By 
 this minute analysis, this destruction of all life, because only a 
 dead body can be dissected, the dross of human additions and 
 complications of Christ's life will be cleared away. Then, when 
 nothing remains in our hands or minds but the dead fragments 
 of material which formed the home of a soul, we shall recognise 
 that there is something beyond the reach of the scalpel, and we 
 shall take truer means to find out what it is which influences 
 the molecules of the brain, and causes consciousness, or what 
 we call soul. The powerful tendency -of the present, Mr. Stan- 
 hope, is only a counteraction to the powerful tendency of the 
 past. What was then resistless in its effort to suffocate reason 
 by floods of blind faith, is now washing faith away in the under- 
 tow of a receding tide that leaves thirsty science staring blankly 
 at the sky. Presently we shall find that ' moving equilibrium ' 
 which Herbert Spencer calls synonymous with perfection." 
 
 "As I understand you, then," said Mrs. Stanhope, "you 
 would term this scientific investigation of spiritual truth a kind 
 of mental Crusade, and one which will meet with the same 
 result : thousands of lost lives to buy an empty tomb." 
 
 " Precisely ! The Crusaders only repeated what the disciples 
 did when they went to the sepulchre, and Christ rebuked them 
 with the words : ' Why seek ye the living among the dead V 
 It is what the scientists are doing to-day." 
 
 "Art saved the Crusaders, I believe," returned Mrs. Stanhope ; 
 " that is, they began to seek, not the tomb, but some more spirit- 
 ual symbol of divinity. Now, what is it that will save us ? " 
 
 "Not art in any case. We are not satisfied with that 
 limited view. Our ideals of Christ transcend all conceptions 
 ever worked into canvas or marble. Holman Hunt and Dord 
 may try their realistic pictures; they will not answer our needs. 
 Even in art we need something more complex. Modern life is 
 complex ; a lyre of three strings will not serve us. I myself 
 think the novel is the art of the future. It does not circum- 
 scribe, it is suggestive of outlines rather than outlining. It is 
 soul-painting, spirit sculpture. No ; philosophical insight is, I
 
 228 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 should say, the answer to your question, Mrs. Stanhope. But 
 we must carry up with us the different phases of our religious 
 beliefs as we do our arts. Philosophy is not another religion : 
 it is a higher form, a development of Christianity. But beware 
 of leaving your emotional religion behind you. Let the light 
 of reason shine through your soul's windows, but keep warm by 
 the fire of affection. You should be able to both feel God's 
 love and see his wisdom." 
 
 " Then you, of course, think Christianity will be the religion 
 of the future ? " 
 
 " Surely I do. But why trouble about the future 1 It is 
 to-day that we live, and to-day that we must both live nobly 
 and think rightly. We must throw away no opportunities to- 
 day which perception, energetic thought, and reverence for 
 truth, can bring us, or to-morrow will still find us indolent to 
 accept what to-morrow brings. Every one who is not morally 
 dead has, I think I may affirm, some religion. They may deny 
 the name and the fact, but it is Christianity which has im- 
 pregnated the air with its germs of liberty and humanity to give 
 ' free thinkers ' their free thought and devotion to humanity. 
 He who is true to principle and mercifid to his neighbour obeys 
 Christ's two commandments. I would have the men of to-day 
 live nobly the present, not the past nor future. There are 
 many orthodox doctrines, so called, which cannot but seem 
 absurd or cruel to a reasonable man. Hell and Heaven as 
 pictured by Dante, who does it with a far more liberal brush 
 than" many of the theologians of to-day, are a poetry, not a belief. 
 They are forms only, and picture a mythology not more essential 
 to the life of to-day than Homer's Olympus. All these things 
 are but bodies which fall away and decay, but and here is the 
 secret of content the spirit that vivifies them is only left free 
 thereby to make new and more elevated and uplifting forms, 
 which will be, whatever they are, the world's next creed. What 
 is a vital necessity to us to-day is to hold close by this spirit, 
 and understand that it is steadfast, and unchangeable, and 
 serene. It is never past, nor to be ; it exists in the everlasting 
 Now, and though its forms be Protean, it is simply itself." 
 
 " Won't following one's conscience bring one to that 1 " 
 asked Bethesda timidly. 
 
 " The belief in conscience as the highest is like the Jewish 
 religion, Miss Hamilton. They are both negative, and apply
 
 CHAP, v.] SPIRITUAL EVOLUTION. 229 
 
 only to individuals, not to humanity as a race. They are both full 
 of ' sha'n'ts.' Look at the difference between the Commandments 
 and the Beatitudes, and you will see what I mean. Besides, 
 they neither of them have any serenity or centre of absolute 
 principle. In the Old Testament, for instance, the Lord is 
 represented as 'angry' or 'pacified.' As if we could 'grieve' 
 or ' offend ' God ! He would be always angry, always grieved, 
 always relentless, if he were ever so ! We cannot alter the 
 Eternal ; but we may anger, and grieve, and offend, and alter 
 our consciences, and this is what the Jews meant. The belief 
 in conscience is apt to fall just as the Jewish religion did, but 
 both have a prophecy of the Messiah inherent in them, and to 
 both when the time is ripe a Saviour comes." 
 
 He smiled down at Bethesda very kindly as he rose to go, 
 but the eyes she raised to his showed their unsatisfied hunger 
 painfully. The smile faded from his face, and an anxious desire 
 to help made him say : 
 
 " When any new perception of truth comes you may be sure 
 it will be to one who is pre-eminently in the stream of Provi- 
 dence ; that is, actively, and with his whole soul employed in 
 the duties of life, trying to fill each one with the bounty of an 
 unselfish ardour. Then we must get outside of the narrow 
 limits of conscience into a recognition of something larger than 
 ourself, in the good of society, of the nation, and thence the 
 Church. It will come, but we must discipline ourselves for the 
 highest by practice in the lower forms. We cannot afford to 
 pass these by ; if we do we lose all." 
 
 He bowed, and, accompanied by Mr. Blythe, departed. 
 
 "What a liberal clergyman !" said Bethesda. 
 
 " So liberal that his congregation will soon turn him off," 
 remarked Mr. Stanhope drily. "Yet he has good ideas too. 
 Blythe seemed greatly interested ; eh, wife 1 " 
 
 " Yes, he needs some such man to talk to. He thinks a 
 woman is peculiarly constructed for the purpose of having faith 
 in things no man can believe in. Of course that is folly, but a 
 great many men are like him. They even go so far as to prefer 
 a woman should believe what they can see no sense in; it 
 makes them more ' womanly,' they think." 
 
 " Now, you need not give me the benefit of all that sar- 
 casm ! " exclaimed Ealeigh, laughing. " You know I am not 
 one of those dreadful men ! "
 
 230 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 But Mrs. Stanhope only smiled absently. She was thinking 
 of what had been said. 
 
 " When I was a girl," she remarked presently, " I knew a 
 woman who felt herself made for something uncommon, and 
 who prepared for it by idle waiting, because her talents were 
 too noble for humble use. She tried after the unattainable, 
 and dived after the unfathomable, to the neglect of all ordinary 
 duties. Thus she lost all possibility of attaining the heights. 
 Her feet, unaccustomed to the first steps of the ladder, could 
 not through all her life climb more than the lower ones, and 
 those with difficulty. The stars she worshipped, and longed 
 impotently for wings to attain, passed her by, and shone in 
 other skies. I worshipped her ; I looked confidently for that 
 wondrous revelation which was to surprise the world and 
 blind it while her long-expectant eyes could alone sustain the 
 light. But I recognised that it was long in coming, and I 
 decided that I must content myself with lower things 
 
 "You would be the kitchen-maid," interrupted Raleigh, 
 " and you are my Princess Cinderella. So put on your glass 
 slipper, and let us go upstairs. Beth looks tired." 
 
 " You are all teaching me so much ! " exclaimed Bethesda, 
 with something of her old impulsiveness. " I shall not soon 
 forget to-night's lessons." 
 
 And then the thought came to her with a sudden pang : 
 How much interest would Rene" take in such an evening's con- 
 versation ? He rocked himself in his old creeds, while she was 
 battling in the present ; was this another side where they did 
 not respond to one another ? 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "Tlie gladness of true heroism visits the heart of him who is really 
 competent to say : I court truth." TYNDAL. 
 
 " Help us, Lord, to feel that, when we put one hand bravely in 
 that of Truth, the other is clasped in thine." JOHN SNYDER. 
 
 IN spite of such conversations as these, and the invigorating 
 books Mrs. Stanhope gave Bethesda to read, intellectual per- 
 ception was still weak and impotent, like a new-born babe, com- 
 pared to the mighty tidal-waves of passion which surged now
 
 CHAP, vi.] A MERCIFUL UNCONSCIOUSNESS. 231 
 
 and again over the woman's heart and left her prostrate. 
 Some little thing would recall the past, and she would turn 
 sick and dizzy as one does in a heavily-perfumed room. One 
 day when she came in from driving, and laid aside the cloak 
 Rend had particularly liked, and the gloves fragrant with the 
 perfume he had chosen, the vivid memories came over her with 
 a suffocation of desire which was well-nigh insane. The red 
 damask room, the buhl furniture, the deep windows and views 
 therefrom, were all pictured before her in a flash which blinded 
 her to her present surroundings. 
 
 Fortunately Agatha called her in a moment, and during 
 luncheon the poignant sensation passed. But when she came 
 out again and saw her wraps, she saw as distinctly the tall 
 lithe form, the proud head, and deep eyes of one 
 
 " I love ! " she exclaimed in defiance. 
 
 She went to her own room, and paced up and down fiercely. 
 
 " What is the use of it all ? " she cried beneath her breath. 
 " Let me be ill ! I am tired of fighting and feigning ; tired of 
 pretending to be content when the source of happiness is poi- 
 soned ; tired of keeping up appearances, and trying to make even 
 myself feel that there is still much to live for. I don't wish 
 to live ! I am envious of every person whom I hear has been 
 accidentally killed. Why should they be thus chosen ? It is 
 not just that I should pass untouched where others meet dear 
 death. Why won't they let the stupor of illness deaden the 
 pain of my brain ? I want to die, to die ! " 
 
 She had never acknowledged this to herself before; she 
 had stifled, yet unborn, all such feelings ; but now she was 
 desperate. How much could one suffer and live ? 
 
 That same day Agatha came in to call her for dinner, and 
 found her asleep, and, when she tried, could not waken her. 
 She bade the servant telephone for the physician who had for- 
 merly examined her niece's heart. He came. Bethesda had 
 not moved; her breathing was hardly perceptible, and her 
 pulse so faint as to be unnoticeable. She lay as still and almost 
 as white as death, with purple shadows under her eyes, and her 
 mouth inexpressibly sad. 
 
 The physician looked down at her with more feeling than 
 he usually displayed. 
 
 " She is worn out," he said. " Let her sleep as long as she 
 will. She can awake only to suffer."
 
 232 BETHESDA. [PART u. 
 
 "Do you mean that she cannot escape the disease now 1 ?" 
 asked Agatha. 
 
 " I mean she must be a great deal worse before she can be 
 better. I mean, dear Mrs. Stanhope, I mean that all your 
 powers of nursing will be required to bring her through." 
 
 " Is the danger of death or lingering disease ?" 
 
 " Of both. There is trouble with the brain as well as the 
 heart." 
 
 " Is there danger of her being insane 1 You know I always 
 wish to know the worst." Agatha put her hand behind her as 
 she spoke, and grasped the high back of a chair. 
 
 " I think not," was the quick response, " I should say she 
 had a strong mind ? " 
 
 ' An active one." 
 
 ' And with good reasoning powers 1 " 
 
 'Yes." 
 
 ' She is having a great trouble of some kind 1 " 
 
 'Yes." 
 
 ' Has it reached the climax yet 1 " 
 
 ' I don't know." 
 
 ' She can bear little more. You must guard her in every way." 
 
 ' I can't, doctor ; " and then the brave woman broke down. 
 This was the worst, that, do what she might, she could not 
 protect the frail body from the gnawing mind. 
 
 She recovered herself in a moment, however. 
 
 " There is nothing to be done until she wakens, you say ; 
 and then ? " 
 
 " Send for me. I will come again in the morning anyway." 
 
 He came without being sent for. Bethesda still lay in the 
 childlike posture, with one hand beneath her cheek. They 
 turned her over the horrible dead weight ! and left her for 
 another twelve hours. Then she wakened, and smiled at her 
 aunt in the firelight. 
 
 " I have had such a good rest," she said. " It must be 
 quite dinner-time." 
 
 She rose, and tried to dress, but found herself weak and 
 languid. 'Mrs. Stanhope thought it best to tell her, very 
 quietly, that nature had taken a rest in her despite, and that 
 she had slept a whole day. Bethesda was a trifle startled, but 
 the hazy calm which had settled upon her shielded her mind 
 from active apprehension.
 
 CHAP, vi.] REAWAKENING. 233 
 
 It was in the midst of an unusually warm and late Indian 
 summer, and Mrs. Stanhope obeyed the physician's mandate in 
 taking Beth out for long, slow drives over the prairie lands that 
 rose and fell in wooded undulations to the dim horizon. Balmy 
 winds blew from the south ; an indefinable fragrance filled the 
 air; the sunbeams shed only soft lights through the misty 
 atmosphere; the few remaining leaves were golden, and the 
 dark lines of branches were delicate and fine. Empty birds' 
 nests suggested the spring-time with an added melancholy, and 
 the birds, resting in their migrations, found, where had been 
 the gloom of verdure, only shadows like mellowed light. 
 
 Someway the autumn, the ripening and falling time, came upon 
 Bethesda with a peculiar force of sweetness. She seemed to feel 
 as she would when she was middle-aged and calm, and life had 
 become more meditative than active and anguished to her. 
 She surrendered herself to it voluntarily. She was content to 
 forget just now; she and nature together were quietly resting. 
 
 But all too soon they woke one morning to find their 
 Indian summer gone, and in its stead winter was drearily 
 throned for an unbroken reign. A wild prairie wind shrieked 
 and sobbed and moaned around the house, and large fires 
 barely sufficed to warm the rooms where a few days before the 
 windows had been open to let the soft air enter and stir Beth- 
 csda's white dress and fine bronze hair. 
 
 She shivered now and collected herself, and tried to look 
 the future bravely in the face. It was little over a month be- 
 fore her final decision must be rendered, and the correspondence 
 with Rene' planted, to bring forth what fruits it might, or 
 annihilated for a practical eternity. 
 
 She investigated the abysses of her own mind as steadily as 
 she could. Perhaps she had been unduly influenced by physical 
 weakness, she thought. Perhaps she was unwilling to follow 
 one course, whether conscience commanded it or not, so uncon- 
 sciously closed that issue. This must not be. On what did 
 Rent's greatest welfare depend 1 This was the important 
 question. If she broke the correspondence definitely it might, 
 instead of awakening his moral nature, destroy his belief in 
 woman, and the bitterness would poison his whole character. 
 If she wrote to him, her letters would be the result of long and 
 severe thought, and she might lead him from doing what she 
 said, to do what his conscience said. It would be a great shock
 
 234 BETIIESDA. [PAET ii. 
 
 to him in any case to find that she had changed her opinions 
 so much; but the blow might benefit him, although he had 
 such a buoyant disposition that he quickly adjusted himself to 
 any burden given him to bear, and found it light. Too light ; 
 it did not crush him enough to bring out the pure ore. 
 
 Rene' was, however, very close to her all that evening. 
 Indeed, was he not always near her ? She was not conscious 
 of a moment when, either active or dormant, the thought of 
 him was other than present. As she wakened it never came 
 with suddenness that she remembered him ; the thought 
 wakened with her, and was quietly in possession when she 
 became fully conscious. She talked and read aloud, and listened 
 to others, and his spirit was ever there, watchful, cherishing, 
 seldom importunate for he would not have been but always 
 read to step forward into the light of her active recognition 
 when the imperativeness of other demands was answered. It 
 was sweet and upholding ; it was as if he were consciously 
 present, as at the Conovers' the evening before their departure, 
 talking himself and leaving her free, but drawing around her 
 a warm garment of unceasing attention and proud tenderness. 
 
 Several callers did not interfere with an unusually keen 
 apprehension of Renews presence until Mr. Connough commanded 
 Bethesda's undivided attention by what he was saying to another 
 caller a Mr. Fluting. 
 
 Daniel Deronda was the topic of conversation, and Mr. 
 Fluting had been drawing a comparison between Grandcourt 
 and Deronda, and awarding his praise to the large sympathy of 
 the latter. This immediately aroused Bethesda. She was not 
 one of those who found Deronda unreal. Many of the touches 
 a master-hand had given to his character touched home to her 
 heart. Was not his writing with Mordecai like hers with 
 Rene' 1 Was not his wide sympathy the element she had tried 
 to make her own 1 Had not she also been " early impassioned 
 by ideas," and at least tried " to burn her fires on those 
 heights " ? 
 
 "The tendencies of the times," remarked Mr. Connough 
 decisively, " are to make such men as Deronda the ideal type. 
 His sympathies were so spread out into the vague that he had 
 no convictions ; he put himself in every one's place except his 
 own. This is the end to which some of our best minds aspire. 
 Is it good 1 Is it beneficial to humanity ? For myself I doubt
 
 CHAP, vi.] DERONDA AND GWENDOLEN. 235 
 
 it. I think we should have a generosity large enough to em- 
 brace ourselves." 
 
 " Some writer," suggested Mrs. Stanhope, " strongly advo- 
 cates this lack of convictions. ' Convictions are crystallisations,' 
 he says. ' It is freezing the water of life.' " 
 
 " Well, what does that amount to 1 " asked Mr. Connough, 
 controversially. "Deronda, the modern ideal, let us say, did 
 nothing until he was forced by his self-abnegation into the con- 
 centrated life-purpose of a one-idea'd man. We are few of us 
 in a position to ' put ourselves back into the antediluvian 
 period to sympathise with a megatherium ' ! There is some 
 absolute duty for each one to perform, and we cannot expect 
 Fate, in the guise of a Mordecai, to bring our work to our 
 hands as it was brought to Deronda's. If we misdirect our 
 energies the world misses the work we were born for, and we 
 must each find it out for ourselves." 
 
 " Gwendolen in the same way waited for Deronda to tell 
 her what was right, didn't she 1 She had the moral indecision 
 that Deronda had intellectually." 
 
 " Yes, Deronda was Gwendolen's conscience. She was too 
 egotistic a nature, perhaps, to have it awakened otherwise than 
 by emotion, by having a conscience outside of her; but once 
 awakened, absolute separation was necessary for her to be able 
 to develop her real conscience. Had she married Deronda 
 she would never have had any conscience of her own at all. 
 She married a man self-determined at least, whatever his faults, 
 and Deronda married a woman also self-determined. There 
 was no chance about it; it was one of the must-be's of 
 character." 
 
 What an insight was this for Bethesda ! She seized on it 
 with her quick intuition, and said : 
 
 " Then the right thing would be to be crystallised within 
 oneself, and fluid to others." 
 
 " True, true !" exclaimed an incipient admirer of Bethesda's. 
 " You have put it admirably, Miss Hamilton." 
 
 Mr. Stanhope was walking up and down the parlour, with 
 his hands behind him. He stopped now, facing the group 
 around the fire. 
 
 " Did you ever hear the legend," he said, " of a monk, a 
 good but narrow-minded man, who tried to convince every one 
 of his own particular creed, and failing, damned them eternally 1
 
 236 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 No reflections, Mr. Connough ! Well, one day he fell asleep 
 a man must tire easily with such a weight of responsibility ! 
 and in a dream he saw himself walking by a stream of pure 
 water. Presently a beautiful youth appeared, and set many 
 differently -shaped vessels on the bank, no two alike, but all 
 transparent, and then, he filled each one with water from the 
 stream. The good man was perplexed when the youth looked 
 at him to see if he understood, and desired him to explain ; so 
 the angel said : ' The water takes the form of the vessel which 
 contains it, but it is always the same in itself. Remember this.' 
 And the old monk awoke, and he did remember it, and it changed 
 him from a dogmatic sectarian to the widest-minded man of his 
 times." 
 
 "And I believe with Beth," added Mrs. Stanhope, "that 
 it is the same with what we are to ourselves and to others. 
 We can have our convictions pure and true, and our sympathies 
 fluid enough to follow each curve and line of other minds." 
 
 " There is a very good sermon in that story," said Mr. 
 Connough thoughtfully. "I wish I could prevail upon my 
 people to understand that reason is the very life of religion ; 
 that we must serve God with our minds as well as our hearts." 
 
 " How do you explain ' reasonably,' " asked Mr. Stanhope, 
 " the necessity of this blind faith and cruel narrowness which 
 has marked the Christian Church ? " 
 
 " I take it in this way," was the reply. " The emphasis 
 placed on faith in the earlier centuries of Christianity was 
 needed to consolidate the religion and make its truths, its in- 
 junctions, sink into the hearts of men. This speedily degenerated 
 into superstition, and ignorance brought its inevitable result in 
 sin. Then to the synthetic unity which faith had produced 
 was brought the analytic power of doubt ; first in the Reforma- 
 tion, now in science, and I believe one will be of as inestimable 
 value to humanity as the other. By scepticism our religion 
 will be regenerated ; not in itself, for, as Christ taught it, it is 
 eternally of the same perfection, but in the acceptation of it by 
 men, which is what the world needs. As I said the other 
 evening, by scepticism all the non-essentials will be eliminated, 
 and like the sky when the clouds are swept away, it will be 
 seen as one unstained sapphire of truth from the zenith to the 
 horizon." 
 
 " Have you read any of Mallock's books, Miss Hamilton 1 "
 
 CHAP, vi.] MAERIAGE A SACRAMENT. 237 
 
 asked Mr. Fluting, turning away from the others with some 
 impatience. He much preferred a tete-ct-tete, where he could 
 do all the talking, especially to such a listener. But she was 
 not in an indolent frame of mind to-night. She was now, on 
 the contrary, eager for food, eager for knowledge, aroused once 
 more to the interminable combat. So she turned to Mr. 
 Connough with Mr. Fluting's question. 
 
 " I don't know what to make of Mallock, do you ? " 
 
 " He doesn't see far. He cannot answer the questions he 
 propounds, but he voices the yearning of the time, and reaches 
 more truth unconsciously than he does consciously. He makes 
 love, conjugal love, the waiting ground or the antechamber of 
 the divine. He tells men to seek the highest they do know, 
 while waiting or seeking for the unknown. I think you will 
 find everywhere that when men do not know God they do not 
 comprehend the significance of marriage. And when they 
 realise that entire self-surrender, and a finding of themselves in 
 another is their greatest happiness, then they begin to under- 
 stand what it is to give themselves to a diviner power, to an 
 inexhaustible love, and so come to an apprehension of God." 
 
 There was a little silence after this. Even Mr. Fluting 
 did not find anything immediately to say; but presently Mrs. 
 Stanhope led the conversation back into more ordinary channels, 
 and Mr. Connough soon rose to go. Mr. Fluting followed him, 
 for Bethesda was immersed in the thoughts that had been 
 awakened, and he found himself a little de trop. 
 
 Bethesda's earnest effort to see was not without success. 
 In the night a startling possibility suggested itself, and dazed 
 her at first. What if she should write to Madame d'lsten, tell 
 the situation frankly, and hold herself at Renews wife's com- 
 mands ? 
 
 It might open Louise's eyes, excite her jealousy, and thus 
 make her realise her husband's worth, and incite her to strive 
 to keep his affection. If this could be accomplished his best 
 welfare would be secured. The passionate attachment between 
 him and Bethesda should be used as a tool for the more perfect 
 modelling of character. 
 
 But, would this be the result? Bethesda forced herself to 
 look searchingly into the character over whose weaknesses she 
 had hitherto drawn a sheltering veil. Louise d'lsten, so far as 
 Bethesda knew her, was undeniably a weak woman. She was
 
 238 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 selfish, and discontented, and passionate, with no effort to 
 be otherwise. She had the faults of a narrow education, 
 and a pernicious society. If Bethesda wrote, it might 
 rouse her jealousy in such a way that she would hate her 
 husband, and take revenge by giving free reins to all her 
 desires. But the thought haunted Bethesda, and when next 
 day a letter from Rend, forwarded by Mrs. Trescott, came, 
 telling of his having been to see his wife, and having informed 
 her of his literary compact with Bethesda, she thought this 
 smoothed the path before her. 
 
 She was ready to humiliate herself in any way, if by so 
 doing she could help Rene' and Louise. Madame d'Isten was 
 now definitely aware that such a woman as Bethesda Hamilton 
 existed, and, not improbably, had some feeling of jealousy for 
 her already. If so, would not the effect of the proposed letter 
 be more towards action than complaint 1 Bethesda was sure 
 that, although Rend had told his wife of the compact, he had 
 given her no voice in the matter. She, Bethesda, would do 
 this, and, moreover, would show Louise how she might win her 
 husband more fully than ever, and in doing so, help him and 
 assure both their happiness. What if she should even prevail 
 upon Madame d'Isten to write to her, and then reconcile the 
 conflicting elements 1 Ah, that would be worth living for ! 
 That would be work meet for repentance. 
 
 But presently common-sense began to reassert itself against 
 this high romance, and humility taught her that these were 
 fallacious self-deceptions. It was not her place to anticipate 
 any such results from what had been sinful error from the 
 beginning. She must seek a fuller and surer expiation. 
 
 While her mind was under the full effect of this disappoint- 
 ment she stood one afternoon in her bay-window, her spirit as 
 sodden as the chill earth. She looked dully at the leaden sky, 
 which seemed all of one hue, except where the rain-laden clouds 
 were scourged onwards by the north wind. Involuntarily she 
 contrasted this December with the June six months before. 
 The wide streets, the avenues of blossoming trees, the statuary, 
 the sweet air and sunny skies of la belle France, how she 
 yearned for them ! The months contrasted sadly enough in 
 other ways. Then the most fatiguing and constant exertions, 
 the late hours and light sleep, could not detract from the glad- 
 ness of heart which made her strong and buoyant. Now rest,
 
 CHAP, vi.] THE BODY IS WEAK. 239 
 
 intellectual food, petting without limit, and the greatest care, 
 could not prevent the heavy weight within from wearing her 
 thin, and pale, and weak. It was the contrast of the flowering 
 and decaying time. 
 
 In the midst of her dreary reflections a knock came at the 
 door, and a cablegram from Evra was handed her a tender 
 message hoping she was better. It might have been the 
 thoughts which had previously occupied her mind ; it may 
 have been the leap of her fluttering heart, but from the instant 
 her eyes glanced down the lines she felt sure Kent's tenderness 
 had planned it. And to Bethesda, struggling in the toils of 
 conflicting principles, and almost ready for the renunciation 
 of all happiness, it was like a voice, a touch from Paradise. 
 Her load was inexpressibly lightened, and during the evening 
 she looked lovely beyond compare. 
 
 Not long after this came her birthday, and both to celebrate 
 it, and because of Bethesda's increasing fragility, Agatha asked 
 Margaret to visit her for a fortnight. 
 
 The joy of the meeting between the sisters was tempered 
 with great sadness, for Bethesda had failed steadily. When 
 letters had come from Mabel, burdened with anxiety for both 
 soul and body, and advocating, in season and out of season, her 
 ideas of Beth's duty, they had made the weary woman per- 
 ceptibly weaker. She felt an imperative need for freedom, and 
 Mrs. Trescott constantly wished to guide and direct her, and 
 she began to see the impossibility of drawing near to one, 
 however affectionate, who wishes to throw chains about one. 
 
 But it had come to the pass now that nothing was of any 
 vital consequence to her but integrity and the right. On these 
 all her failing strength was concentrated. Let her questions be 
 decided, and then the deluge. 
 
 On her birthday, when Bethesda was not able to leave the 
 couch a sad enough coming of age for the beautiful heiress 
 after she had transacted considerable business and made her 
 will, Bethesda asked to be left alone with Marcot. He came 
 and stood before her reverentially. 
 
 " Marcot," said Bethesda, " I know you are devoted to your 
 master." 
 
 Marcot started. M. d'Isten had given him such strict in- 
 junctions never to breathe a word of his former service, that he 
 supposed no one knew it.
 
 240 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 " I believe you are also devoted to me," Bethesda pursued 
 calmly. " I prove my trust in you by confiding to you this 
 letter to be given to your master when I die. Don't fail to 
 give it into his own hands, and let no one know you possess 
 it, except M. d'Isten. I trust this to your honour, Marcot." 
 
 " I will give it only into my master's, Monsieur le Comte 
 d'Isten's hand," said Marcot solemnly. " I swear it by 
 
 " Hush ! Your word is sufficient. Only to him, or to me, 
 if I should ask it of you ; you understand ? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " I wish you to know also that I have left you a small sum 
 to support you when you are old, or ill, and to be a reminder 
 of my thanks for your faithful service." 
 
 "I can never thank you, dearest lady," exclaimed the man, 
 the tears streaming down his face, which he turned away to 
 hide. 
 
 " Don't weep for me," said Bethesda, with utmost gentle- 
 ness. " I shall be happier if I die. Tell your master so." 
 
 Her voice, too, broke, and she held out her hand for him 
 to kiss. 
 
 "You are only fit for heaven," said poor Marcot, and he 
 left her with the precious letter tightly buttoned beneath his 
 vest. 
 
 Rend's letter for her, the first after the six months' silence, 
 came the next day, a week in advance of its time. She laid it 
 aside unopened. It might settle her actions when she came to 
 read it. It did not seem right to her to forsake him utterly, 
 yet Rent's highest perception of womanhood was embodied in 
 her, and if right claimed that s\he should be silent as well as 
 invisible to him she must accede. Intuition told her dimly, 
 before she had gone far enough to perceive it by reason, that 
 she could not help him ; that this last joy and consolation, as 
 many others, was denied them by their wrong -doing. They 
 must, she feared, expiate separately. If she only had the real 
 hope that he would expiate ! but she was afraid his conscience 
 might not awaken without her. Thus she was, in spite of 
 their actual present divergence, still carrying out the principles 
 Mrs. Trescott had instilled into her by education and practice ; 
 for she was endeavouring to occupy the same position towards 
 Rene' that Mabel strove to occupy towards her, and of which 
 she felt so keenly the bondage. The difference was that Rend
 
 CHAP. VI.] A COMMAND. 241 
 
 gloried in his obedience, and served willingly the conscience of 
 another, while Bethesda found it an unendurable burden. 
 
 The night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day was 
 a memorable one to Bethesda. Margaret had placed on easels 
 at the foot of the bed two engravings ; one, a Holy Family by 
 Raphael ; the other, of the Milan Cathedral. Bethesda lay 
 looking at them most of the night. There was a strange sense 
 of calm in and around her. She felt as if she were waiting for 
 a voice to speak, and it recalled the fancy she had had, when, 
 standing on San Miniato' in the spring sunshine, she had 
 listened to the echoes of the church bells, losing themselves in 
 the purple Apennines. Then it was high noon ; now it was a 
 winter midnight, but the feeling was the same. 
 
 As she lay in this clear-eyed calm, thinking how marvel- 
 lously the little beginning of the Holy Family had developed 
 into an infinite life, which, to those who believed, filled heaven, 
 and made arts, ethics, and religion blossom into fullest luxuriance 
 on earth, she seemed, without any transition, to have it clear 
 in her mind that she was to abnegate all spiritual control over 
 Rene" ; that, as long as their present life separated them, they 
 were to be separated absolutely, with no thought of further 
 communication beyond the letter she would write to tell him 
 this. 
 
 She had had this lesson still to learn : that she was pre- 
 sumptuous in thinking through her could come his only aid ; 
 that if she did not actively help him he was lost. She knew 
 now that no one can be lost or saved except by himself; he 
 must inevitably sink or rise with the meaning of his own actions. 
 
 Who was she, to take the responsibili ty of his deeds 1 to 
 answer for him in heaven or hell 1 Had he no voice ? She 
 could but trust in his nobility, his strength, his purity. If 
 these failed him, in so far as these failed him, they would be 
 eternally separated. The infinite would come between them. 
 
 It was not so hard as she had fancied to make this ultimate 
 sacrifice. Never before had she realised how, with the strong 
 desire to do right comes the strength to act. A few days be- 
 fore it had seemed to her that life was unendurable without 
 active use to him ; yet now she felt upborne. The majesty of 
 virtue ! It corn-wands our obedience, and when we are willing 
 to kneel as soon as the command comes, the great king unveils 
 himself.
 
 242 BETHESDA. [I-ART n. 
 
 During the following week Mabel, alarmed by the accounts 
 
 received from Agatha and Margaret, came on to S . In the 
 
 first interview they had alone, Bethesda told her aunt of her 
 decision. Her words were few, and impregnated with a gentle 
 weariness, undisturbed by tears, praises, and tears again, which 
 were showered upon her. She seemed very far away from it 
 all, and as if she were looking on something in which she had 
 no part. 
 
 She lay on the bed all day lifted on numerous pillows, her 
 face tired to faintness. Margaret hovered around her with un- 
 obtrusive attentions, and Bethesda liked to have her near. 
 Hers was the only presence which did not weigh upon the 
 sensitive woman. 
 
 " If you will just let me rest," she said once, when the phy- 
 sician came. " I don't want anything but rest and Margaret." 
 And Margaret banished the others with more energy than that 
 of which ordinary events would have shown her capable, and con- 
 stituted herself a sister of the tenderest charity. She thought 
 Beth would die, and when she remembered the past months of 
 suffering, felt almost reconciled to losing her. She would soon 
 join her where God would wipe away all tears from their eyes. 
 
 Bethesda lay thus all the holiday week, asking little, doing 
 nothing except to bear the pain which steadily increased. 
 Many flowers were sent her, and a fresh basket of the loveliest 
 roses was constantly on the silken quilt beside her, a delicate 
 attention from Mr. Stanhope. She lay amid the flowers like a 
 snow-drift in spring, stealthily decreasing in strength, and 
 likening more and more to its whiteness. She was quite passive 
 in mind and body until New Year's Day, when she roused her- 
 self, conscious that now there was something for her to do. 
 She gathered all her strength for the consummation of her 
 sacrifice. This done, and she had nothing more to think 
 about. Nothing more. The future from this day was a dead 
 blank to her. To-day was all she had to live. To-morrow 
 was beyond her thoughts. 
 
 She early asked Margaret to bring her the olive-wood box 
 which contained Renews letters, and those she had already 
 mostly written, to be sent to-day. Then she had asked her 
 sister to leave her, and kissed her on both cheeks, as if to 
 fortify herself by these sweet touches. 
 
 When she was alone she broke the seal of Rent's long-
 
 CHAP, vi.] FINAL WORDS. 243 
 
 anticipated letter slowly. She trusted it would be strong and 
 helpful, and yet she wished to be prepared for any event. As 
 she read it her face gathered sadness which made her seem 
 a woman arrived at the maturity of sorrow, and as she finished 
 it her hand was pressed close against her heart. 
 
 The letter showed him blind, so blind ! These months had 
 apparently brought him nothing of growth or clear-sight. He 
 had not once questioned himself deeply in regard to their 
 relationship. He did not recognise that there was anything to 
 question. He had incorporated his position towards her into 
 an unquestionable part of his existence. He saw no use in 
 examining with a view to change what was unchangeable. 
 And the woman's heart felt, if her mind did not yet recognise, 
 that where there is no growth, love must die. It was the 
 bitterness of this cup which she was now drinking. 
 
 He had enclosed a red leaf, the last on the Virgin Vine 
 which wreathed itself around her window, now his. It recalled 
 with absolute distinctness the many hours she had spent kneel- 
 ing there. She could see still the solemn march of the stars 
 across the violet sky, and feel again the deep content which had 
 been one of her own strongest proofs that her position was not 
 wrong. So divine is love, so high does it spring above all 
 earthly stains to its quenchless source ! 
 
 He was now in the same position, under the same influences, 
 that she was then. She must remember this, and not be iin- 
 just, but give him time. 
 
 With the leaf, holding the heart's blood of the year, she 
 closed her journal for ever. It was a fitting seal for the past. 
 
 She then read over and sealed her letter to Madame d'Isten. 
 As she closed it, Margaret's voice was heard at the door. 
 
 " May I come in 1 I have something for you." 
 
 It was a cablegram from Rene' : birthday greetings, and 
 hoping she was well. 
 
 The very sweetness of this attention, this thoughtfuluess 
 which was so sure a proof of affection, made the task before her 
 still bitterer. But it must be done. She smiled faintly as she 
 put the open telegram in her sister's hand, and said : 
 
 "A little longer, dear; my work is not quite done," and 
 Margaret reluctantly left her. 
 
 The letter to Rene was now to be finished ; the last the 
 very last. She told him of her change in opinions, and how it
 
 244 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 had come about ; how she had struggled long, through conflicts 
 the deathliness of which she let him guess that he might be 
 aided to an equal devotion to principle ; and how at last she 
 had become convinced that their correspondence would be a sin. 
 The renunciation of it had not been without its consolation, she 
 told him; for if our greatest desire is to live rightly, truth 
 becomes sweeter and dearer to us than any error possibly can be. 
 
 Then she spoke to him of his wife ; of how her aunt had 
 told her that Madame d'Isten was in a precarious position, 
 tempted to do wrong on every side, and that he had granted 
 all her desires, however repugnant to himself. She recalled 
 how they had once named him an " ideal husband," but said, 
 that since she had thought more, she realised he failed with his 
 wife, as they had with one another, in not holding principle 
 highest of all. Where persons were to be sacrificed, he was 
 generous in sacrificing himself; but principles should never be 
 sacrificed to any person. No happiness is so necessary as 
 nobility. Indulgence is not always laudable. Instead of per- 
 mitting any intercourse, even of the slightest, between his wife 
 and her former lover, he should endeavour to prevent it with 
 all his force. "Hurt her, no matter how deeply," wrote 
 Bethesda ; " cut away her dearest wishes, but do not let her 
 remain in the atmosphere of sin." He should be severe with 
 himself as with her ; severe with her as with himself. Gener- 
 osity may be weak ; mercy also ; clear-sighted justice should be 
 the foundation of our actions. To his wife he could give aid ; 
 her he could serve by active use, but he and Bethesda must 
 bear the consequences of their past in complete separation. 
 Their lives would bring their consequences in the future as well 
 as the present. Like mingles with like throughout life and 
 immortality, and so their lives would join or divide as they 
 were similar or dissimilar. 
 
 To this letter Bethesda now added a few grateful lines for 
 his good wishes, and ended with the words, " I trust you." 
 
 She said them over and over to herself as she sealed the 
 letter, and in it her hopes, her life itself. She had fought hard ; 
 she had thus far conquered. She had made her sxipreme 
 renunciation to the cold but complaint-hushing majesty of virtue. 
 That it was right was sufficient ; but she could not help feeling 
 what a consolation it would be to know the tenderness of religion, 
 and to do right because God willed
 
 CHAP, vii.] JOYOUS ANTICIPATIONS. 245 
 
 What remained now but death ? 
 
 " Margaret ! " came the heart's quick cry, and her sister 
 was in the room the same instant. 
 
 When Marcot brought word that the letters were registered 
 and mailed Bethesda let herself sink back on the pillows, and, 
 as Margaret bent to kiss her : 
 
 " Good-night, dear," she said, and fell asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " Love is a distinction of two, who yet, for each other, are simply not 
 distinguished. ... I have my self-consciousness in another, not in my- 
 self ; yet it is another in which alone I am Satisfied and at peace with 
 myself. . . . This perceiving, this feeling, this cognising of unity is love. " 
 
 HEGEL. 
 
 " There are in the world but two loves the love of self extending to 
 the contempt of God, and the love of God extending to the contempt of 
 self." ST. AUGUSTINE. 
 
 BETHESDA'S letter reached Rene' one day in January as he was 
 about to go to the ministere. He turned back to his room, 
 the one she had occupied, where a cheery fire was burning, and 
 every article of furniture, every breath of air, seemed to wel- 
 come him in the name of his beloved. How good she was to 
 be thus always beside him. How many men would wish to be 
 in his place, feeling themselves watched over by the tenderness 
 of so incomparable a woman ! 
 
 He seated himself in the wine-red fauteuil, where her dainty 
 form had often been luxuriously supported, and took from the 
 locked drawer of the desk her picture, which he turned towards 
 him and regarded with joyous expectation. 
 
 " Thou hast written," he cried. " Once more naught is 
 between us. Thou art my Be'thesda ! " 
 
 He touched the letter to forehead, lips, and breast before 
 opening it with Oriental homage, as if to pledge his whole being 
 to her anew, and then he broke the seal. 
 
 Three hours later he still sat staring at the pages in his 
 hands. 
 
 Yet the dethronement of all his ideal hopes had not come 
 upon him with the suddenness Bethesda had anticipated.
 
 246 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 During the months of silence between them he had, with his 
 usual foresight, attempted to face every possibility, and adapt 
 his possible codes of action to the various manners in which 
 Bethesda might write. In hearing of her failing health, and 
 seeing Mrs. Trescott's increased rancour towards him, he under- 
 stood' the battle Bethesda was fighting, and had tried to follow 
 her by guesses, some approximating the truth, some as distant 
 as the poles from the reality. By dint of these imaginings he 
 had fancied he was prepared to face anything, from a burst of 
 warm sunshine to a temporary eclipse ; but the complete sacrifice 
 she asked was a renunciation surpassing any he had dreamed 
 of making. 
 
 Once recognising her unbiassed will, however, it became his 
 sole possible course. He never thought of combating her 
 decision ; he accepted it as supreme and inviolable. His sub- 
 mission was not easy; on the contrary, it was inexpressibly 
 hard. He read over and over again her words with dry, burning 
 eyes; with an agony of sorrow that bliss was denied them 
 both ; with a bitter outcry against fate ; but always with entire 
 obedience to her. 
 
 Had any one praised or blamed him then, he would have 
 looked at the speaker in bewilderment and said simply : 
 
 " How can I do differently 1 Do I not love her 1 " 
 
 Such obedience to what is accepted as the highest, such 
 devotion to what one beloved asks, is perhaps the most perfect 
 of all foundations for nobility of character. In this Reno 
 d'lsten's nature was of the finest feminine fibre, as prayer is 
 feminine, as the Church is said to be the bride of Christ, but 
 it was also feminine in that it obeyed and followed where 
 Bethesda reasoned and led. This was not altogether wrong. 
 The two had in some ways interchanged their attributes, as 
 all men and women must at certain periods. It is a woman's 
 place to be a lawgiver in family relations, as it is a man's in 
 politics and science. It is a woman's place to lead in spiritual 
 things, in fine perceptions of truth, in the chiselling of life, as 
 it is a man's to lead in hewing out the strong blocks of insti- 
 tutions which build up the world. Woman must be in many 
 instances conservative and discriminating, where man can be 
 audacious and radical ; but it is only as all these feminine and 
 masculine qualities modify one another by interadoption that 
 the perfect human being ensues.
 
 CHAP, vii.] OBEDIENCE. 247 
 
 Now Rene' was far from perfect. His obedience was not 
 to God nor right, but to the creature he loved best. He had 
 himself said of the ardent phrases which Thomas a Kempis 
 addresses to the lover of his soul, "I could sooner say that 
 to my friends than to God." And now his words were verified. 
 Had it been possible for him to imagine Bethesda commanding 
 him to do something wrong, as now she did the right, he knew 
 he would have obeyed, trusting her beyond himself. And he 
 did at present. He could not see the wickedness of exchanging 
 letters with the purest woman he had ever known, but since 
 she said so he would think it so. 
 
 The suppressed anguish within him at last, however, drove 
 him to restless pacing of the room. A thirst for a sight of her, 
 for a glance into her eyes, for a touch from her hand, was so 
 extreme that his brain reeled. To make this renunciation 
 visibly with her, to have palpable contact at least long enough 
 to separate, these were his maddening thoughts. 
 
 He tore open his cravat and leaned far out of the window, 
 where the leafless vines were rubbing dully against the wall. 
 The bleak wind around his head was balmy in comparison to 
 the icy doom upon him. He drew back with a groan, and took 
 her picture in both hands and looked into the steady eyes with 
 a wild intensity. 
 
 " Never to see thee again 1 " he muttered. " Never to hear 
 thy voice ? Never to touch thy hand 1 Ah, how cruel is God ! 
 It would" be so little to him, so much to me to us ! For thou 
 lovest me, Esda. Each word of thy earnest sentences is pressed 
 full of tenderness. And God to destroy such love ! But it 
 cannot be destroyed ! It will endure ! it shall endure ! In 
 spite of the world and time and death, we shall be united 
 somewhere !" 
 
 He had raised his hand as if taking an oath ; now slowly it 
 fell to his side, and before her picture he dropped to his knees. 
 
 " Help me, Bdthesda, as thou hast done. Thou art a saint 
 and holy ; thou raisest me with thee. We cannot be disunited. 
 We will be true to one another for ever. So help me God and 
 Esda!" 
 
 He rose with a reverential quietude in his manner, and 
 adjusted his dress, and took his hat to go out ; but he turned 
 as he reached the door, hot tears standing in his eyes. The 
 contrast between the incoming and the outgoing was excruciat-
 
 248 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 ing. He faltered, then flung his hat aside, and fell down before 
 the red chair, burying his face in it, while his form was con- 
 vulsed with hard sobs. 
 
 He looked years older when he finally stood erect again, and 
 his eyes were sunken and dull. He pulled his hat down over 
 them and went out, this time without turning back. A long walk 
 somewhat re-established his equipoise, and with it came a great 
 compassion for her who had been obliged to transfix her own 
 heart in thus stabbing his. He went rapidly to the Bourse and 
 sent the following cable message : 
 
 " Thy will is my law." 
 
 Invigorated by this he returned to his hotel, and wrote to 
 Louise in the spirit that Bethesda had commanded. He asked 
 his wife to come to him, saying that he had committed errors 
 as great as hers, but not greater, and that he believed it was 
 their duty to help one another, resigning themselves to the bond 
 which united them, and endeavouring to strengthen and ennoble 
 each other's lives. He spoke clearly but tenderly of the tempta- 
 tions which he knew assailed her, and asked her to think 
 seriously before she again refused to come to him. He told her 
 that an angel from heaven had given him new light, which he 
 asked her to share, so that they might strive towards the right 
 together. 
 
 He wrote with a profound sadness, and, he thought, as pro- 
 found a resignation ; but, when the letter was done, he turned 
 to Bethesda's former letters with an elan of desperation which 
 was thoroughly characteristic of the man. 
 
 Outwardly, in actions, in words, in appearance even to him- 
 self, he bent to the inevitable with a pliancy which was as far 
 removed from weakness as is that of a finely-tempered steel 
 blade. But deep within him at times there came a fierce revul- 
 sion, a snapping back of the defiant sword, which shocked his 
 whole physical and psychical system, and left him tingling with 
 a surcharge of electric force. This was his condition now. Had 
 the chivalric spirit within him been restored to the chivalric 
 era whence it descended, he would, in this mood, have traversed 
 lands and seas, and won the woman he loved at the point of the 
 sword, regardless of all laws save those of force and love. 
 
 But the woman he loved did not belong to that era. She 
 was essentially modern, that is, endowed with the supremacy 
 of mind over matter, of morality over desire, of thought over
 
 CHAP, vii.] UNITY. 249 
 
 action ; and he recognised that, did he have her in his power, 
 did he hold her never so close, the gulf between them would be 
 only widened, implacable, absolute. His sole power of bridging 
 it was in yielding, and drawing near to her, above the physical, 
 in the same spirit as that which possessed her, thus annihilating 
 space, and making them to stand side by side, heart touching 
 heart, in spite of distance and silence. 
 
 The fierce ancestral ultraism was exorcised, and he cleaved 
 with new strength to his allegiance. He again took out her 
 last letter and pored over it, weighing every sentence, and read- 
 ing to the subtlest feather touch of feeling between the lines. 
 
 She was crushing her heart down under the weight of rigid 
 law, before which she had laid herself and him as before a 
 Juggernaut, looking with calm but unutterably sad eyes at the 
 advance of the deity to whom all sacrifices were due. His dar- 
 ling ? His Esda 1 Was her delicate, sensitive nature thus to 
 be mangled and he stand by motionless ? Horrible ! But 
 and the thought made him seat himself again whence he had 
 risen with fury it was her will, it was her command, and they 
 were but one. What she did he did, as by a law of nature. 
 
 The next day Rend was writing an answer his final words 
 to Be'thesda, when several letters were brought him from 
 Louise. He had received none for some time, as floods had 
 interfered with postal arrangements. 
 
 Before receiving Bethesda's letter he had written to Louise 
 with veiled suggestions, and had quoted several things Bethesda 
 had admired. In one of the letters now before him Louise said 
 these remarks had inspired her with the wish to be near him, 
 protected from herself by him, and she had resolved to leave 
 the following week for Paris. On further thought, however, 
 she had concluded to spare him this derangement of his life, 
 and the annoyance she might cause him. This was the last 
 time, she wrote, that she would speak of her troubles ; not that 
 she should cease to be frank, but because there would soon be 
 an end of this for her. She begged him to think of her with 
 compassion on the day when her lover was to be transferred to 
 another province, and yet not to be sorrowful, for she would 
 soon be no longer in danger of soiling his name and honour. 
 
 What did it mean 1 ? The letter was the gentlest 'he had 
 ever received from her. Was she decided on entering a con- 
 vent, of which she had often spoken 1 Or was she again think-
 
 250 BETHESDA. [PART IT. 
 
 ing of suicide ? Or did she simply wish to imply that with her 
 lover's departure she would be no longer tempted ? 
 
 This was the most probable, but the others were quite pos- 
 sible. She was of an unreasonable cast of mind, and prone to 
 follow every impulse. What would have been Be'thesda's advice 
 were she there now ? He quickly decided, and sent Lotu'se a 
 despatch saying that an important letter had crossed hers, and 
 for her to do nothing until she received it, unless it was to 
 come to him, which would greatly gratify him. Then he wrote 
 testifying his sympathy, and forgiving her freely, saying he also 
 had need of forgiveness, and urging her to come to him. 
 
 There are few men who demand of themselves as much as 
 they do of their wives, and who consider that a sin is as great 
 in a man as a woman. It was one of the best traits of Rend 
 d'Isten's character that he had given himself even less liberty 
 than he had accorded to Louise, and that now he was quick in 
 acknowledging his fault as grave as hers, although there were 
 not as many months in his error as there were years in hers, 
 and many circumstances which had seemed to purify his connec- 
 tion with Be'thesda were lacking in Madame d'Isten's situation. 
 Although Kene" d'Isten had fallen from the ideal of stainless 
 purity, which was now being developed in him through Be'th- 
 esda, many men would be bettered if they did no worse. It 
 was his consciousness of this which had assured him of his power 
 to be "unlike other men." He had at least lived up to the 
 intellectual perception of purity which he had gained through 
 his wife's experience, and now he was advancing ahead of it 
 and of her. 
 
 When he returned to his letter to Be'thesda he told her 
 what had occurred, and added : 'My life shall be spent in ful- 
 filling thy desires. God sent me Be'thesda as one of his heavenly 
 host in the hour of great need. Without her what would I 
 have been? When the devil tempts me a voice from the 
 depths of my conscience calls : ' Be'thesda ! ' and the temptation 
 flees. When I wish help and advice I think : ' What would 
 Be'thesda say?' and my mind becomes clear. When I need 
 strength to follow the dictates of wisdom I invoke thee to aid 
 me." 
 
 It seemed more than he could do, more than strength would 
 allow, to send away this letter, this acquiescence in a lot 
 which was torture ; this ultimate, final word. But " Be'thesda
 
 CHAP, vii.] A VISION. 251 
 
 wills ! " came up from his heart, and he accepted what was 
 decreed by her beloved hand. 
 
 The letter was registered and sent, and then he succumbed 
 to a morne despair. It lasted all the long night ; but Rend 
 knew too well the vital necessity of equilibrium to let himself 
 be thrown from it without a straggle. There are some natures 
 to whom this centre of gravity is more necessary than to others. 
 To lose it means to them to lose sanity, an irretrievable loss. 
 Others can be pushed down on either side, can be crushed 
 almost in their fall, and yet regain, even retain, mental action. 
 Such was one of the differences between Rend and Bdthesda. 
 
 In the icy dawn Rend walked swiftly down the Champs 
 Elysees bitter mockery ! and on and on interminably. As 
 he reached a church where he had once been with Bdthesda 
 early Mass was just beginning, and the organ notes seemed to 
 summon him to enter. He went in. There were few present, 
 only some- working girls, thin and worn, who, in the midst of 
 this great sceptical city, had risen early to have a word of com- 
 fort before proceeding to their dreary drudgery. 
 
 M. d'Isten stopped just inside with his hat in his hand but 
 little reverence in his heart. At a side altar near him a young 
 priest was droning through the service in an uninterested 
 monotone. The church was close, and chill, and dark. It all 
 seemed to him senseless frippery and affectation. One touch, a 
 single breath from the lips of his beloved, would mean so 
 infinitely more to him, and this God denied him. He turned 
 to go. Just then there flashed the first level sunbeam through 
 the painted window against the pillar where Bdthesda had 
 stood months before. The golden light in the dark church 
 might have easily been mistaken for the visible glory around 
 the head of a saint. 
 
 Rend sank on his knees. His eyes were fixed with wide 
 intensity on the yellow sunshine, and, as plainly, he saw the 
 shining masses of hair, the pearly brow, the deep eyes which 
 looked at him, which held him, which shone through him with 
 an unspeakable tenderness and bravery. They quelled each 
 rebellious thought, every element of despair, and left him, as 
 the vision dissolved, resigned. 
 
 He drew a long breath and rose. There were a dozen 
 pairs of curious eyes upon him, but he did not notice them. 
 They saw him drop several Napoleons into the aumoniere, and
 
 252 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 go out into the now sunny street with a lightened step. He 
 had lifted the burden God and Esda had given him to bear 
 with a heartfelt peace. The two were the same to his mind 
 for the time. Obedience to the one meant now, at least, 
 submission to the other. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " The aim of life is action, not a thought. " CARLYLE. 
 
 " How strangely fair 
 
 Yon round still star ! which looks half-suffering from, 
 And half-rejoicing in its own strong fire, 
 Making itself a lonelihood of light." 
 
 ON returning to his rooms Rene" d'Isten found no small event 
 to try his new-found tranquillity. A telegram from Louise 
 awaited him, demanding that he should come to her. She had 
 received a letter from America, and was ill. 
 
 The news alarmed and angered him. Had Mrs. Trescott 
 taken it upon herself to interfere ? This was too much. There 
 was no saying what awaited him, or where it would end. 
 Complications were entangling themselves around him. He 
 was unprepared for this, and it was singularly distasteful to 
 him. He strenuously objected to disturbance of regulated 
 actions, or, if anything was to be changed, he wished to have 
 the master -hand in the matter. This surprise, thus sprung 
 upon him where his position was weakest, annoyed him 
 extremely. He did not think of it as a possibility, in these 
 first moments, that Bethesda was the one who had written to 
 Louise. 
 
 But even if she had for he came to this at last it was 
 not her place to have taken such a responsibility, and, for the 
 first time in their whole acquaintance, he was thoroughly out 
 of sympathy with an action which perhaps was hers. He 
 was willing to leave the guiding of his life, his happiness or 
 misery, in Be'thesda's hands ; but when she came into the rela- 
 tions between him and his wife, from the wife's side, she over- 
 looked limits which she ought to have seen and regarded. 
 
 How often do men argue in the same manner with their
 
 CHAP, viii.] KEVULSION. 253 
 
 submission to God ! The parallel is not irreverent here, for, to 
 Rene' d'Isten, Bethesda at this time practically represented 
 God. He submitted to her decrees, threw his heart before her, 
 laid himself at her feet in profound humility, he thought ; but 
 there were some conditions with which she must not interfere 
 unless she wished him to rebel, and here was one of these. 
 Yet, perhaps, could Bethesda have seen him during these 
 moments of anger and severe blame of her, she might have 
 bravely recognised that this was what she had aimed at, for 
 in truth she was detaching him from herself, and attaching 
 him to the place where his duty lay, and thus her end was 
 being accomplished. 
 
 He sent a telegram to Louise saying he would start that 
 night, and for her to trust in him. Then he went to the 
 ministere, where he found some trouble in gaining leave of 
 absence, and in the evening threw himself into the express with 
 the determination to resist all intrusions, and arrange his life 
 to suit himself. He was worn out ; his nerves were unstrung 
 with the tense strain of severe and conflicting emotions ; but, 
 as the train whirled him through the dark land, and all volun- 
 tary motion was unnecessary, he seemed to leave his body 
 resting in the corner, while his mind was free and active. In 
 this state, in the solitary silence of the carriage, with the stars 
 looking down, better thoughts came to him. 
 
 If Mrs. Trescott had done this why, that was one thing, 
 and he clearly had a right to be indignant ; but if Bdthesda, his 
 Esda, had written to Louise that was quite a different affair. 
 What would she have written ? What would have been her 
 reasons for writing at all 1 
 
 He took out her letter, and re-read it. Why she should 
 have written was still a mystery, but, if she had written, it prob- 
 ably was to try and bring Louise to him, as here in this letter 
 she had tried to take him to Louise. 
 
 Would a woman who loved do that ? Could she ? Was 
 jealousy so far removed from even the saintliest feminine breast 
 as to desire and work to the end of being replaced ? Impos- 
 sible ! And yet, if any woman could do it, that woman would 
 be Be'thesda. He could imagine her standing between him 
 and Louise, and joining their hands, with a far-away tenderness 
 in her deep eyes. 
 
 Bah ! He was idealising her too far ! He was making
 
 254 BETHESDA. [I-AKT n. 
 
 her into a bloodless angel, not a clinging, devoted, impassioned 
 woman, such as he no one so well ! had known her. 
 
 But if it were Be'thesda who had written, which he more 
 and more inclined to believe, this should be the end towards 
 which he would work. He would show Louise that the altera- 
 tion Be'thesda had made in him was all for the better, that he 
 had gained a new strength under her influence, and was now, 
 at her wish, ready to sacrifice a great and innocent happiness 
 which might offend Louise. 
 
 " Ah, beloved ! " he exclaimed, smiling softly. " Not thus 
 canst thou detach me. So long as I live nobly, it will be hand- 
 in-hand with thee." 
 
 When he reached M his anxieties were on the alert, 
 
 but outwardly he was calm ; perhaps even a trifle more un- 
 ruffled than usual. He kissed the hand of his mother-in-law, 
 who met him with a sharp interrogation in her eyes ; asked 
 after his wife's health with solicitude, and, learning that she 
 was no better, and almost delirious with desire to see him, 
 excused himself instantly, and went to her apartments. 
 
 Louise was in the somewhat untidy, though luxurious 
 boudoir, lying on a sofa in a negligee of crimson wool, over 
 which her hair fell in stray locks that gave her a gipsy-like 
 appearance. Her handsome face was disfigured with weeping, 
 and, beneath that, an habitual expression of discontent. Her 
 mouth was unpossessed and trembling, and, as she saw Rene', 
 she rose impetuously and fell upon his neck with a sudden 
 cry of 
 
 " My husband ! my husband ! " 
 
 Never had he been so warmly greeted by her, and it was 
 with sadness that he thought what joy such a welcome would 
 at one tune have given him. Now it was too late. 
 
 He supported her, however, with a firm tenderness, and 
 gradually made her more composed by reassuring words. He 
 prevailed upon her to sit down at last, and placed himself 
 beside her. Even as he did so a rumpled letter, half-hidden 
 among the pillows, and bearing the well-known characters of 
 Be'thesda's handwriting, caught his eyes. 
 
 It was from her, then. The thought steadied him. The 
 consistency of Be'thesda's character made it possible for him to 
 repose upon her. With Mabel the opposite would have been 
 the case, and the reasons equally good.
 
 CHAP, viil.] A LETTER. 255 
 
 Louise, quick to see now, noticed his glance, and instantly 
 seized the obnoxious letter, and thrust it into his hands. 
 
 " Read it ! " she cried, with a passionate wail in her voice. 
 " Tell me if it is tme. Who is this woman who writes to me 
 so authoritatively? What has she to do with me, or I with her 1 ?" 
 
 She had caught his arm, and was leaning forward to look 
 in his face with wild eyes. 
 
 " Let me read it first," was the gentle answer. 
 
 " No ! no ! tell me first. I cannot wait longer. Who is 
 this ' Bethesda Hamilton ' 1 See ! there is the name signed. 
 Now, who is she 1 " 
 
 There was a fiery rebuke in her eyes, but he met them 
 without fear. After a moment's steady gaze he said slowly : 
 
 " Do you forget what I told you of a literary correspond- 
 ence with Miss Hamilton 1 I will add this now : She is the 
 noblest of women, and she is your and my best friend." 
 
 " Ah, my Rene" ! my husband ! do not say that ! " cried Louise, 
 throwing herself back in despair ; " she too says it, she too ! 
 and now you confirm her ! Am I then nothing to you ? " 
 
 She tried to draw herself up haughtily at these last words, 
 but he laid his hand over hers and said in a low tone : 
 
 " Thou art my wife, Louise ; thou must remember that. 
 We must always be much to one another." 
 
 "Must !" exclaimed Louise, with bitterness. "No, it is 
 not necessary. I can free myself and you." 
 
 " Not without crime," said Rend in a distinct whisper. 
 
 She shrank away from him appalled. 
 
 " Read the letter," she said ; " we will talk afterwards." 
 
 She sat and scanned his face as he read. He did not 
 hasten ; he wished to be well permeated with the spirit of 
 Be'thesda. 
 
 She was in truth the angel he had dreamed, only far sur- 
 passing his vision in compassionate tenderness and pathos. It 
 was no bloodless saint who wrote this, but one whose blood 
 became the wine of life to others. 
 
 "Well?" said Louise impatiently, as she saw his eyes 
 reach and linger on the end. 
 
 "Did I not speak truth?" he answered with a proud and 
 reverential tone. 
 
 " How V asked Louise defiantly. 
 
 " Hast thou once thought, Louise, of what this letter meant
 
 256 BETHESDA. [I-ART n. 
 
 to her 1 Hast thou thought what she takes from herself to 
 offer to thee ? She has told you nothing but the truth, and 
 the whole truth. She held the destinies of my life in her 
 hand, and for you, on your account alone, Louise, she has 
 sacrificed herself and me. She has given up all the innocent 
 happiness we might have had without infringing your rights, 
 but which she feared might offend you. Further, listen a 
 moment, Louise, further, she speaks to you as to a sister ; 
 she asks you to let her be a sister to you. She has sympathy 
 with you and a heart full" of compassion, but she knows also 
 what is right, and she is too humble to think herself stronger 
 than others, and so expects them to do whatever right may 
 demand. Ah, it is hard, Louise ! She knows it, and I know 
 it. But to noble natures it is possible. She knows thou hast 
 much nobility, for I also spoke the truth, and you see she 
 appeals to that nobility in you. She desires, she yearns to 
 help you to overcome temptation and sorrow. She sees that it 
 is right for you and me to be united, and she tries to make us 
 happier for her coming into our lives. This is the angel who 
 shed a new light on my path. She has, I know well, already 
 made me a better and a truer husband to you, Louise. Let 
 her help you also. She says here, see, that there is no happiness 
 which would be so great to her as to aid you in carrying your 
 burdens, or in relieving you from them. She would be willing 
 to carry the burdens of the whole world to help others ! " he ex- 
 claimed in an irrepressible outburst. Then calming; "Louise, 
 my wife, why should this letter, so brave, so gentle, have caused 
 a tumult in your soul, except because you know she advises you 
 rightly? During the seven years that we have been married, 
 you will acknowledge that I have not complained. Neither 
 do I now. Let this letter commence a new era in our lives, 
 Louise. We have both erred ; we both need forgiveness. I 
 give you mine freely ; give me yours, and let us walk together 
 towards where this saint's hand points." 
 
 Louise d'Isten was melted and silenced, she knew not how. 
 The something new in her husband produced a profound im- 
 pression upon her. The modulations of his voice stirred her 
 strangely ; its reticent sadness, its dignified contrition touched 
 the barren rock of self-pity into a gushing, if momentary, 
 fountain of sorrow for another. 
 
 She struggled with her tears a few moments in silence.
 
 CHAP, vin.] STRIFE. 257 
 
 Then she turned and buried her face on her husband's breast, 
 and clung to him with an entirely new yearning. He held her 
 to him closely, and his face was illuminated as he murmured 
 in his heart : 
 
 "Art thou content, Saint Esda?" 
 
 Rene' stayed with his wife for six weeks. They drew 
 closer together than they had ever done through the communion 
 of a sorrow shared, a double forgiveness, and an awakening of 
 new life in the feelings of Louise towards her husband. She 
 was quite ill for a time ; now burning with fever, and again 
 exhausted by its reaction. He tended her with the closest 
 care, and an almost feminine delicacy ; but there was a distance 
 between them she could never cross. Sometimes she would 
 waken to find him staring at the floor with an expression of 
 such pain that it tore her heart. Yet she could not appear 
 to be awake or his face would change instantly to a look of 
 cheerful service, and the mask he kept for her, she told herself 
 bitterly, would again cover his face. 
 
 Remorse and retribution were mingled in those days for her. 
 She was beginning to realise what she had thrown away, and 
 with her lover's ultimate departure, which had occurred the day 
 before Rene's arrival, the stronghold of selfishness and mistaken 
 devotion was thrown down, and nothing was left to interfere 
 with the invading army of feelings, hopes, and fears, complex 
 and mystifying even to herself, which had possessed her since 
 she had seen her husband in his new aspect, and had known 
 the strong forces at work in his life. 
 
 She felt an insuperable jealousy for Be'thesda, and yet an awe, 
 as of something uncomprehended and powerful, in view of the su- 
 preme renunciation which that distant woman had made in her 
 behalf. She began to ask herself unwilling questions : Would 
 she have done such a thing for the wife of Alphonse? No ! was 
 the instant defiant answer. But then, that was not the same ; 
 it could not be the same ; and yet, she was forced to ask : Why 
 not *? Surely Rene', her husband (again defiantly), was worthy 
 of a woman's love, more so, indeed, than most men. This 
 Be'thesda was not the first one who had found him noble in 
 character and fine in intellect. And then she turned to study 
 him, and to see in him the many traits which a woman, " if 
 she were so inclined," would love. Gradually she found herself 
 becoming detached from the past which was perforce gone from
 
 258 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 her, and working in the present ; half unconsciously it is true, 
 but perhaps none the less earnestly ; while towards the future 
 she looked with a wholly unknown zest, something more than 
 zest a desire, a longing to make the future different and 
 better, and to do somewhat for Rend as he had been so long, 
 she now saw doing for her. 
 
 From this point she grew better, and many were the long 
 and quiet talks she and Rend had during the weeks which 
 followed all too swiftly. There was a calmness, a recueillement 
 about him at times, however, which drove her to solitary des- 
 pair. She was put and kept so far away ! She had put her- 
 self there, true ; it had used to be her pleasure, but now, in 
 spite of her endeavours, still paroxysmal, and egotistic, some- 
 thing ever came between them ; a distance, a transparent wall 
 of feeling, which separated them relentlessly. 
 
 Sometimes she would go to the mirror, after a recognition 
 of this blank fatality, and would push back her hair, and gaze 
 at the handsome face pitifully enough. 
 
 " Of course you are not comparable to that blonde Bdthesda ! " 
 she caught herself saying one day. "She is beautiful, and 
 young, and fresh, and you 1 ? You have cried away your 
 beauty, and your youth, and your freshness ; he cannot care 
 for you!" 
 
 She threw a veil over the mirror, and went away sullenly. 
 It was no use trying. Alphonse might forgive her for the 
 beauty which had been lost through grief for him, but this 
 would hardly be a passport to Renews favour. That fair 
 Be'thesda, with her earnest devotion and incomprehensible self- 
 sacrifice, kept constantly coming between her and her husband. 
 Ah, she knew what it was ! Had not Alphonse's face haunted 
 her most when her husband was present ? And and now, 
 she did not know what to make of it; it required an effort 
 for her to be able to recall his features. But Rend had no 
 effort to make to see this Americaine's. No, not he ! There 
 he was now writing, and if not to her, he was thinking of 
 her. " I might as well be dead, and out of the way at once," 
 she murmured between half-suppressed sobs. 
 
 And then Rend would close the desk softly, and would join 
 her, and draw her to him " As if I were his sister !" she would 
 think indignantly. But she would not move away, and soon 
 either the tones of his voice, or the sight of his self-contained
 
 CHAP, viii.] A NEW DESIEE. 259 
 
 face, would hush her complainings, and once more good spirits 
 would reign. 
 
 The mother-in-law knew nothing of the explanation which 
 had brought Louise and her husband closer together than ever 
 since their marriage. It was not a request of Rent's, but an 
 instinct in the heart of Louise, that kept Be'thesda and all per- 
 taining to her a conjugal secret. At least in this she was 
 nearer her husband than any one else ; and meantime he spoke 
 to his wife quite freely, if with tact, of Be'thesda. He wished 
 to keep the fact of her bringing them together continually 
 before the mind of Louise, and indeed of his own. He was 
 growing to feel a certain sense of her being out of his reach, 
 beyond him, which the entire silence falling after her last 
 noble words naturally increased. To dispel this he would 
 talk to Louise of Be'thesda's character, and aims, and history. 
 He told her of the family conditions surrounding Be'thesda ; 
 of her position and wealth ; but his manner was always as if he 
 were mentioning one very dear to him, now dead. Occasion- 
 ally a perception of this would come over him with a shudder. 
 It might be a presentiment. 
 
 It was in consequence of these conversations that Madame 
 d'Isten finally resolved to write to Miss Hamilton. She did 
 not know what she should say, but she believed the act would 
 please her husband, and it was only polite to acknowledge the 
 receipt of her letter, and to tell her that she was not offended. 
 For it had really come to this. She was no longer offended 
 with Be'thesda ; she felt the good this catastrophe had brought 
 her, and fore-felt the developments which in the future might 
 spring from it. Not that she was conscious of any of this, but 
 the possibilities hovered about her like protecting angels, and 
 seemed to enshrine the thought of the far-away woman in an 
 atmosphere of benignity, and, yes, of gratitude. 
 
 It would have been impossible for her to express this, but 
 when one day she came to Rend, and said timidly : 
 
 " Would you like me to to write to ' 
 
 " Be'thesda ?" he exclaimed, springing up, and catching her 
 hands in glad approval. 
 
 Almost as quickly did he realise what was in her mind, and 
 the manner in which she regarded his saint. So, his fairest 
 dreams were perhaps to be accomplished ! Be'thesda and Louise 
 would be personal friends ! It was almost too good to be true.
 
 260 BETHESDA. [I-AUT n. 
 
 He drew Louise towards the desk to secure the good deed 
 while she was still in the mood ; and she seated herself, trem- 
 bling a little, not alone with fear, but with the stabbing pain of 
 jealousy that came and went in her heart. He liked her so 
 much better now that she was going to do something for this 
 B&hesda !" 
 
 He spread paper and ink and pen before her, and then moved 
 away, not to disturb her, and to indulge in the visions this act 
 of hers created. But it was not at all her purpose to let it 
 separate them ; what she wished was to be near him, to have 
 him take an active interest in her, he might at least while 
 she was writing this letter ! So she called him back to tell her 
 how to commence it, and then, what should she say ? Didn't 
 she know 1 Of course she didn't ! This woman was a writer, 
 and he must express it all for her, dictate it to her, in fact. 
 He was too wise for this, however, and only asked her, what 
 did she wish to express ? That was precisely the point, she 
 replied ; what did she ? 
 
 Then there came a quick perception to him of the lack of 
 earnestness in her, and a sight of the grieved face of Be'thesda 
 had she seen the light spirit in which her poignant utterances 
 were to be answered. His manner grew very grave, and he 
 spoke to Louise with the greatest seriousness, taking out 
 Be"thesda's letter, and re-reading her parts of it, which did not 
 lose any of their pathos in his rendering. 
 
 Soon Louise was weeping on his shoulder, crying out that 
 she was not worthy to be his wife, and that she wished she 
 could be dead, or better. 
 
 " That last is right," said he, encouragingly. " We must 
 both wish to be better. My wife has no need to wish death ; 
 neither ought she. Our life is given us to live, and to live as 
 nobly as we can, not to throw away. Look up, my Louise. 
 Be strong. Take thy pen and write. Answer this letter as it 
 is written. Tell her frankly what you feel. It will be received 
 with more tender comprehension than any one, except God, 
 could receive it." 
 
 Thus exhorted, Louise wiped her eyes, and commenced the 
 letter. Her husband sat close beside her, his hands folded, 
 and his eyes bent on the floor. She looked at him many times 
 during the first few sentences, which were embarrassed and con- 
 fused ; but he did not glance at her, and she felt the spell of
 
 CHAP. VIII.] BUDS. 261 
 
 his will to continue. Presently the volubility of her own 
 emotions overcame her ; her timidity was swept away in the 
 stream of expression which seemed to gush from her very heart. 
 She almost forgot to whom she was writing, and felt more as 
 if this were a sacred confession, than a letter to any one. 
 
 Soon Rene' found that he could look at her unnoticed, 
 and he was surprised to find the vivid interest he took in watch- 
 ing the turbulent expressions which chased one another across 
 her face, as her hand swept over page after page. Tears and 
 fire alternately extinguished one another in her eyes ; her mouth 
 now moved with a passionate exclamation, and again grew 
 piteous with a sense of her sorrows. And at last, when she 
 signed her name and threw down her pen, holding the still wet 
 sheets out to her husband, she had never appealed to him more. 
 
 He took the pages from her, and pressed a warm kiss on her 
 hand ; a caress which made her rise abruptly and leave him. 
 She stood in the embrasured window looking out on the busy 
 street regardless of everything. " What will he think?" she 
 was saying to herself, and wishing almost wishing she had 
 not given it to him. 
 
 When he had not half finished he came up behind her, and 
 drawing her arm through his led her to a seat. 
 
 " My wife," he said in a tone penetrated with tender com- 
 prehension, " there is much left to us yet." 
 
 Then he sat beside her holding her hand while he com- 
 pleted the epistle. The letter had done service already, whether 
 it ever reached its destination or not. It had cleared away 
 much of the debris of the shattered past, and shown Rene' the 
 love which was sprouting, all unconsciously to Louise, amid the 
 fragments and the dust now watered by tears of repentance. 
 Was it too late ? 
 
 At the same time that he had this letter registered he took 
 from the mail a note forwarded from Paris. It was from Miss 
 Conover, saying she was in the city, and would be pleased to 
 see him. Just at the end there was a perturbing question : 
 " Have you heard whether Miss Hamilton is better ? Her 
 severe illness since New Year's Day alarms me. I am hoping 
 daily for a letter from at least Mrs. Trescott." 
 
 Bethesda severely ill, and all comrmmication broken ! 
 Suffering for him too ! The whole fierce tide of his longing set 
 suddenly towards her again. It was too much to be borne in
 
 262 BETHESDA. [PAET n. 
 
 inaction. He must hasten to Paris, where, through Miss 
 Conover, he might occasionally hear of his beloved, his angel, 
 his saint perhaps already his saint in heaven ! 
 
 Louise was now quite recovered, and able to journey to 
 Paris if she liked, and his leave of absence had been unduly 
 prolonged. He asked her the same evening if she would return 
 with him. It was necessary he should go at once. 
 
 Louise looked up at him quickly, and urged him to stay 
 with her old imperiousness, which he had generally obeyed. 
 But now he was inflexible. Indeed his anxiety made him pre- 
 occupied and stern, an effect which Louise was not long in 
 perceiving. She waited and watched ; asked until the morning 
 before she should decide ; went and consulted her mother, who 
 did not aid her even by contradiction, showing an entire in- 
 difference. Finally Louise took her courage in both hands, 
 and asked Ren somewhat abruptly : 
 
 " Have you news of Be'thesda ?" 
 
 His mind was so full of the thought that he was not sur- 
 prised. 
 
 "Yes," he said, in a tone of such tense self-control that 
 it was almost harsh; "a friend in Paris writes me she is 
 severely ill. She may now even No, she cannot be " 
 
 He broke off short, and walked with long strides to the 
 window. He stood there a long time quite motionless, and 
 the twilight deepened unbroken and chill around them. When 
 he turned at last Louise spoke in a low voice : 
 
 " I think I will not go to Paris with you." 
 
 " Always do as you like," he answered, a weary indifference 
 piercing through the courtesy of his tone. 
 
 She rose and came to stand beside him, where he had fallen 
 into a chair. 
 
 " No, my Rene"," she said, with a gentleness that roused 
 him. " It has been, as you say, always as I liked ; now I 
 hope it will be something better. It is for your sake, dear 
 Rend," she said, suddenly dropping to her knees beside him ; "it 
 is for your sake I say I will not go to Paris. If if you are 
 anxious, you will not want me, and and 
 
 " Come," he said simply, putting one arm around her as 
 she knelt there. " Come with me." 
 
 " No, no ; not now," she answered, rising. "It is too 
 soon ; I could not get ready. My maid will not go I "
 
 CHAP, ix.] . KETUEN TO PAKIS. 263 
 
 " Put these things aside, Louise," said her husband earnestly. 
 He had risen also, and was standing facing her. It would be 
 hard for him to have her there ; he knew that ; but he knew 
 also it was what Be'thesda would have wished. "Don't let 
 little things stand in the way, for it is right we should be 
 together. Come." 
 
 But her devotion, such as it was, was entirely personal. 
 " Eight " was a chilly word ; he should go alone. 
 
 Perhaps pique strengthened this feeling, and innate obstinacy 
 fixed it. In any case, she would not go with him ; their good 
 understanding was broken ; and it was a relief to him when 
 in the next mail train he left alone for bachelor life, and news 
 of Be'thesda in Paris. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " If to conquer love has tried, 
 To conquer grief tries more ... as all things prove, 
 For grief indeed is love and grief beside. " 
 
 MRS. BEOWNINO. 
 
 " She cried, ' I am the sister of white Faith 
 Who sits serenely in the open heaven, 
 To whom I minister ; thus ever driven 
 About the world, and Anguish named. 
 
 Yet I 
 Too, am divine. ' " W. C. ROSCOB. 
 
 ON arriving in the city Hens' went immediately to the address 
 Mademoiselle Cinoni had sent him. She was receiving and 
 singing for a few friends. It was a piece Ren^ had last heard 
 when with Bethesda in London, and now, when his anxiety and 
 fears had grown with every mile of the long journey, these 
 familiar tones struck through him a shivering discord. 
 
 He asked to see Mrs. Conover an instant, pencilling it on 
 the back of his card. She came out immediately, and urged 
 him to enter, but he excused himself as not suitably attired. 
 
 " Can you tell me if Miss Conover has heard from America 
 as to the health of Miss Hamilton 1 " he asked, then, in a well- 
 schooled voice. 
 
 Mrs. Conover's face grew grave and grieved, as she replied : 
 
 " Yes ; a letter came from Mrs. Trescott yesterday. Miss
 
 264 BETHESDA. [PART IT. 
 
 Hamilton is hardly to be expected to live, I fear. She was 
 such a sweet girl, too ! Mrs. Trescott wrote hastily, and in 
 great distress. It will be a terrible blow to her. If you will 
 call to-morrow Guinevere will let you read the letter," she 
 added gently, somewhat recognising in the sudden pallor and 
 gray lips of M. d'Isten the shock she had given. 
 
 " Thank you," he contrived to say. "At what hour may 
 I hope 1" 
 
 " At eleven, if you like." 
 
 He bowed, not daring to trust himself to speak further, and 
 left the house. The coolness and darkness were a temporary 
 relief to him, and he hurried away out of the sound of that 
 haunting, horrible song. 
 
 She was a sweet girl ! This putting it in the past tense 
 was unendurable. And how could Bethesda's friend sing when, 
 perhaps it was true 1 
 
 He set his teeth and walked on. The cabman followed him, 
 clamouring for his pay. Ren<5 looked up finally, as one might 
 at the buzz of an insect, and then remembered that he had left 
 his portmanteau containing the precious package of letters in 
 the carriage. He sprang in, seized the handles, and held them 
 tight during the drive to his hotel. They had been looking for 
 him, and now the servants rushed out to assist him, and 
 madame, seeing his stern, tense face, exclaimed : 
 
 "Oh, I hope, Monsieur le Comte, that Madame la Com- 
 tesse " 
 
 " She is well," was the short reply, and, waving away the 
 servants, he hastened upstairs. 
 
 This house ! this room ! this furniture ! The fire burning 
 as if she had been there to welcome him ! 
 
 For a moment a whirling sensation came in his brain, and 
 the past returned so vividly that the present was blotted out, 
 and he conceived himself as just waiting for Be'thesda to enter. 
 A fitful smile played around his lips as he turned towards the 
 door, and a vague, pleased look came in his eyes. At that 
 moment he was close upon the borders of insanity. 
 
 Then the whirl came again, and when it left him he was 
 returned to the bitter, despairing present. With a groan he 
 flung his arm over the table, and his head fell upon it, the 
 spring of life apparently broken. 
 
 Presently, however, he sprang up. She was alive; she
 
 niAi>. ix.] AFLAME. 265 
 
 could not be dead ; and why was she so ill ? For love of him ! 
 She might be dying, because to give him up was synonymous 
 with giving up life. She had rated her strength too high. 
 That fragile form could not bear the stress of such emotions, and 
 such a sacrifice. It was too much to ask of a human being. It 
 was wrong ! it was wicked ! (He was pacing the floor now.) 
 Perhaps she had never received his letter ; probably not. She 
 had been prostrated before it could reach her, and Mabel had in 
 all likelihood destroyed it. His beloved would not know that 
 he was endlessly devoted to her ; that nothing either in heaven 
 or hell could detach him from her ! And she was dying for 
 want of this knowledge. Mabel had done it ; Mabel had held 
 the knife, and cut the throat of this willing victim. " Mabel," 
 he said, slowly and aloud, "Mabel shall have her reward." 
 She had promised to send him word, to telegraph him, if 
 Bdthesda were ever ill unto death, and had she kept her pro- 
 mise 1 Of course not ! Who could expect her to keep a 
 promise ? he laughed bitterly, although she considered the pro- 
 mises made to her binding in life and in death. There was no 
 sort of justice in it. There was no justice in the world ! else 
 why should his heart's whole treasure lie dying there, and he 
 stand impotent, delirious, here 1 
 
 Something mmt be done. 
 
 He thought no farther then, but bathed his head, threw 
 open a window, and, seeing his dense pallor in a mirror he 
 passed, bethought him of a glass of wine. 
 
 He seated himself then, outwardly composed, but his whole 
 inner being was a raging fire. He struggled to keep it under, 
 as one would the flames that threatened those one was trying to 
 rescue. He bent the whole force of his intellect and energy of 
 his nature to the aim of finding some means of aiding his dying 
 one, so many miles away. 
 
 Should he go to her 1 
 
 He feared it would be useless. Were she still alive when 
 the interminable journey was over he would not be admitted to 
 her side. Even through Marcot he could not reach her. Her 
 sister or her aunts would be watching with her day and night, 
 and Mrs. Trescott had prejudiced every one against him ; she 
 had said as much in her letters. Perhaps, too, Be'thesda could 
 not endure the sudden revulsion of seeing him, and what could 
 he say ? Only that he was hers for life and death, to dispose
 
 266 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 of as she chose, and she had settled that question already. She 
 knew, without his assurance, that her wishes would be obeyed. 
 
 If he could not go to her, what then ? 
 
 Telegraph? Write? Through Marcot a word from him 
 might reach her. What should that word be ? What could it 
 be, except a repetition of what she already knew, unless his 
 conditions should change? Well, were they inflexible? A 
 divorce was impossible; the church had taken care of that. 
 Besides, he shrank from such a thing with an unconquerable 
 repugnance. So, he knew, would Be'thesda. Then, there was 
 nothing he could do ? 
 
 A thought, a wild, romantic thought ! To go to America, 
 to take Marcot's place ! To see her, to wait upon her; some- 
 time, perhaps, to slip a little word into her ear of encouraging 
 devotion ! 
 
 The possibility glittered before him like an enchantment. 
 Who could tell what his mere presence might do for her ? He 
 would take such exquisite care of her, and he could act his part 
 so well! He pored over this suggestion, amplified it into the 
 minutest details, imagined his actions, his self-control, his foiling 
 discovery, until he was almost resolved upon immediately under- 
 taking it. Then suddenly came the question : " Would she like 
 it ? " and his fairy structure fell into abject demolition. 
 
 For she would not. As soon as the first surprise and joy 
 were past, her conscience, of whose strength he had some know- 
 ledge now, would disapprove, and he would be adding to her 
 trials instead of decreasing them. She would send him away, 
 whatever it cost her, and tell him to return to Louise. 
 
 Louise he had not thought of her. But she was to be con- 
 sidered ; yes, decidedly to be considered. They had commenced 
 a new life ; the future, with patience, promised more than the 
 past had ever done, and this was through his saint's ministra- 
 tions. Louise must not be disregarded, nor Be'thesda's com- 
 mands to actively help her. 
 
 As he reached this conclusion, which surrendered him to a 
 sense of his incapacity and weariness, a servant knocked, and 
 said a gentleman waited below who had already called twice, 
 while monsieur the count was absent. 
 
 " His name ? " 
 
 The gentleman declined to give a name, but begged to assure 
 monsieur the count that it was most important they should
 
 CHAP, ix.] A STKANGE MEETING. 267 
 
 meet. Rend was about to dismiss the man impatiently, when 
 the thought suggested itself : If he should come from Be'thesda? 
 
 " Tell him he may enter," were his immediate words. 
 
 He went into the next room and removed the traces of his 
 journey hastily. When he returned to the salon, there, bending 
 over a book, was a man he had good cause to know. A mes- 
 senger from Be'thesda indeed ! It was the lover of Louise. 
 
 His guest turned and saw him as the scorn of this thought 
 flashed across his features. 
 
 " Monsieur ! " exclaimed the young officer hastily, while his 
 face suffused with a most unmilitary blush, " believe you see in 
 me only one who desires to render you a service in token of his 
 gratitude." 
 
 " You owe me nothing," said M. d'Isten coldly. 
 
 " Pardon ; I owe you what a soldier values more than his 
 life his reputation." 
 
 A fine smile just touched M. d'Isten's lip, but 
 
 " To what am I indebted for this visit, sir ? " was all he 
 said. 
 
 "To an earnest desire to serve you," replied the soldier 
 eagerly. " I have a piece of information which I am convinced 
 you will value. It should be for you alone." He glanced as 
 he spoke at the open door through which M. d'Isten had 
 entered. 
 
 " We are alone. I cannot imagine what you would say, but 
 be seated," said Rene', with careless politeness. " I have an 
 engagement shortly ; until then I listen." 
 
 The young officer bit his lip. This was haughty treatment ; 
 presently he should have the pleasure of seeing it change. 
 " If your time is brief, monsieur, pray allow me to put aside 
 ceremony." M. d'Isten bowed. "You were married in the 
 chapel of the Chateau d'Espine'res." 
 
 " I believe you were a witness," returned M. d'Isten, with a 
 touch of ironical disdain. It caused a hot flush to sting his 
 companion's face, under the impulse of which he exclaimed 
 abruptly : 
 
 " I witnessed, perhaps, a ceremony, but no marriage." 
 
 Rend looked up and down the stalwart form before him. 
 Was the man mad ? Or could it be that a private marriage 
 had taken place between Louise and this man before the " cere- 
 mony," as he called it ? Impossible. Louise would long since
 
 268 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 have flown to her lover had this been true. And yet her 
 words, that she could free herself and him. 
 
 He looked up sharply. 
 
 " Explain yourself," he said. 
 
 " It has been a strange thing to me, monsieur," began the 
 officer, now more at ease, " that during these many years of 
 what you thought marriage, you have never discovered that the 
 ceremony was illegal, and that you are not the husband of 
 Louise Mande'ras." 
 
 " Be careful, sir ! Remember that the honour of the lady 
 you mention has been long in my keeping, and I may add to 
 you that I have kept it well What proofs can you bring of 
 this curious assertion ? How have you convinced yourself that 
 my marriage was illegal 1 " 
 
 " By acquaintance with the simple facts that the father of 
 your supposed bride was a Spaniard, which made his daughter 
 a Spaniard, and that you are a Frenchman. Facts equally well 
 known to you, undoubtedly, but what has strangely escaped you 
 is that for a Frenchman to marry a foreigner, on foreign soil, is 
 illegal, and the union is void according to law." 
 
 A pause. What a revelation for Rene' ! What a possibility ! 
 It staggered him for a moment, then : 
 
 " These are assertions only, sir ; what are your proofs ? " 
 
 The officer rose and took from the table a bulky volume he 
 had brought. It was marked at a certain page, and he handed 
 it to M. d'Isten in silence. 
 
 Rend read. It was true. This was a volume of the Code, 
 and here it was in formal language the incantation which 
 broke his fetters to Louise and left him free. 
 
 The shock stunned him. The miraculous overthrow of 
 accustomed conditions, the possibilities flashing like lightning 
 about him, the incredulity of surprise confounded by proof, all 
 combined to blur his mind. He could not tell if it were pain 
 or pleasure he felt ; he was sure it was confusion. 
 
 He had enough presence of mind to keep his face under 
 control, so that even the curious eyes before him could read 
 little of what passed within ; but now he rose and walked to 
 the window, and stood there a few moments. 
 
 Louise not his wife 1 What was she, then ? What was 
 he ? Bdthesda's spirit asked ; he, who had prided himself on his 
 untarnished life. They could both be retrieved by an instant
 
 CHAP, ix.] KECIPROC1TY. 269 
 
 marriage now ; but to marry her whom he had so long felt a 
 burden, from whom, hardly an hour ago, he was longing to be 
 free that he might give himself wholly to Be'thesda, and now 
 to make use of his new conditions only to put himself back into 
 those old ones, and, in so doing, to deny Be'thesda, perhaps to 
 kill her? 
 
 But this was no time for such questions. What was he 
 going to say to that young man there 1 Hum ; he would test 
 him. 
 
 He turned and walked slowly back to the table. The officer 
 was watching him with an assumption of deference, under which 
 some triumph lurked. Rend d'Isten met his eyes with the most 
 probing of glances. 
 
 " Since when have you known this, monsieur 1 " 
 
 " Not long, Monsieur le Comte ; only since you brought 
 Mademoiselle Mande'ras 
 
 " Call her by the name she has so long worn, if you please," 
 interrupted Rend haughtily. 
 
 "Since you and your wife, then, monsieur, came to Paris. 
 If I had known before that, I fear I should have given you 
 trouble." He smiled in a manner Rene' at once pronounced 
 odious. 
 
 " What was your object in telling me this ?" he asked sternly. 
 
 " As I have had the honour to inform you I wished to pay 
 off somewhat of the debt of obligation you have laid upon me. 
 It is a debt of honour, sir." 
 
 "And you thought you would be doing me & favour" a 
 fine scorn in the word, " to tell me that what I have regarded 
 as a sacred obligation for years is not of a feather's value ? " 
 
 " I had reason to believe, monsieur, that the knowledge of 
 your freedom would not be unwelcome to you." 
 
 " You dared to think 
 
 " Pardon, monsieur," interrupted the officer hardily ; " your 
 ceaseless watching of me has not been entirely unreciprocated. 
 I knew you had met a lady whom " 
 
 " Beware of touching such a subject even in your thoughts ! " 
 interrupted M. d'Isten sternly. " This matter is a most distaste- 
 ful one ; let us finish it. Be so kind as to answer me a 
 question. Are you aware if my if Louise knows this law ? " 
 
 " She has never known of it from me, monsieur, nor has she 
 given me any occasion to suspect that she knew it."
 
 270 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 "Thanks. We need not deny that we are both familiar 
 with the fact that you loved her, and that, had you been able, 
 you would have snatched her away at any time " 
 
 " Before last March ; not since," interposed his companion, 
 with a bow. " I was too deeply in your debt." 
 
 " Very well," with an impatient gesture ; " before last 
 March, then. Now I ask you, as man to man, did you, know- 
 ing she was free, seek her honourably ? Would you, if you had 
 the opportunity, marry her to-morrow 1 " 
 
 He turned his penetrating glance full upon his interlocutor, 
 and under its blaze the man's bold eyes fell. He could not, 
 without a sense of shame, speak here what had seemed to him 
 a matter of course elsewhere. But the remembrance of this 
 reassured him. He recovered himself, and gave a short laugh, 
 which caused his answer to be almost unneeded. 
 
 " Eeally, monsieur, your offer sounds magnanimous, but I 
 am hardly prepared to sacrifice my honour to marry an unwedded 
 wife." 
 
 Then Rend d'Isten drew himself up, and looked every inch 
 the aristocrat. 
 
 " I understand. You would woo her to dishonour, dis- 
 honouring yourself no less ; you were ardent in that, because 
 the world would not point its finger at you, and cry : Shame ! 
 But now let me finish, if you please, sir now, when the 
 opportunity is offered you to say if you would shelter under 
 your name the woman you pretend to love, you become finical 
 and dainty. I am glad to know what your love is worth ; I 
 have wasted much good sympathy upon you. But I should not 
 have looked for anything different. It is like you, brave soldier 
 that you are ! " 
 
 " Monsieur ! " 
 
 "Your precious 'honour' I saved once, because my wife 
 desired it. It was not worth it. Allow me to bid you good- 
 evening." 
 
 " I shall have the pleasure, then, at last, of sending you my 
 second. I brook no insults, sir." 
 
 " Spare yourself the trouble. I shall receive no second. I 
 do not fight certainly not with one who has proved himself 
 base. Adieu." 
 
 The officer strode up close to the haughty count, and 
 looked in his face insolently. In one hand was his glove. He
 
 CHAP, x.] DESPAIK. 271 
 
 was about to raise it, when a better thought struck him, a finer 
 insult. 
 
 " Which shall you marry ? " he sneered, and with a coarse 
 laugh he turned on his heel and left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Break, break this bitter silence ! speak unto me once again ! 
 Tell me, shall I ere behold thee ? tell me, do I wait in vain ? 
 It is well for us to suffer, it is well for us to wait, 
 Well to swing, like little children, all our life on death's loose gate. " 
 
 J. MILLER HAGEMAN. 
 
 EXACTLY at eleven the next morning M. d'Isten presented him- 
 self at Miss Conover's door. She had been prepared by her 
 mother to find him much changed, but his appearance shocked 
 her. She wondered why he should look so ill. She held a 
 letter in her hand, and after the first grave courtesies were 
 exchanged, she gave it to him, turning away while he read it, 
 with an instinctive consideration. 
 
 He went over it again and again, until he knew it by heart ; 
 not for that end, but because it was so hopeless. Bethesda was 
 day and night either insensible or in excruciating pain, wrote 
 Mrs. Trescott. His Esda ! his fragile love ! Did he go to her 
 now it would only be to find her beyond the reach of sorrow 
 or consolation. 
 
 At last Miss Conover, vaguely alarmed, went forward and 
 spoke his name. He turned, and she put out her hand impuls- 
 ively : 
 
 " Ah, it is a sorrow to you also, monsieur." 
 
 He could not reply, but bent over her hand in silence. 
 Presently, however, the sympathy of a common grief somewhat 
 loosened the tense cords around his heart, and she could catch 
 a glimpse of the reverential tenderness with which he regarded 
 Be'thesda, and which, for the time being, caused him to forget 
 all else. 
 
 Evra did not think to be indignant. The perception of the 
 agony it must be to this man not to have a shred of communi- 
 cation at such a time forced itself in upon her, and she was 
 compassionate towards him. Her Lily had thought him worthy 
 of her friendship, and she would be his friend now.
 
 272 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 After this M. d'Isten visited Miss Conover frequently, each 
 day looking more worn and haggard, for the news from America 
 continued to be of the worst, that is, when there was any 
 news. The long suspense between the scraps Mabel and Marcot 
 wrote was the hardest of all to bear. The two yearning friends 
 came even to look upon the hour when they should hear of 
 Bethesda's death as one of relief, for then she would no longer 
 be suffering these agonies, too painful to be imagined, and they 
 would be out of the clutches of a despairing hope. 
 
 A gnawing indecision also wore upon Rene'. He had been 
 to a lawyer, and convinced himself beyond any further doubt 
 that he was free. But free to do what ? He was surprised at 
 himself that the matter was so difficult of solution. A year 
 before he would have thought this release a God-sent justice, 
 and accepted it as such. Now he could not help but think of 
 Louise's cruel position, and her claims paramount almost to his 
 own. Conscience, once awakened by contact with Be'thesda's, 
 could not again be lulled to sleep. He found himself in the 
 terrible situation of divided forces. To which did he owe him- 
 self? To her who held his heart, or to her whom he had called 
 wife ? Was body more than soul 1 Did the fact of his having 
 been the husband of Louise condemn him to marry her now ] 
 Did he not rather owe it to Be'thesda that his new-found freedom 
 should be laid at her feet 1 But then perhaps already she was 
 beyond any joy he could give her, beyond hope, beyond could 
 she be beyond love ? 
 
 Her illness served Bethesda well with Rend, and also with 
 Guinevere, whose jealous nature had at times been aroused by 
 the sight of anguish greater even than her own. But she could 
 never censure Bethesda. This distant martyr, who might at 
 any instant become might already have become a soul in 
 heaven, it was impossible to associate with angry, or jealous, or 
 sensuous thoughts. This body mangled in the conflict, although 
 so dear to each, was seen to be as nothing to the strength of 
 that ardent spirit which soared above it and them. They heard 
 of her patience and fortitude, her unselfishness and spirituality, 
 and they felt that she was a being bound so slightly to earth 
 that the touch of a rough or unworthy thought might break the 
 chrysalis, and leave her to soar white-winged to God. 
 
 They were both Catholics, and many times they might have 
 been seen, if not at the same church, at the same hour praying
 
 CHAP, x.] COMMENCEMENT OF EETEIEVAL. 273 
 
 for her whose body might be alive or dead. For Rene* had 
 found that there was something more powerful to pray to than 
 Esda. His saint was enough for him, but when she needed 
 intercession, whom was there to go to but God ? 
 
 And when he left the holy shadow of the church he would 
 go home to write to Louise kindly, solicitously : showing an un- 
 usual tenderness as of one about to go away for ever. He left 
 the matter in God's hands. If his prayers were answered, and 
 Be'thesda recovered, he would go to her and leave Louise. 
 Spirit was stronger than matter, soul more divine than body, 
 love the truest law. So, whatever it cost Louise, Be'thesda 
 should not miss her rights. She had never done anything to 
 cause her to miss them. Louise had ; and yet he never felt 
 so forgiving and lenient to Louise as when he was caressing the 
 idea of Bdthesda's recovery. 
 
 What made his thoughts especially gentle with her who had 
 been his wife was the fact that, through one whom he had trusted 
 for many years, he learned that the doughty officer, who had so 
 eagerly sought to pay off a " debt of gratitude," had returned to 
 
 M , and tried to meet Louise where he could speak to her 
 
 alone. Failing in that, as Rene' had long since taken care he 
 should fail, he sent her a letter saying that a word from him 
 could free her from bonds she had long endured, and that could 
 he gain an interview with her for only one moment, this word 
 should be spoken, and her heart assured that his devotion was 
 as unceasing as it had been patient. 
 
 Louise had received this letter through some clever intrigue 
 which had prevented the trusty friend from securing it en route, 
 but it had done little harm, for it had not been opened. It was 
 returned by Louise herself to its writer, whom it was allowed 
 to reach, and who had almost immediately left the place. 
 
 " My poor, dear Louise !" said Rene' to himself, as he folded 
 the letter containing this news. He felt very tenderly towards 
 her as one does towards a child who has been naughty and un- 
 manageable, but who is receiving hard punishment. Poor child ! 
 it would go hard with her. And this fellow was a dastard. 
 
 This news only made him more eager for decisive word from 
 America. Such upheaval and suspense were peculiarly unen- 
 durable to him. He was unable to adjust himself to anything, 
 without the likelihood of being thrown off his balance at the 
 next instant. He was the plaything of fate, the buffet of chance. 
 
 T
 
 274 BETHESDA. [PART 11. 
 
 But this fate and chance would have a divine hand to impel them, 
 and he would abide its decision. If Bdthesda died, hope was 
 for ever shut to him. He could sacrifice himself in a perpetual 
 suttee and find it sweet, because she would approve. Louise 
 should know what this " word of freedom " was, and choose him 
 or reject him with open-eyed knowledge. But he could do nothing 
 till he heard from Be'thesda. His whole soul came back to this 
 centre of longing. Let her recover, and then happiness ! 
 
 One day towards the end of March, however, Guinevere 
 received word that the end could be only a few hours delayed. 
 Beth even then was lying in a swoon which had lasted for 
 hours, and from which, the physicians said, she would awake only 
 to a few moments' consciousness before she died. They were will- 
 ing she should go ; the persecuted child would be safer there, 
 wrote Mabel. No love, not the most devoted, could shield so 
 tender a soul in this wicked world. Since there were demons 
 here who delighted in inflicting torture on the best, her friends 
 could only be glad of her release. 
 
 The paper fluttered from Guinevere's fingers and fell to the 
 floor. She had not understood the last phrases : she had only 
 felt that there was no longer suspense nor hope. 
 
 As she knelt before the crucifix hanging by her bed, a knock 
 came at the door. Was it the final tidings ] 
 
 " Monsieur le Comte d'Isteu craves to see mademoiselle," 
 said the maid. 
 
 " Give him this, and say I cannot see him," said Guinevere, 
 thrusting Mrs. Trescott's letter into the girl's hand, and enclos- 
 ing herself again with her solitary grief. 
 
 " Mademoiselle is in despair, monsieur," said the maid pre- 
 sently in the next room ; " she sends you -this, and says she is 
 too ill to see you. She " 
 
 M. d'Isten had not heard her. He snatched the meaning 
 from the blotted page before him, and when he realised what 
 it meant, the maid shrank away from before his face and closed 
 the door stealthily. 
 
 The insuperable loss came upon him with a fierceness which 
 quite obliterated his reason. He laid all the blame on Mabel, 
 and the desire for vengeance coming from his mother's race 
 made him reckless then. His was the wrath which does not 
 explode but kills. An explosion may injure many, but the 
 bullet flies surer to the one heart.
 
 CHAP, x.] LOVE'S INSTINCT. 275 
 
 A few hours later he returned he had rushed out of the 
 house with a new resolution in his face. He insisted on see- 
 ing Miss Conover ; bribed the maid conclusively, and gave her 
 such an adroit message to deliver that the artist's seclusion was 
 ended ; and she hastened into the drawing-room, her hair dis- 
 hevelled, and her cheeks all tear-stained and wan. 
 
 " What is it, what is it ? " she cried. 
 
 " I am convinced Bdthesda is better. Send a telegram to 
 her sister and see. She will answer it; I know she will." 
 
 " There is no use ; my darling is dead ! " moaned disap- 
 pointed Guinevere. 
 
 " She is not. Trust me, Miss Conover. Only telegraph, 
 and you will see that I am right. Miss Margaret Hamilton 
 will answer you ; she might not me. I beseech you, try." 
 
 "As you like, but it will only be to hear of her death." 
 
 Consent was all M. d'Isten wished. Action was always a 
 relief to him, and to whom is not hope a tonic 1 He spoke a 
 few helpful words, borne up by an unreasoned feeling which 
 would not acknowledge fear, and left Guinevere roused to hope 
 also. He haunted the office until the reply came, late at night. 
 
 " She lives. "We have hope." 
 
 The blackness was passed. Such a dark period could not 
 come again ; it would always be illumined by the reflection of 
 this relief. 
 
 Miss Conover gave him both hands as she saw his face 
 and heard the good words which verified his hope. 
 
 " My sweet, living Lily ! " thought Evra, when M. d'Isten 
 left, a great change in his face and carriage and voice, " we 
 both love you, but I will support and comfort you. He cannot, 
 and I can. I am a woman and so you will not fear me." 
 
 And Rene', walking under the starry spring skies, thinking of 
 a year before, and the resurrection promised to-night, made a 
 vow that he would win Be'thesda to the resurrection of love as 
 of life, without allowing her happiness to be flawed by the 
 knowledge that it caused any one pain.
 
 276 BETHESDA. [['ART ir. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Ask God for truth and He will give the divine in answer." 
 
 Peace comes, not by having naught to suffer, but by surmounting 
 suffering. 
 
 EIGHTEEN months passed. Bethesda Hamilton had very 
 slowly recovered from the terrible illness which had almost 
 released her soul. What turned the trembling balance was a 
 perception of her cowardice in wishing, as she had done at first, 
 to die. Should she be so selfish as to extinguish the light her 
 fiery sufferings might be to some other erring souls'? She 
 must live to make her pains and her gains a beacon off the 
 rocks of dishonour and to the haven of morality. 
 
 Her first thought now became in each new trial : How can 
 I make this serve others? She constantly sought truth, no 
 longer for herself alone; but a patient endurance, an active 
 resignation, an offering of all her joys and sorrows to the 
 service of her fellow- men, brought their own sublime reward. 
 It was worth the whole of her illness in its hope alone ; it was 
 the gladness of the birth of things immortal ; for in her soul 
 was that grandest of all conceptions, the belief in a loving 
 personal God. 
 
 The great upreaching of her soul after truth and rectitude 
 had been but the dawn which heralds the approach of day, and 
 presently she looked forward with an almost ecstatic vision to 
 the time when the world should be purified of its sins, and the 
 Christian religion be comprehended in reverence, as well as felt 
 by faith, until no side of its divine beauty would be dim, but 
 all believed with that assurance which is beyond faith, because 
 it knows. 
 
 Naturally, for she was still a weak woman, there were deso- 
 late hours when the uplifting pinions of aspiration and hope 
 drooped helpless at her sides, their snowy plumage hardly with- 
 held from the dust ; when her passionate nature cried out for 
 her lover and would not be stilled. She remembered, and 
 memory's very sweetness was well-nigh unendurably bitter. For 
 there are many broken threads which seem but a hand's-breadth 
 apart, yet the chasm which separates them is deep as death, 
 and wide as eternity.
 
 CHAP, xi.] A PEECAKIOUS BASIS. 277 
 
 But the strong instinct of Bethesda's nature towards right 
 as of a plant towards light, always won the victory, and she 
 recognised how only the oblivion of ourselves in a higher life 
 than our own makes us strong and serene ; only advancing 
 over the bridge which leads from passion to renunciation will 
 take us from the malarious districts of individual life to the 
 invigorating regions of universality. 
 
 She was aided in this by living constantly under the com- 
 bined influences of Mrs. Stanhope and Margaret. Mabel, soon 
 after Bethesda's recovery, had married ; not loving nor profess- 
 ing to love, but glad to be " surely first to some one," as she 
 said, and feeling that she could make her husband happier than 
 he would be without her. 
 
 He was in every particular her counterpart. He was a 
 self-poised and strong man, and upon first meeting attracted 
 Bethesda's confidence. She saw that, with time, his con- 
 sistent force and intrepid devotion might subdue Mabel's im- 
 petuous inconsistencies, and give the equipoise which she so 
 much needed both for development and happiness. His love 
 for Mabel, if not wholly wise, was neither a blind infatuation. 
 He had weighed his chances with a not unsteady hand, and 
 had thrown his whole fortune on the hope of winning her 
 absolutely some day. He had seen that to do this irrevocability 
 was essential. The inevitable, which she had never dared to 
 face, should be her possessor, and hold her for once firm to a pur- 
 pose his purpose, if not hers. When there was once a solidarity 
 of interests declared between them, her lifelong instincts would 
 play into his hands. 
 
 So they had married and gone to their new home in Cali- 
 fornia, " so far west that it is almost east," said Mabel ; but 
 there were only a few swift months for Mr. Reining to use in 
 accomplishing his hoped-for end, when Mabel, in giving birth 
 to a girl-baby, died. Bethesda was there and supported her 
 aunt to the last, and it was to her Mrs. Reining left her 
 child. The father was quite willing to carry out the mother's 
 request, for he almost hated the infant which had stolen his 
 precious wife's life. He had, indeed, at once gone away on a 
 long trip, sailing direct to China, whence there was little pro- 
 spect as yet of his returning. 
 
 The Misses Hamilton, meantime, with their new charge, had 
 decided to take the house and grounds adjoining the Stanhopes',
 
 278 BETHESDA. [PAKT 11. 
 
 and towards the end of the second October they were settled 
 in their own establishment, with Aunt Agatha at hand to call 
 upon, and the lives of all flowing in that sympathetic unison 
 which forms the sweetness of life. 
 
 To Bethesda, such an experience as her present one of quiet 
 domesticity was peculiarly restful. The longer she lived in 
 the natural conditions of life, the more shudderingly did she 
 look back on the unsheltered past and rejoice that it was 
 over. When she had first recovered from her illness she had 
 thought there must be an impenetrable strangeness which 
 would separate her, like a nun's veil, from the society in which 
 she moved ; but the foolish notion vanished under the clear 
 rays of common-sense and contact with the world in its usual 
 phases which Mrs. Stanhope had exerted herself to bring around 
 her nieces. 
 
 Bethesda soon found that her charms were here neither 
 sought by artists to copy, nor the cause of despair to mad 
 lovers. A certain equipoise of character, which increased daily 
 under the healthy regime of her moral surroundings, and interest 
 rather in thought than persons, sufficed to keep on the boundaries 
 of pleasant acquaintance the men who were attracted to her. 
 Moreover, there was a sense of completion about her which 
 robbed her of the charm a fancy-free maidenhood alone possesses. 
 Men found her interested by larger questions than mere personal 
 ones, and the magnetism which formerly drew to love, now drew 
 to intellectual attainment. 
 
 She thought much, and had never had such opportunities to 
 bring out the best in her as during the winter, when the philo- 
 sophic and literary conversations which made Mrs. Stanhope's 
 parlour an old time salon, stimulated her to activity, while 
 giving her the guidance of noble minds. She would listen and 
 glow with the exercise of her highest faculties now, as she had 
 used to do in beholding fine scenery, and felt her insignificance 
 beside these towering intellects, as she had beside the Pyramids. 
 
 At present objective life was all her study, for her personal 
 strength and attention were required for the baby and Margaret, 
 whose health had been strained by the long nursing, and who 
 clung to her sister with that close pressure which best staunches 
 a wound. And Bethesda felt that no looking back with sorrow, 
 nor forward with apprehension, must sap the health which was 
 dedicated to the serving of others.
 
 CHAP, xi.] A REVIVAL. 279 
 
 Her manner of regarding the past was thus significantly 
 altered. She had heard nothing from Rend since the telegram 
 whose contents had been communicated to her when it was 
 thought that she would die. The words had often reassured 
 her. Rend and Louise might even at this moment be living 
 together in Paris, realising that " he only earns his life who 
 daily conquers it anew." This was her most hopeful thought. 
 Of Rent's letter and Madame d'Isten's she knew nothing. 
 They had been received by Mabel and disposed of as she saw 
 fit. Bethesda often wondered if Louise were angry, but 
 patiently bore the lack of knowledge, feeling that all she could 
 do had been done. She understood that she must recognise 
 clearly Rent's errors and her own, and reach upwards to touch 
 him only as she embraced all, he being farthest of all. 
 She was sure that God would take care of Rend as of herself 
 with perfect tenderness, upholding them if they did right, 
 leading them to repentance if they did wrong, which was not a 
 lesser reliance. She did not wish herself or others to escape 
 any suffering it were better they should have. Had she felt 
 God would extend a mercy to her to cover instead of eradi- 
 cating her sins, she would not have trusted him as she did. 
 Meantime she knew that, if she gave her life into his hands, he 
 would convert all her evil into good, by the divine alchemy 
 of his regenerative power. 
 
 In the latter part of October Mr. Stanhope returned from a 
 trip to New York, and mentioned incidentally having met a 
 gentleman who seemed to know Bethesda. 
 
 " He is the new French Secretary of Legation in Washing- 
 ton, I understand. It may be he has only heard your name in 
 connection with your writing, those stories of yours have made 
 some sensation, my dear, but I formed an opinion that he had 
 met you personally." 
 
 " Who was he 1 " asked Bethesda steadily, though her heart 
 answered before him. 
 
 " His name was d'Isten. I have his card somewhere. He 
 had a title of some kind ; it seems to me they said marquis. 
 Do you know him 1 " 
 
 "Aunt Mabel and I met him abroad," replied Bethesda 
 calmly. " Was his wife with him T' 
 
 " His wife ? No, I did not know he had one. That is 
 natural enough, however," he went on after a momentary pause.
 
 280 BETHESDA. [PART ir. 
 
 " A man does not say much of private affairs to a stranger. I 
 did not mention that you were any connection of mine, only 
 that I had heard of you. He seemed interested in what I did 
 say. He admires your writings, and, if I am not mistaken, said 
 he had translated one of the stories into their French Magazine 
 what do you call it ? " 
 
 " Revue des Deux Mondes t " 
 
 " Yes. He seemed to have literary tastes, and had a num- 
 ber of anecdotes to tell about literary persons. He was quite 
 entertaining, but too foreign to suit me. I don't see how you 
 and Mabel managed to live so long over there." 
 
 The new secretary of legation was soon forgotten. Even 
 Bethesda succeeded in silencing, for the time, the importunate 
 voice within her which she had not fancied could clamour so 
 loudly for itself alone after months of victorious subjection. 
 
 For it had been many months, many years it seemed to her 
 as she lay awake that night, since that Christmas when her 
 decision to deny herself and Rene' all, had been made. It was 
 more than two years since they had met, and once more they 
 were on the same side of the Atlantic. What did this mean 1 
 A hundred perturbing possibilities suggested themselves as un- 
 foldings of the present. Deeds draw an endless chain of con- 
 sequences ; what was the next link which would come to her ? 
 
 Finally Bethesda put the thoughts all aside, as the dawn 
 came creeping in. She remembered what Mrs. Stanhope had 
 said to her once : 
 
 " The course of events cannot be disturbed, nor evaded. 
 Do as near right as you can, and leave the rest to God." 
 
 She sent for Marcot the next day, and asked him to give 
 her back the paper with which she had entrusted him before 
 she was ill. 
 
 " It is impossible for me to do so at once, madame," he 
 replied, " I left it with a banker in New York." 
 
 " Why so 1 When was that 1 " 
 
 " Before madame your aunt was married, madame. Per- 
 haps Madame Reming communicated to my mistress a rebuke 
 she gave me ? She wished to discharge me." 
 
 " I have heard of it." There had indeed been a stiff battle 
 between Mabel and Agatha on this subject, but Agatha had won. 
 
 "My mistress will understand that then the surest way of 
 fulfilling her wishes was to put the paper out of my hands."
 
 CHAP, xi.] DIPLOMACY. 281 
 
 "Very well. I have no doubt you did it for the best. 
 Send for it now, however, and give it to me immediately." 
 
 " My mistress has not lost confidence in me ? " ventured 
 Marcot humbly. 
 
 " Not in the least. You have been devoted to me and my 
 interests. Those papers were only given you to deliver in case 
 of my speedy death. I now wish to have them again myself." 
 
 " As my mistress desires," said Marcot obediently, but he 
 lingered. 
 
 " Have you anything to say to me 1 " asked Miss Hamilton 
 presently. 
 
 " If my mistress would permit, it may be of service to 
 my mistress to know that the person whose name was on her 
 letter is in America." 
 
 " Very well. You have done your duty in telling me, and 
 now I wish you to consider it your duty not to mention him 
 again. That is all I shall want of you now." 
 
 It was a week after she had received and destroyed the 
 sealed paper she had requested, and which contained all Rend's 
 letters to her, as well as one from her to him, none of which, 
 she was sure, had been tampered with, that there came a call 
 at the telephone from Mr. Stanhope. 
 
 Mrs; Stanhope was away, and Uncle Raleigh on such occa- 
 sions took his meals with his nieces, feeling perfectly at home 
 there. Now he asked, with customary formality, if he could 
 bring up a friend to dine. The answer was : " Certainly," 
 but in a few moments another call was made, and Bethesda 
 asked for. 
 
 " It is the gentleman I told you of meeting in New York. 
 He has excellent letters from Washington, and I would like to 
 offer him some hospitality. Do you object in any way to his 
 coming to your house 1 " 
 
 Bethesda felt all the blood leave the surface of her body, 
 and crowd to her heart. For an instant she could not speak 
 or move. It had, in spite of all, taken her completely by sur- 
 prise. She had not imagined him as making so bold a stroke. 
 
 " Please postpone the invitation," she contrived at last to 
 say. 
 
 " Very well," replied Mr. Stanhope, and closed the current. 
 
 Bethesda went into the study, and sat down at her desk 
 and let her head fall on her hands. What was she to do 1
 
 282 BETHESDA. [PAUT n. 
 
 What could she say that would not be unjust, and yet would 
 keep them separated ? For this had become the one urgent aim, 
 excluding all others. She could not see him unless she knew 
 more, it was her duty not to meet him ; and, moreover, she 
 could not. 
 
 Then she felt Margaret's arms around her, the visible pre- 
 sence of tender sympathy. 
 
 " Margaret," she said abruptly, for she had no secrets from 
 her sister, "Monsieur d'Isten is in the city. He has letters of 
 introduction to uncle, and was to have come here to dine to- 
 night. I asked uncle to postpone it, so as to give me at least 
 time to think. Now, what am I to do ? " 
 
 " Uncle will trust you without a word of question. You 
 have only to say you do not wish to meet M. d'Isten." 
 
 " But the question is, What does it mean ? He comes here 
 without his wife ; he has excellent letters of introduction to 
 uncle, and what does it mean ? What, rather, can I do to keep 
 him away ? " 
 
 " You must keep him away by some means, that is sure, 
 but I don't think anything more than an expression of your 
 desire not to meet him will be necessary. Aunt Agatha will 
 be home to-morrow, and then she can entertain him, and uncle 
 will take delicate care of you ; he would respect your least wish." 
 
 " True, and how good it is to be protected, to be sheltered ! 
 I understand better now that I have spoken to you. It startled 
 me so at first, I could hardly think." 
 
 Mr. Stanhope did not mention M. d'Isten's name until 
 Bethesda first inquired about him, which was after Marcot had 
 placed the dessert upon the table. She was looking peculiarly 
 lovely to-night, thought her uncle, although a little tired ; but 
 her voice was quite natural as she mentioned his message. 
 
 " By whom was M. d'Isten introduced 1 " she asked. 
 
 " By Mr. , an old friend of mine in the cabinet. He 
 
 writes in the highest terms of this Frenchman, whom, it seems, 
 he knew in Paris on some diplomatic business. Here is the 
 letter. Read it after dinner. He says any attentions given to 
 him would be considered as a personal favour. M. d'Isten has 
 made a powerful friend there." 
 
 " Has he, indeed ?" exclaimed Margaret, with frank curiosity. 
 " Who then is this remarkable man ? Is he young or old 1 
 Married or single ? Have you seen him here 1 "
 
 -. xi.] RESIGNATION. 283 
 
 Mr. Stanhope glanced at Bethesda in some surprise ; she 
 had not told her sister then 1 He answered readily, how- 
 ever: 
 
 "He brought me the letter and stayed some time in my 
 office. He is well-bred and intelligent, but a reserved man, I 
 should say. He seems desirous to please. If he is married he 
 did not say so ; I should have liked him better if he had. I 
 should have preferred, too, his mentioning Bethesda, since he 
 met her abroad, and probably learned in Washington that I was 
 her uncle. I like a man who isn't afraid to claim acquaintance 
 with anybody. However, with such a letter I should like to 
 pay him some attention." 
 
 He looked at Bethesda keenly. She said nothing for a 
 moment, then lifted inscrutably candid eyes to his face, and re- 
 plied in a low, steady voice : 
 
 " Uncle, you know Aunt Mabel and I became acquainted 
 with Monsieur d'Isten abroad. We liked him very much for a 
 time, then there came up a a misunderstanding, I will call it, 
 and the acquaintance was entirely broken off. Aunt Mabel 
 never forgave him, and, although I think she was unjust to him, 
 I am not sufficiently well satisfied with his actions, or our own, 
 to wish to meet him now. You might tell him that you would 
 be glad to invite him here, but I had asked you not to do so. 
 Yes, this would be best, I think it would make him clearly 
 understand, and would avert our meeting in the future." 
 
 There was an uncontrollable sadness in her voice now which 
 stirred both her listeners. Mr. Stanhope filled her glass with 
 wine, and his hand trembled in so doing. To cover it he said 
 quickly : 
 
 " Just as you choose. There is no need for me to mention 
 you at all, if you prefer." 
 
 " Yes, you had better say I requested this of you, unless it 
 would be awkward for you 1 " 
 
 " Oh no ; if you think it best, I can easily manage it. I 
 told him when your message came that I was obliged to delay 
 the dinner, and that I would call at his hotel in the morning. 
 I can give him your message then, although not in the form of 
 one of course, and, at the same time, tell him I expect my wife 
 home at noon, and ask him to dine with us the next day. That 
 will be all right. You need not worry at all." 
 
 It was a quiet but hard evening to Bethesda. Neighbours
 
 284 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 came in, and they sat talking in the library where Bethesda 
 herself had closed the lower shutters which Marcot, for one 
 reason or another, had left open. 
 
 As they went away, quite late, Bethesda stood a few 
 moments in the balmy, Indian-summer air, looking up at the 
 stars which had so often seemed to watch her destiny. So, he 
 was a marquis. Well, his father had been an old man two 
 years before, but it must have been a deep grief to the son. 
 He loved his father. And his wife ? Those were the two ties 
 which held him bound to Europe, he had once told her, and 
 now he was here 
 
 A man's figure stirred under the trees opposite. She turned 
 hastily and went in. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " Our life is lent 
 
 From first to last, the whole, for this experiment, 
 Of proving what I say, that we ourselves are true ! " 
 
 EGBERT BROWNING. 
 
 THAT same evening Marcot stood before his former master, be- 
 tokening by profuse salutations his pleasure at again being able 
 to speak with one whom he had loved from boyhood. 
 
 " Has your mistress mentioned me in your hearing ? " were 
 Rene* d'Isten's first words when the delighted greetings had 
 been received, and very pleasantly too. 
 
 " It is just now that she called me and gave me a warning, 
 monsieur le marquis," replied Marcot. " She commanded me 
 to carry no word, or letter, or message whatever from you to 
 her, monsieur ; she said that if I did so that moment would be 
 my last in her service. Pardon me, monsieur le marquis, but 
 you desire me to repeat her words?" 
 
 "Certainly; and you think she meant them?" 
 " She never uses such words idly, monsieur." 
 "Very likely not." He sat and thought a few moments in 
 silence. Did this indicate disapproval 1 Or was it fear of her- 
 self as well as of him 1 ? In any case he could not but admire 
 the position she took, knowing no more than she did. 
 
 " Sit down," he said presently to the man waiting before 
 him. " Tell me all I should wish to know."
 
 CHAP, xii.] GAINING NEWS. 285 
 
 Thereupon ensued a tale which Bethesda would have been 
 astounded to hear. Not that it was untrue ; quite the contrary. 
 So accurate had been the man's perceptions of all that came 
 within his scope of mind, so acute his surmises, and so excellent 
 his memory, that she would have felt her life unveiled of at 
 least all its outer coverings before Kene' d'Isten's keen eyes. 
 Marcot was a kind of genius in his way ; he would have made 
 his fortune as a detective ; his master had known and chosen 
 well when he gave him this position of confidence. 
 
 He praised him now, and added a more convertible reward, 
 and then asked carelessly : 
 
 " Did she appear to suspect anything about the letter you 
 left with your so-called banker 1 " 
 
 " Nothing, monsieur le marquis. She has too white a soul 
 to suspect." 
 
 " So you are thoroughly devoted to her, eh 1 Well, you 
 are right, Marcot. I wish I could be in your place." 
 
 " She is the kindest of ladies, monsieur ; I thank you for 
 giving me so good a position." 
 
 "And she has no pretendants, you sayl" 
 
 " None, monsieur. There are many who would gladly be 
 so did she permit it, but there is an air de reine about her 
 which prevents impertinence." 
 
 " Is she too delicate yet to bear a surprise ?" 
 
 " Ah, monsieur, she is very frail ! And she has suffered so 
 much ! No one who did not see her during that dreadful 
 illness knows what woman can endure. Be careful of her, I 
 beseech you, monsieur ! " 
 
 " Tranquillise yourself, Marcot. She is in no danger from 
 me." Then, with a knowledge of the man's French heart, he 
 gave him the most salient bits of news from his home and 
 people. 
 
 " And monsieur your father died 1 " 
 
 " Only a short time since. He had a return of the old 
 paralysis from his wounds, and was in constant danger of death, 
 for which he came to pray. I was with him from the first. 
 He spoke of you, Marcot, only the day before he died. You 
 shall choose your own place on the estate when you have done 
 what there is to do here, or if your mistress should dismiss 
 you. I know I can trust you, but be discreet ; don't run any 
 risks. If she should question you She never has, you
 
 286 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 say ? Well, it may come, and then be careful what you say. 
 I am here on diplomatic business, and shall remain indefinitely, 
 in America, I mean. I came to this city to make the acquaint- 
 ance of her uncle. The circumstances of my life have changed, 
 much changed. Specify my father's death if she presses you 
 closely. Don't mention Madame d'Isten. If she asks for her, 
 say you have heard nothing, but assure her, with significance, 
 that my circumstances are altered. Come again to-morrow 
 evening at this same hour, if possible. I expect to dine out, 
 and may wish to give you new instructions. Leave the shutters 
 open every evening ; I saw your mistress close them to-night. 
 She is taller than she was, and her hair seems darker. Has 
 she changed much during her illness ? I could not see her face." 
 
 "She is more beautiful than ever, monsieur le marquis. 
 She has the serenity of a saint, ah, you should have seen her, 
 monsieur, with Madame Eeming! and her tenderness to that 
 baby " 
 
 "Bien, bien, Marcot. I see plainly that if a man cannot 
 hope to be a hero to his valet, your mistress is nothing less 
 than perfect to you ! And I believe you are not far wrong." 
 
 The next day Mrs. Stanhope returned and found her husband 
 so anxious to do something at once for this well-introduced 
 stranger, that Aunt Agatha invited a hasty company to meet 
 him that same evening, trusting to her nieces to help her in 
 preparations. 
 
 " For although you do not wish to meet him there is no 
 reason why he should not come to my house, is there, Bethesda ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " None, I think, Aunt Agatha." Was he not as innocent 
 as she who had made her home with Mrs. Stanhope ? 
 
 Bethesda was very busy all the afternoon arranging the fruits 
 and flowers on the table and in the parlours of her aunt's home. 
 Marcot brought basket after basket of blossoms from the green- 
 house, and she went from one room to another with the baby 
 on her arm the little May-Flower had been ailing the last day 
 or two leaving each a bower, hardly conscious of how much 
 beauty she was causing. Indeed, it was not until the baby 
 demanded undivided attention, and she seated herself in a low 
 rocker to hush it to sleep, that she realised how she had lavished 
 the wealth of a garden in decorations to honour the coming of a 
 man she must never see.
 
 CHAP, xii.] A MEETING. 287 
 
 Just as this thought came over her Mrs. Stanhope entered 
 already dressed, and exclaimed at the lovely effect of the rooms. 
 
 " But you must go at once, dear. It is almost time for 
 them to be coming. Here, nurse, take the baby, and call Miss 
 Margaret." 
 
 Bethesda had hurried away at the first word, like a startled 
 fawn, but stood in the western porch a moment waiting for her 
 sister. Her white dress was caught up over one arm, and a 
 red silk shawl was thrown around her shoulders ; her hair was 
 low in her neck, and her eyes, shadowed by weariness, were 
 dark and brilliant. 
 
 Kens' d'Isten coming up the pathway a little early discovered 
 Bethesda standing there, the reflections of a warm sunset about 
 her, alone. The implacable distance which had so long separated 
 them seemed but a step to be trod in triumph before he should 
 hold her to his heart. 
 
 Then Margaret joined her, and the two sped across the lawn, 
 Renews thirsty eyes following them. He dared not pursue ; it 
 would be only self-defeat. 
 
 He went up the steps and was immediately ushered into the 
 garden Bethesda had made. He knew she had. He could feel 
 the touches of her light fingers on every leaf and stem. There 
 was her portrait, too, in the library. He had last seen it 
 when 
 
 " The Marquis d'Isten, I believe 1 " said a courteous voice 
 near him, and turning he saw his hostess. " I am Mrs. Stan- 
 hope. I am sorry Mr. Stanhope is not here to welcome you. 
 He was detained, but will be down immediately." 
 
 "It is my fault, madame. My coming was hastened too 
 much, I perceive, by my great desire to meet you. I was just 
 renewing my acquaintance with this beautiful portrait of one 
 who has often spoken to me of Madame Stanhope. I trust 
 Mademoiselle Hamilton is well 1 ?" 
 
 " Thanks, quite well. Be seated, pray. Have you been 
 long in America 1 " 
 
 " Several weeks, madame. It has cost me much to be so 
 long in a land where I flattered myself I might find friends 
 and not seek them, but I was obliged to identify myself with 
 my position before I could take this great pleasure. It grieves 
 me deeply to learn that I may now never meet one who honoured 
 me with her friendship, Madame Trescott, as I knew her."
 
 288 BETHESDA. [PART 11. 
 
 " Did I understand you to say you were my sister's friend 1 " 
 inquired Mrs. Stanhope in a tone Rend thought icy. 
 
 " Indeed, madame, she never had one more devoted ! Un- 
 happily a misunderstanding arose, which I the more profoundly 
 regret, as I find Miss Hamilton considers it her duty not to allow 
 me the pleasure of seeing her, to which I had looked forward 
 with eagerness. I assure you, madame, that no misunder- 
 standings can ever eradicate from my heart sentiments of the 
 greatest esteem for both your sister and your niece." 
 
 He said this with much dignity, and an air penetrated with 
 regret, but Mrs. Stanhope Avas not touched. 
 
 " You are kind," she replied gravely. " If you please, how- 
 ever, we will not return to the past. Our acquaintance dates 
 from to-day. I am pleased to be able to receive a gentleman 
 so highly commended by Secretary C ." 
 
 Mr. Stanhope here joined them, and other guests soon 
 arrived. Rend d'Isten put aside all wounded pride and made 
 himself as agreeable as 'he knew how to be, which is saying 
 much. The impression he conveyed was most felicitous. His 
 appearance was said to be distinguished ; his manner perfection ; 
 his conversation brilliant without being obtrusive. His praise 
 of America was both discriminating and warm ; his knowledge 
 of our institutions peculiarly accurate. Every one was charmed 
 with him, even Mr. Stanhope, except the one he especially 
 wished to win " Aunt Agatha." 
 
 The difference between the masculine and feminine was well 
 marked here. The quite easy conjecture Raleigh Stanhope 
 might have made as to the cause of Bethesda's withdrawal 
 from the society of this man did not once occur to him. To 
 think of Bethesda in connection with anything not crystal-clear 
 and pure would have seemed to any of her friends an unpardon- 
 able insult. But Mrs. Stanhope, with her more discerning eyes 
 and intuitive perceptions, had discovered, not alone in Bethesda's 
 case, that the fault from which we consider others most exempt 
 is probably the one they have fought the hardest. Only through 
 battle can come that victory which is clothed in white raiment. 
 
 M. d'Isten also had been observing and planning swiftly. 
 As he took his leave he said to his hostess : 
 
 "May I have the honour of calling upon you in the morn- 
 ing 1 My time is somewhat limited, or I would not intrude so 
 soon after this delightful evening."
 
 CHAP, xii.] A PURPOSEFUL CALL. 289 
 
 " You have given it its success. I shall be at home, and 
 glad to see you any time to-morrow after eleven." 
 
 When Margaret went to her room that evening, after a little 
 chat with Aunt Agatha to hear of " this wonderful man," she 
 found Bethesda sitting by the little Mary's crib patting her to 
 sleep. The child had been restless, and Bethesda could always 
 soothe her best. To Margaret there was a very pathetic touch 
 in the simple picture then. The ways of Providence seemed 
 almost more inscrutable to her than when she had seen Bethesda 
 in the relentless clutches of physical agony. There are many 
 losses for which death seems to compensate. 
 
 The next morning M. d'Isten presented himself promptly at 
 Mrs. Stanhope's door. He had told the coachman to drive 
 slowly, and, well back in the corner, had studied with the 
 keenest eyes the adjacent house. On the porch was the little 
 dot of humanity which he knew to be Mabel's child. Somebody 
 was sitting in the shadow. He bent forward eagerly, but only 
 to see the cap and apron of a nurse. Mascot was in the garden 
 gathering flowers. As the carriage passed he glanced up care- 
 lessly at the windows of a room on the second floor. Behind 
 the half-drawn curtains could be seen a figure with bent head, 
 the shapely head Rene' knew so well. So, she was writing. 
 He dismissed his carriage at the gate. He preferred to walk 
 back. Some opportunity might occur for what 1 
 
 The flowers in the shadowy parlours were drooping a little, 
 but were still lovely, and down on them all looked the jasmine 
 face of Esda. He had not liked the portrait in London ; here 
 he felt that he would give all he possessed in exchange for it, 
 unless 
 
 Again Mrs. Stanhope interrupted his contemplation. She 
 greeted him with a fine reserve, which was exceedingly charac- 
 teristic of the woman. Perhaps she felt it the more because 
 there was a gravity in his manner now which ingratiated him in 
 her favour. 
 
 With very little preamble he set before her the object of his 
 visit. It was not alone one of courtesy, although he anticipated 
 leaving soon, as he had told her ; nor was it solely a desire to- 
 see again the sister of Madame Trescott and aunt of Miss 
 Hamilton, although he was sure, he need not say, this would 
 have brought him far; but there was a very serious purpose in his 
 mind to which he ventured to hope she would listen with kindness.
 
 290 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 " You come to me, then, on the understanding that I am 
 to receive you as the chaperone of my niece Bethesda 1 " 
 
 He glanced at her with sudden scrutiny as she thus ignored 
 her sister, but replied without delay : 
 
 " Precisely, madame. Miss Hamilton has often told me you 
 were just, a quality so rare that one cannot over appreciate it. 
 I appeal, madame, to your justice." 
 
 "I am willing to listen," said Mrs. Stanhope, after a 
 moment's pause. 
 
 " May I then dare to ask you, madame " 
 
 " You were to speak, not to question," returned Mrs. Stan- 
 hope, a smile hovering about her firm lips. 
 
 " I understand. Pray understand me also. I cannot speak 
 as I would unless some one has spoken before me. Allow me 
 to ask you, then, if you know of the cause of the alienation 
 between Madame Trescott and myself 1 " 
 
 " I have never been told." 
 
 " But you surmise. Bien, I shall be unable to speak with 
 the distinctness I would have chosen; but I trust you will 
 comprehend." 
 
 A silence ensued, during which Mrs. Stanhope studied 
 him keenly. He was at once dignified and skilful ; he was a 
 man of undeniably subtle power. What would he say ? 
 
 "Madame," he resumed at last, "this is a matter which 
 touches to the fibres of my honour and my life. To Mr. Stan- 
 hope, who kindly gave me an opportunity for explanation, I 
 could not speak. He had no suspicion of the truth. I need 
 one who has, and, moreover, a woman, who can understand." 
 
 " I am not sentimental," remarked Mrs. Stanhope drily. 
 
 " I should have been blind to have supposed it," was the 
 quick retort. "Nor is it to sentimentality that I wish to 
 appeal ; no only to the justice which Miss Hamilton assured 
 me I should find in you." 
 
 " Proceed." 
 
 " When I first met your sister it was at a time when my 
 own life was wrecked. The details are unnecessary, the fact is 
 sufficient ; to me it was terrible. I had enjoyed several weeks 
 of delightful companionship with your sister when a misunder- 
 standing arose, which was afterwards, in Italy, explained to her 
 satisfaction. I did not see Miss Hamilton until Mrs. Trescott 
 had restored to me her approval, and asked me to come to the
 
 CHAP, xii.] A REVIEW. 291 
 
 house where they were staying on my return from Rome. I 
 was charmed to do so, and there, very gradually, I became 
 acquainted with Miss Hamilton. Immediately before leaving 
 Florence I learned that Miss Hamilton wrote. At this juncture 
 I was guilty of building an air-castle. I conceived the thought 
 that I might prevail upon Miss Hamilton to take the efforts of 
 my pen, which had never been of sufficient value to encourage 
 me to brave the terrors of the press, and with her exquisite 
 tact and feminine capacity work them over into a shape which 
 might be of use to her and would be glory to me. In Paris I 
 proposed this scheme ; Miss Hamilton was gracious enough to 
 accept it ; Mrs. Trescott looked upon it with vague alarm." 
 
 "It should not have been vague," said Mrs. Stanhope 
 decisively. 
 
 "You are right, madame. It was a dangerous experiment. 
 I did not see it as such until the end came, and I was obliged 
 to look back by the lurid light of suffering on what I had inno- 
 cently proposed. That it was done innocently I do not know 
 how I can persuade you, unless you believe my simple word. 
 It may be small to you ; to me it is all." 
 
 " There are times when thoughtlessness is a crime." 
 
 " True, madame. It has been punished as such." 
 
 He glanced appealingly, yet with dignity, at the face of his 
 interlocutor. It was grave and silent. He resumed with an 
 introverted earnestness : 
 
 " The end came as I leave you to imagine. I know you 
 will do Miss Hamilton no injustice, and I hope you will not 
 judge me with undue severity. The ladies returned to America. 
 The conflict of customs, probably your wisdom, but more than 
 all, I believe, her own inalienable sense of right brought recog- 
 nition of the errors of the past. She benefited me as no one 
 else could have done, but she suffered cruelly for her benevolence. 
 Can you imagine what it was to me to hear of her tortures, and 
 know that I / had helped to inflict them upon her ] " 
 
 " Where was your wife V asked Mrs. Stanhope, with chilling 
 calm. 
 
 " I wrote to her to come to me. Miss Hamilton wrote her 
 the same. She was unable to do so at the time, and I went to 
 her. I told her all there was to tell. She preferred to still 
 remain with her mother. I returned to Paris. Through a 
 friend of Miss Hamilton's, to whom Mrs. Trescott occasionally
 
 292 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 wrote, I heard of of your niece's hopeless condition. Weeks 
 of excruciating suspense followed. Just as they ended, by our 
 hearing that you had hope, news came of my father's sudden 
 prostration. I hastened to his side and nursed him through a 
 long illness. When he died my mind could no longer bear the 
 strain so long put upon it. I was for weeks in a condition of 
 which I have no remembrance. When I recovered " 
 
 " Madame ! madame ! " cried Marcot, entering the room with- 
 out ceremony. " The baby is in a convulsion. Miss Margaret 
 begs you will come at once." 
 
 " Excuse me," said Mrs. Stanhope, already at the door, and 
 vanished. 
 
 "Gome to-night at ten without fail," said M. d'Isten to 
 Marcot. " No excuses ; you did your duty." 
 
 Again Mabel, in the form of her child, had interfered ! 
 Had this interview, then, been all in vain 1 Should he never 
 reach Be'thesda? he asked himself, as he walked slowly past 
 the house where a sudden commotion prevailed. Be'thesda was 
 there, there- ! and he could not see her ! 
 
 He sent in the afternoon to inquire of the child's condition 
 at Mrs. Stanhope's. It was better, but still very ilL She 
 would be unable to see him for an indefinite period. But 
 patience is a good palfrey ; she had served his turn before now ; 
 he would ride her to the end. 
 
 He left the city that evening after new instructions to 
 Marcot. His determination was only screwed tighter by these 
 obstacles which impeded his lines of conduct. By some means 
 he would win Be'thesda's side, and thence he never doubted 
 but that he could touch her heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 "Do what your heart tells you; yes, Aspasia, do all it tells you. 
 Remember how august it is : it contains the temple not only of Love, but 
 of Truth, and a whisper is heard from the extremity of one to the 
 extremity of the other. . . . May the beautiful feet of Aspasia stand 
 firm ! " LANDOR. 
 
 SEVERAL weeks passed without Bethesda's hearing anything 
 more of Rene' d'Isten ; but they were not very calm ones to her. 
 She was thankful to have been busy ; that was always a gain.
 
 CHAP, xiii.] GUINEVERE. 293 
 
 On the little May-Flower's recovery she had taken to writing 
 in order to clarify her mind. In communion thus with her 
 ideal could she always best form practical resolutions. 
 
 She knew that this pause was only preparative to an 
 onslaught which would strive to be irresistible, and she thought 
 deeply, looking on every side of the question which had anew 
 come to her to solve. It was not without difficulty that at last 
 she put all away from her except her own subjective knowledge, 
 and tried to wait in peace. 
 
 One morning in December there came a letter from 
 Guinevere containing the long-anticipated announcement that 
 she was to sail immediately for New York, where she was to 
 replace an inefficient singer under the same management which 
 had engaged her for the London season, and that she looked 
 forward eagerly to receiving the one word of praise which would 
 to her excel all others. 
 
 " It is so cruelly long since I have seen you, dearest," she 
 wrote. " My voice has improved, I know that, but will you 
 find hardness and mannerisms in me 1 Oh believe, dear, that 
 there is always the softest of nests in my heart for you, where 
 you lie amid the fair roses you resemble. I know if you have 
 changed it is only to become more lovely and beloved, and I am 
 afraid of nothing except that you will be shocked by the rough- 
 ness this life has left upon me. 
 
 " You wi]l come to New York to visit me 1 You know I 
 
 can't get out to S for" an age after I reach America, and I 
 
 can't wait to see you. You will manage it 1 " 
 
 This letter roused and enlivened Bethesda remarkably. She 
 had grown a little thin and worn of late, but this good news 
 seemed to quite restore her spirits. Every one thought the 
 change would benefit her, and it was decided that she should 
 visit a friend in New York who had long been pressing her to 
 come, and who would take good care of her. 
 
 " I would not wish to be with Evra at a hotel," Bethesda 
 said. " She will be in a turmoil, and I shall really visit with 
 her better being somewhere else. Besides, the Dowtons would 
 be rightfully offended if I went anywhere rather than to them." 
 
 The arrangements were soon made, and Bethesda was to 
 leave with her uncle next day. 
 
 " I only wish you were going to be there," said Bethesda to
 
 294 BETHESDA. [PART u. 
 
 her sister, with a peculiar yearning. " I don't know how to be 
 away from you any more." 
 
 " It will be good for you both to discover," remarked Mrs. 
 Stanhope. " Margaret and the baby shall come over to me 
 while you are gone, and you will come back all the fresher to 
 one another." 
 
 " We never needed that, did we, Beth 1 " 
 
 " No, dear ; I have no fear of our tiring one another." 
 
 Mr. Stanhope's companionship on the journey east was a 
 great relief to his niece, for she shrank with unusual timidity 
 from being alone with the knowledge that Rene' was in America, 
 and probably aware of all her movements. It was really some- 
 thing of a comfort, too, to leave Marcot behind. His presence 
 had become irksome to her, yet she disliked to dismiss him, for 
 he was irreproachable in service and discretion ; but she felt 
 she could be less guarded when he was fairly left behind. 
 Perhaps later it would be advisable, not alone on her own 
 account, to send him away altogether. 
 
 Guinevere had particularly requested Bethesda not to come 
 down to the dock to meet her. " Come instead to the hotel 
 when you know I have arrived, and once more I shall hold you 
 in my arms and press you to the heart whose love you have 
 known and touched" 
 
 Bethesda did as she was bidden, had a telegram sent her 
 when the steamer came, and at last started off one snowy after- 
 noon, dressed with especial daintiness, to meet the friend she 
 had not seen since that summer day in London so long ago. 
 
 She had sent flowers before her to give the artist a silent 
 welcome, and when she entered the parlour reserved to Made- 
 moiselle Cinoni's use the room was full of fragrance, if empty. 
 In an instant, however, the door was flung open with an 
 impetuosity which brought a smile to Bethesda's lips, and 
 Guinevere, tall, golden-haired, insistent as ever, stood before 
 her, and held her hands, and searched her face, and then took 
 her, furs and all, into a passionate embrace. 
 
 "You are my Lily just as you were!" she exclaimed. 
 " Only I had not dreamed you could change so, and still be my 
 own. And I, would you know me 1 " 
 
 She held Bethesda off, and seized her eyes with a look which 
 was penetrating yet trustful. 
 
 "No one could ever mistake you," said Bethesda with
 
 CHAP, xin.] POWER OF CHARACTER. 295 
 
 admiring warmth. " Dear Evra ! it is so natural to see you 
 and yet so strange." 
 
 " Ah, yes ; you are thinking of your aunt. True, child. 
 We have gone through much since we were last together, I as 
 well as you. But we can never lose the grasp of one another's 
 hearts which we took, and held, and will hold for ever. Come, 
 love ; let us sit down and give me time to feel I actually have 
 you. No, you sha'n't undo your cloak ; let me. Didn't I use 
 to be your maid ? I haven't forgotten my old ways. Do you 
 remember the bon-bons and the lilies ? Ah, sweet ! it was 
 good of you to send me these. Here are some roses, too, such 
 as you used to like. Not from you ? " 
 
 She took up the card lying among them, then glanced 
 sharply at Bethesda. Seeing her unsuspecting face she threw 
 the card immediately aside. 
 
 " Well, then, I don't care for them. Here, take this chair 
 by the fire. Now, don't rebel. You know I am well aware of 
 your habit of saying ' No ' and ' No,' and I just don't mind it 
 at all ! Here you sit, dear, and here I sit," pulling forward a 
 stool and placing herself quickly at Bethesda's feet. " Ah, now 
 I am happy ! I will just hold your hand, carissima mia, and 
 we will be still. I must realise you." 
 
 Bethesda submitted quietly. How familiar it all was, and 
 how fresh and frank this artist's heart had kept during these 
 years of gaslight glare ! One could see the experience in her 
 face, however ; in the faint lines on her forehead, the proud 
 glance of the eyes, the widened nostrils, the decision and 
 haughty indifference of the mouth. The artist was there also 
 stronger than ever; the intensity, the assured capacity, the 
 power of enthusiasm, were heightened and steadied. Bethesda 
 looked forward to seeing her in some great part with an antici- 
 pative thrill. 
 
 " Well 1 " said Miss Conover, breaking the silence with a 
 full glance upwards, and a closer pressure of the hand. But 
 without waiting for Bethesda to reply, she went on : "I must 
 tell you, dearest, how free and true I feel just here, humbly at 
 your feet. I believe the touch of this little hand has lifted 
 from me the weight of a hundred prisoners' chains. You don't 
 know what my life has been, Beth ; such suspicion, and distrust, 
 and rancour ; and all the time, night and day, having to defend 
 myself, and guard my thoughts not to become bitter and hating
 
 296 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 too. And now, here I come to you, I feel you, and all the 
 best I have lived, all the glories of my art, and the noble ideals 
 it lends me for a time, filter through into myself, my me. You 
 do this, love. Each lineament of your face shows how you and 
 your ideal are one, and helps me to feel mine so too. Some 
 one said that, 'in his hand her soul felt safe and free.' Mine 
 does in yours, Bethesda." 
 
 " Dear Evra ! " said Bethesda in a deeply touched tone, " it 
 is because you are so true an artist that you feel this. Don't 
 rob yourself to lavish praise on me." 
 
 " I don't ! Haven't I tried to be just this and failed 1 I 
 have fought for it, cried for it, prayed for it, and lost it. 
 Now, with one little touch, in an instant you give it me." 
 
 Her head fell into Bethesda's lap, and the hand she loved 
 wandered caressingly and in silence over the soft curls. It 
 spoke too much, however, for Guinevere rose abruptly. 
 
 " I can't stand it ! " she said in a choked voice, and went 
 swiftly out of the room. 
 
 A moment later Mrs. Conover entered, and greeted Bethesda 
 cordially, although she looked anxious. 
 
 " What have you been doing to my daughter ? " she asked, 
 half smiling. "I have not seen her so overcome in a long 
 time." 
 
 " She is tired from the voyage, and the excitement of meet- 
 ing again has, I think, surprised her into a momentary weakness. 
 She is well 1 She looks so." 
 
 " Oh, very well. She begins rehearsals to-morrow. They 
 are in a great hurry for her to appear. They won't give her 
 much time. It is a disadvantageous arrangement, but she 
 would listen to nothing in her eagerness to come to America. 
 You will be at her debut ? She is not frightened any more as 
 she used to be, unless you frighten her, my dear. And how 
 is your sister ? And poor Mrs. Trescott's baby ? We have 
 taken such an interest in everything. Are you quite well your- 
 self now? I believe, my child, the baby has made a little 
 mother of you. You seem like a married woman." 
 
 " Do I ? " said Bethesda, with a rather sad smile. " Our 
 May-Flower certainly exerts a great influence over us, almost as 
 much as her mother used to, in a different way. I wish yoxi 
 could see her. She does not look at all like Aunt Mabel un- 
 fortunately, but she is very winning."
 
 CHAP, xiii.] A WRAITH ? 297 
 
 " Oh, I can fancy that, Mrs. Trescott was so charming. 
 But you should just see Vera with a child. A friend of hers 
 had one, and she worshipped it. She used to slip away from 
 the parlour in the evening and go upstairs to sing it to sleep. 
 Sometimes the whole household would crowd around the door 
 to listen ; but she never knew it. I kept that little domestic 
 pleasure for her undisturbed. You can't fancy how she has 
 improved, but you shall hear ! How very good it was of you 
 to strew such sweet praise in her path before she came ! Your 
 name now Ah, here she comes." 
 
 Guinevere had conquered her emotion, and was during the 
 rest of the interview quite her usual brisk, entertaining, and 
 brilliant self. She had a thousand stories to tell, and told 
 them with admirable spirit. But she would not let Bethesda 
 talk much. Something in the low tones threatened her newly 
 won composure. 
 
 As Bethesda was going away she took her in her arms and 
 whispered : 
 
 " When you see me again you won't affect me so. Come 
 often, dear ; I need you. If I am out I will leave word for 
 you, and I will run in to you whenever I can catch a minute. 
 Wrap yourself well, sweet. Good-bye." 
 
 She said good-bye, but she held her Lily still locked in a 
 close embrace. 
 
 "What are you ?" she broke out at last. "Are you here 
 in my arms or not ? I believe I shall mid you died a week 
 ago, and this is your spirit come to visit me. Well, go, if you 
 must. But don't vanish entirely. I shall see if you exist to- 
 morrow. You laugh 1 It is no laughing matter. Still, I 
 have your card, and we shall see." 
 
 Guinevere found her friend in existence the next day, and 
 for many days after, and gradually she became used to her and 
 lost the feeling of insubstantiality which had at first haunted 
 her. However, she did not feel satisfied in regard to her, and 
 groped in the dark, as it were, for the keynote to this elusive 
 harmony. 
 
 The name of Eene d'Isten was for long not mentioned be- 
 tween them. Bethesda had become so unfamiliar to the sound 
 of it that it would have startled her, in spite of the fact that 
 now he was seldom absent from her thoughts. Being away 
 from Margaret and the baby, and all the surroundings of her
 
 298 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 new life, .and again with comparative strangers and Evra, as 
 she had been in the old days, brought the past continually 
 before her. Even Mrs. Trescott seemed less absent than when 
 her child was present, and except when Bethesda was with the 
 Conovers her life seemed to move among shadows ; a feeling 
 that made her look to the long future at times with a half- 
 unconscious dread. 
 
 The night that Mademoiselle Cinoni made her debut, 
 Bethesda felt herself transported bodily to the Pergola in 
 Florence, and, when a voice addressed her, turned almost ex- 
 pecting to see Signor Straora. Yet everything around her was 
 different. The house was an American one, and if crammed 
 was capriciously critical, and timid of applause. As the opera 
 went forward, however, Bethesda forgot herself and her sur- 
 roundings completely. One in the audience felt it safe for him 
 to keep his glass fixed upon her face, recognising each shade of 
 emotion, yet unafraid of detection. 
 
 Mademoiselle Cinoni was at her best, which was superb. 
 The tenor supported her admirably, and the matchless beauty 
 of the opera was rendered with perfection. The house from 
 being cold and hesitating, became quite Italian with enthusiasm. 
 An opera so sung had never before been heard in America, and 
 neither had the applause to which it gave rise. Bethesda was 
 in one of the stage-boxes, and was recognised by some as the 
 authoress whose name had endorsed the singer before them. 
 The fact passed from one to another between the acts, and 
 when she let fall a mass of lilies at her friend's feet, which was 
 immediately caught up with a glance of gratitude, a wave of 
 tribute broke over the house, which was an acknowledgment of 
 both the season's favourites. 
 
 In talking the evening over next day, Guinevere said, some- 
 what abruptly : 
 
 "Monsieur d'Isten was there. Did you know he was a 
 marquis now ? " 
 
 " I had heard of it. When did he lose his father 1 " asked 
 Bethesda calmly. 
 
 " Only a short time ago ; about three months now. He was 
 very ill himself after it. The strain had been a long one, for it 
 was soon after your sister telegraphed us you were better that 
 he heard the news of his father. Ah ! those were terrible days, 
 dearest ! M. d'Isten was quite beside himself when we heard
 
 CHAP, xiii.] TEMPTING. 299 
 
 there was no hope for you. He entertained for you a devotion 
 so pure and unselfish that I think at any time he would have 
 given his life to spare you pain." 
 
 Bethesda turned somewhat paler, but she answered steadily : 
 
 " Do you think so 1 Then, Evra, why is he here now ? " 
 
 "Let him tell you, dear; that is all he desires. Yes, I 
 have seen him ; of course I have. We came quite close to- 
 gether, through you, those dreadful weeks in Paris. He wrote 
 
 to me after you refused to see him in S . He did not see 
 
 why you should not trust him. I was glad to be able to tell him 
 I was about to sail for America. I was sure you would let me 
 prevail upon you to meet him, and allow him to explain what 
 he has to tell you. Don't fear him. He is an honourable man. 
 May I tell him he can call on you 1 or will you meet him here 1 " 
 
 " Neither, Guinevere. How can you ask it of me ? It is 
 not right that I should meet him not under existing circum- 
 stances." 
 
 " What are ' existing circumstances ' 1 " 
 
 11 The present ones." 
 
 " Ah ! dear, don't put me off. Be frank with me. I assure 
 you, I, and you trust me 1 ? that there is no reason why you 
 should not meet unless " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Unless you are engaged." 
 
 Bethesda turned aside abruptly and did not speak. 
 
 " I did not mean to hurt you, darling ; believe me, I am 
 only working for your happiness ; I " 
 
 " Evra, where is Madame d'Isten 1 " 
 
 " Madame d'Isten ? I have no idea." 
 
 " Enough, Evra ; this is a matter no one but I can under- 
 stand no one but I should control. You must trust me when 
 I say firmly, and for the last time, that I shall not willingly 
 meet Rene' d'Isten." 
 
 " Ah ! if you are so determined But let me just say 
 
 this : Have you no thought of what he may understand better 
 than you 1 no belief that he should control anything 1 Beth- 
 esda, this is not as.it should be ; you are not frank with me or 
 with your own heart." 
 
 Miss Hamilton raised her eyes slowly to her friend's and let 
 them rest there. A majesty of resignation dominated all desire 
 in them so royally that the artist seized her hands with. a cry :
 
 300 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 " Do as you think best, my darling, but don't look at me 
 like that ! You stab me ! " 
 
 And Bethesda pressed the contrite hands, and nothing more 
 was said. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " Where I found only food 
 
 For self-indulgence, you still blew a spark at brood 
 I' the dullest amber ; stopped not till self-sacrifice imbued 
 Heaven's face with flame. " 
 
 ROBERT BBOWNIXQ 
 
 A FEW days later Mademoiselle Cinoni was singing at a matinee, 
 from which Bethesda had been detained by company. She 
 escaped, however, late in the afternoon, and went to the hotel 
 to see Guinevere as soon as she should return. The gas was 
 already lighted in the streets as she left her carriage, and 
 twilight made the parlour dim and chill. 
 
 "Put. on more coal, please," she said to the servant, who 
 by this time knew her well. " Miss Conover will be cold when 
 she comes in. I will wait for her." 
 
 " Shall I light the gas, madam ?" 
 
 " No, thanks ; the firelight pleases me." 
 
 When he had left the room she laid aside her hat and cloak, 
 bent to see if the jacqueminot roses at her belt were crashed, 
 and then went towards the grate slowly, pressing her hands 
 together as if she were in pain. Her face, distinct in the half 
 glow, half gloom, was sad. The curves of her lips denoted a 
 renunciation that was made not without sorrow, and her eyes 
 shone with unshed tears. 
 
 She stood a few moments on the hearth in her gray close- 
 clinging dress, her mien one of lassitude and depression. Then 
 she -moved, with a faintly-indicated gesture of shifting a burden, 
 and slowly seated herself. 
 
 The next instant the hand she had allowed to drop over the 
 arm of her chair was seized and held and kissed again and 
 again. Some one knelt beside her with bowed head, murmur- 
 ing, in broken syllables : 
 
 " Esda ! My beloved Esda ! My Bdthesda !" 
 
 The passive fingers grew icy under his lips before he dared 
 look up. The chill silence shocked him. What had happened 1
 
 CHAI-. xiv.] PLEADING. 301 
 
 Her face was ashen ; her eyes closed. He sprang to his 
 feet in alarm. 
 
 " Leave me ! " she said then faintly. 
 
 He went away at once ; not out of the room, but to the 
 window at the end of it, and stood there indecisive. 
 
 What should he do ? If he left her now, his last chance 
 was gone, and if he stayed he might kill her before she learned 
 what he meant. But he could not give her up ! He must 
 discover what this meant, this coldness and suffering the one 
 so apparent, the other intentionally concealed. 
 
 Gradually he turned so as to be able to see her without 
 seeming to do so. She was recovering ; she was sitting upright 
 now, her hand to her heart. Suspense was worse than death 
 to them both. He went swiftly to her side. 
 
 " Be'thesda," he said, " I have no wife. Be mine." 
 
 He waited for some response, but she gave him none. She 
 was gathering the strength she knew she must command, in 
 long stifled breaths. 
 
 At last he went and knelt before her, where the full light 
 from the fire could strike his face. 
 
 " Esda," he pleaded, " I beseech you to look at me. Read 
 in my face what you can. I have nothing to fear, and once it 
 was an open book to you as was my soul." 
 
 " Hush ! " 
 
 " I cannot longer be silent ! " he exclaimed passionately. 
 " I have waited and waited for you to trust me. I must 
 exculpate myself. I beg your forgiveness for having forced 
 my way into your presence. If your heart does not intercede 
 for me after these years of thirst I will not attempt it. I have 
 not time. Listen, Be'thesda ; look at me and tell me, are you 
 afraid of my deceiving you you who are omnipresent, omni- 
 potent with me ? I have obeyed you with unwavering persist- 
 ence for two whole years. I have done with joy all you- told 
 me, because it was your wish. And, Be'thesda, I have had 
 during the darkest times a sure faith that Heaven would 
 reward us. God gives it to you, Esda, to be my heaven on 
 earth ; you cannot refuse ! Why would you not see me ? You 
 knew I would not have come to you until I was free, and could 
 claim you before all the world as my own. You are mine ; 
 you cannot deny it. You are killing yourself in trying to deny 
 it. Beloved, take what God offers you and share it with me.
 
 302 BETHESDA. [I-AIIT n. 
 
 Let us enjoy life purely. God offers it to us, Be'thesda ; we 
 must not refuse." 
 
 In spite of his ardent words he had not dared move towards 
 her. Something held him away. He felt her far off, as if the 
 remorseless ocean rolled its waves between them still. 
 
 " Rene*, you have spoken, let me speak." Her voice, faint 
 at first, grew clearer as she proceeded. " Once you overcame 
 all my scruples, one by one. I have been taught my weakness 
 and your power, and I have not come to this moment unpre- 
 pared. You must understand that I am firm when I say I can 
 never marry you." 
 
 " Be'thesda ! " 
 
 " Hush, you must hear me now. Think how we tempted 
 one another away from our allegiance to right, to duty, and you 
 will see " 
 
 "You never 'tempted' me," burst out Rene' irrepressibly, 
 " unless it were to purity and fidelity. You put your hand on 
 me and said : Be faithful to Louise, and I obeyed you. But 
 now all my allegiance to her is severed. I never was hers, and 
 I now, heart and soul, am yours. It is to you alone I owe 
 fealty." 
 
 " You owe no fealty to me, my friend, that is another error 
 into which we fell. It is not to persons so much that we owe 
 duties as to ourselves and to God. Your conscience is too 
 precious a charge to give to any one but him. That was where 
 I injured you before." 
 
 " As if you ever injured me ! I would leave it with the 
 good God to-day to declare if I am not a better man than when I 
 met you ; ay, Be'thesda, a better man." And Bethesda, recog- 
 nising the stronger manhood in him, could not disbelieve it. 
 " When I look towards God, beloved, I cannot help seeing you, 
 because you are above me, and nearer him. Do not shrink, 
 Be'thesda, for I speak reverently. I found the tenderness 
 and pity of God during your illness when he answered my 
 prayers and made you well. The weight of my conscience 
 shall never rest again upon you, I promise you ; but my con- 
 science, yes, God himself, who is love, tells me to claim you, 
 to make you mine. I am free. I am free, Be'thesda; you 
 cannot put me back in those chains which weighed on my 
 soul and your tender heart. Beloved, you cannot refuse me. 
 I hold your heart, come to me and let us be at rest."
 
 CHAP, xiv.] THE CRUCIAL MOMENT. 303 
 
 He held out his arms towards her with an eloquent appeal, 
 but she shrank into her chair, and clenched her hands tight. 
 
 " Ma bien aime'e ! " exclaimed Rene', a newly aroused 
 anxiety in his voice : " Thou dost love me 1 Thou wilt not bo 
 obdurate 1 Thou wilt not condemn one who' loves each breath 
 thou drawest, to exile from thee ? See, Esda ; my father is no 
 more ; nothing longer binds me to Europe. I will come to 
 America, and live where thou desirest. Anything, so that we 
 are together. Thou must, love. Thy fragile life cannot bear 
 this strain. Thy petals, my rose, are closing over the grief 
 which consumes thee. Let me snatch it from thee, dearest, and 
 fill thy heart with rejoicing. I can, for thou lovest me." 
 
 Bethesda could not speak, but made a negative sign. 
 
 "Thou dost not love me 1 ?" exclaimed Rene*, seizing her 
 hand. " Thou canst not say it ! Each touch of these 
 slender fingers betrays thee ! Thou dost love me ! thou wilt 
 always love me. I hold thy heart; I shall never let it go, 
 so help me God." Then his voice suddenly fell to low, 
 persuasive accents : " Give me this hand, Be'thesda. It is 
 small ; it is kind. Since I have the wealth of thy heart, add 
 this little, dear hand. It will lose thee nothing ; it will give 
 me all. Silent still 1 Ah, God ! was ever grief like this ! To 
 see her dying, and feel my very vitals gnawed with hunger to 
 save her, and she refuses me ! Esda, Be'thesda, it shall not be ! 
 Thou canst not do this thing, for I will not let thee. If thou 
 
 didst not love me I would not complain, but now Feel 
 
 my heart ! its throbs are each a tribute to you. You have my 
 life in your hands. Do not spill the warm blood that would 
 pour itself into your veins to nourish you. I cannot live longer 
 without thee, Be'thesda ! I will follow thee about the world ; 
 I will renounce all else to wait upon thee, thy shadow not 
 closer nor more persistent. And to my importunity thou wilt 
 yield what thou wilt not to my love ! Bdthesda, ma toute 
 aimee, look upon thy servant and kill him not ! " 
 
 He flung himself at her knees, and buried his face in his 
 hands. A new strength, not her own, seemed to enter into 
 Bethesda's anguished heart. 
 
 " Rene', look at me," she said. He lifted grief-stricken eyes 
 to hers. "Tell me; if if I married you and should die, 
 would you not feel your life sacred to me 1 " 
 
 " In death as in life," said Rend solemnly.
 
 304 15ETIIMSDA. [I'.VUT ii. 
 
 " Then it is your duty to feel the same, to act at least the 
 same, to Louise. Love only makes duty passionately present, 
 and as long as your body is one with your soul, you and your 
 wife are one flesh." 
 
 Rene' rose in bewilderment. 
 
 " You do not mean that simply because I have been married 
 you would not marry me, even if Louise were dead 1 No, no, 
 Bdthesda, that would be folly." 
 
 " ' Even if she were,' " quoted Bethesda wonderingly. 
 " Does she still live? Did you not say she died last spring?" 
 
 She was looking at him piercingly now, and under her eyes 
 his fell. 
 
 "I lost her then, yes," said Rene', feeling an irresistible 
 sense of equivocation before this clear soul. 
 
 But she had been shocked into an acute consciousness of 
 was it concealment or duplicity ? in him. It wrung her heart, 
 but it severed her from him, and made her keen after the truth. 
 She rose, struck a match, and lit the drop-light, then turned 
 to him with a grave authority. 
 
 " Tell me about it," she said simply. " How did she die ? 
 What caused her death ? " 
 
 Rend looked at her and down again, aground for a moment, 
 but he made his decision, and floated free quickly. 
 
 " It is a sad story, my Bdthesda," he said, with a gesture of 
 merciful withholding. " Do not let us speak of it now. Let 
 it suffice that I assure you solemnly I am free, free absolutely, 
 by law, by heart, and by intent." 
 
 " But I must know," said Bethesda, looking at him with 
 clear, commanding eyes. " You used to say you spoke freely 
 to me ; do so now, this once more, Rend, for I ought to 
 know." 
 
 Rend felt her supremacy, and his habit of giving obedience 
 where he gave confidence reasserted itself in an unlooked-for 
 manner. But, if she knew the truth, his cause would be lost. 
 No, why should it ? On the contrary it might vanquish that 
 uncomprehended notion of hers to find that he had never been 
 married. And was not love the true marriage ? He had often 
 heard her say so. 
 
 "Listen then, since you insist," he began. "I desire 
 nothing so much as to lay my whole life in your hands. I 
 would have spared you what cannot help but pain your large
 
 CHAP, xiv.] PLEADING KEVERSED. 305 
 
 heart, for it means suffering to another, but as always I obey 
 you. Louise was never my wife." 
 
 " Never your wife ! " repeated Bethesda in low tones of 
 dismay. 
 
 " No ; the marriage was illegal. We neither of us sus- 
 pected it for years, but her lover proved it to me not long ago. 
 She never was other than Louise Manddras." And then he 
 told her of the law forbidding the intermarriage of French and 
 foreigners on foreign soil. " But we could arrange that. You 
 could go with your aunt to France, and there " 
 
 " Hush ! How can you speak of marriage to me, to any one 
 but Louise ! " She sat erect in her chair, as though it were 
 the throne of judgment. " Your whole honour binds you to 
 her. She is your wife before God ; man's laws are insignificant 
 beside those divine ones. You cannot help but marry her." 
 
 "But, che're Be'thesda, listen. Is not love a divine law? 
 Louise never loved me, nor I her. She married me, as we 
 thought, loving another. She did wrong ; I know you think 
 so. Would you, then, have me commit the same sin 1 " 
 
 "I would not have you commit the sin of deserting a 
 woman who had intrusted her honour, her life, to your hands, 
 no matter what her feelings. To act you must judge by acts. 
 You are her husband. You should not have let a day pass 
 before you acknowledged her lawfully as such. She knows 
 nothing of it, you say 1 ? But think how cruel would be her 
 fate did chance let her know. Oh, hasten back and marry 
 her at once ! Do not linger an unnecessary hour." 
 
 " If she refused me, and preferred to marry one whom she 
 has long loved, what then, Be'thesda *? " he said, with slow 
 significance. " And she has often wished to be free from me ; 
 we both know that." 
 
 Bethesda flinched a moment before this possibility, but re- 
 covered herself at once. 
 
 " Then show her how wrong it would be," she answered 
 promptly. "Plead with her; point out to her how no man 
 could respect her did she choose, wilfully choose, to stigmatise 
 her past with dishonour; less than any other, a person who 
 has acted as that man has. How evil must have been his aim 
 to have proven this technicality to you ! No, no, she would 
 not so malign herself as to choose him rather than you ; she 
 could not ; by my woman's heart, I know it ! " 
 
 x
 
 306 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 " Ah, that heart, Bdthesda ! it is mine. I will not give it 
 it up." 
 
 "It is not yours, Rend d'Isten," and Bethesda drew herself 
 up superbly. " My heart is no man's who could leave any deed 
 undone to repair an irreparable loss, not only to the woman he 
 has called wife but to himself. Oh, it is the cruellest of my 
 punishments that I should be the object to stand between you 
 and the performance of your most manifest duty ! Rend, my 
 respect even cannot be yours unless you return instantly to 
 France and marry Louise. I could never forgive myself, never 
 forgive you, if our acquaintance should thus degrade you." 
 
 " That is morbidness, folly ! " exclaimed Rend, almost 
 angrily. " Your morality is warped, Be'thesda, by thinking on 
 this subject so near your heart. Is not love the real marriage ? 
 And I never loved Louise, nor she me. Two years ago when 
 you bade me renounce you, you were a saint. It was the 
 crucifixion of your heart and of mine, but you did right. Even 
 in the bitterest moments I acknowledged this. Now I say you 
 are wrong. You sacrifice your happiness and mine ; your 
 health, my sanity perhaps, to a fanciful duty, a morbid sense 
 of honour. I have given eight years of my life to Louise with- 
 out succeeding in winning her love. Let that suffice. I will 
 do what is right by her, but " 
 
 " But nothing else than marriage can even mitigate this 
 terrible evil, Rend 'A fanciful duty'? No duty could be 
 more imperative. What ! You would be ' unlike other men ' 
 and yet live eight years before the world as a husband, and then 
 refuse to marry the woman you called wife 1 You would be 
 the truly chivalrous man, and leave a woman to ignominy who 
 had borne your name ? You cannot do it, Rend ; it is not in 
 you. You will marry her because it is right, because you owe 
 it to God to redeem an innocent mistake, or else it becomes a 
 most guilty one. If it is a sacrifice, look upon it as a proof of 
 repentance for the wrong we have done. It will be accepted 
 as such, and only such a one can be accepted, for it alone can 
 undo the wrong. Trust me, Rend." 
 
 He was silent a few moments, overcome against his will 
 by her words and tone. 
 
 "Beloved, how can I trust you," he said at last, "when I 
 feel that this is overleaping the limits of morality, and that in 
 an endeavour which robs me of you, it is killing you. Ah !
 
 CHAP, xiv.] A CRUSHING DISAPPOINTMENT. 307 
 
 dearest, trust me once. Love is the sovereign who dictates 
 laws, who seizes our hearts and gives us no liberty but in obey- 
 ing his commands. Come to me, fear not. It is what men 
 have done always; it is what every law sanctions. Besides, 
 dearest, it is your life ; it is my life. Come." 
 
 She had grown paler and paler as he spoke, and her hand 
 was pressed to her side. Rene' thought he felt a wavering in 
 her mind, and tried to take her hand, kneeling beside her. But 
 she motioned him away. 
 
 " No," she said faintly, " this this hurts deep. It stabs 
 me, Rene', to have such words addressed to me by one who, 
 before God and my soul, owes himself to another. This proves 
 how unlike we are. We are no longer one in thought and 
 feeling; we are grievously separated, more than ever before. 
 Go, Rend. I don't wish to see you any more." 
 
 "But you love me, Bdthesda," said Rend, with deep 
 reproach. 
 
 " I did love you ; you knew that ; it was wrong. Because 
 it was wrong I have striven to overcome it. I need strive no 
 longer, for you have killed it now. You need not snatch my 
 hand ; I am not a girl to be swept off my feet, and and 
 that I should live to say it ! your touch makes me shudder." 
 
 Rend dropped her hand, and stepped back as if struck. 
 The recoil of his own act hurt him too, and deeply. 
 
 Presently Bethesda raised her head and the faint colour 
 came back to her lips and cheeks. 
 
 " But I cannot believe it," she said. "It is only because 
 you do not see it right. Look at it in this way, Rend. If I 
 were to marry you here, and you discovered that the marriage 
 was illegal, what would you do then ? " 
 
 "Take you at once to France, and marry you there." 
 
 " Then how can you doubt that this is your duty to Louise ? 
 What you would do for me because you care for me, do for her 
 because it is right. If it is hard, do it the more gladly because 
 it shows you grieve for past faults. Show that you are stronger 
 for temptations resisted, by doing this deed." 
 
 " It would never have occurred to me two years ago as a 
 duty, Bdthesda, and now I confess I was in doubt, just at 
 first." 
 
 " Ah, you see ! I knew there must be something there if 
 I could only reach it. You will go to her 1 You will persuade
 
 308 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 her ? You do not yourself think there could be any danger of 
 her choosing any one but you 1 She feels differently towards you 
 than she did 1 I knew it ! I am convinced you will both yet 
 be happy. Go to her ; show her the position, for she must see 
 to understand. Make her acknowledge that she prefers you, 
 and oh, Rene', would I not be glad ! " 
 
 Her face was radiant now, and her eyes starry. Rene' 
 looked at the transformation in amazement. 
 
 " And would you have nothing to regret ? " he said slowly. 
 
 " Regret 1 1 1 No, indeed ! A moment ago I thought I 
 had lost you really, vitally ; that you were ignoble. I see now 
 you were but trying me. But if you can accomplish an har- 
 monious union between yourself and your wife you will give me 
 the keenest happiness. I feel a great weight lifted from me, 
 for I believe it is possible, and that you will not fail. I am sure 
 you will not. A steamer sails to-morrow, some friends of mine 
 go by it ; go too, and telegraph me when she has acknowledged 
 her affection for you and you are really married. That shall 
 be the last word between us, and what a good word! You 
 will?" 
 
 There was a little silence, while Bethesda's eyes seemed to 
 seize his very soul and hold it to her high purpose. Then : 
 
 " I never disobeyed you yet," he said. " I shall not now. 
 I will do my best. 
 
 " Ah, my true B&hesda ! " he exclaimed presently, recog- 
 nising that he had won his own highest approval in winning 
 hers. " Each time I approach you I see a new height of truth. 
 You have cured me of one evil after another ever since the pool 
 of your heart was first stirred for me." 
 
 " No, it is only Christ who can do that," she answered 
 softly. "He bids you drop the burden of the past and go 
 forward in a new life, free. He will bless you in it, Rene" ; go."
 
 CHAP, xv.] RESULTS. 309 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " Through love to light ! Oh wonderful the way, 
 That leads from darkness to the perfect day I 
 From darkness and from dolor of the night, 
 To morning that comes singing o'er the sea. 
 Through love to light ! through light, God, to Thee 
 Who art the love of love, the eternal light of light ! " 
 
 K. W. GILDER. 
 
 SEVERAL years later Rend d'Isten, with Louise upon his arm, 
 was going through the Parisian Salon on the Artist's Day 
 before the grand opening. He was glancing at the pictures a 
 little carelessly, more occupied with the memories of seven 
 years ago, when he had come here with Bethesda and Mrs. 
 Trescott, than with what surrounded him, although he did not 
 fail in delicate attentions to his wife. 
 
 His face showed the time and experience that had passed, 
 yet with all its recueillement it was not sad. There was a 
 compact force of character, a unity of purpose, a continual 
 surety of uprightness, which gave new dignity to his features, 
 and made each line a mark of honour. If his life was much in 
 the past, the present was unusually full of large aims and noble 
 endeavour, and the toying with life which had once been a 
 delight to him had now given place to earnest work. At the 
 present moment, however, he was for a rarity dreaming. 
 
 Louise had changed much more markedly than Rend. There 
 was a content and self-control in her face never seen there pre- 
 viously, and her eyes were often turned with solicitous tender- 
 ness to her husband's face. She frequently thought in recurring 
 to that stormy scene five years ago, when she had heard of his 
 devotion, her lover's perfidy, and the Ame'ricaine's nobility, that 
 some good power had guided her to choose that better part 
 which should not be taken from her. Her husband was ever 
 near to uphold and guide her, and she was quite willing that 
 he should dream occasionally, for it proved his freedom in her 
 presence. She knew that she was never irksome to him now. 
 
 The people round them meantime were neither dreaming nor 
 pondering. They were all extremely interested in the exhibi- 
 tion. Picturesque men with eccentric manners, and " artist " 
 written on each article of their dress ; women with more brains
 
 310 BETHESDA. [PART n. 
 
 of a kind and less timidity than ordinary womanhood 
 possesses ; scattered members of the haute-volee amusing them- 
 selves with the scene ; all thronged through the rooms to- 
 gether, examining, criticising, and babbling. Every one seemed 
 to tend with a rather remarkable unanimity to the central 
 apartment where the prize picture hung. The d'Istens drifted 
 with the rest, hearing indifferently the remarks of this or that 
 one near them. 
 
 " It is by an Italian," said one. 
 
 " ' The Answer to the Sphinx ! ' " laughed another, turning 
 the leaves of a catalogue. " What a name ! " 
 
 " More of a mystery than the question," sneered a third. 
 
 " Oh, mon Dieu, these Italians ! " cried a brilliantly-dressed 
 woman. " What ideas they do have, there in the land of the 
 Beatrice ! I demand it of you, messieurs, did such a woman 
 as this ' Answer ' ever live 1 " 
 
 "Ma foi ! not in Paris." 
 
 " Does she look Italian, then ?" asked the woman triumph- 
 antly, "Gold-brown hair, and eyes of Well, you shall 
 tell me what shade they are. The prize, indeed ! The man does 
 not know how to mix his colours." 
 
 Here they reached the threshold of the centre room, and 
 suddenly all the chatter fell away from Ren^ d'lsten's hearing 
 as if he had been lifted to another region by one sweep of a 
 powerful wing. Before him was the almost breathing form of 
 Bdthesda Hamilton. 
 
 She stood, dressed in the warm white she loved, her head 
 turned a little upwards, as if she had but just let her eyes fall 
 from some great vision, to meet, and hold, and exalt, the sight 
 of those who looked upon her. 
 
 When one could leave the eyes for a moment, one noticed 
 the brows, serene in spite of their capacity for suffering ; the 
 exquisite contour from forehead to chin, and the willing resigna- 
 tion of the mouth, which made it truly joyous. 
 
 It was a face beyond compare, and it was a faultless 
 painting. Louise had seen photographs of Be'thesda, and she 
 recognised the face, and admitted its supremacy. She tightened 
 her clasp a little, unconsciously, on her husband's arm, as they 
 stood beneath the gaze which met and held them both above 
 all earthly strife. This was the woman he had left to come to 
 her and retrieve her from dishonour. A deep humility over-
 
 CHAP, xv.] AN IDEAL. 311 
 
 spread her face. She looked up at Rene'. He was wrapped in 
 an exalted enthusiasm. The painting made alive to him Bth- 
 esda's books which came year after year and laid their treasures 
 wide before him. It reinvigorated his noblest aims and truest 
 endeavours. He turned to his wife and pressed her hand 
 against his side. 
 
 " She needs no mortals," he said. " Long since I called her 
 a saint. She is that. No one can touch her. She is above 
 us all, and she smiles down on our union, my Louise. Thus 
 did she look when she told me her keenest happiness would be 
 in seeing us truly united. She sees us now." 
 
 Louise's eyes were swimming in tears at the tenderness of 
 his tone. All the bitterness of jealousy was replaced by this 
 sweetness. She clung to him a moment with both hands. 
 
 A laugh, a Parisian laugh, low and keen, startled them. 
 
 "Why do they paint impossibilities?" queried a languid 
 voice. " I find angels much too unreal for me. Some lover's 
 vision 1 Of course ! How silly they are ! " and another laugh 
 rounded the mocking sentence to completeness. 
 
 It turned all Rend d'Isten's thoughts into a new channel. 
 For a moment he was madly jealous of the man who had access 
 to Bdthesda sufficiently to paint this. A man who loved her 
 too, that was clear. Only a lover could see her like this, and 
 reproduce her for the Parisian world to scoff at ! Faugh ! 
 that was no love ! The fellow had no sense of decency even ! 
 
 Yet, as he looked up again, she seemed so unapproachable, 
 though speaking to each one, and taintless as Goethe's angels 
 throwing the flowers of love into hell, that he could not feel her 
 sullied ; not as he would have done had that other jasmine- 
 faced picture hung here, questioning and wistful. 
 
 Now all her questions were answered. She knew. 
 
 A half-hour later Rene d'Isten turned and asked some one 
 beside him who was the artist. 
 
 " Monsieur Straora, an Italian," was the reply. 
 
 " Can you tell me where I might find him 1 " 
 
 " He stands there, monsieur." 
 
 The marquis looked and saw the Florentine painter absorbed 
 in contemplation of his work. 
 
 " Let us speak to him, Louise, if you do not object 1 " he 
 said. 
 
 " Certainly not."
 
 312 BETHESDA. [PART a. 
 
 A few steps brought Rene* and his wife to Signer Straora's 
 side. 
 
 " Monsieur Straora, I believe 1 Pray allow me to give you 
 my card and claim acquaintance through one I have often heard 
 mention you, and whom you have now placed before us so 
 beautifully. Madame d'Isten, Monsieur Straora." 
 
 The artist bowed, and answered courteously : 
 
 " I am much pleased to meet you, Monsieur le Marquis. 
 When I last had the pleasure of seeing Miss Hamilton, she had 
 recently received a letter, I think, from Madame d'Isten. It 
 seemed to give her great satisfaction." 
 
 " Not sufficient for her to answer it," said Louise, smiling. 
 " But I trust she is well 1 " 
 
 " Quite well, for her ; at least she was a month ago. She 
 is delicate, but you see her works 1 You know then how inde- 
 fatigably busy she must be." 
 
 " And is she really so beautiful as you depict her, monsieur?" 
 
 The artist smiled as he glanced at his work, but sobered in 
 so doing. 
 
 " I wish you might meet her, madame, to see how little I 
 have done her justice." 
 
 "I wish I might, indeed; but since she does not even 
 respond to my letters, will you not call upon us and tell us 
 about her ? I confess I have great curiosity in regard to a 
 woman who is so exquisite, and yet occupies herself only with 
 work, and the care of another's child which was her life when 
 we last heard of her, was it not, Monsieur d'Isten ? " 
 
 "Her whole interest, I believe," said Rene'; "but that 
 would not be apt to last." 
 
 "I see no signs of its changing," replied Signor Straora 
 quietly. " She is more than content ; she is happy. One could 
 not wish her life to change," and an involuntary sigh escaped 
 him. 
 
 " Is the destiny of your painting fixed ? " asked Rend pre- 
 sently. 
 
 " Yes ; it is not for sale. I shall have it taken to Italy 
 when the Exhibition is over. I see you have both gone to the 
 heart of my subject. Few in Paris will, but it shall hang here 
 for a while to teach the city what a woman may be." 
 
 The three stood silent for some time, while the eyes above 
 took possession of their souls and led them into the regions of
 
 CHAP, xv.] "IT IS NOT LIKE." 313 
 
 peace. Kene' had recognised that the artist's admiration of his 
 subject, though exalted, was impersonal, and he guessed the 
 cause. Bethesda, as he had said, needed no mortals. And 
 Louise could have no jealousy, for she felt herself closer to her 
 husband now than this woman could be. 
 
 But some deep and uncomprehended feeling brought the 
 tears to her eyes. Kene" saw them. 
 
 "My wife," he bent to say, "she gave you to me gladly, 
 and I thank her." 
 
 As Monsieur and Madame d'Isten turned away after securing 
 the promise of a speedy call from Signer Straora, they heard 
 their new friend mutter to himself, still studying the picture : 
 
 " And yet it is not like, it is not like." 
 
 THE END.
 
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