THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 A Novel by the Author of "Rutkdge' 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 HOUGIITON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street 
 
 $rc00, CambriDjje 
 1884
 
 Copyright, 1884, 
 Bl HOUQIITON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Rirerside Press, Cambridge, 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. 0- Houghton & Co.
 
 PS 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. OVER THE LEFT SHOULDER 1 
 
 II. A PRETTY PIECE OF NEWS .... 14 
 
 III. WIDOW HOLDEN 27 
 
 IV. JUST A WOMAN'S NOTION 45 
 
 V. WEARY-FOOT COMMON 54 
 
 VI. HUMBLE PIE 61 
 
 VII. THE NEW DAUGHTER 70 
 
 VIII. TARTAR 87 
 
 IX. MARROWFAT 125 
 
 X. HONOR'S WOUNDS 142 
 
 XI. A DAY IN TOWN . 149 
 
 XII. LUCY HEARS THE STORY 156 
 
 XIII. LEFT BEHIND 162 
 
 XIV. ISOLATION 177 
 
 XV. A DIDO -OF TO-DAY 183 
 
 XVI. PEYTON EDWARDS 197 
 
 XVII. BARRY'S RETURN 212 
 
 XVIII. A BUTTON OFF 234 
 
 XIX. HAGAR 242 
 
 XX. THE COOK ASSISTS 249 
 
 XXI. RACING AND CHASING O'ER CANOBIE LEE . . 266 
 
 XXII. GRAY SHINGLES ON A WET DAY . . * . 270 
 
 XXIII. OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN DOOR .... 284 
 
 XXIV. AFTER ALL! 296 
 
 XXV. IN MY LADY'S CHAMBER 321
 
 PHCEBE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OVER THE LEFT SHOULDER. 
 
 A CLEAR but brief November day had ended. 
 Though not yet six o'clock, the sky was almost 
 without color, and a slender silver crescent just 
 above the trees, almost as one looked, grew sharp 
 and filled with light. A young girl, who was sit 
 ting at a window, with her fair, round cheek close 
 against the pane, looking idly out at the falling 
 leaves and the darkening landscape, lifted her 
 head suddenly, and saw the new moon and 
 started. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, it 's over my left shoulder ! " she 
 exclaimed, petulantly. " What horrid ill-luck are 
 we going to have ? It never fails. I hate to see 
 it over my left shoulder." 
 
 The words she said chimed in uncomfortably 
 with the thoughts of the lady whom she addressed. 
 There was a third person in the room, another 
 young girl, seated a.t a piano, playing softly in the 
 
 twilight, so absorbed that her younger sister's ex- 
 
 1
 
 2 PIKEBE. 
 
 clamation did not draw her attention. The lady 
 by the fire did not turn her head, but shivered a 
 little, and said, reproachfully, after a moment, 
 
 " Then you must have seen it over the other 
 shoulder uninterruptedly for the last sixteen years. 
 I don't know anybody who 's had better luck than 
 you, Honor ; or, for the matter of that, than all of 
 us." 
 
 "It depends upon what you call good luck," 
 said Honor. But she did not continue the sub 
 ject, having very little to say on her side of the 
 question ; and, besides, it was not an hour to talk. 
 So she leaned against the pane, and gazed out at 
 the silver thread in the clear sky, and at the vine 
 clinging to the wall, from which the leaves were 
 dropping at every breath of the now sinking wind, 
 and thought her own young thoughts. The room 
 was at the front of the house, and the window at 
 which Honor sat looked out upon the entrance. 
 Up to this she expected every moment to see the 
 carriage drive, bringing her father from his day's 
 toil in the city. This room was a library, with 
 warm, dark walls and a good many pictures ; there 
 was no lamp in it, but a fire blazed on the wide 
 hearth. Beyond was a dark room, and beyond 
 that, again, was the dining-room, lighted with 
 shaded lamps. A glimmer of silver and glass 
 and a quietly moving maid told of the coming 
 dinner-hour. The mother, sunk in her deep chair 
 before the fire, had been looking around the walls
 
 OVER THE LEFT SHOULDER. 3 
 
 of the room, all encrusted as they were with the 
 ornament of sentiment, that had grown on them 
 with time as lichen grows on stones. She fol 
 lowed the fire-light as it fell on her fair-haired 
 daughter, whose fingers touched the keys, and on 
 the slender young creature who leaned against the 
 window ; on the dog at her feet, who lay gazing at 
 the blaze. She loved the smell of the wood as the 
 sap oozed from it, of the flowers that stood on 
 the table across the room, even the scent of cigar 
 smoke in the book that lay upon her lap. They 
 were the smells of home, the sights of home, and 
 they were dear to her. She remembered twilights 
 long ago in this very room, when the girl at the 
 piano had scarcely reached the keys standing on 
 the points of her tiny toes ; when Honor, in her 
 nurse's arms, had drummed on the pane waiting 
 for papa at that very window. For years the 
 sap had smelled like that, and the flowers had 
 lived and died for generations of flower life in 
 those very vases ; the cigars that had been smoked 
 by this very fireside, with long talks and midnight 
 confidences, as she sat beside her once young hus 
 band, who could count or recall them? Yes, she 
 had had a peaceful home, a sheltered life, prosper 
 ous to the world's eye, more prosperous, even, to 
 the soul's sense. Her children ! she always 
 looked at them with such a gaze of love and satis 
 faction that it must have been like sunshine and 
 ripened them, one would think. There had been
 
 4 PIKEBE. 
 
 but one break in the family life, while the only 
 son of the house had been away in the usual exile 
 of school and college days. But that was nearly 
 over now ; in a few months he would be at home 
 again, and they would be complete. 
 
 Complete! That was the word she had been 
 saying over to herself with a sort of fear just be 
 fore Honor caught sight of the moon in that un 
 lucky attitude. What life could be more com 
 plete than hers ? Who bad ever had a fuller one ? 
 Everything about her, from the lovely contour of 
 Lucy's head, to the soft depths of the chair that 
 yielded to her faintest movement, gave her a sense 
 of satisfaction, of security, of comfort. Just at 
 that moment, when her senses were so satisfied, 
 her heart so contented, there came a vague note of 
 alarm, like a knock at the outer gate. She put it 
 aside, but the faint, muffled sound had shocked 
 her nerves ; she could not get it out of her ears. 
 
 And then Honor had spoken. Her silly little 
 superstition irritated her mother, as it joined itself 
 to the train of thought that she was trying to ban 
 ish. She was glad when the sound of the wheels 
 outside came, and Honor sprang from the window 
 and ran into the hall to meet her father, and Lucy 
 left the piano and followed her. A great rush of 
 cold air came in before the outside door was closed. 
 The girls' sweet, merry voices were all she heard 
 for a moment, as she moved forward to the library 
 door. She detected, before he had passed the
 
 OVER THE LEFT SHOULDER. 5 
 
 threshold, a harsh tone in the father's brief answer 
 to their pleasantry. When she kissed him, he 
 scarcely returned the caress, and did not look at 
 her. When the firelight shone on his face she 
 saw that it was pale. She had too much tact to 
 say, You are not well. His was too reserved a na 
 ture to be reached by direct routes or rapid moves. 
 She must wait to know what troubled him till 
 they are alone, and till he chose to speak. But 
 speculation was not idle. She sat down again in 
 her chair, and a hundred alarms passed through 
 her brain. Lucy always went with her father to 
 his dressing-room, and saw that it was lighted and 
 that he had all he needed. How she wished she 
 could to-night take Lucy's place, and shorten her 
 suspense ! Presently Lucy came down, and or 
 dered dinner put upon the table, and went and sat 
 on the other side of the fire, while Honor was tear 
 ing open some letters by the dining-room light. 
 
 " Papa seems tired," said Lucy. 
 
 " He is very busy this week," said her mother. 
 " I suppose he has been in court all day." 
 
 And then they were silent. When he came 
 down he did not stop at the library fire, but saying 
 that he supposed dinner was ready walked directly 
 in to the table, and they followed him. At din 
 ner he was unwontedly critical of the food, eating 
 little, and not attempting to talk, answering his 
 daughters' questions shortly and absently. He 
 never made any disguise of his feelings when any-
 
 6 PHCEBE. 
 
 thing troubled him ; an effort at gayety or inter 
 est in passing matters he never thought of. His 
 wife watched carefully, and tried to judge whether 
 some serious professional disappointment had oc 
 curred, or some matter of more personal concern. 
 Honor attempted once or twice to dniw his atten 
 tion by a half impertinence, which, as the youngest 
 in the family, was in a way her privilege. Lucy 
 looked troubled, and tried to talk on matters that" 
 would engage them all safely. At last Honor said 
 abruptly, 
 
 " Any news from Barry to-day ? " 
 
 " Yes," said her father, shortly, not absently, 
 nor as if his thoughts had been called from some 
 where else. 
 
 " Oh, why did you not tell us before ! Show me 
 the letter, papa. Or is it in your overcoat pocket? 
 May I run and get it ?" And she half rose from 
 the table. 
 
 " I have no letter from him," he answered. 
 " Sit down." 
 
 " Oh ! " she said, a little confused by his unusual 
 manner. "I thought you meant you had had 
 a letter from him." 
 
 " Barry is not ill ? " said the mother, startled 
 out of her resolution to be silent. 
 
 " I have not heard of it, if he is," returned her 
 husband, not looking at her, as he poured out a 
 glass of wine. 
 
 Then she knew that the trouble was about
 
 OVER THE LEFT SHOULDER. 1 
 
 Barry, and that it was not illness. She was so 
 materially and inbornly a mother that the first 
 feeling was one of relief. If that dear flesh that 
 she had nourished and cherished was safe and 
 well, she could bear all the rest. Barry had done 
 something to displease his father. That was hard 
 to know ; but it would come right. Whereas if 
 he had typhoid fever, or had broken his collar 
 bone, it would be much less certain to do so. She 
 thought his father was severe in his judgment of 
 Barry, always ; not from lack of love, but from 
 excess of it, and from an ambition that was not 
 measured by probabilities. Two male human 
 beings could not be more dissimilar than they 
 were. The father was sternly intellectual, with an 
 intellectual man's temptations and provocations. 
 The son seemed to have considerable mental force, 
 but withal put in such an overpowering mortal 
 mould that the balance was always wavering be 
 tween the two. He was so fine an athlete that 
 even his masters forgave him for not being a stu 
 dent. You began by admiring his mind, and you 
 ended by admiring his body. You condemned his 
 indolence, and you found your eyes following him 
 with perfect satisfaction. How could you blame 
 a youth for not trying for the first prize in Greek, 
 when without trying he could get the first prize 
 in everything else outside ? But his father blamed 
 him, and could see no excuse for his lack of ambi 
 tion. He himself had never known the tempta-
 
 8 PIHEBE. 
 
 tion of pleasure-seeking. It simply offered no at 
 traction for him. Work and rest were the two 
 poles of his battery. An early and satisfying 
 marriage had closed the door of the world to him, 
 which, however, no loneliness would ever have 
 driven him to open. It never would have oc 
 curred to him that recreation or solace could be 
 found in society; he would as soon have thought 
 of burrowing in the earth for it. With a generous 
 confidence in the allotments of fate, he took it for 
 granted that his only son was the exact pattern of 
 himself, and looked forward to his career as his 
 own amplified and made perfect by the removal 
 of obstacles. In all his professional life, he had 
 one guiding purpose, Barry's future. And'when 
 this superb young animal, with undoubted abili 
 ties, but undoubted distaste for using them, was 
 launched on his college career, and made him 
 self adored of everybody, but ahead of nobody (in 
 Greek), he grew hard towards him, and bitter. 
 The mother had need of all her tact and patience 
 to mediate between the two. But her efforts had 
 not been fruitless. Just in his last year he Imd 
 roused himself, more from affectionate desire to 
 please them than from any other motive, perhaps, 
 and had done so well as to surprise and pacify his 
 father. Now he was away, studying at a law 
 school in a remote country town, it being a fancy 
 of his father's that there, at least, he would be free 
 from the distractions of society.
 
 OVER THE LEFT SHOULDER. 9 
 
 It must not be supposed that Barry had shown 
 himself a wild and reckless fellow. On the con 
 trary, he seemed a son to be proud of, if one would 
 take him as the gift of heaven, and not as a 
 manufacture of one's own. .He did not fill his 
 father's bill, certainly, but that was scarcely his 
 fault, as it would have been necessary for him to 
 make himself over da capo, to accomplish that, 
 and at twenty one does not take to reconstruction 
 kindly. Barry loved his father, and wanted to 
 please him ; but as he could only do so by giving 
 up every impulse of his nature, and acting upon 
 impulses which he did not feel, and only faintly 
 wished he could feel, it was disheartening work, 
 and he naturally had no enthusiasm for it. 
 
 Just now, however, things were working better. 
 They had good reports of him from the remote 
 country law school, and his father's hopes were re 
 viving. That some disappointing account of his 
 want of application to his studies had come was 
 the worst his mother feared. It was very bad, 
 very discouraging, certainly, but it would come 
 out all right. Since he was n't ill, bless him, she 
 could bear it, whatever it might be. 
 
 After dinner, she played a duet with Lucy ; 
 she had a long consultation with Honor about the 
 crewels for her screen ; she read, or tried to read, 
 the evening paper. By half-past nine o'clock she 
 acknowledged to herself that she cared more than 
 she thought, and that the suspense was fretting
 
 10 PHCEBE. 
 
 her unbearably. Lucy saw it, and managed to 
 draw Honor up-stairs a half hour earlier than 
 usual, and husband and wife were left alone to 
 gether. 
 
 Mr. Crittenden had been sitting at a small 
 table beside the fire, looking over some papers. 
 His wife knew very well he was only making a 
 pretense of occupation. It was no real work. He 
 pushed the papers into a drawer, at last, and leaned 
 back in his chair. He looked across at her where 
 she sat, and their eyes met. She had not pledged 
 herself to anything but silence ; she let her eyes 
 fasten on his with an anxious appeal. 
 
 " I have some pretty news for you," he said, 
 after a few moments, in a hard, grating tone. 
 
 " You won't make it any prettier by keeping 
 it from me, will you ? " she said, in a suppressed 
 voice. 
 
 "I have n't kept it any longer than was nec 
 essary. It is n't exactly the kind of news one 
 would lay before young girls." 
 
 And then he paused again. From being the de 
 fender and advocate of Barry for so long, Mr. Crit 
 tenden had come to have the tone of regarding his 
 wife as a partner in his son's misdemeanors. She 
 had made light of his faults so often, that her hus 
 band naturally felt they did not pain her, and it was 
 with a feeling that he was the only one wounded, 
 and not with any wish to spare her, but rather as 
 one injured, that he always made his complaints.
 
 OVER THE LEFT SHOULDER. 11 
 
 "I ought to have been prepared for this, but 
 I confess I wasn't. I might have known there 
 was but one natural result of a life without pur 
 pose." 
 
 Mrs. Crittenden got up and walked once or twice 
 across the room, then sat down resolutely and 
 folded her hands, and looked into the fire with 
 sealed lips. 
 
 " You and I have never agreed about this mat 
 ter," he went on. "I have never been able to 
 make you understand the dangers of your method 
 with the boy. I can't expect your sympathy with 
 my disappointments." 
 
 " I have not been disappointed," she said, stoutly. 
 " I see no reason to despair of Barry. He is n't 
 what we meant him to be, but he 's a fine fellow 
 for all that, and one whom any father might be 
 proud of." 
 
 There was a bitter sneer in the father's tone as 
 he said, " A particularly fine fellow ; the pride of 
 any household. Read that." 
 
 And he laid upon the table a letter. His wife 
 got up and went to the light and took it up. It 
 was in an unfamiliar hand, a man's, and bore 
 the postmark of the town where the law school 
 was. She opened it and read it, standing by the 
 lamp. As she read, her breath came quicker. She 
 put out one hand and steadied herself by a chair 
 that stood beside her. When her eyes had flashed 
 through the letter once, she let go the chair for an
 
 12 PHOEBE. 
 
 instiint to turn back the page and re-read it. She 
 was generally self-controlled, and she counted upon 
 her strength, but for once she had overrated it. 
 She reeled a little when she lost the support, 
 dropped the letter, and sank into the chair. Then 
 she sat quite still, her eyes on the floor, the color 
 surging up into her face and going back again. 
 Her husband, full of his own trouble, was not 
 looking at her. She had never allowed him to 
 pity her before in the matter of Barry; he did 
 not think of beginning now. 
 
 " I have n't answered the letter yet," he said, 
 " but something must be done." He got up and 
 went to the fire, and replaced a stick that had 
 rolled down. " Something must be done at once," 
 he said, standing and looking into the fire. " We '11 
 have to send him away from there. We might 
 as well face it. We "11 have our hands full keep 
 ing him out of trouble. This is but the begin 
 ning." 
 
 As she did not answer him, he added, after 
 a moment, a little impatiently, "I suppose it 
 does n't surprise you ? " 
 
 " I feel ill," she said, speaking in a faint voice. 
 " One of those attacks is coming on. Give me a 
 glass of water, will you ? " 
 
 He went across to the dining-room to get the 
 water, thinking as he went that it was an unfortu 
 nate time for her to have one of her attacks just 
 when it was necessary for him to talk this matter
 
 OVER THE LEFT SHOULDER. 13 
 
 over with her. He didn't associate the attack 
 with his pretty news in any other way. She had 
 always been so brave about Barry, it was not al 
 together to be wondered at. When he came back 
 and gave the water to her, she drank it, and seemed 
 better. He hoped the attack was n't coming on, 
 after all. 
 
 "Do you feel better?" he asked. 
 
 She said, "Yes." 
 
 " Keep quiet a few minutes, then, and perhaps 
 it will pass over. I want you to be able to settle 
 with me what 's to be done about this matter. 
 You would not be satisfied to leave it to me." 
 
 " Oil, Edward, don't be cruel to me ! " she ex 
 claimed, burying her face in her hands. He went 
 quickly to her, and bent over her. She caught 
 his hand, shivering and crying. 
 
 " This blow will kill me," she moaned. " Help 
 me ! help me ! " He put his arms around her, and 
 she clung to him. The "dull, hard stone" within 
 him melted as he felt her tears, and his own eyes 
 filled with the slow, unaccustomed moisture. 
 
 One feels as if children must have some fatal 
 penalty to pay for calling forth the awful tears of 
 disappointed parental love.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A PRETTY PIECE OF NEWS. 
 
 THE letter was from one of the professors of the 
 law school, who had been a classmate of Mr. Crit- 
 tenden's, and to whom he had written when Barry 
 went there to pursue his unbeloved studies. There 
 was no intimacy between the two men. There 
 had been a strong rivalry in youth, but the city 
 lawyer had so distanced the country professor 
 that all that had died out. The unsuccessful man 
 was none the less convinced of his own merits ; 
 the successful man always felt that perhaps luck 
 had been unduly on his side. The latter had felt 
 a faint hesitation in asking the professor to look 
 a little after Barry, when he sent him to the law 
 school. The people who have been important to 
 us in our youth always retain a certain prominence 
 in our minds. Few men of Mr. Crittenden's ac 
 quaintance were of less worldly importance than 
 Professor S my the, but from few of them would it 
 have been as painful to him to receive the follow 
 ing letter : 
 
 MY DEAR CRITTENDEN, When your son in 
 troduced himself to me, and presented your let-
 
 A PRETTY PIECE OF NEWS. 15 
 
 ter commending him in a measure to my care, I 
 felt as if it would not be much that would be re 
 quired of me, besides enjoying the sight of and 
 occasional intercourse with such a fine young fel 
 low. I have riot written before in answer to it, 
 because, in fact, the letter did not seem to require 
 an answer, and because the young man seemed to 
 be doing so well as to make it superfluous to send 
 you any report of him. Within a few days, 
 however, such a painful rumor has reached my 
 ears that I cannot feel myself justified in letting 
 you remain in ignorance of it. When I speak of 
 rumor, I must add that it is not of mere report I 
 speak ; but before writing I have taken pains to 
 verify the story, and not to distress you unneces 
 sarily. 
 
 You will remember that last summer your son 
 and a companion went off on a walking expedition 
 during the vacation. Their journey did not ex 
 tend very far. I am told that they, or at least he, 
 did not go farther than Maiden, a small farming 
 village about twelve miles from here, and there 
 spent the entire three weeks. He has, I believe, 
 been there at various times during the autumn. 
 Latterly, I have noticed in him an unusual ap 
 plication to study, and a gravity, I might almost 
 say anxiety. I know very little of the lives of the 
 young men, and am not thrown at all with them 
 except in the lecture-room, and I knew nothing of 
 this matter till it had become town talk, and of 
 
 /
 
 16 PHCEBE. 
 
 such importance as to reach my ears. It appears 
 that the ruin of a young girl living somewhere 
 near Maiden is laid to his charge, and that the 
 people of the neighborhood are much excited by 
 the fact. She is the daughter of a widow, and 
 has no brother or near male relative, or I suppose 
 there would have been some scene of violence. 
 According to the popular idea, however, this only 
 makes the worse case against him. I must add, I 
 understand the young woman to have borne a good 
 character hitherto, and to belong to an entirely 
 respectable family, though in very humble circum 
 stances. 
 
 I need not say, my dear Crittenden, how pain 
 ful it has been to me to write of this to you, but 
 I have felt it my duty to let you know the facts. 
 You will understand enough of life in a small 
 town to know that it is not wise for him to re 
 main longer here, and I fancy, by withdrawing him 
 at once and quietly, the scandal of an expulsion 
 can be avoided. You know you may command 
 my friendship in the matter to the utmost. 
 I am yours faithfully, 
 
 ERASTUS B. SMYTHE. 
 
 It was late at night when Mrs. Crittenden re 
 read this letter alone in her dressing-room. The 
 agitating talk had worn her husband out, and had 
 left her worse than sleepless. While he slept, 
 exhausted, she paced the floor in ever-increasing
 
 A PRETTY PIECE OF NEWS. 17 
 
 distress of mind. The night wore on, and found 
 her still up, still unable to accustom herself to the 
 thought of what had befallen them, still unrecon 
 ciled to the Power that had not restrained her 
 child from sin in answer to her prayers. This 
 room, above all others in the house, was associated 
 with those prayers. She turned with a bitter 
 heart from the sight of the prayer-desk where she 
 always knelt. His picture lay under the cross, and 
 had lain hidden there ever since he left her first. 
 There was a feeling in her heart that Heaven 
 would understand it as a mute prayer for him 
 every hour and moment of the day that she could 
 not pray for him with words. There came back 
 to her some words of yesterday's Psalter. They 
 had been sounding in her ears all day, in an un 
 meaning, unappropriated way, just as words. " No 
 man may deliver his brother, nor make agreement 
 unto God for him. For it cost more to redeem, 
 their souls, so that he must let that alone forever." 
 
 She had tried to make agreement ; she had 
 failed. Had her faith been a childish one? It had 
 lasted so many years ; she had been so confident, 
 so patient. It was late to begin to know what 
 and who to believe in. It was hard to have spent. 
 a life-time in a service, and to find oat in a minute 
 there had been neither master, nor wages, nor rules, 
 except in credulous fancy. 
 
 She thought of other women whom she knew, 
 
 commonplace, easy women of the world, whose 
 2
 
 18 PHCEBE. 
 
 sons had turned out good and honorable men ; 
 who had never had this horror, this shame of heart, 
 this burden of inward degradation, to bear. Oh, 
 those prayers, what had they availed ? Those 
 petition ings of Heaven day and night, what 
 answer had they got? 
 
 She was a woman whose serene dignity gave no 
 idea of the depths of her emotional nature. Peo 
 ple said she was just to her children rather than 
 enthusiastic about them. No one, perhaps, not 
 even her husband, suspected the absorbing nature 
 of her love ; the romance, the poem, that each 
 young life was to her. Her pride and reserve 
 made it more possible for her to conceal it from 
 herself than to reveal it to others. And she had 
 so concealed it. She only saw when the knowl 
 edge of her son's fall came to her how high had 
 been the place she had given him, what an impos 
 sible perfection she had required of him. 
 
 She pulled from her dress a miniature that she 
 had worn ever since he was a baby ; she did not 
 look at it, but shut it up in a drawer and locked 
 it in. No one knew that she had worn it. She 
 wished she could forget that she had. She turned 
 from his picture on the wall. If he had been 
 dead it would have been easier to look at it. To 
 do her justice, it was in no wise the scandal that 
 abased her. She had not come to regard that yet. 
 But it was the sin, the deception, the grossness 
 of the fall. She was so much a woman that she
 
 A PRETTY PIECE OF NEWS. 19 
 
 felt she could have yearned over and longed for 
 him if he had been in prison for some dishonor 
 able sin for lucre. But she did not yearn over 
 him now. She did not long for him. She felt 
 estranged, turned cold and unnatural. 
 
 " As if, fond leaning where her infant slept, 
 A mother's arm a serpent should embrace." 
 
 She had made so many excuses for him. She 
 had had such full faith in his goodness of nature, 
 such patience with his light-heartedness and love 
 of pleasure. She had felt herself so much wiser 
 than her husband. She had never wavered, not 
 for a moment, in her belief in him. He would 
 come out all right. If one understood him, there 
 was nothing to make one doubt. He was con 
 scientious and affectionate, and so much under her 
 influence. Her influence, ah! She shuddered. 
 Only two mouths ago he had been at home with 
 her, and she had not seen any difference in him. 
 What wisdom, what intuitions ! How fit she was 
 to guide and influence him ! Oh, poor mother ! 
 not only had her idol fallen in the dust, but she 
 herself had fallen with it. In all our abasements 
 that is generally the worst part. 
 
 The fire in the grate had burned out ; the room 
 was cold. The house was still, with the early- 
 dawn stillness, when it is also the coldest. She 
 could not remember a vigil that had not been 
 because of illness. She thought of the nights
 
 20 PHCEBE. 
 
 not many of them when she had watched anx 
 iously by the beds of her children, and had seen 
 the dawn break. Ah ! there are different trials 
 in life, "afflictions of all sizes." She wondered 
 if there were anything yet reserved for her that 
 would make this night's anguish pale, as this had 
 made those earlier ones. She could believe any 
 thing of suffering, as she was living through this. 
 She paced up and down the room, and then went 
 out into the hall, now dark and still. Her heart 
 swelled as she thought of the little feet and merry 
 voices that she would never hear in it again. 
 She felt as if their family life were dead. She 
 could not imagine merriment ever again among 
 them. (She was a woman, and exaggerated.) 
 She went softly to the room where her two young 
 daughters slept, and, shading the candle she held 
 with one hand, gazed down at the fair, sleeping 
 faces. Honor had deserted her own pretty nest, 
 and crept into her sister's. 
 
 " Thank God ! " she murmured, " they are mine 
 still. I cannot lose them" 
 
 And the dry sirocco of the night's anguish was 
 relieved by a rush of tears. But at that moment 
 there came a sharp, pricking thought into her 
 mind. She started away from the bed where the 
 young girls slept, and went back to her own room. 
 Her tears were sent back to their source ; there 
 was a tight feeling about her chest, a nervous en 
 ergy about her movements. " Never ! " she said,
 
 A PRETTY PIECE OF NEWS. 21 
 
 between her teeth, as she pulled aside the curtain 
 and looked out at the dark sky where there were 
 still faint, .cold stars. " Never ! " 
 
 She was not thinking of the stars, nor watching 
 for the dawn. She mechanically dropped the cur 
 tain, and walked again up and down the room. 
 Then shutting the door, and throwing a wrap 
 about her shoulders, she sat down by the dead fire, 
 and tried restlessly to rekindle it, as if some op 
 position had taken the place of her abandoned 
 misery, and must find practical expression. She 
 entered into the details of the fire-making as if 
 there had not been anything else to think of ; and 
 when her determination was rewarded by a faint 
 blaze and rustle, she leaned back in her low chair, 
 and gazed at the flicker, and repeated, " Never ! " 
 with her hands firm set together. 
 
 Never what ? The thought that had turned her 
 pain into such a changed channel, as she gazed 
 at the innocent loveliness of her children, was 
 this : 
 
 " There is a mother who to-night cannot look 
 with such solace on her daughter's face. I am not 
 the only one who suffers. Which is the worse load 
 to bear, hers or mine ? Can I help Tier? " 
 
 Up to that moment she had not thought of the 
 mother. She had thought of the ruined, degraded 
 girl with repulsion, with angry, furious resent 
 ment. She could not change that feeling now, 
 but thinking of the mother gave her a feverish
 
 22 PHCEBE. 
 
 anguish. She could not hide it from herself that 
 she was an object of just compassion. However 
 low her station, it was certain that she suffered. 
 In all stations of life, the sight of a daughter's 
 shame is counted the sharpest ignominy possible. 
 And these people were not low enough to be ac 
 customed to immorality. They were undoubtedly 
 far less sensitive, and missed much of the finer 
 pain of finer culture; but there were certain in 
 stincts of nature which were not wanting in them. 
 This woman was suffering ; then, innocently suf 
 fering, perhaps, from her son's ill-doing. Could 
 any human power help her ? Yes. There was but 
 one way ; and there was but one person, perhaps, 
 who had the power, and she was that person. She 
 knew that if she set her face to have the repara 
 tion made, in all probability it would be made. It 
 was then, with her heart as flint, that she said, 
 
 " Never ! " 
 
 She was not a person ignorant of, or indifferent 
 to, the world's judgment. There was a Judgment 
 she set far above it, and to which she looked with 
 an unusual fixedness; but she was human, and she 
 had not lived forty-two years among selfish men 
 and women without a little seeing with their eyes 
 and hearing with their ears. She knew that what 
 her son had done would be only a temporary in 
 jury to his worldly prospects ; she knew that in 
 her husband's eyes the worst feature of it was the 
 portent of his future recklessness. That might
 
 A PRETTY PIECE OF NEWS. 23 
 
 be tempered by the discipline of circumstances, 
 and sobered by maturer years. He might yet be 
 " as other men are." A little money would bridge 
 over the scandal. Outwardly everything might 
 yet be well. It did not pacify her heart at all. 
 He was " strange to her," this son she had borne. 
 But she had another side than the midnight, heart- 
 revealing one which we have been looking upon. 
 She had strong common sense, and a nice appreci 
 ation of what was acceptable and profitable in life. 
 She had been successful in her small way. She 
 had found it so easy to succeed that she had not 
 valued her success very much. The strong relig 
 ious feeling which I have described had never been 
 brought into serious conflict with this easy, smooth 
 popularity - possibility in her nature. She had 
 had such a sweet, good, happy home she had been 
 satisfied, and had thought little about it. Duty 
 and pleasure had gone hand in hand. She had not 
 been obliged to define herself ambitious, because 
 she had had poured into her lap all she wanted, 
 and had never known what it was to be hungry. 
 Now, in her secret heart, she found she was ambi 
 tious, not for herself, but for her children. But 
 she found it out only when the pleasant fruits ly 
 ing in her lap were being snatched away. 
 
 She had imagination enough to know what a 
 galling, degrading yoke an ill-assorted marriage 
 is. To what depths would she sink her already 
 fallen boy, if she insisted on his making this
 
 24 PHCEBE. 
 
 reparation? Why should she set her judgment 
 against the judgment of the world ; of all the 
 intelligent men and women who believed other 
 wise; of her husband, whose strong dissent she 
 felt sure of ? Her judgment ! she had not much 
 reason to respect it at this crisis. No, she would 
 not listen to the faint but unceasing voice within 
 her. " Never ! " 
 
 The fire was not much of a success. It flickered 
 and burned blue ; it curled around the bars of the 
 grate, and spit out little gusts of smoke that made 
 a nasty odor in the room. She grew chill and 
 weary. She would go to bed. She got up and 
 began to undress herself. As she stood before her 
 dressing-glass, a sudden faintness came over her, 
 not so much, if one could make the distinction, a 
 physical swoon as a mental one. She walked quite 
 steadily to the chair and sat down, and lay leaning 
 back in it, with her eyes closed. It seemed to her 
 the bed for which she was making ready was her 
 death-bed ; that she was laying aside for the last 
 time the adornments and the habiliments of earth. 
 She should need nothing henceforth of the things 
 of time; she was leaving all behind that could 
 not be carried with her when she lay down in the 
 "wormy bed." She knew the parting with her 
 children had come ; all her labor and planning for 
 them was done ; all work was at an end ; no more 
 now was permitted her to do, but what she had 
 done would be living on after her. With keen,
 
 A PRETTY PIECE OF NEWS. 25 
 
 awful sight she saw what had been well done, and 
 what amiss and with a low aim ; for those few 
 strange moments everything stood out in the clear, 
 high, cold light of eternity. Little details of long- 
 past times, a decision about discouraging this com 
 panion and encouraging that, the selection of this 
 school in preference to that, the giving up to cer 
 tain prejudices of others, all came before her 
 with startling familiarity and yet more startling 
 newness. The gloss faded off some pleasures, a 
 new lustre grew on others. All seemed new, yet 
 old ; awful, yet real. The worth of to-day's short 
 success against to-morrow's long retrospect, the 
 balance, in fact, of time and eternity ; the praise 
 of men, or the praise of God. 
 
 A half hour passed. A little more light came in 
 at the window. The steps of a servant going down 
 stairs shufflingly broke the stillness of the house. 
 Day was come, and the household was rousing 
 itself afresh. " The sleep and the forgetting " 
 were over for this night. The weary watcher shiv 
 ered, and lifted her head. Life had begun again 
 for her. The momentary faintness was a trick of 
 the nerves. Whatever you might call it, it had 
 done its work, and was gone. She knew very well 
 she was not going to die, but going to live, and to 
 suffer, and be tempted, as of old. Everything 
 seemed inexpressively commonplace and cheerless, 
 the cold room, the dead fire, the gray light 
 creeping through the curtains, the yawning ser-
 
 26 PHCEBE. 
 
 vants making their sleepy way down-stairs. She 
 had come back to life, but she had been to its very 
 brink ; and a responsibility lay upon her not to 
 let slip from her memory what she had seen when 
 she stood there.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WIDOW HOLDEN. 
 
 You are not apt to feel very fresh and vivacious 
 after being awake all night, even if there has been 
 nothing to wear upon your nerves but the loss 
 of sleep. Most people are familiar with the un 
 compromising character of such depression. It is 
 not only that your spirits are low, but your nerves 
 are strained ; not only that to-day is a bore, but 
 the recollection of yesterday is hateful, and the 
 anticipation of to-morrow without attraction. If, 
 in addition to your vigil, you have had any men 
 tal conflict to pass through, all that has changed 
 color with the daylight. Your tragedy has be 
 come melodrama, your tears taste of brine, your 
 heart's blood looks very thin and poor ; you feel 
 not only ashamed of your emotion, but out of tem 
 per about it. 
 
 Mrs. Crittenden found it very hard to meet the 
 requirements of this every-day day, which was yet 
 so unlike every day. It was raining dully. If it 
 had not been, she would have gone to the city, 
 or somehow got away from this insufferable yoke 
 of family life for a few hours. She had done all
 
 28 PIHEBE. 
 
 the thinking, feeling, resolving, of which she was 
 capable, and she had a sense of impatience at 
 the stagnation at which she had arrived, even 
 while there was a feeling of relief that there was 
 no more that she could do. No, there was noth 
 ing more that she could do. She had made her 
 resolution in cold blood, and there was nothing 
 but to carry it out. The conflict with herself 
 had been the real, scorching trial ; now there was 
 only the hard, practical business of keeping her 
 self to what she had promised. 
 
 She shut herself up in her dressing-room, and 
 sat down by the window, against which a slow, 
 persistent, chill rain was pattering. If the wind 
 had roared, if the trees had bent, if the sky had 
 been black with storm ! But it was a com 
 monplace, raw November rain, chilling one like a 
 peevish, exacting, low-spirited woman in a house. 
 The few leaves were not swirled off in a gust, but 
 fell dispiritedly into the pools and rivulets that 
 had formed in the carriage-way before the door. 
 The vines hung despondently against the house : 
 they did not moan or sway ; they only creaked 
 exasperatingly in the little peevish wind that oc 
 casionally moved them slightly. The ground had 
 a soaked look, as if it had had enough of it ; the 
 sky was even, monotonous, mediocre, grim. The 
 thermometer was not very low, but the dampness 
 was unspeakable. The stems of the trees looked 
 water-logged and unwholesome ; from the twigs
 
 WIDOW HOLDEN. 29 
 
 hung drops that the weak wind did not shake off. 
 There was little life or motion within sight from 
 the window. The house was too far from the road 
 to distinguish passers easily, and into the grounds 
 no one, at this hour and on such a day, would be 
 likely to come. The grocer and the butcher had 
 paid their morning visit. Mrs. Crittenden had 
 already gone through that penance. There was 
 nothing, there was nobody to come. She sat at 
 the window with the feeling of a person who 
 knows there is nothing to see, but who must gaze 
 on with the bitter idleness of grief. She could not 
 occupy her hands or her thoughts ; her eyes roamed 
 over the dreary scene without, and were less pained 
 than when they rested on the ordinary and famil 
 iar things within. Her door was fastened. There 
 was no danger of intrusion : the household orders 
 were given ; Lucy and Honor would respect her 
 haggard looks. She leaned wearily against the 
 window and gazed out. The only feeling that 
 was not distinctly painful was that she would be 
 let alone, that nothing would be required of her, 
 that in a certain dead way she could rest. Sud 
 denly she saw an approaching vehicle turn in at 
 the gate. It was one of a shabby class of hacks 
 that waited about the depot, and sometimes 
 brought chance visitors from the train. Who 
 could be coming ? Slie rose from her seat. 
 
 Before the cab was near enough for her to see 
 any one in it, she had made up her mind whom
 
 30 PHCEBE. 
 
 it contained. From the window she could see it 
 drive up to the door, and could see who alighted. 
 
 The visitor was a middle-aged woman, rather 
 slight, dressed in black, a little shabby. She wore 
 a close, old-wornany bonnet, from which a limp 
 black veil hung, tied under the chin, in the fash 
 ion of twenty years before. She got out, and in 
 a tremulous, wavering manner looked at the door 
 and then at the driver. At last she decided (if 
 that might be called a decision which seemed the 
 result of inability to see anything else to do) to 
 ring the bell, which was promptly answered* 
 Then she went back to the cabman, and took out 
 her purse to pay him. Her hands trembled very 
 much ; she had difficulty in making the change, 
 or in understanding what his charge was. Her 
 gloves were rather loose, and a good deal creased 
 about the fingers. They were of foxy black, and 
 had probably been her best gloves for a number 
 of years. Because of their clumsy size, or per 
 haps because she was not accustomed to wearing 
 them, she could not manage the small change ; 
 some of it rolled upon the ground. The trim 
 maid came forward, and, smiling superciliously, 
 picked it up for her ; the cabman smiled a little, 
 too, and looked at her curiously. At last it was 
 all settled, and the visitor followed the maid into 
 the house. In a moment more came a knock upon 
 her door. " A person, madam, asking for you." 
 
 Yes, she knew it. She was getting ready for
 
 WIDOW HOLDEN. 31 
 
 the person ; that is, all the evil in her was dress 
 ing itself to appear, and she seemed to be turning 
 to ice and granite to go down to meet her. As she 
 went down the stairs she saw that the visitor had 
 been left in the hall, sitting on a chair near the 
 library door. The woman looked up, and rose 
 agitatedly. 
 
 Though the house was not a grand one, by any 
 means, it had a good staircase and a wide hall. 
 " Mamma looks like a lady in a story-book when 
 she comes down the stairs with a long dress on," 
 Honor used to say. 
 
 " Will you not come in by the fire ? " asked 
 Mrs. Crittenden, as she passed by her visitor, and, 
 entering the library, shut the door after them, and 
 gave her a chair. 
 
 " You won't be likely to know who I am," began 
 the stranger, in a voice which she could scarcely 
 control. 
 
 " I can imagine," said the other, looking at her 
 coldly. 
 
 " How ? You know, then ? You have heard ? " 
 
 " I know you are probably from Maiden. I have 
 not heard your name." 
 
 " It is Holden. He was of the Holdens of Greene 
 County, related to the Waterburys on the moth 
 er's side. His folks are looked up to all about 
 our place." 
 
 And a faint flicker of pride was indicated in 
 her manner, washed out in the next instant by a 
 rush of recollection.
 
 32 PHCEBE. 
 
 "He?" 
 
 " My husband, I mean. He has been dead these 
 twenty years. I thought you knew about it, may 
 be. My girl never saw her father. She was born 
 six months after I buried him." 
 
 " I did not know anything about the circum 
 stances of your life." 
 
 " I don't know what you know ! " cried the poor 
 woman, unable to endure the slow torture of this 
 manner. " I have seen a great deal of trouble in 
 my life, death and sickness, and hard enough 
 work to get along ; and my own people are poor, 
 I don't deny it, and things ain't with us as 
 they used to be. But there's one thing I can say: 
 this sort of trouble, this, this, is new among us. 
 It 's the first time that one of us could n't hold 
 our heads up among decent people. I thought 
 I 'd had trouble before, but but " 
 
 And the poor woman struggled with a handker 
 chief that lay deep down in a low and very full 
 pocket, and when she got it out put it before her 
 eyes. This action brought out in high relief the 
 baggy gloves. I am sorry to say, none of these 
 details were lost on her hostess, who sat watching 
 her rigidly. The face that was revealed, when at 
 last the stranger took the handkerchief and the 
 gloves out of prominence, and essayed to speak, 
 was a sensitive, not unrefined one. It was quite 
 possible to fancy she had once been a pretty wom 
 an, though hard work and the unjust burden of
 
 WIDOW UOLDEN. 33 
 
 American lower-class life had aged her prematurely. 
 She was probably not very much older than the 
 more favored woman who was passing judgment on 
 her, but a careless observer would have said there 
 was at least a difference of fifteen years in their 
 ages. Her skin was dried and brown, a thousand 
 fine wrinkles networked it ; her eyes looked tired 
 and old, and as if they had shed endless tears ; her 
 mouth was sensitive and weak. She was timid, dis 
 trustful of herself. One could not help seeing what 
 a fierce convulsion must have been needed to drive 
 her out of her homely seclusion to face cold and 
 unfriendly strangers. But Mrs. Crittenden did 
 not feel sorry for her. She hated her. I am sorry 
 to have to say this of the woman who kept her 
 boy's picture under the cross on her prayer-desk ; 
 and who for forty-two amiable years had been the 
 admiration of her neighbors for her charity and 
 tenderness ; and who, better than all, had made up 
 her mind to do right in this cruel matter. Per 
 haps the last bit of evil was coming out of her 
 in this struggle ; perhaps, if she had done this 
 blamelessly, she would have been too perfect to 
 be required to walk further among the thorns 
 and flints of this bewildering world. Perhaps 
 but there is no use in speculation. She had turned 
 hard and cold, and, so far from pitying her adver 
 sary, felt a sort of satisfaction in knowing that 
 she suffered. 
 
 "I've I've come to see you about this, but 
 3
 
 34 PHCEDE. 
 
 she does n't know it. She would n't have let me 
 do it if she 'd known." 
 
 " She ? " interrogated Mrs. Crittenden, who re 
 fused to recognize pronouns. 
 
 " Phoabe, my daughter." 
 
 The lady shuddered. Phcebe, that was a name 
 to bring into the family annals ! Her only associa 
 tions with the name were, that it had belonged to 
 a greyhound of her brother's, and also to an old 
 mulatto cook, very stout and of much good-humor, 
 who used to give her doughnuts when she was a 
 child. Phoebe ! Well, that was a very small mat 
 ter. She waited for her visitor to go on. 
 
 " She would have said it would n't do any good. 
 She would have kept me back." 
 
 " I think, if you '11 excuse my saying so, she 
 would have been quite right about it." 
 
 The color flushed into the dried, brown cheeks. 
 " I did n't know you would be so hard to talk to," 
 she said. " I thought, being a woman, and having 
 daughters of your own " 
 
 " Oh, my daughters, we will not talk of them, 
 if you please." 
 
 The thrust was not lost upon the stranger, and 
 the agitated color spread again over her face. 
 
 " You feel very safe about them " she began. 
 
 " I said, we would not talk about them, if you 
 please." 
 
 " No, I did n't come to talk about them. I don't 
 know how you 've brought up your children, or
 
 WIDOW HOLDEN. 35 
 
 whether it 's your fault that other people suffer by 
 them. Girls are not so different from boys. Sin 
 is sin. And in our part of the country we don't 
 think our girls too fine to mention, and in the same 
 breath let our boys go free, when they've broke 
 the laws of God and man." 
 
 " I 'm afraid, in Maiden, you are not very care 
 ful in the education of your girls." 
 
 A passionate answer rose to the woman's lips, 
 but again the tide of recollection swept over her, 
 and made her silent. 
 
 " I am afraid," went on her tormentor, " that 
 you give them too much liberty, and do not teach 
 them to respect themselves. A woman's position 
 is very different from a man's." 
 
 " We teach them out of the same Bible ! " cried 
 the poor mother, trembling with the vehemence of 
 her feeling. " What 's sin for one is sin for the 
 other. There ain't twenty commandments, one 
 set for one and one for the other, but only the ten 
 that 's stood all these ages, and served for men and 
 women both. That's the way we read Scripture 
 in Maiden." 
 
 " Maiden is a small place," said her hostess, 
 coldly. 
 
 " If it is, it 's a God-fearing place." 
 
 "Ah? Among the men, you mean?" 
 
 " Yes, among men and women both, though 
 you do jeer at me for my girl's misfortune," 
 groaned the stranger, turning away her head, and
 
 36 PH(EBE. 
 
 beating nervously with her gloved hands upon her 
 lap. 
 
 " Your girl's misfortune, and my boy's sin, is 
 that the way they put it in Maiden ? With us 
 in the world, I mean it goes just the other way. 
 It 's a misfortune, unlucky, you know. It 's rather 
 a disadvantage to a young man, but nothing per 
 manent. It doesn't injure him in the eyes of the 
 world. He gets over it, he marries, he goes on as 
 if nothing had happened." 
 
 " He shan't ! " cried the poor creature, rising in 
 her feebleness, and putting her hand out in her 
 impotent wrath. " He shall feel it. It shall hurt 
 him. My girl shan't be the only one to suffer." 
 
 " How will you manage it ? You can hurt him 
 to the extent of a few dollars " 
 
 " We don't want your dollars. You can keep 
 3'our dollars, wicked, hard people that you are. 
 But we will have our revenge, we will have our 
 revenge." 
 
 " How ? Pray tell me how. Calm yourself. 
 We might as well talk this over quietly. It is 
 very bitter to both of us, no doubt. Such things 
 are trying to the temper and to the feelings. 
 Sit down again, if you please. There is nothing 
 gained by this sort of excitement, as you must 
 see." 
 
 She sat down, involuntarily obedient to her su 
 perior. 
 
 " When I tell you there is nothing that you can
 
 WIDOW H OLDEN. 37 
 
 do beyond applying for some pecuniary salve, I tell 
 you the truth. The very pillars of society rest on 
 woman's purity. If there were any looseness per 
 mitted about that, what would become of family 
 honor ? It is hard that it should be so, but this 
 law is as old as society itself. We have to make 
 up our minds to take things as they are. Men are 
 permitted license that women cannot take. Soci 
 ety has to protect itself, and that 's the way it goes 
 to work to do it. Its laws are hard upon women 
 who sin, very hard, I must admit." 
 
 " I don't care about the laws of society," moaned 
 the poor mother. " I care about what the Scrip 
 ture says. You know what the Scripture says 
 about about " 
 
 And she hung her head. It was new to think of 
 her girl as of one at whom the stones of the Jew 
 ish mob might have been cast. She was just get 
 ting acquainted with her grief, which was always 
 presenting fresh and unexpected phases. 
 
 " The world, you know, does n't concern itself 
 about the rules of Scripture. This thing always 
 has been and always will be so. The world casts 
 out and degrades the woman who sins, and takes 
 back into favor her partner, and does the best for 
 him she can. I 'm not saying it 's right, but it 's 
 so." 
 
 " God will punish him ! " cried the woman. 
 " God won't let him go off free." 
 
 " Ah ! very likely not. There you may be right.
 
 38 PI HE BE. 
 
 And that 's what you '11 have to rest upon. For 
 you can't do anything about his punishment, be 
 lieve me." 
 
 " I 'd better not have come. I thought you 
 would be different. I didn't know you'd brought 
 him up that way. I don't wonder now, I don't 
 wonder in the least." 
 
 " Oh, as to that, our children do not always 
 illustrate our teachings. I suppose your daugh 
 ter, now, was brought up according to the theories 
 you Ve mentioned ? " 
 
 " She was brought up after a godly sort. Her 
 grandfather was a minister. Her father's folks 
 were all great hands for meeting. My people 
 were n't that kind, but I brought her up as I 
 knew he'd have wanted her to be brought up. 
 I did my best. I never let her stay home from 
 Sunday-school, rain or shine. She got a prize for 
 reading the Bible through three times in one year, 
 when she was only twelve years old. She knew 
 all the kings of Israel by heart, and there was n't 
 a river or a mountain on any of the Scripture 
 maps that she couldn't put her finger on in half a 
 minute ; and there was n't a beetle or a bug of the 
 Holy Land that she could n't tell you all about, 
 before she was turned of ten." 
 
 " Ah ! And yet you see, hard as you tried, 
 her education has not been a practical success." 
 
 " Her education ! " cried the poor woman. " No 
 body can say I did n't do everything I could for
 
 WIDOW HOLDEN. 39 
 
 her. I 've put up with being alone from Monday 
 morning to Friday night for the last four years, 
 while she 's been away at Brixton at the high 
 school. I never let her do a stroke of work. I 've 
 sewed for her, and washed for her, and mended 
 for her, and starved myself to pay her board and 
 schooling. And she did me credit, yes, she did 
 me credit. She was the head of her class, and she 
 never lost a day all the four years at Brixton. 
 Her teacher in algebra said he 'd never had such 
 a hand for the higher mathematics. And the 
 day of the exhibition she did a proposition on the 
 blackboard before them all. And everybody was 
 talking about her. No, no, there can't be any 
 thing thrown up against me about her education, 
 music and all. Heaven be thanked for that ! " 
 
 If there had been anything needed to harden 
 Mrs. Crittenden's heart, it was this picture: a 
 pert, vulgar, higher-mathematical, over-educated, 
 under-bred country girl. The geography of Pal 
 estine and the propositions on the blackboard ob 
 literated the last touch of pity. 
 
 " I think you would have done better," she said, 
 serenely, " to keep her at home with you, teach 
 ing her to do housework, and be a modest, well- 
 conducted girl." 
 
 " I don't say but I should. I never felt that it 
 was right that I should be left to bring her up 
 alone, with nobody to look to. I was not the 
 kind to be left alone, to be at the head about
 
 40 PHCEBE. 
 
 things. Perhaps God knows what He took him 
 away for when we 'd only been married inside of 
 a year ; I could never see." 
 
 And she rocked herself backward and forward 
 for a few moments, while a bitter look came over 
 her recently tearful, pleading face. 
 
 " But you," she said at last, "you had your 
 husband to help you. You had a plenty, and all 
 ways of bringing him up to choose from. Why 
 did n't you do better with your boy ? You twit 
 me. But I 'd like to know which has the most to 
 be ashamed of, you* or me. I 'd like to know how 
 we 'd stand before the judgment of God. I don't 
 care about men. I don't care about their judg 
 ment now. But I tell you, I 'd rather be the 
 mother of my Phoebe, with all Maiden pointing 
 their finger at her, than the mother of your bad, 
 black-hearted, fair-spoken son, that '11 go scot-free, 
 and never be the worse for it, you say." 
 
 She panted ; this flood of words was as unnat 
 ural to her as the agony that brought it forth was 
 new. 
 
 " I don't see that there is much to choose, in the 
 matter of pride," said Mrs. Crittenden. " But that 
 is neither here nor there. I suppose we must bake 
 as we have brewed, and it seems we have neither 
 of us brewed very well. It does n't help me that 
 you have an unworthy daughter, nor does it help 
 you that I have an unworthy son. I do not see 
 what can be gained by talking of it further."
 
 WIDOW IIOLDEN. 41 
 
 " There is nothing gained ! " cried the woman, 
 starting to her feet. " I ought n't to have come. 
 I I might have known I 'm a poor hand 
 to talk. Lawyer Brent would have come, but I 
 would n't let him. I was 'most wild. I thought 
 I could make you see what was right ; but it 
 seems he '11 have to come, after all." 
 
 She pulled her shawl about her throat, folded 
 her trembling hands over it, and went towards 
 the door. 
 
 " I would advise you, for your own sake, not to 
 send the lawyer," said the lady, steadily. 
 
 44 1 shall do what they tell me," she cried, open 
 ing the door that led into the hall, " if I ever get 
 home to tell them about this. I did n't believe any 
 body could be like you. I ought to have listened 
 to 'em. I I never will trouble you again." 
 
 " Stay," said Mrs. Crittenden, following her. 
 44 I have something to say to you. Come back." 
 
 But the woman pushed on to the front door 
 and opened it, and would not look back, much less 
 come back, but with hurried, uncertain steps and 
 swaying figure crossed the shelter of the porch, 
 and passed out into the rain and mud. Mrs. Crit 
 tenden called her, eagerly, loudly. The widow 
 shook her head, and did not look around, but 
 went wildly splashing through the pools that stood 
 in the road, as if she did not see them, and not 
 pulling her veil doAvn to protect her face, as if she 
 did not feel the rain that fell upon it.
 
 42 PHCEBE. 
 
 " Come back ! " 
 
 It was easy to say Come back, but how to get 
 her to do it ? If she ran across the lawn in her 
 slippers and morning dress, the household would 
 be roused, there would be a scene, everything 
 which she had planned would be destroyed. If 
 she sent a servant after her, she would perhaps 
 refuse to come, and certainly would say something 
 that would set the servants talking. No, there 
 was nothing for it but to let her go, uncomforted 
 by what in the end she had meant to tell her. 
 
 Mrs. Crittenden doubted the woman's ability 
 to get away alone ; she saw that, even as she 
 reached the road, she looked wildly up and down ; 
 it seemed but a happy chance that she turned in 
 the direction of the depot. It would take twenty 
 minutes to order and get out the carriage, and 
 even then there was little hope of overtaking her. 
 If, however, Mrs. Crittenden did overtake her 
 there would be that said that the coachman ought 
 not to hear before she would consent to return. 
 If they met at the depot, all Marrowfat would 
 know the story before night. The woman's nat 
 ural shyness might keep her silent about her sor 
 row, if no one spoke to her or questioned her. 
 But in her present over-wrought state, the sight 
 of her hard-hearted hostess would, without doubt, 
 open the flood gates again. 
 
 No, there was nothing to do but to shut the 
 door and go and warm herself, chilled to the mar-
 
 WIDOW HOLDEN. 43 
 
 row by the raw wind, and to trust that the unwel 
 come guest would get safely away by the twelve 
 o'clock train, locking the secret in her breast. 
 She knew she had been cruel and cold ; she felt 
 sharp compunction ; but she had meant to be just, 
 and to convince her that whatever might be done 
 would be done of free grace and no compulsion 
 from outside. She certainly never meant to let her 
 go away without this tangible relief. She knew 
 that she scorned and hated her and her child, but 
 the knowledge that she meant to do right by 
 them as far as in her lay, even to the gross dam 
 age of her own best beloved, took away the self- 
 condemnation that would have followed the hatred 
 in any other case. It all seemed a piece of her hid 
 eous trial, hideous, hideous, like a nightmare ; 
 revolting, unlightened. She went up to her room, 
 and sat down in the window, and looked out again, 
 watching. May be the woman's strength would 
 fail her, and she would fall down, and they would 
 find from whence she had come, and would bring 
 her back. May be even now she was pouring her 
 incoherent tale into the ears of some crowd 
 gathered around her prostrate body. May be the 
 limp veil was even now being dried before the 
 fire of the first gossip of the town whose house 
 she had to pass on her way to the depot. It was 
 an unusual sight in Marrowfat, a respectable 
 woman out in such a drenching, all-day rain, with 
 out any protection but a limp veil and a thin black
 
 44 PIIQIBE. 
 
 shawl. When, however, no news came, and the 
 distant whistle sounded at twelve o'clock, there 
 seemed a reasonable hope that the train bore away 
 with it the importunate widow and her ugly story. 
 "Mamma," cried Honor, "was that shabby 
 body a candidate for your Widow's Society ? You 
 might have lent her an umbrella, if you did n't put 
 her on your list."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 JUST A WOMAN'S NOTION. 
 
 "THAT'S a woman's notion, just a woman's 
 notion," said Mr. Crittenden, impatiently, pushing 
 back his chair and rising. This was the last, the 
 very last word of many spoken in the midnight 
 silence of a country house, when even the ticking 
 of the lowest-voiced clock was audible. The fire 
 had died down, having been replenished many 
 times while they talked. She was satisfied to have 
 it die down, for she knew her husband's gesture 
 was final, and that there was no more to say to 
 night. And she was not ill satisfied with the result 
 of this, the last of many long conferences. Though 
 he had not seemed to acquiesce in what she had 
 urged upon him any more at the end than at the 
 beginning, she felt that his objections were soften 
 ing, that he was harboring the plan, that he had 
 given it place, at least, in his consideration. She 
 knew very well that in this affair his convictions 
 had never been unalterable, while hers had been. 
 And indeed, our conquests are generally regu 
 lated by the strength of our convictions. From 
 missionary work up, it is a matter of conviction,
 
 46 PHCEBE. 
 
 whether we succeed or not. The world belongs to 
 the brave, to the stout in his purpose, to the clear 
 in his seeing, to the undoubting of his path. 
 
 Mrs. Crittenden was not very self-willed in do 
 mestic interests. She did not have her own way 
 invariably. The laundry tubs were a standing 
 grievance to her. The new kitchen floor was 
 put in entirely in opposition to her judgment. In 
 many points about the education of the children, 
 she had silently surrendered her opinion to a hus 
 band who was not tyrannical, but who had a 
 man's preference for the emanations of his own 
 brain. She was just enough to recognize his right 
 to do as he wanted to sometimes. She bided 
 her time, and this was the time she had been bid 
 ing, evidently. For it needed all the memory of 
 her many concessions, as well as all the strength of 
 her strong convictions, to make him yield in this 
 most vital matter. He was a very fair modern 
 Christian, always on the side of right in public and 
 social matters. But when it came to such a step 
 as this, it appeared that his religion had been con 
 siderably weakened by the current of worldly life 
 that had flowed so near it ^or so long a time. 
 The banks must have got washed down a good 
 deal in some places, in the course of fifty years 
 of such dangerous juxtaposition. 
 
 A woman's notion ! What was just a woman's 
 notion, in this case ? Briefly this : that this son 
 of theirs, who had sinned, should pay the penalty
 
 JUST A WOMAN'S NOTION. 47 
 
 of his sin, and make reparation for it in the only 
 way possible to him ; that he should save his un 
 born innocent child from shame, and the woman, 
 who was at least no more guilty than he, from life 
 long degradation. 
 
 " A pretty mess," he said, " society would be in, 
 if all were of your thinking. What sort of blood 
 would you get into our veins? What sort of 
 mixtures would you make in families ? " 
 
 "That is not any concern of ours. Right is 
 right, if the heavens fall." 
 
 " You are putting a knife to the throat of the 
 boy ; let me tell you that. You might as well kill 
 him as make him do this thing." 
 " I have considered all that." 
 "In a few years, if you don't force him into 
 this, he may steady down, marry well, and be a 
 credit to us." 
 
 " With that sin on his soul, and that child an 
 outcast? I don't want such credit." 
 
 " I have told you I will provide for the child." 
 " You cannot provide it a name and a place in 
 the world." 
 
 " That is fine talking. Its place in the world 
 would not have been very grand, with that low 
 bred woman for a mother. I tell you I have the 
 poorest opinion of those people. You don't know 
 what you are about. You have let a sentimental 
 fancy run away with you." 
 
 " On the contrary, I have looked our duty in the
 
 48 PH(EBE. 
 
 face from the first, and it is bitter as gall to me. 
 I know every detail. I have counted what it will 
 cost us to the fraction of a penny, to the fraction 
 of a pang. I know that I am giving up the boy's 
 future as far as this world goes. I know that I 
 am injuring our daughters' prospects. I know 
 that I am damaging very seriously our material 
 prosperity ; that I am putting a yoke upon us as a 
 family ; that I am pulling all those dearest to me 
 down to a lower level in the eyes of the world. 
 But I ask it, all the same. Edward, it must be 
 done. God knows I am not fanatic, I am not en 
 thusiastic. The happy and approved life we have 
 been leading has been as sweet to me as it has 
 been to you. I only knew how sweet when I saw 
 it being broken up. I like a high position. I like 
 the favor of the world. I have found out only now 
 how boundless my ambition has been for Barry, 
 where I have always put him in my thoughts. I 
 know if he makes this marriage he steps out of 
 notice, he becomes the obscurest and most or 
 dinary person. I know that the girls will suffer 
 in a thousand ways from the loss of his popular 
 ity, and from the difficulty that will be made in 
 receiving his wife. I know that our income will 
 be barely sufficient ; that we shall be heavily bur 
 dened for many years, perhaps, in the support of 
 his young family. I tell you frankly, I see no 
 bright side to it. It fills me with dismay. I wish 
 I could see any other way out of it, but, Edward,
 
 JUST A WOMAN'S NOTION. 49 
 
 there is none. He must marry her ; he must do 
 what is right. We must trust Heaven for the rest. 
 Suffering is better than sin. This is a heavy bur 
 den ; but what would be the burden of a wrong 
 unrighted, a debt uncanceled, all through our lives, 
 tainting everything ? I don't want any such pros 
 perity. I don't .want any child's cry, any wom 
 an's moan, to haunt my sleep. Let us do right, 
 and bear what comes of it. Let us be brave about 
 it. Life is short. Why should we care so much? 
 If the thing is right, we 've got to do it." 
 
 And so on through hours of midnight fireside 
 talk. Sometimes, I am afraid, her husband said, 
 Stuff and nonsense ; sometimes, I am afraid, he 
 walked about the room with his hands driven deep 
 down in his pockets, and his forehead wrinkled 
 with the angriest opposition. But it was not in 
 the nature of things that such conviction should 
 fail to convict. " Only believe." The result was 
 certain, nor was the process very slow. Within a 
 week the following conditions were settled upon : 
 
 Mrs. Crittenden was not to write to her son, 
 nor in any way influence him or communicate 
 with him. The father was to write him, more or 
 less sternly (more, probably), about the disgrace 
 and dishonor he had been to them, but putting 
 before him the choice between two courses. He 
 could, if he chose, marry the girl at once, remain 
 where he was for the winter, and in the spring 
 come home .with her, in which case his father 
 4
 
 50 PHCEBE. 
 
 would take him into his office, allow him a salary 
 of two thousand dollars, and expect hard work of 
 him. He would give him as a home a small cot 
 tage on the place, that had been hitherto occu 
 pied by the gardener. He could promise him no 
 further assistance, and warned him that his life 
 would be of the hardest and hunj blest nature. 
 
 As an alternative, he could go at once, within a 
 week of receiving this letter, to China, to take an 
 inferior position in a large mercantile house with 
 which his father had influence, where he must at 
 least spend the rest of his youth, depending wholly 
 upon his own exertions, and having no allowance 
 from his father beyond his passage money and his 
 necessary outfit. The situation was secured, if he 
 chose to take it. The steamer sailed on the 20th ; 
 a stateroom was at his disposal. The letter was 
 short and business-like, and was not calculated to 
 leave any doubt in the young man's mind that his 
 misconduct had ruined his prospects for life, and 
 that his father was not very much averse to see 
 ing him well out of the way. 
 
 Three days passed, three days of very consid 
 erable anxiety to the parents who waited for his 
 answer. China or Phoebe ? The father thought 
 China ; the mother believed Phoebe. The great 
 fear the mother had was lest he should be driven 
 by his pride to do something against his con 
 science, and go away, stung by his father's curt 
 dismissal of him forever from the family life and
 
 JUST A WOMAN'S NOTION. 51 
 
 by her silence. But she had promised not to 
 write, and could do nothing but keep her promise. 
 The father trusted that he would choose his free 
 dom ; at all events, if he had a repugnance to the 
 woman, he had that door to escape by. A pretty 
 narrow door, to be sure, and none too inviting, 
 but he had it, and he could not complain. 
 
 At last an answer came, curter than the fa 
 ther's, and as business-like. He elected Phoebe and 
 the two thousand dollars and the gardener's cot 
 tage and humble pie generally. It was evident to 
 Mrs. Oittenden that they would never know from 
 him whether he turned his back upon freedom and 
 adventure because of his conscience or bis pride, 
 his love of Phoebe, or his hatred of hard work. To 
 feed himself had not been Barry's idea of happi 
 ness hitherto. He had been so lovingly fed, he had 
 never objected to the process. It now remained 
 to be seen whether his pride would interfere with 
 his digestion, or whether his laziness would uproot 
 his pride. His letter gave no evidence of a pen 
 itent spirit. He desired an early remittance for 
 present expenses ; he did not speak of his mother, 
 and sent no message to his sisters. He took the 
 attitude of an equal with his father ; treated the 
 allowance as his right, and made the whole ar 
 rangement strictly a business one. 
 
 It was part of the compact between the parents 
 that in writing to him henceforth his mother 
 should not allude to the matter otherwise than in
 
 52 PHCEBE. 
 
 its commonplace aspect ; that she should bind no 
 burdens on his conscience, and let him know noth 
 ing of the conflict that he had occasioned them. 
 This was in deference to the father's judgment 
 that she had always enervated him by her sym 
 pathy. It was easy to agree to that, when she was 
 gaining so much more important things ; but it 
 was not so easy to keep to it, when time passed 
 on, and each letter grew colder and shorter, and 
 the distance between them lengthened. 
 
 But she must bide her time. Spring would 
 come, and when they were once more face to face 
 the ice would melt. 
 
 When the letter came announcing his marriage, 
 the fact had to be communicated to his sisters. 
 The young girls held their elder brother in a sort 
 of idolatry. He was their hero ; they had both 
 associated him very intimately, in their secret 
 hearts, with their own future. Lucy was prepared 
 to sacrifice herself to him, if he would accept her, 
 and to live unmarried to serve him and to further 
 in any way the great career which lay before him. 
 Honor, more worldly, dreamed of marrying him 
 to some one of great wealth and beauty. She felt 
 sure the lovely being would have a brother who 
 would be her own fate : they would wander to 
 gether, an ideal quartette, through lands of song 
 and picture, they would build houses side by side, 
 they would roll in wealth, they would exult in 
 all gifts of nature and of fortune. Poor Honor I
 
 JUST A WOMAN'S NOTION. 53 
 
 it was a considerable downfall to have to hear 
 that her brother was already married to a young 
 woman living in a country village, whose name 
 was Phoebe, and who probably "did up " her own 
 collars and cuffs, if not the more bulky portion of 
 the family " wash." Honor was scarlet with shame 
 and disappointment, Lucy white with hurt feeling. 
 There were sore hearts in the house for many 
 days, but "young flesh heals quick." They had 
 been spared, wisely or unwisely, all but the fact 
 that he had marriecf without telling his sisters 
 anything about it. They were at liberty to sup 
 pose that everything but that was as it should be. 
 Lucy healed her heart's wound by reflecting that 
 such absorbed love as would permit him to forget 
 their existence must be heroic. She dedicated 
 herself henceforth to the care of his children, and 
 to the building up of the fortune which he had 
 forgotten, in his haste ; to which practical end, 
 she discontinued two reviews and countermanded 
 an order for some books which she had felt very 
 necessary to her before this new necessity arose. 
 This gave her a sense of having risen to the oc 
 casion, and then things resumed their ordinary 
 course. Honor soon became interested in her 
 preparations for Christmas, and her enthusiasm for 
 her brother being cured, she reconstructed her 
 day-dreams, leaving him out, and was, all things 
 considered, as happy as before. It is always easy 
 to supply vacancies in day-dreams.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WEARY'-FOOT COMMON. 
 
 BUT while the young girls thus happily accom 
 modated themselves to the change in the family, 
 their elders had more difficulty in reconciling them 
 selves to all that it involved. Mr. Crittenden was 
 not a rich man, in any solid sense. His profes 
 sional income was large, but so were his expenses. 
 He had felt that he had many years of good work 
 in him yet, and up to this time he had not taken 
 very heavily the anticipation of the future for his 
 family if those years should be denied him. Now, 
 however, anxiety took hold upon him : he acknowl 
 edged that the easy years past had been unwise. 
 The provision for one family was inadequate, and 
 here was another laid upon him. He refused to be 
 lieve that Barry would ever do anything for him 
 self. Expenses that" before had seemed necessary 
 and justifiable now fretted and galled him. He 
 grew nervous and irritable. The setting off two 
 thousand dollars for Barry's use, and giving up the 
 cottage to him were really inconsiderable sacrifices ; 
 if he had been in his ordinary health and spirits 
 he would not have esteemed them heavy. But ap-
 
 WEARY-FOOT COMMON. 55 
 
 prehension for the future took possession of him. 
 It was not unfounded apprehension ; he should 
 have had it long before. They had spent too 
 much money. The proper provision had not been 
 made for the future ; but that was not Barry's 
 fault, and should not have been laid at his door. 
 The fact was, it had appeared probable to both 
 father and mother that Barry would step into a 
 large fortune that was waiting for him in the hand 
 of a pretty young cousin, who had, with all the 
 rest of the world, seemed entirely devoted to him. 
 They had not talked about it even to each other, 
 nor schemed about it. They were not the sort of 
 people to do that. But in the secret heart of each 
 had been the conviction that after a few years of 
 liberty Barry would settle down to that, and be 
 among the rich men of his day without over-ex 
 ertion of brain or muscle. It changed things so 
 entirely to think of his needing as much 'or more 
 provision than his sisters. The burden grew in 
 tolerable. Men are much more irrational than 
 women when they get off their balance. They 
 seem unable to distinguish between necessary and 
 unnecessary expenses. Economy with Mr. Critten- 
 den became a hair-cloth shirt without grace. The 
 details of the family expenses stuck into him with 
 so many sharp points. Every bill presented 
 opened a chasm of ruin before them. His wife 
 was clear-sighted enough to know that the situa 
 tion was not very seriously changed except in their
 
 56 PHCEBE. 
 
 imaginations ; she felt that the only good in it was 
 that they had come to see, before it was quite too 
 late, that they were living with unwise liberality. 
 It was hard that it should have happened just 
 when the girls were growing up. But what will 
 you ? One is never ready for discipline. Like a 
 wise woman she fitted her neck to the yoke and 
 went on steadily, retrenching, soothing, smoothing, 
 enduring, but not enjoying the process more than 
 another. 
 
 It had been their intention to spend this win 
 ter in the city, to give Honor the advantage of bet 
 ter masters, and to let Lucy have her first glimpse 
 of the gay world. It had been talked of for 
 months, and all the arrangements made. Every 
 ten minutes one or the other of the young girls 
 said something about it in some way. Honor was 
 wearing her old walking-dress, and saving the new 
 one for the city. Lucy was assorting her music, 
 and deciding what books she wanted to take with 
 her ; she was paying her last visits to her poor 
 people, and making out a list of what they would 
 need before she came back to them. It was one 
 of the steps on her new path of discipline that the 
 mother least enjoyed telling these happy young 
 planners that they would have to stay at home 
 and unmake their plans at their leisure. She 
 scarcely knew how to tell them ; she put it off 
 from day to day, and fretted in secret over it. 
 
 " Mamma," said Honor, tapping at her door on
 
 WEARY-FOOT COMMON. 57 
 
 the afternoon of a day on which she had pledged 
 herself to tell them the bad news before night, 
 " mamma, may I come in ? My new habit has just 
 come by express. I put it on for you to see if I 
 don't look very nice in it." 
 
 And, pushing open the door, she stood on the 
 threshold, looking very pretty and very certain of 
 admiration, in a new riding-dress, the sight of 
 which smote the mother with dismay. In the pres 
 sure of recent events, she had forgotten all about 
 this extravagance. A month or so ago, she had 
 taken Honor to be fitted for an expensive habit. 
 The bill ; the uselessness of the dress now, since 
 there could be no saddle-horse bought, and no rid 
 ing-lessons taken ; the child's disappointment ; the 
 pride they had always felt in her graceful riding ; 
 the unlikelihood of her now ever having that in 
 dulgence again during her girlhood, all mixed 
 themselves up bitterly in her thoughts, and she 
 turned sharply away from the sight of the slender 
 girl, who stood with one hand lifting up her skirt, 
 the other holding back the door. She looked 
 so confident of her mother's fond approval. Her 
 habit was perfect. She was high-bred looking, 
 with a slight figure, soft, blonde hair, nez retroussS, 
 delicate coloring. It was the sort of figure and 
 face that belong to high civilization, that demand 
 wealth and costly surroundings, that seem out of 
 keeping with middle-class life. The riding habit 
 had cost enormously, Mrs. Crittenden remem-
 
 58 PH(EDE. 
 
 bered, sharply, the very sum ; but it seemed, even 
 now, as if it belonged to her of right, as if no one 
 would ever dream of ordering anything but the 
 best for that young aristocrat. Thrift, economy, 
 self-denial, none of these fitted Honor. She 
 would be nothing if she had not her right setting, 
 everything if she had. She was a worldly little girl 
 and a self-willed little girl, but infinitely piquant 
 and winning. The mother knew of sincere depths 
 below the glittering surface, and had meant to 
 wait till this all melted in the sun of love. Now 
 she felt it would be crashed and broken by the 
 thwarting of circumstances, and she could not an 
 swer for the consequences. She had meant Honor 
 to have a happy girlhood. It was easier to think of 
 Lucy suffering. Her face contracted with the pain 
 the thought gave her. She had a momentary feel 
 ing of rebellion and anger. Honor started and 
 flushed as her mother turned sharply away. 
 
 " You don't care to see it ? " she said, straight 
 ening herself up, and retreating a step. 
 
 " No, I am busy. I cannot attend to you now." 
 She did not look up ; the door closed. She knew 
 that for the first time in her life one of her chil 
 dren had come to her for sympathy and had not 
 got it. She had shut out poor little Honor, and 
 sent her away wounded and angry. She did not 
 know herself. A great many such surprises await 
 us on our road, at a great many turns of which we 
 do not know ourselves. They prevent monotony
 
 WEARY-FOOT COMMON. 59 
 
 for one thing, and promote humility for another. 
 It abases pride considerably to find that one's 
 cherished perfections are the result of circum 
 stances, of an absence of provocation to be imper 
 fect. What one thought an elevation of principle 
 was merely an elevation of income, forbearance 
 and charity, an unimpaired digestion, indifference 
 to the world, an abundance of its benefits. 
 
 The winter could not fail to be a trying one. 
 Though the young girls took their disappoint 
 ment, in the one case with sweet submission, in 
 the other with stormy but short-lived anger, and 
 though the family life moved on without much per 
 ceptible change, all felt, in one way or another, 
 the darkening of that light that had always shone 
 from the mother's eyes, the break in the serenity 
 that had always made them serene. Indeed, to 
 her the strain at times seemed greater than she 
 could bear. The alienation from her son, the 
 changed future for her daughters, the effect of the 
 disappointment on her husband, were the great 
 things. The little, who can enumerate ? Gloomy 
 weather; overstrained nerves reacting on digestion ; 
 petty economies, that tried pride as well as love of 
 ease; curiosity of friends^ annoyance at her hus 
 band's depression, almost contempt for it ; contin 
 ual vexation at the change in herself, all these 
 things together made her days dark and painful. 
 There was nothing that she could do to appease 
 her restlessness. She could not pour out her love
 
 60 PH(EBE. 
 
 and solicitude in long letters to Barry, of whom 
 she could not help thinking night and day. She 
 could not even, with her hands, fit up and make 
 less miserable the poor little home for him, for till 
 spring it was in possession of the then-to-be-done- 
 without gardener. Her household ways were so 
 well ordered and of so long standing, she could not 
 employ herself much on their adjustment. She 
 was too restless to read with profit, too sad to visit, 
 too sore to bear any companionship. On what was 
 nearest her heart she could not speak to Lucy, for 
 she had kept her in ignorance of it; nor to her 
 husband, for they were not of one mind about it. 
 It certainly was none the better for her that she 
 had to keep it locked up in her own breast. She 
 began by longing for the spring "as they that watch 
 for the morning," and then to dread it, and to fail 
 in her convictions, and to doubt all things, begin 
 ning with herself.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HUMBLE PIE. 
 
 IT was a perfect afternoon in the latter part of 
 May. The garden and grounds had not yet be 
 gun to show the absence of the deposed gardener, 
 for they had all been put in order by " days' work," 
 and were yet trim from the process. The house 
 had been painted the year before, and was darkly 
 olive-green and deeply red where the vines did not 
 hide it. There was certainly no look of pinching 
 poverty about it. It was a charming home, built 
 upon the site of somebody else's perhaps less 
 charming home, and so, rich with old trees and 
 wealthy in vines and shrubs and hedges. The 
 grounds were three or four acres in extent. Other 
 well-appointed homes were near it, but you could 
 not quite look into their windows, and you could 
 not by any means talk from one piazza to another. 
 At the back, the ground sloped down into a sort 
 of ravine. On this slope lay the garden and the 
 stables, and an orchard that had been white and 
 pink with blossoms but a few days ago. Across 
 this ravine you looked over tree-tops to blue hills 
 that rose beyond. It was an old place and a
 
 62 PHCEBE. 
 
 new house, a very comfortable combination. The 
 house had been built some twenty years, but the 
 site was the old homestead of a well-known fam 
 ily, which in his early married life Mr. Crittenden 
 had bought. 
 
 The old house itself had been torn down, but 
 the farmhouse, a very small and inconvenient one, 
 being of rather more recent date, was left stand 
 ing, and had served as a house for the gardener. 
 It stood at one side, quite up against the hedge 
 half-way between the road and the house, and 
 had been rather an eye-sore to Mrs. Crittenden. 
 It was not near enough to the road to be a gate 
 house, and was, besides, too far from the stables, 
 and too much under the nose of visitors and pass 
 ers-by. The gardeners' wives were apt to be care 
 less about potato-parings and tin pans ; their chil 
 dren were sometimes untidy and noisy. It was a 
 standing offense to Barry, who had always wanted 
 it pulled down. But there it had stood, and there 
 it was to-day, the home to which he was bringing 
 his wife. Honor called it " Humble Pie," in a 
 whisper to her sister, which their mother heard 
 with a bitter smile. They did not know half how 
 humble. 
 
 The transforming of Humble Pie from a very 
 shabby Irish shanty into a picturesque cottage had 
 been the occupation of the spring. Very little 
 money was permitted, and very much labor was 
 required. It was a poor little place. The small
 
 HUMBLE PIE. 63 
 
 front door opened into a room which was to serve 
 for dining-room and parlor. It had three win 
 dows, all of different sizes and in undesirable 
 places. A small kitchen adjoined it at one side. 
 A narrow staircase opposite the front door led up 
 from the parlor to the two sleeping-rooms above. 
 These rooms were under the roof, and the ceilings 
 slanted very much, and the windows were small, 
 and the closets could never be anything but musty. 
 There was a loft over the kitchen, which was to be 
 the dormitory of the one servant, though it had up 
 to this time been the dormitory of the rats and the 
 receptacle of old garden tools and obsolete pots 
 and pans. One of the two bedrooms was fitted up 
 for Barry's dressing-room. Dressing-room ! The 
 window was so low, there was not a spot where he 
 could get light enough to shave without going on 
 his knees, or sitting on the floor. There was no 
 place where the press for his clothes could stand 
 save directly behind the door, which consequently 
 would open only a few inches, and which would 
 make it necessary to squeeze in with great com 
 pression of the person. One can squeeze in through 
 a door once, but for a "constancy," as they say 
 in the country ! It was hard to fancy Barry keep 
 ing his temper through this daily ordeal, Barry, 
 the most^ exacting member of a dainty, luxurious, 
 smoothly running household. The architect of 
 this ancient building had not been an advanced 
 ventilationist. There was no accredited way in
 
 64 PHCEBE. 
 
 which the air could get into the sleeping-room, 
 or, having got in, get out. The window was not 
 opposite the door, but modestly behind it ; and it 
 could be raised only a matter of five inches, and a 
 dense growth of evergreens shut it up from with 
 out. The little lobby had no perceptible mode of 
 ventilation save from below, nnd as the stair-door 
 opened into the parlor, and was not ornamental 
 when open, it was safe to say it would generally 
 be shut. " They will both have typhus fever and 
 die," said the mother. The father refused even to 
 go into the house and look at it. 
 
 " He has made his bed, and he will have to lie 
 in it," he said. " If he wants a better house, let 
 him bestir himself and go to work and get it." 
 
 But pretty paper and muslin curtains and a 
 little fresh paint made it quite a delight to the 
 young sisters, who did not care much about venti 
 lation as a principle. The vines outside, and a 
 very inexpensive new porch, and some hoods over 
 the " unthinking " windows, and a coat of paint 
 certainly rendered it not unattractive. Lucy and 
 Honor, with step-ladders and tacks and hammers 
 and spoils from their own rooms had flitted in and 
 out, as happy as nest-building birds. The mother, 
 with anxious eyes, had superintended the " point 
 ing up" of chimneys, the putting in of kitchen 
 shelves, the clearing out of drains. The garrets 
 at home had been ransacked, the upper shelves of 
 china closets overhauled : scarcely anything new
 
 HUMBLE PIE. 65 
 
 was bought,' and yet Humble Pie was comfort 
 ably furnished and a not unpleasant-looking little 
 place. 
 
 What could be unpleasant looking, in this 
 warm, sweet, late May weather ? Fresh shoots 
 from the vines hung about the porch and windows ; 
 the thick screen of evergreens had renewed itself, 
 and was bright to match the season. Not a weed 
 had presumed to obtrude itself on the freshly 
 made path, and the new sod that had been laid 
 to obliterate the gardener's children's foot-prints 
 had become naturalized, and was green and bright. 
 
 It was afternoon when they arrived, Barry and 
 his wife alone (for the little baby, for whose good 
 name so much had -been' sacrificed, had died be 
 fore it saw the light, and had had no need of a 
 name, good or bad, in this or perhaps any other 
 world). His mother had sent away the two young 
 girls, when she heard the whistle of the train 
 sound. The journey had been long, and they 
 would be tired. The meeting would be agitating. 
 It was well the travelers should rest, and see their 
 home by themselves, and come over at seven 
 o'clock to dinner. The mother alone would stay 
 to meet them and give them a word of welcome, 
 and then leave them to the lunch already prepared, 
 and to the inspection of the house, that could not 
 fail to have as much interest to them as to those 
 who had with so much affection made it ready for 
 them. The new servant in the kitchen was ner- 
 
 5
 
 66 PHCEBE. 
 
 vously moving about and glancing out of the win 
 dow. 
 
 Yes, in five minutes they would be here ; in 
 five minutes would come the minute of which 
 the mother had been thinking for, let us say, a 
 hundred thousand minutes, since that November 
 new moon shone through the library window over 
 the left shoulder of pretty, pettish little Honor. 
 She should in five minutes see again her alienated 
 boy, see the face she had never left off seeing day 
 or night since then, and see the dreaded, despised, 
 and all unknown woman who had taken him away 
 from her. Her breath came short and quick : it 
 makes great draughts upon one's strength to re 
 hearse so often the moment which is so slow in 
 coming. How would it be ? Would she be strong 
 enough to conceal any repulsion that she might 
 feel towards her? Would she be self-controlled 
 enough to show just the right tenderness to him, 
 not overwhelming him with that for which per 
 haps he had ceased to care, and not chilling him 
 by a change from the welcome to which he had 
 been accustomed ? One needs to be saint, states 
 man, one needs to be filled with wisdom, human 
 and divine, to be a parent. 
 
 She looked again about the little room. It was 
 all in order : flowers in the pretty vases, dainty 
 china for their first meal on the small square 
 table, pictures and books and ornaments disguis 
 ing the plainness and poverty of the place. The
 
 HUMBLE PIE. 67 
 
 sunshine came in through the fluttering green 
 shadows of the vines outside; the soft muslin cur 
 tains moved faintly with the summer breeze ; 
 there was verbena among the roses and mignon 
 ette on the table, and the odor was delicious. 
 Honor had brought down one of her canaries, 
 among her other welcoming gifts, and it hung in 
 the porch and sang its best to the admiring robins 
 and bluebirds in the trees overhead. But ah, 
 what a home to which to welcome her boy ! It 
 was a cruel travesty of all her ambitions for him. 
 The first-born of the house, the admired young 
 Adonis, the planned-for, speculated-about, carefully 
 educated, exceptionally gifted son, coming home 
 with his bride to the gardener's tumble-down 
 shanty, on the outskirts of his father's not too am 
 ple grounds ! It all seemed a miserable burlesque. 
 Had they been thinking themselves of too much 
 consequence for the past twenty years, and was 
 this the waking up ? Was this the fit beginning 
 for the son they had reared, or was it fit only for 
 him because he had failed to profit by their rear 
 ing ? There are times in our lives when confusion 
 of the elements makes it impossible to take our 
 reckoning, and this was one of those times. The 
 only thing she could hold by was the certainty 
 that when she had made the decision she had 
 done what she thought right , and by that inward 
 compass she must steer and wait the chances, or 
 the providences, or whatever they were.
 
 68 PIICEBE. 
 
 She felt too overstrained to meet the new 
 comers now ; she wished she might put it off. 
 She walked about the room, her cheeks flushed, 
 her lips firm-set. She was a small woman ; in youth 
 she had been very slight, but the after-forty full 
 ness was now rounding her figure, and making 
 her less girlish, but not ungraceful. Her hair was 
 light and waving ; her yes were gray and fine 
 and expressive and rather far apart ; her nose 
 retroussg ; her mouth not small, firm and yet 
 sweet. Her motions were quick, but her man 
 ner composed. She gave you the idea of being 
 younger than she was. Her voice was very sweet, 
 and she had a manner of attention and sympathy 
 which made her much beloved. Withal she seemed 
 to be judging, weighing, even in little things, and 
 yet she was not cold ; she was even impulsive, 
 when she approved her impulses. People thought 
 she probably had n't any impulses which were not 
 to be approved. She was very much looked up to, 
 and for years had known that her opinion was of 
 weight with the persons among whom she moved. 
 Now all this seemed part of the huge mistake in 
 which her life was engulfed. 
 
 There they were ; she heard wheels at the gate, 
 the wheels of one of the shabby hacks. For 
 their carriage was put down, and Honor's pony 
 sold, and the shabby hacks at the depot were all 
 their reliance now. How would Barry relish bring 
 ing his bride home in one of them, home to the 
 gardener's humble shanty ?
 
 HUMBLE PIE. 69 
 
 .As the hack drew up before the little door she 
 went back a moment more to collect herself. She 
 caught sight of Barry as he stepped out of the ve 
 hicle ; she saw him glance quickly and curiously 
 up at the front of the little house, with a contrac 
 tion of the brow. How tall he looked, how broad- 
 sliouldered and handsome. It was more incongru 
 ous than ever to think of him under this low 
 shelter. Then she came forward and stepped 
 upon the porch to meet him : his companion was 
 standing behind him. Barry approached her, and 
 stooped down and kissed her. She did not even 
 meet his eye, in her agitation. She saw that his 
 cheek was a little flushed, and that his hand trem 
 bled slightly, that was all that she could be defi 
 nite about, when, in her own room, she thought 
 the meeting over. She had carried away no im 
 pression of the young wife, save that of a tall, 
 well-formed woman, wearing a dark traveling 
 dress and having a veil tied over her face. Noth 
 ing had been said, save the acceptance of her ex 
 planations and arrangements. She had left them 
 almost the moment after their arrival, and now 
 there was nothing to do but await the hour of 
 dinner, and the beginning of the new life that 
 must be so full of consequences to them all.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE NEW DAUGHTER. 
 
 THE evening was warm, even though it was 
 still May, and at seven o'clock it was much more 
 attractive out of doors than in. The sky was full 
 of lovely tints, scarcely yet to be called sunset 
 ones, and the air sweet with the thousand odors 
 of late springtime. There was a honeysuckle on 
 the piazza that had put out its first faint blossom ; 
 and it was a faith of Lucy's that the green leaves 
 of all the vines gave out a perfume during the 
 first few weeks of their innocent lives. The pi 
 azza was hung with twenty years' growth of vines : 
 Marrowfat was a warm place, and all summer the 
 family lived as much outside as inside the house. 
 There were one or two tables and plenty of bum- 
 boo chairs and lounges on the wide piazza, and 
 brackets and shelves, and generally an afghan or 
 two and some footstools, and a leather screen. 
 When a shower came, there was a rush for the 
 piazza to secure the properties ; but the thick 
 vines made it a tolerably safe place even in a 
 shower. This evening all the windows were wide 
 open, back and front ; the sunset was at the rear,
 
 THE NEW DAUGHTER. 71 
 
 and shone through, and made house and piazza 
 light and warm-colored. Lucy sat with a book 
 on her lap, but it need not be said she did not 
 read. Honor wandered about restlessly ; now go 
 ing into the parlor to glance at her pretty little 
 person in the mirror, now coming out on the 
 piazza and peering through the vines, to see if 
 they were coming. 
 
 " If papa had only got back in the early train," 
 she said for not the first time. "It would have 
 been so much nicer for him to have been here to 
 receive them. But he acts exactly as if he did n't 
 care a straw about their coming. I almost think 
 he had forgotten it." 
 
 Certainly it would have been nicer. It was one 
 of the small contrarieties that darkened his wife's 
 life nowadays that he had not come in his usual 
 train. She only hoped it was not with a purpose. 
 She was a woman who made her little plans and 
 rehearsed her little scenes with a strength of im 
 agination that made their disarrangement a very 
 vital matter. She had hoped they would all be 
 together at the steps to welcome Barry when he 
 first came up them with his new wife. She had 
 thought the father's coldness would be covered by 
 the general movement and distraction. Now the 
 meeting was to be done all by itself, and no one 
 would fail to see just how unwelcome both son and 
 daughter were to him. 
 
 " Here they come," whispered Honor, flitting
 
 72 PHCEBE. 
 
 out from behind the vines. Lucy closed her book 
 with a throb of the heart, and rose. The mother, 
 quite pale, but with a sweet welcoming smile came 
 forward to meet them. They were crossing the 
 lawn, Barry a little in advance, as if he were 
 not thinking of his companion, but were nerving 
 himself for something, which he proposed to get 
 through with as quickly as might be. He was 
 well, even elegantly dressed ; with maternal omnis 
 cience the mother knew that his clothes must be of 
 last year, for he had had no money to get new ones 
 since. There was something about him so above 
 this sort of mean fact. He was comrnandingly well 
 made ; he carried himself with an innocent pomp, 
 an absence of disdain combined with a conviction 
 of supremacy. He was so strikingly handsome 
 that people turned and looked at him, both men 
 and women. It had always been, "your hand 
 some son," " that splendid boy of yours," ever 
 since he wore petticoats. Who could look at him 
 without pride, that had any part in him ? His 
 skin was not dark, rather clear, and with a redness 
 that came and went, but was not in the least ef 
 feminate, any more than the smile which was con 
 tinually glimmering across his face, and which sel 
 dom went entirely out. (It was out now, though, 
 out utterly.) His hair, which had a Boupgon of 
 a wave, was of a bright, lively chestnut, as was 
 his mustache. It was abundant, rich, thickly 
 growing hair, which asserted itself, though kept
 
 THE NEW DAUGHTER. 73 
 
 shortly cropped. Indeed, there, was no suggestion 
 of want of abundance about him : the pity was all 
 the greater that it should exist in his pocket. His 
 eyes were gray, large, and expressive, and with a 
 sort of flame about their glance that one does not 
 look for in gray eyes. They had very dark and 
 long lashes, a part of the amplitude of his tonso- 
 rial endowment. The ready-coming color and the 
 long lashes would have risked the manly appear 
 ance of another, perhaps, but Barry was too tall 
 and too self-asserting and his manliness too pro 
 nounced to be endangered by such trifles. 
 
 At this moment he was pale rather than 
 flushed, however, and the seriousness, almost con 
 straint, of his face struck his young sisters as un 
 natural. The gravity of the occasion began to 
 oppress Honor uncomfortably ; she scarcely dared 
 to look at her new sister. Did people always feel 
 like this when they had been getting married? 
 Barry stooped and kissed his mother, who came 
 half-way down the steps to meet him. 
 
 "And Phoebe? " she said, with a tender smile, 
 going down another step and putting her hands 
 out to the young woman, who was still standing 
 on the ground at the foot of them. This position 
 brought her a little above the level of the head of 
 the new-comer, who was as unusually tall as she 
 was unusually short. She kissed her almost on an 
 equality, and then, keeping her hand, led her up 
 the steps towards the two girls who, having hur-
 
 74 PH(EBE. 
 
 riedly greeted their brother, stood shyly awaiting 
 her. Phcebe tripped slightly on the middle step. 
 
 " Oh why did you trip ! " cried Honor, involun 
 tarily. " It 's bad luck." 
 
 " I 'm sure I hope not," murmured Phoebe, al 
 most inaudibly. 
 
 " These are your new sisters," said Mrs. Crit- 
 tenden. " And this one, I need n't say, is the su 
 perstitious one. You must try and cure her." 
 
 Phoebe did not look as if she had a mission to 
 cure any one of anything : she looked as if she had 
 all she could do to get through the ordeal and 
 cure herself of the desire to run away, though she 
 did not impress her young sisters with anything 
 but an appearance of stiffness and reserve. They 
 kissed her and led her to a seat on the piazza, and 
 sat down beside her, and covertly looked at her 
 while they talked to her. 
 
 Phoebe was a person you could not well help 
 looking at any more than at Barry, for, like him, 
 she was notably handsome, though without the 
 finish of good dressing and easy bearing. Not that 
 her bearing would not have been easy on her na 
 tive hills, or among her own people ; but it takes 
 a pretty stout easiness of bearing to stand up 
 against the first meeting with your husband's rela 
 tions, particularly when they look at you covertly 
 when they talk to yon, and have reason to. 
 
 She was, as has been said, very tall, and rather 
 fuller and finer than it is the fashion to be nowa-
 
 THE NEW DAUGHTER. 75 
 
 days. But she was quite capable of making a fash 
 ion for herself. She was a beauty. Her shoulders 
 were well shaped, her head well set upon them. 
 Though she wore an abominable shiny black silk 
 dress, which fitted with home-made smoothness 
 and total want of style, you could see there was 
 no fault to be found with her figure. You had 
 faith in the perfection of the arms you did not 
 see, thanks to the odious, ill-made sleeves, and to 
 the purity and roundness of the throat that had 
 a stiff linen collar close about it, fastened with a 
 big brooch, which had a good many quirls and 
 turns of chased, cheap-looking gold. She was 
 large, if that is any objection, but large cor 
 rectly, in proportions that satisfied you. You 
 knew that she would move well, with a certain 
 full grace, when she was at ease, and not being 
 looked at by her husband's relations. Her skin 
 was clear, and her cheeks and lips had a warm 
 color. Her rich brown hair grew low on her fore 
 head and waved without assistance. It was as 
 badly arranged as might be, for the ingSnue style 
 had not reached Maiden, and the maidens and 
 matrons of that neighborhood still wore fortresses 
 of hair on the tops of their heads. It was easy to 
 see, however, that Phoebe had, so 'much that she 
 could, when enlightened, dress it in any style de 
 manded. Her nose was straight, and her mouth, 
 while not fuller than everything else about her, 
 was certainly not indicative of undue sternness of
 
 76 PHCEBE. 
 
 purpose or a lack of physical life. But it was 
 sweet and well formed ; the indentation of the 
 upper lip was deep, and her slow, infrequent smile 
 brought out a look of innocence. Her eyes were 
 large, and brown, and soft. They were appealing 
 and affectionate, like the eyes of a setter dog. 
 She was evidently rather a silent person, whether 
 from shyness, or from a natural disinclination or 
 inability to communicate with her fellow beings, it 
 was not easy at once to see. While Barry was 
 standing by his mother near the steps, and the 
 others were sitting down a short way from them, 
 a hack drove in at the gate. 
 
 "It is your father," said Mrs. Crittenden, a little 
 nervously, looking at her watch. Barry, perhaps 
 from nervousness as well, moved away from the 
 steps and joined his sisters. 
 
 44 Papa is late," remarked Lucy. 
 
 4 ' Why does he come in that old thing ? " asked 
 Barry. 
 
 " Oh, don't you know," cried Honor, " that 
 we 've given up the carriage ? " 
 
 "What for? In consequence of your getting 
 to be a young lady ? " 
 
 44 Why, no ; more in consequence of your get 
 ting to be a married man ! Don't you know 
 economy is the order of the day ? " 
 
 44 A very disagreeable order," muttered her 
 brother, the color coming into his face. It had 
 not receded, nor his brow smoothed, before the
 
 THE NEW DAUGHTER. 77 
 
 hack stopped at the steps and was battered open 
 by Mr. Crittenden from within, who emerged, 
 tired and rather pale. He did not look at once 
 up to the piazza, but turned and gave the man 
 some directions, and then opened the dilapidated 
 carriage door again, and searched about for some 
 thing he had left. If Mrs. Crittenden had not 
 engaged with herself at an early age not to pull 
 the wires of her male puppets, she would have 
 said, " Barry, go down and meet your father and 
 take his bag." 
 
 She trembled with the eagerness that she felt 
 to say it ; but she was a wise woman, and forbore. 
 Barry did not go ; very likely would not have gone 
 if he had been asked. He stood with a contracted 
 brow, looking across the. lawn till his father came 
 up the steps. 
 
 " How do you do?" asked the latter, after speak 
 ing to his wife, reaching out his hand to him in 
 a matter-of-fact way. 
 
 "Phcebe," Barry said, stepping back, after he 
 had dropped the perfunctory hand, " this is my 
 father." 
 
 " Ah," said Mr. Crittenden, looking towards 
 the group, from which Phoebe made an uncertain 
 slow step forward. " This is your wife ? How 
 do you do ? " 
 
 And he put out his hand. It seems probable 
 that during a critical instant he debated with him 
 self whether to kiss her or not. If that were so,
 
 78 PHCEBE. 
 
 he decided in the negative, and let go the hand 
 he held without any further advance or welcome. 
 The girl became slowly very white, and drew 
 back to her place behind the two young daughters, 
 who in their turn were greeted without effusion by 
 their father, and kissed him lightly. Lucy ran 
 forward and took his bag, and, as usual, went up 
 with him to the door of his dressing-room. 
 
 Dinner was a little stiff ; it could not have been 
 otherwise. But Honor's vivacity was unfailing. 
 She liked events, and this was an event of mag 
 nitude. She was too young to read between the 
 lines of her elders' forced talk, and not imagina 
 tive in the way that Lucy was, who was making 
 a volume of romance out of every change of color 
 in the young stranger's face. She simply found it 
 delightful to have had a marriage in the family, 
 and it was a treat to see a bride, even if one of 
 six months' standing, and such a very odd one. It 
 was a break in the monotony of the home life. 
 For the winter had been dull, and the spring had 
 been worse, and summer was not yet on its feet. 
 At sixteen one likes things to happen. Honor 
 was watching always for something to happen. 
 This taste of hers was quite a boon to the family 
 on that evening, as one person in very sincere 
 good spirits must be to a tableful of doubtful or 
 depressed ones. Before the meal was over, life 
 looked a little more possible to one or two of the 
 party, and a little more promising to one or two
 
 THE NEW DAUGHTER. 79 
 
 others. Honor's lively chatter brought again be 
 fore Barry's eyes the old life, and recalled his in 
 terest in trifles long forgotten. A good dinner 
 warmed his blood ; it was something to bask again 
 in the sunshine of civilization. Lucy always con 
 sented to be happy if others would be so. The 
 mother felt the long strain on her heart relax a 
 little. The father, unconsciously to himself, was 
 relieved that the first step was taken, and promised 
 himself that the succeeding ones should not affect 
 him equally. The tie of blood was imperceptibly 
 asserting its magic force. The young alien felt 
 them drawing together, and knew herself an alien. 
 When they were leaving the dinner table, 
 
 "After all," said Honor, "it's very generous in 
 me to be glad to have Phoebe here, for she 's not 
 becoming to me. Don't you see ? She makes me 
 look little, and thin, and poor. Lucy does better 
 beside her, she 's taller than I am, and is n't put 
 out completely : she makes rather a nice contrast, 
 with her light hair. But I, I 'm blown out ; 
 there is n't a flicker left. Phoebe looks like a 
 great Jacqueminot rose, and I like a piece of white 
 clover, a little browned at the edges." 
 
 " I should n't have called you a field flower, ex 
 actly," remarked her brother, touching the scarf 
 of her delicately embroidered French cashmere. 
 " This looks more like Solomon in all his glory." 
 
 "Don't you think it's nice?" asked Honor, 
 drawing back a step and looking over her shoulder
 
 80 PHCEBE. 
 
 with a complacent vanity. " It 's a French dress 
 mamma ordered for me last fall ; and it did n't 
 get here till Christmas. It was to have been my 
 nice dress all winter, but as we did n't go to town 
 it will do for my nice dress all the spring and 
 fall. Don't you see ? I 'm getting very thrifty. 
 I have n't worn it once. I would n't waste it on 
 Marrowfat in the winter. But this was such a 
 great occasion." 
 
 " We feel it," said Barry, briefly. He could 
 have wished she would n't talk about the family 
 economies so much. They went back to the 
 piazza for a while, as the evening was so warm. 
 The sky was still bright with the sunset tints. 
 Lucy went down the steps and picked some flow 
 ers, which she gave to Phoebe, who held them as if 
 she did n't know what to do with them. 
 
 " She does n't like flowers, I 'm afraid," thought 
 Lucy, with a sinking of the heart. What did 
 she like ? Evidently not clear soup and lobster 
 pate's and salads and meringues, for she had left 
 them successively almost untasted on her plate, 
 and would n't have taken them at all except for 
 a look from Barry. She did not appear to like 
 pretty rooms and wide piazzas, for she did not look 
 at them with any interest. And it was to be 
 doubted whether she liked her new relations very 
 much, for she was very irresponsive to all their 
 graceful advances. 
 
 And how did they like her ? The mother
 
 THE NEW DAUGHTER. 81 
 
 looked at her affectionate, dumb-pleading eyes, 
 and forgave her, and almost loved her. The fa 
 ther took in at a glance her unusual beauty, and 
 his heart hardened towards her, and softened to 
 wards the son who had been led away by it. 
 Certainly there was excuse for Barry. We don't 
 love the splendid horse that has thrown and killed 
 some one dear to us, nor the fine dog who man 
 gled our pet, nor the keen blade that made such 
 a quick end of our friend. Their individual per 
 fections do not render the sight of them any less 
 painful to us ; rather, more. 
 
 Lucy watched covertly the constrained, unde 
 monstrative manners of the new-comer, her pas 
 sive grasp of the nosegay that she gave her, her 
 unsuggestive answers, the little interchange of 
 glance and word between her and Barry; and 
 Lucy was perplexed and somewhat downcast, 
 poor Lucy, with her dreams and her small experi 
 ence. 
 
 And Honor looked at the ill-made black silk 
 and the flamboyant breast-pin, and wondered, 
 wondered till she almost forgot to talk. 
 
 Mr. Crittenden had wandered away to look at 
 the garden, after dinner ; his wife had hoped Barry 
 would go with him, but he showed no such inten 
 tion. So they all sat on the piazza watching the 
 fading sky, and drank their coffee when it was 
 brought out to them. There were many things to 
 tell Barry. He would not ask questions, but it 
 6
 
 82 PIKEBE. 
 
 was plain he was interested in this and that, and 
 Honor had a sprightly way of imparting gossip 
 that her brother had always rather approved. 
 
 " And Tartar 's coming to-morrow. Did you 
 know that ? " 
 
 " My cousin Tartar ! You don't tell me so ! " 
 cried Barry, getting up and walking across the 
 piazza with his hands in his pockets, evidently 
 much interested. " It 's a great many months 
 since I 've heard a word of Tartar. How is she 
 getting on ? Is she engaged or anything ? " 
 
 " Ah, no, Barry," said his mother, with a soft 
 sigh. " Tartar is n't engaged. You know you 
 did n't expect to hear that." 
 
 " Upon my word, I don't know why not. I did 
 n't ' expect ' anything about it, if I must tell the 
 truth." 
 
 " Tartar is a dear girl," she said, in the same 
 tone. " I shall be glad to see her again." 
 
 " I 'm sure you won't be gladder than I." 
 
 Barry stood leaning against a pillar of the 
 piazza before them in an easy, graceful attitude, 
 his face quite lighted up with interest in these 
 things, all new to Phoebe. Though she had never 
 heard Tartar's name before, she knew the whole 
 story in a moment, the mother's soft sigh, his sud 
 den awakening. She had vaguely known that 
 there was some one who had been intended for 
 him. It was this cousin, then, that they had meant 
 him to marry, this cousin who was coming to 
 morrow.
 
 THE NEW DAUGHTER. 83 
 
 " You know she 's been ill. We have n't seen 
 her since before the holidays," said Honor. " She 
 went South early in January. Everybody was 
 frightened about her. She had pneumonia, and 
 it left her with such an ugly cough." 
 
 "I had n't heard of it," said Barry, dryly. It 
 seemed his interest did not abate, though he did 
 not ask Honor to go on. 
 
 " We went to town to see her just before she 
 sailed. She was so thin, her hand seemed like 
 nothing, only it was so hot. And she talked, 
 talked, every minute we were there. Lucy and I 
 simply did n't say a word." 
 
 " Tartar never was what you 'd call reticent," 
 Barry said, with a little laugh, bending over his 
 cigar, in which he was cutting with a very sharp 
 knife a very small incision. 
 
 " Why do you laugh, Barry ? " asked Lucy, with 
 a hurt expression. 
 
 " Would you have me cry ? I take it she 's 
 better, since she's come back from the South and 
 is expected here to-morrow." 
 
 " She is better, but she was very ill. You ought 
 to be ashamed for making light of it, when you 
 and she were such friends," said Honor. 
 
 " I 'm showing my feeling by being glad that 
 she 's well, not by being sorry that she was n't." 
 
 "Ah, much feeling you show!" cried Honor. 
 He certainly did not look much moved. Phoebe 
 knew it was passing through his mind that in De-
 
 84 PHOEBE. 
 
 cember the news of his marriage had been made 
 public. She tried to think whether it would please 
 her to hear that any man had been made ill by the 
 news that she was married (always provided of 
 course that he had got well again before she heard 
 he had been ill). It hardly seemed to her it would 
 have given her much pleasure ; but she could not 
 tell, it might. And then one must make allow 
 ance for a man : men are so different from women 
 about such things. 
 
 " Her Aunt David went with her, as usual, 
 though she had to be carried on the steamer, stiff 
 with rheumatism. But she was so frightened 
 about Tartar's cough she would n't let her go 
 without her, and now she won't let her out of her 
 sight. She 's coming up with her to-morrow. I 'm 
 afraid Tartar '11 never have her liberty again." 
 
 " There might be worse things than having 
 Aunt David as a permanent attachment. And 
 have they got an apartment ? Where are they 
 living?" 
 
 " At a hotel. They feel that Tartar won't be 
 able to spend her winters at the North any more, 
 and so they have given up their apartment, and 
 are floating population." 
 
 " Talk about liberty ! There 's liberty for a 
 young woman : the world before her, and nobody 
 in it belonging to her but one old woman, who 
 does just as she tells her to ; and more money than 
 she knows what to do with. If she can't be happy, 
 who can ? "
 
 THE NEW DAUGHTER. 85 
 
 " You forget," said Lucy, " that liberty is n't 
 all women want." 
 
 " They generally think it 's that they want as 
 soon as they have got husbands." 
 
 "And Peyton Edwards is coming up, too, to 
 morrow. I thought you 'd be glad to see him," 
 added Mrs. Crittenden. " It 's so long since he 's 
 been here, I feared he had forgotten us ; but last 
 week I got a note from him, from which I inferred 
 he would be glad to come. So I wrote him that 
 you would be home, and he must come to-mor 
 row." 
 
 " He waited till the mud was dried up," cried 
 Honor, with fine scorn. " Barry, nobody 's been 
 here all winter, literally nobody. I shall know 
 now who are to be counted on." 
 
 " That 's unreasonable, Honor," said Lucy, ear 
 nestly. " There was nothing going on ; we did 
 n't ask anybody. You could n't expect to have 
 young men coming here in winter, when Barry 
 was n't home, without being asked." 
 
 " You'll see ; they won't wait to be asked now 
 it 's pleasant weather ; they '11 remind us of their 
 existence, as Peyton did." 
 
 " Poor old Peyton," excMmed Barry, with a 
 laugh ; " he 's the last person you 'd accuse of be 
 ing a fair-weather friend." 
 
 " Or of angling for an invitation," said his 
 mother, with a smile. 
 
 u Poor old Peyton, indeed ! He 's about two
 
 86 PIICEBE. 
 
 years older than you are, Barry. He may be poor, 
 but he won't be long, the way he works and the 
 way he does n't waste his money ! He 's the kind 
 that everybody calls reliable, steady-going, and that 
 sort of thing ; but for all that, I say he is n't any 
 better friend than any of the others. You know 
 yourself, mamma, you 've wondered that he has n't 
 come all winter." 
 
 " Oh, well, that will be explained some time, my 
 child. Trust your friends." 
 
 " If you 've got any to trust ! Barry, did you 
 write to him and tell him about about your 
 getting married ? " asked Honor. 
 
 " No," said her brother, shortly. 
 
 " Perhaps it 's that. You ought to have written 
 to him, the most intimate friend you 've got." 
 
 It became more and more apparent that a young 
 and enthusiastic person, who has not been told all 
 the truth, is a very uncomfortable member of a 
 divided family circle.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 TARTAR. 
 
 THAT night, when Phoebe went up to her room, 
 she walked thoughtfully to her glass and looked 
 in it. 
 
 " Why did n't he tell me they did n't wear 
 pins ? " she said to herself, pulling out the great 
 gold brooch and thrusting it out of sight in an 
 open drawer. There was something in the gesture 
 that showed vehemence of feeling, vehemence, 
 but not haste, as if the fire had been kindled some 
 time ago, and had just now ripened into a steady 
 blaze. Now that her new relations were not look 
 ing at her, Phoebe moved without constraint, and 
 with a sort of concentrated purpose. She took off 
 the black silk, which she had learned to hate, and 
 put on a white wrapper, and sat down on her trunk, 
 with the waist of the dress in her hand, and 
 pondered deeply. Not a detail of the costume of 
 her slender young sisters-in-law had escaped her. 
 She exaggerated the defects of her own, and 
 thought of herself as an unwieldy monster, and of 
 the black silk as a disfiguring abomination. Pres 
 ently she took a pair of scissors and rapidly ripped
 
 88 PHCEBE. 
 
 up the sleeves ; then she tore off the tight little 
 band around the neck, and cut half an inch or so 
 of the shoulder seams. She gave a sigh as she 
 thought of the anxious care with which those 
 stitches had been put in, not many weeks ago, she 
 and her mother and Amanda Whittemore giving 
 their nights and days to them. How much more 
 she knew now, now that she had been three hours 
 in company with French dresses ! If she were only 
 back there at home, with the clatter of Amanda's 
 machine, and the simmer of the tea-kettle on the 
 stove, and her mother's tired voice in her ear ! She 
 smothered the homesick throb, there was no time 
 now to be homesick ; she must bend her whole 
 mind to reconstructing the black silk before to 
 morrow night. It must be tied back, she said, 
 shaking out the skirt, tied back in two places, 
 and some of the fullness taken out of the back. 
 What had Amanda been thinking of! She had 
 made her a " figure of fun." Then she had a happy 
 thought. She went into the depths of her trunk 
 and drew out some lace, soft and pretty, and quite 
 presentable in these imitation days. She had 
 bought it of a dreadful woman who went about the 
 country with a big basket covered with oilskin, 
 and perjured herself many times a day for twenty 
 cents a yard, at every farmhouse. Phoebe un 
 wound it and shook it out. She turned up the 
 sleeves of her dress to the elbow, basted the silk 
 ruffles around them, and then put a double row of
 
 TARTAR. 89 
 
 lace below. She looked with satisfaction on her 
 naked arm and wrist. She turned back the front 
 of the dress, with its vile satin buttons out of sight, 
 and pulled the lace around her neck, in the form 
 of a fichu that Lucy had worn. Yes, that was it, 
 she had it ; and she gave a sigh of relief. She put 
 all the things away in the trunk, lest Barry should 
 come up and see them ; and then she shook down 
 lier beautiful hair and brushed it out, standing be 
 fore the glass and knitting her brows as she 
 thought of the difference between her forehead 
 and Lucy's. 
 
 " I can't look like Lucy," she reflected, " but I 
 can wear my hair down in my neck." 
 
 She certainly could wear her hair low in her 
 neck. It went into that formula with soft docility. 
 It was the most "biddable" hair, like a fine poetic 
 nature with no resistance in it. It fell down in a 
 coil around Phcebe's arm as she took out the comb, 
 and with an instinct of caress she raised her arm 
 and laid it against her cheek. It was the sort of 
 hair you wanted to touch, and smooth, and lay 
 against your cheek. 
 
 Yes, she certainly could wear her hair twisted 
 in the back of her neck, like Lucy's. That was 
 demonstrated, and still deep in thought she began 
 to get ready for bed. Deep in thought, indeed ; it 
 seemed as if she were being swallowed up in a 
 flood of new thoughts, impressions, fears. She had 
 the intuitive courage of youth, and her want of ex-
 
 90 PHCEBE. 
 
 perience was in her favor, as experience of failure 
 is not inspiriting. She was so alone, she was at 
 such a disadvantage ; she dared not guess with 
 what eyes these people looked upon her. And her 
 ignorance ! from the forms at their table and the 
 fashions of their dress to the sentiments of their 
 hearts and the religion of their souls, she was in 
 an ignorance the most profound. She dared not 
 ask Barry ; she did not want him to know she did 
 not know. She could only gaze, guess, apprehend 
 with every sense, study with her whole being, put 
 every faculty into the silent work. She was per 
 ceptive, she was young; she had the keen surface 
 intelligence of our countrywomen, and the habits 
 of mind fostered by the common-school system. 
 She had conquered the beetles and bugs of the 
 Holy Land. She would conquer the spoons and 
 forks of this higher civilization. She was self-re 
 liant because her nature was deep, and because in 
 it lay purposes and an experience that weighted it 
 beyond the wont of natures of her age. Her lone 
 liness was only comparative now. She had never 
 been used to confidences with her mother, and she 
 had outgrown her few school friends and been sep 
 arated from them since she left the illustrious seat 
 of learning where she had perfected herself in the 
 higher mathematics, and attained distinction in 
 chemistry and mental philosophy. As they said, 
 she had not been " a great hand " for intimacies, 
 and her little home had been rather smaller than
 
 TARTAR. 91 
 
 any of theirs, and much, remoter; and after her 
 distinguished success in graduating at the head of 
 her class, she had rather sunk out of sight of her 
 companions, and been only a tradition in the high 
 school town, for the year that had succeeded. It 
 was not new to her to feel alone, and not unnat 
 ural. All the same, in this strange land, she 
 longed, with a tight feeling in her throat, for the 
 sight of her mother's anxious face ; for the sound 
 of Amanda Whittemove's shrill chirrup, for the 
 thump of the dog's tail on the bare kitchen floor ; 
 something that was not new ; something that had 
 grown familiar in long, easy years ; something, 
 just some one thing, that would not shock and 
 make her think ; something that she could look at 
 or listen to, not speak to. It was not a necessity 
 to her to speak, happily. 
 
 The next evening, at seven, when the two 
 crossed the lawn on their way to the parental din 
 ner, Phrebe was a little in advance of her compan 
 ion. 
 
 " What have you done to your dress ? " he said. 
 " Has Honor been teaching you how to get your 
 self up ? " 
 
 Honor, indeed ! thought Phoebe ; but she only 
 said No ; she had n't seen Honor since the night 
 before. 
 
 " Well, then, you 've done it very well by your 
 self." 
 
 She certainly had. The soft lace subdued the
 
 92 PH(EBE. 
 
 shiny black silk, and her white throat and beauti 
 ful arms made one forget the offensiveness of it. 
 At her belt, just where she had seen Lucy put her 
 bouquet, she wore a bunch of splendid red roses. 
 The change in the arrangement of her hair made a 
 marked improvement in her appearance. 
 
 Barry repeated in a tone of complacency, " By 
 Jove, you've hit it exactly." 
 
 When a lover admires, it is adulation, homage, 
 he offers ; when a husband approves, it is a mere 
 expression of complacency. The approvable qual 
 ities belong to him ; he feels that a demonstra 
 tion of satisfaction is but one remove from ego 
 tism. It is all right, of course, but it is not quite 
 so pleasant. Phoebe gave a little inaudible sigh to 
 the memory of a happy past, and then accepted 
 meekly her husband's approbation. It was better 
 than his disapprobation, at least. At first she 
 had felt, rebelliously, that it was worse; but she 
 was not an unreasonable woman, and she was 
 making use of all her powers to fit herself into 
 her place and to be reconciled to it. Mental phi 
 losophy and the higher mathematics had helped 
 her : she had cause to be thankful that all that 
 stimulates the imagination had been left out of 
 the arid curriculum of the Brixton High School. 
 
 She certainly had reason to be glad that she had 
 passed muster, as they walked across the lawn into 
 the very jaws of criticism, seated in solid ante- 
 dinner phalanx on the piazza. Barry's com men-
 
 TARTAR. 93 
 
 elation, though it had chilled at first, like a cold 
 bath, invigorated her courage and sent a warm 
 glow through her as a secondary effect. The eyes 
 of her rival should not daunt her, since Barry 
 had said she had "hit it exactly." 
 
 The rival, the rival's aunt, Mr. Peyton Edwards, 
 and her father-in-law had all arrived in an earlier 
 train than the one in which the latter had coine 
 the evening before, and had been driven up in a 
 superior carriage that had doubtless been ordered 
 from a livery stable to do honor to the guests. 
 As they had passed the cottage, there had been an 
 eager looking out. Barry had taken a holiday, as 
 he was not to go into business life at the office 
 till the next day. He had been loafing about all 
 day, unpacking his pipes and his books, rather 
 enjoying his discoveries about the little domain, 
 planning improvements and talking over ways and 
 means. The dread of the meeting was over, every 
 thing had proved so much better than he had an 
 ticipated, the getting home had been so pleasant 
 in many ways, that he had had a very contented 
 feeling. The day had been fine, even warmer 
 than yesterday, and it was bliss to be alive, and he 
 was young besides. When that superior carriage 
 passed, he was sitting in the little porch, in a 
 very loaferly attitude, smoking. He had forgot 
 ten it was time for them to arrive. He had forgot 
 ten that visitors must come sometimes, and come 
 awkwardly near his poor little door, and look in-
 
 94 PH(EBE. 
 
 quisitively in at his poor little -windows. He had 
 thought about it often enough, all winter long, 
 but he had spent a whole day, the world forget 
 ting, in a sunshiny, simple content, in which the 
 instincts of new home-making were entwined with 
 the memories of old home-loving. The rumble of 
 those wheels broke the charm. He started up and 
 returned the greeting of the new-comers very 
 gayly, but Phoebe from the window saw the dark 
 flush and contraction of the brow that succeeded. 
 He came hurriedly into the house and said it was 
 time to dress for dinner. During the hour that 
 followed, he found everything wrong : the dress 
 ing-room door, the low window, the unutterable 
 stupidity of Mary Ann. How well Phoebe, though 
 the high school had not stimulated her imagina 
 tion, knew why the house had that moment grown 
 too small, the lot to which he had bound himself 
 too oppressively obscure! His cousin Tartar, with 
 her golden coins all jingling, had passed by. Dis 
 content had fluttered noiselessly in at the open 
 windows on little stinging wings, and when would 
 there again be peace at Humble Pie ? 
 
 But when they were dressed and both of them 
 out in the calm summer afternoon, Barry re 
 covered himself a little. It always mended his 
 mood to be well washed and well dressed. He 
 felt his empire when he was point device. Noth 
 ing ruffled him like being shabby and dusty. And 
 it was especially soothing to him that Phoebe
 
 TARTAR. 95 
 
 looked so handsome. Handsome was a poor word ; 
 it was not the word that fitted at all ; it was stiff, 
 and wooden, and red-cheeked, and middle class. 
 You could not call her regal, with eyes so affec 
 tionate and appealing ; nor splendid, in her thin 
 black silk and imitation lace ; nor magnificent, 
 with her silent, half-frightened manners ; nor spir 
 itual, with all that wealth of flesh-and-blood per 
 fection (as flesh-and-blood perfection is consid 
 ered to be incompatible with spiritual perfection). 
 Beautiful is a word that like manna has a flavor to 
 each man of what he likes best. Perhaps each of 
 those who watched her come across the lawn and 
 approach the piazza thought, each in his or her 
 own way, How beautiful she is, after all! Aunt 
 David put up her glass to her elderly eyes, and 
 made the comment sharply sotto voce, nodding 
 her head as she did it. Mr. Crittenden, his head 
 a little bent down, looked out at her from under 
 his dark brows, and in his mind emphasized the 
 adjective which he had overheard. Peyton Ed 
 wards moved aside as she came up the steps, and 
 his eyes followed her with something like wonder. 
 Honor had been telling Tartar about the black 
 silk, and Lucy had been looking deep reproach 
 at her for her disloyalty. Tartar almost caught 
 her breath, with surprise, shall we say ? as 
 this singularly beautiful young woman entered 
 upon the scene. 
 
 She went through the introductions tolerably
 
 96 PHCEBE. 
 
 well ; that is, she did not color, or stammer, or put 
 out her hand in the wrong place. She grew 
 rather pale, and did not do much but drop her 
 eyes and move her lips quite in;iudibly as she was 
 presented to each person. It certainly would have 
 been better if she had bent her head a little, but 
 she seemed to have forgotten about that, or did 
 not know. Aunt David insisted on shaking hands 
 with her, so she had to look up for an instant dur 
 ing that ceremony. 
 
 She saw a thin old woman, with a great many 
 wrinkles and a very bright eye. 
 
 " I 've alwayth felt ath if Barry were ray own 
 thon," she said, holding Phoebe's irresponsive 
 hand for a moment. " I hope you '11 let me feel 
 that I have thorn thiare in you." 
 
 Phoebe looked again furtively. She did not 
 make up her mind on the instant whether she was 
 prepared to say Aunt David was welcome to a 
 share in her or not. Aunt David was very in 
 teresting. She was distinguished - looking ; you 
 could see people always wanted to listen to her, 
 though she spoke with such a funny lisp, and liked 
 to look at her, though she was twisted with rheu 
 matism and wrinkled with age and yellow with 
 years of conflict with an ungrateful liver. The in 
 definable flavor of beauty hung round its ruins ; no 
 lack of physical completeness could take from her 
 the power to attract and please. She had been a 
 clever young woman, and she was a clever old
 
 TARTAR. 97 
 
 woman, with a fire and force of will that made it 
 self still felt. 
 
 The meeting between her and Barry was very 
 warm. She took both his hands, and they had so 
 much to say to each other that he seemed almost to 
 have forgotten Tartar, who had spoken to Phoebe, 
 and was waiting to speak to him. At last he 
 turned to her; probably he had not forgotten her, 
 after all. She was evidently a little embarrassed, 
 but she did not fail to cloak it with a sharp little 
 flow of sarcasms, for which her sobriquet would 
 have prepared a stranger. Her name was Sarah, 
 but she had been called Tartar from her child 
 hood, which had been a very tempestuous and 
 spoiled one, under the guardianship of her Aunt 
 David, who had as sharp a tongue as she. Aunt 
 David publicly said she was the worst child in 
 the United States ; but as she seemed to love 
 her better than any other child in the world, it 
 was rather offering a premium on badness. Aunt 
 David was strong-willed, but Tartar was stronger- 
 willed. With great frankness, they quarreled in 
 public as much as in private. Tartar openly be 
 moaned her bad temper, but set it down to inherit 
 ance, as if it had been rheumatism. Aunt David 
 was very worldly, and acknowledged it. Probably 
 they were both better than they chose to admit. 
 Tartar's temper was not unpleasant, and Aunt 
 David had a good deal of heart, notwithstanding 
 her worldliness. 
 7
 
 98 PH(EBE. 
 
 Tartar was rather taller than Lucy ; not of 
 course so tall as Phoebe. She was dark, with blue- 
 black hair and flashing black eyes, a low forehead, 
 a thin, tolerably well-formed nose, deep dimples, a 
 fine mouth, a little too large, and teeth so white 
 that, in conjunction with the dimples and the 
 eyes, a smile had the effect of a sudden display of 
 fireworks, it was so sudden and dazzling. She 
 was decidedly thin, eminently well dressed. 
 
 Phcebe watched her furtively as Barry, after a 
 moment's welcome of Peyton Edwards, turned 
 back to her and began a low talk with her. She 
 stood by a pillar of the piazza, with the vines at 
 her back, slender, supple, aristocratic-looking, her 
 thin, small brown hands opening and shutting, 
 but not shai'ply, a fan that hung from her waist, 
 her very tiny and well-shod feet visible below her 
 short dress, one crossed before the other. There 
 was such a well-trained look about her, you 
 could not imagine her not having done everything 
 before. 
 
 Phcebe could not hear what Barry was saying 
 to her. (One hopes, of course, that she did not 
 want to hear.) He had an excellent manner with 
 women ; it must have been native, for no one re 
 membered when he did not have it. There was 
 something between a caress and a supplication 
 in his tones. While he did not show any lack of 
 self-confidence, on the contrary, his acts were 
 all based upon it, that quality was not at all
 
 TARTAR. 99 
 
 brought to the front ; it was used as a base, 
 nothing more. Mistaken men, who allow it to 
 appear above ground ! He possibly had a chival 
 rous regard for women (also native), and he acted 
 out its dictates with a tentative sort of amuse 
 ment. He was never tired of the success of his 
 experiments ; they were a continual source of in- 
 nocen't enjoyment to him. It was delightful to 
 him to awaken Aunt David's enthusiasm ; it was 
 equally charming to him to know that the two 
 young ladies whose tickets he had picked up in 
 the cars yesterday would thrill at the thought of 
 the adventure for a week. What could be more 
 harmless, more amiable ? It was surely adding 
 to the sum of human happiness. One ought to 
 use one's gifts. If a person has a knack at fas 
 cination, it must be the right thing to fascinate, 
 within bounds. 
 
 Phrebe was not quite prepared for the devel 
 opment of this talent in her husband. She had 
 naturally been gratified at his popularity with her 
 mother and Amanda Whittemore. He had not 
 been thrown into any other female society in Mai 
 den. As he was equally a hero in the eyes of Joe, 
 the " hired man," she had simply concluded that 
 he was perfect, and that every one of both sexes 
 must know it, sooner or later Experiences were 
 multiplying upon her, and she did not know dis 
 tinctly what she was to think about anything. 
 Probably she had a look upon her face that in-
 
 100 PIHEBE. 
 
 dicated this frame of mind, for Lucy and her 
 mother both came towards her, with the object of 
 making her feel more at home and happy. 
 
 Now Phoebe was fatally quick in some of her 
 intuitions, and she instantly divined their purpose. 
 She was not obstinately bent on feeling unhappy 
 and not at home, but she did not find the con 
 dition removed by the consciousness that they 
 were making this amiable effort to remove it. 
 Lucy did not dare to try the flowers again, having 
 found that her new sister did not respond the 
 night before. She also had a misgiving that they 
 would not have read the same books, that in lit 
 erature they had not any common ground. The 
 little search in her mind for something to talk 
 about made itself apparent in a want of ease and 
 sympathy of manner. Whatever it was she talked 
 about, it had, so far, led to nothing but " I don't 
 know," and " I had n't ever thought about it." 
 Lucy looked so discouraged that her mother, who 
 had taken a seat on the other side of Phoebe, 
 and who was disguising her intent and anxious 
 listening by great attention to a piece of embroid 
 ery in her hand, came to the rescue by asking 
 some question about the little menage. Did 
 Phoebe think that she could get along with Mary 
 Ann, by having some one in to wash ? 
 
 Now to Phoebe Mary Ann herself was an un 
 precedented luxury. What could she need of a 
 woman in to wash ? What radical difference was
 
 TARTAR. 101 
 
 there between the keeping of a little house in 
 Maiden and the keeping of a little house in Mar 
 rowfat ? What did these people expect her to 
 do ? She answered in much confusion that she 
 did n't want a woman in to wash, she thought. 
 
 " Perhaps you may need her just at first," said 
 the mother, " before Mary Ann gets quite accus 
 tomed to her work. I am afraid she is very inex 
 perienced. But you and Barry will always come 
 over here for your dinner, and that will make it 
 lighter for her." 
 
 " Oh, I 'm sure we shan't have to do that, 
 ma'am." 
 
 The prospect of an endless chain of dinners 
 like to-day and yesterday took away her breath 
 and startled her quite out of her confusion and 
 embarrassment. She spoke with a sincere depre 
 cation there was no mistaking. The mother smoth 
 ered a sigh as she saw the chagrin and apprehen 
 sion on her face. She could fancy Barry would 
 not prize the tete-a-tete dinners cooked by Mary 
 Ann as much as she would. She had hoped they 
 as a family would not be so terrible to her ; but 
 she had no one to thank for it but herself. She 
 thought of the poor bewildered, despairing mother 
 in her limp crape veil and shabby black dress, 
 making her way across the lawn in that November 
 rain. No wonder her daughter felt she was in an 
 enemy's country. 
 
 The way did not look very clear to Mrs. Grit-
 
 102 PHCEBE. 
 
 tenden as she bent her head over her embroidery. 
 All around her there was the sound of voices, 
 easy, merry, such as she had been used to hearing 
 in the happy times that were past. The piazza 
 looked like the old life. One could have imagined 
 it last summer, but for the silent daughter-in-law 
 at her elbow, whom Lucy was taxing her ingenuity 
 to entertain. Barry bending toward his gypsy- 
 dark cousin with his manner of devotion looked 
 like last summer : the picture of the two figures 
 had always given her keen satisfaction before, 
 and now it was with such a pang she looked at 
 them. Whichever way she turned, whatever she 
 saw, there came one thought. It was like a long 
 song with one termination to each verse. Have I 
 done right ? 
 
 Peyton and Honor were talking to each other. 
 Mr. Crittenden was listening to Aunt David with 
 a half-absent smile, occasionally his eyes wander 
 ing to the pair standing by the vine-clad pillar. 
 The declining sunshine shone across the piazza 
 from the west ; the soft air was full of the faint 
 twitter of birds and the faint perfume of flowers 
 and leaves not yet matured. The shadows on the 
 lawn were making the rich, pure green of the new 
 grass beautiful where the sunshine struck it. The 
 external peacefulness and beauty of her home had 
 never seemed greater to her than at that moment. 
 But for the presence of the girl beside her, the in 
 ternal peacefulness and beauty might have been
 
 TARTAR. 103 
 
 as great, it seemed to her. Had she done right ? 
 Ah well, nothing could put them back to where 
 they were last June. It was useless to recall the 
 past. If Phoebe were not here in bodily presence, 
 there would be an intangible sin that would inter 
 fere as much, perhaps, with the internal calm. But 
 it is difficult, in all moods, to credit the intangible 
 with its full power. 
 
 This Phoebe was a nightmare. Why was she 
 here ? If she were not, all their contented pleas 
 ant dreams would have seemed in the way of ful 
 fillment. Had they done right ? She never could 
 divest herself of the feeling that she was accounta 
 ble for the marriage, and she alone. Without his 
 father's aid and permission Barry simply could not 
 have married, and she had no clew to the part his 
 wishes and his conscience had had in the matter. 
 Since she had seen the girl, she could imagine he 
 would have regretted parting from her ; but there 
 had been nothing in his manner towards her to in 
 dicate any such devotion as would render easy the 
 sacrifice of all his prospects of success. This epi 
 sode of her son's life was a sealed book to her : 
 about it she could only speculate. The part she 
 had played in it lay heavy at her heart. It is 
 hard that our convictions which are strong enough 
 to bear us into action have a way of balking and 
 weakening and turning coward when we are fairly 
 in the field. Now, when the consciousness of duty 
 fulfilled should have made her strong and helped
 
 104 PIKEBE. 
 
 her to overcome difficulties, she found her moral 
 forces in a panic. She would have given a great 
 deal to have seen Barry's marriage in the light in 
 which she had seen it during that week when she 
 gave her husband no rest till he had consented to 
 / nake it possible. 
 
 " Mamma," said Lucy across the speechless 
 Phoebe, " don't you find Peyton looking thin ? It 
 seems to me he has altered. He must have been 
 working hard." 
 
 " Let us call him here and ask him," said her 
 mother, laying her embroidery on her knee, and 
 giving up the problem of making Phoabe talk. 
 "Peyton, Lucy thinks you have been overwork 
 ing," she said, raising her voice. 
 
 Peyton came across the piazza and stood before 
 them. Honor followed, for they were all on the 
 most intimate footing, and if Peyton was not a 
 cousin he ought to have been, for the frank affection 
 they all felt for him. He and Tartar and Barry 
 had been playmates from childhood. Lucy had 
 been a little younger, and not quite of the camara 
 derie, while Honor had been the baby and play 
 thing of them all. Peyton was as tall as Barry, 
 . but not as well filled out. He was not thin, ex 
 actly ; muscular, probably. His shoulders were a 
 little squarer than most men's, and he gave one the. 
 impression of awkwardness ; but he was not awk 
 ward, at least if awkwardness means want of ease. 
 He was easy. He had no trouble about the dispo-
 
 TARTAR. 105 
 
 sition of his limbs. He moved well enough. It 
 was chiefly when one compared him to Barry that 
 he gave the impression of being wanting in grace. 
 He was not, either, a handsome man. His hair 
 was a light, very light, brown ; he had been one of 
 those tow-headed, freckled, little-nosed, blue-eyed 
 boys, of whom one wonders that anybody but 
 their mothers know them, there are so many of 
 them in every school and in every town and vil 
 lage. One is moved to admire the quality of 
 indefeasible individuality that belongs to all the 
 works of creation, that they are so known. What 
 made Peyton Edwards to differ from his many 
 little similar fellows it would have been difficult 
 to say. He did not shine in anything ; he was 
 generally to be found in the middle of his class, 
 not by any chance to be mistaken for the head or 
 the foot ; he was not especially anything but him 
 self. But he was himself, and people that knew 
 him well, liked him, and people that did not, did 
 not think much about him. He was the Fidus 
 Achates of Barry Crittenden. Mrs. Crittenden, 
 who speculated a great deal about her children's 
 preferences, decided it must be because he was of 
 a neutral tint, which suited the gorgeous efflores 
 cence of Barry, as a gay clump of hollyhocks 
 would choose, if they could be asked, a gray stone 
 wall for a background. It was possible she under 
 rated him. She had a kind interest in him; but 
 how could any one, used to the contemplation of
 
 106 PH(EBE. 
 
 Barry, see anything more than qualities to inspire 
 a kind interest, in him ? It was the habit of the 
 family to speak of Barry's affection for him as 
 something which reflected great credit on his (Bar 
 ry's) kindness of heart. His devotion to Barry 
 explained itself. 
 
 The contrast between the freckled little com 
 monplace and the young Adonis had decreased 
 somewhat as the years went on. The freckles 
 had disappeared and given place to a decent tan ; 
 the sinewy urchin had lengthened out into a mus 
 cular, if not graceful, youth. His hair was not 
 quite so sandy, and his mustache not a bad color. 
 His blue eyes had always been nice in expression, 
 even to those who thought they looked like every 
 body else's blue eyes. His nose partook of the 
 general neutrality of his features. If questioned 
 about it five minutes after parting with him, you 
 would not have been able to give any satisfactory 
 account of it. His mouth, what one could divine 
 of it under his mustache, was good, and his chin by 
 no means lacked firmness. He was silent but he 
 was not stupid, withdrawing but not hanging back, 
 shy but not shamefaced. 
 
 When he came across the piazza, in consequence 
 of Mrs. Crittenden's observation about his over 
 working, he stood by the railing before her with 
 out embarrassment, though with no bravado, and 
 answered the personal remark very simply. 
 
 "No, Mrs. Crittenden," he said, " I don't think
 
 TARTAR. 107 
 
 I Ve been overworking, but I should have been if 
 I 'd done any more. It does n't hurt you, you 
 know, up to a certain point. I think I've learned 
 just where the point is, and I always stop this side 
 of it." 
 
 " Does Barry know? " said Honor. " You ought 
 to drive in a stake and not let him go beyond. 
 He might injure himself. He begins going to the 
 office to-morrow, and we don't want him broken 
 down." 
 
 And then they laughed, as if Barry's laziness 
 were a classic jest in the family. Phoebe reddened. 
 She knew it was unreasonable that his own mother 
 and sisters should not be at liberty to make jokes 
 about him; but it was horrid to feel anybody 
 could do it. Till now she had known more of him 
 than any one else ; now she seemed to know less, 
 and have less right. Peyton saw the color spread 
 over her beautiful face, upon which he was looking 
 down. 
 
 " Barry '11 work hard enough now, you need n't 
 be afraid," he said, and then he turned the talk 
 away from the matter. Presently Phoebe looked 
 up, actually looked up into his face, and anon said 
 something of her own accord. It was the very 
 smallest observation, a mere bubble in the ice of 
 silence, but it gave Mrs. Crittenden a world of en 
 couragement. 
 
 " These two silent people understand each other," 
 she thought. " We are too diffuse, and drown out 
 their faint possibilities."
 
 108 PHCEBE. 
 
 She based upon this a re-arrangement of the 
 dinner-table. Peyton sat by Phcebe, and Barry 
 took Tartar in. It certainly was a good distribu 
 tion, and helped the poor country girl very much. 
 She needed help. What with their strange things 
 to eat and their strange ways of eating them, the 
 freedom and familiarity of their manners with her 
 husband, the strained and anxious character of 
 their manners with her, her natural reserve, her 
 unavoidable ignorance, her heaviness of heart, her 
 consciousness of blame, it is surely quite apparent 
 that she needed help. It was undeniable help to 
 sit by one who would have been nearly as silent 
 as herself if they had left him alone, and who un 
 doubtedly understood how silent people felt. He 
 took care of her, too, in little ways that he could 
 not have done if he had been busy in talking the 
 strange nonsense about strange people that occu 
 pied the others. A dismal certainty was creeping 
 over Phoebe, a certainty that she should never be 
 at home here, that she was more out of place even 
 than she had feared. She felt so dull. Her small 
 powers seemed to be shrinking into nothing. The 
 talk at the table no doubt was bright and viva 
 cious, but nothing more ; the easy chat of well-bred 
 people who know each other intimately and have 
 a hundred points of common interest. She did not 
 know the names even of those they talked about. 
 She could not understand the allusions they made. 
 The language they spoke was not the language of
 
 TARTAR. 109 
 
 Maiden, nor yet of high school Brixton. Her 
 heart ached, or rather it was numb. A deadly 
 sort of homesickness filled her for a home to which 
 she did not want to go. When she had come 
 away from Maiden, it was with a feeling of shak 
 ing the dust off her feet. The events of the past 
 few months had embittered her recollection of 
 home. Companions and neighbors of her whole 
 life had stood aloof in her time of trouble ; bitter 
 and sweet were bound up in her memories of the 
 little hamlet, but the bitter were stronger than 
 the sweet, and she could not turn to them with 
 comfort in this dreary time. 
 
 She was so afraid some one would see she could 
 not eat. Peyton saw, but she did not mind him, 
 and her mother-in-law, but she did not say any 
 thing. 
 
 There were two windows towards the west, in 
 the room, arid the pink sky shed through them a 
 lovely light. Through the south windows came 
 glimpses of the orchard, and the tree-tops in the 
 ravine, and the blue hills beyond. The table, to 
 Phoebe unfamiliar with the details of such service, 
 looked glittering and gay, and almost magnificent. 
 The odors of the wine, the flowers, and the un 
 known dishes made it seem to her like a feast of 
 royalty. In plain fact, it was a nice little well- 
 served dinner, for which Lucy had decanted a bot 
 tle of her father's best sherry which had considera 
 ble bouquet, in honor of Aunt David, and for which
 
 110 PIHEBE. 
 
 she had gathered her prettiest flowers in honor of 
 her dearest Barry's coming back to them once more. 
 If it was a feast of royalty, it was the inner kind, 
 the royalty of high natures and pure affections. 
 But whatever it was, Phoebe felt it was not her 
 place to sit at it. She looked across, when she 
 dared, to Barry, to see if he had no look or word to 
 help her with. But how could he help her ? There 
 was Tartar on one side and Aunt David on the 
 other, and such a fire of pleasantry to be answered 
 as left him no moment for her. Honor was on her 
 side of the table beyond Peyton. She was in a 
 very saucy inood, and was not sparing any one, 
 except Phoabe, whom she had forgotten, probably. 
 Even the father, careworn and severe, had a re 
 laxed though half-cynical smile on his face. Tar 
 tar was a great favorite with him. The half of 
 the smile that was genuine was due to his pleasure 
 that she was their guest, the half that was cyn 
 ical, to the fact that she could never be anything 
 else. He had recently been growing a great re 
 spect for wealth, an unwholesome crop that is 
 pretty sure to spring up after a devastating finan 
 cial trouble. It was surely something to be cyn 
 ical about, to have let a clever, handsome girl, 
 with half a million, slip through one's fingers, and 
 to have brought up instead such a lifeless, heavy 
 piece of flesh and blood as he was obliged to rec 
 ognize as his son's wife. They had been a pack 
 of fools. He could not even look at her, but
 
 TARTAR. Ill 
 
 turned his eyes away, and watched Barry and his 
 cousin instead. Barry had a little flush on his 
 cheek ; he was merry, and his delicious mirth-pro 
 voking laugh interlarded the conversation liberally. 
 
 " Barry hath n't forgotten how to laugh," said 
 Aunt David. Aunt David liked the little dinner ; 
 it was thoroughly good. She liked the best sherry 
 and the flowers ; she liked the company. She even 
 had an eye for the rose-flushed sky and the good 
 view from the south windows. She was very well 
 suited with her surroundings ; and if she had a 
 regret for the alliance rendered impossible by the 
 presence of the passive bride opposite, she had the 
 good sense not to show it. There was no cynicism 
 apparent in the flattering, almost fond attention 
 which she lavished on Barry. 
 
 " He hath n't forgotten how to laugh," she said. 
 "My dear," to Phoebe, "doeth he alwayth laugh 
 like that, even when you are by your two 
 thelveth?" 
 
 Phoebe looked up, and tried to answer steadily ; 
 it was the first word she had been required to say 
 in public, as it were, for every one was listening 
 now, and her monosyllables to Peyton had not 
 counted before. 
 
 " Yes, I believe lie does mostly, ma'am." 
 
 What was it in these very simple words that 
 made Barry redden, that made Tartar suddenly 
 bend over and begin to crumb into fragments the 
 bread beside her plate, that plainly disconcerted
 
 112 riKEBE. 
 
 Lucy, and made Aunt David press her thin lips 
 together involuntarily, and begin vehemently to 
 talk about something else? Phoebe wondered. 
 She ran over the sentence in her mind : she parsed 
 it by the best Brixton method, she scanned it, she 
 turned it inside out, she tried to divine any hidden 
 meaning. She knew it did not sound like Tartar, 
 or Lucy, or Honor. Wherein lay the difference ? 
 It was right, but it was wrong ; perhaps it was 
 mostly, perhaps it was that wretched ma'am. 
 She remembered with a sort of faintness that she 
 had never heard any one but the servants say 
 ma'am here. Her face grew red as she sat, with 
 downcast eyes, thinking it over. Why had n't 
 Barry told her ? But then he could n't tell her 
 everything. He should n't mind such a little 
 thing, but he did mind ; she could see that. She 
 spent the rest of dinner planning what she would 
 say to him when they should be alone ; how she 
 would tell him he need n't be afraid, she 'd never 
 say ma'am again to any of his people, not even to 
 his greatest grandmother. Phoebe could be pas 
 sionate, sarcastic, everything, in her imaginary 
 speeches, with all the greater freedom that she 
 knew she never would get them said in real fact. 
 When she came to wanting to say them, some 
 mysterious power raised the drawbridge of speech, 
 and she was left spell-bound, a moat of silence 
 round her. 
 
 It certainly had sounded provincial, that meek
 
 TARTAR. 113 
 
 little answer of Phoebe's to Aunt David. It was 
 not to be denied that besides the offensive ma'am 
 and undesirable mostly there was an intonation 
 faint, it is true, but defined that marked the dis 
 tance between Brixton and the great city. Her 
 voice was so sweet that the ear once familiar with 
 the accent forgot it as anything offensive. Barry 
 had been used to it for so many months, he had 
 forgotten the offense ; hearing, in fact, no speech 
 that differed from it except in degree of provin 
 cialism. But now, with Tartar's fine, clear tones 
 in his ear, with the subtly different voices of edu 
 cated people all around him, he heard it, and he 
 reddened. He was not to blame for that. No 
 body walks the earth who has kept himself from 
 reddening by an effort of the will. 
 
 When they were once away from the table, she 
 breathed freer. It was something to be out of 
 range of the eyes of that terrible old woman and 
 that no less terrible young one. Her immediate 
 relatives became almost friends in comparison. She 
 knew they did not want her laughed at, for their 
 own sakes. She did not believe they would per 
 mit any disrespect in speaking of her ; hard and 
 unloving as she believed the parents of her hus 
 band to be towards her, she knew they would in a 
 sense protect her against the world. It was there 
 fore not with a fear that she was to be discussed 
 that she saw Mr. Crittenden go down the steps 
 with Tartar and turn in the direction of the gar- 
 8
 
 114 PH(EBE. 
 
 den. The young lady had put her hand through 
 her guardian's arm ; he laid his own over it in a 
 caressing manner, unusual with him even with his 
 own children. It was quite understood in the fam 
 ily that Tartar was in high favor with him. He 
 was now taking her away to see his vegetables, in 
 which interest she was very sympathetic. Pey 
 ton did not leave Phoabe. They sat down on the 
 piazza. Presently Aunt David and Barry wan 
 dered away in the direction of the garden, too. 
 The old lady leaned upon him confidently. She 
 was talking constantly, and Barry was laughing 
 and animated. Lucy was playing a symphony of 
 Beethoven in the twilight of the library. Honor 
 fed her cats under a snow-ball bush which had 
 been their dining-room for many seasons. Her 
 mother gave audience to a departing seamstress at 
 the other end of the piazza. 
 
 "Shan't we walk to the gate?" said Peyton, 
 who had seen a longing look towards the little 
 cottage on his companion's face. She had in fact 
 been feeling she would fly there if she dared ; she 
 was homesick and unhappy, and that was her only 
 shelter. It was something to walk past it, and 
 she got up to go with him. Peyton looked about 
 him, as they reached the path, with an affection 
 ate familiarity. The soft evening light made 
 the cottage rather indistinct through the trees, 
 whereas in the day it was only too apparent. 
 Mary Ann's dish-cloths were always in distinct
 
 TARTAR. 
 
 view from the piazza, and an indiscreet saucepan 
 set out to cool would be a picture from the par 
 lor window. With different degrees of bitterness, 
 these anticipated trials had been dwelt upon in 
 the silent minds of the mistress of the big house 
 and the mistress of the cottage. But " dewy 
 eve her curtain draws over the world's turmoil." 
 The cottage looked dim, bowery, picturesque, in 
 capable of dish-cloths and sauce-pans. Peyton 
 told Phoebe, as they walked slowly along the car 
 riage road, that he believed he knew every inch of 
 the inclosure, and could draw a map of every tree 
 and shrub, and every angle of the fence. He 
 showed her where Barry and he had their rabbit 
 hutch, where they built their snow-forts, and 
 pointed out where the coasting was in winter and 
 where the little tents in summer. Phoebe liked to 
 hear the story of her husband's boyhood from 
 Peyton ; she was willing that he should have 
 known him before she did. 
 
 They went to the gate and looked up and down 
 the road, and then sauntered slowly back. As 
 they neared the cottage, coming upon it from its 
 parlor end, where it looked best, Peyton glanced 
 with interest towards it, and said, how they had 
 changed it, how pretty it was. 
 
 " Won't you go in and look at it ? " she asked, 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 He was very glad to go, and they went in to 
 the little porch. It was very dim there, and
 
 116 PHCEBE. 
 
 they stumbled a little, getting inside the door. 
 There Peyton stood, leaning against the post, 
 while Phoabe sought the matches and made a light. 
 He watched her while she carried the candle, with 
 its pale light, to the table where the lamp stood. 
 Her movements were graceful and free here on 
 her own ground. The light sprang up warmly 
 under her touch, and the pretty little room seemed 
 anything but despicable to Peyton, with such a 
 Juno as its permanent endowment. He came in, 
 and they went around the room, moving chairs 
 and tables judiciously to be able to do it, and ex 
 amined the little ornaments, and the mirror frame 
 that Lucy had painted, and the lambrequin that 
 Honor had worked. They both looked pretty 
 large for the room when they were standing up, 
 but soon they sat down, and did the rest of their 
 talking at a better advantage. It was a good 
 while before Peyton glanced up at the clock and 
 said he did n't know it was so late. Did n't she 
 think they ought to go back now ? A cloud came 
 over her face at once, and the stiff, embarrassed 
 speech returned. 
 
 " I don't think I need go back," she said, not 
 moving. Peyton looked troubled. 
 
 " They they '11 expect you." 
 
 " I don't think it '11 make any difference," she 
 returned. 
 
 " I know, of course, you 're one of them," he 
 said. " I should think that is, if one can feel so
 
 TARTAR. 117 
 
 about people that are not really one's own that 
 you will be very much attached to them in a 
 little while. I 've been here so much, ever since 
 I was a little shaver, I feel as if I knew them in 
 side and out." 
 
 Phoebe did not offer any opposition, neither did 
 she seem to acquiesce. 
 
 The trouble on Peyton's face did not pass away. 
 " I 've always thought," he said, slowly, " that Mrs. 
 Crittenden was the best woman in the world." 
 
 Still Phoebe did not answer, but sat looking 
 down, passing slowly backward and forward over 
 the lap of her dress a spray of honeysuckle that 
 she held in her hand. 
 
 "She's always just," he said, "and that isn't 
 an every-day thing, you know. She has a good 
 judgment like a man, and yet a soft heart like a 
 woman." Phoebe probably thought of the dom 
 iciliary visit of the poor widow from Maiden, for 
 her lips grew tight and her forehead a trifle 
 creased. Peyton saw he was not making a good 
 thing of it. 
 
 " I suppose she 's reserved," he said, "not one 
 of those women that take an interest in every 
 body ; but once your friend always your friend. 
 I think she would help any one she meant well to, 
 consistently, in great matters and small, to the 
 end of her life. I think consistency is a great 
 thing, don't you ? So few people are consistent 
 all the way through ; it takes a great deal more
 
 118 PHCEBE. 
 
 character than to be anything else ; you use up so 
 much in qualities that ai - e n't generally noticed." 
 
 " Very likely," said Phoebe, not absent-mind 
 edly, but absent-heartedly. 
 
 "It's difficult to say why you think different 
 people will like each other," said Peyton, awk 
 wardly, getting up, with his head very near the 
 ceiling, "but I felt sure, from the moment I saw 
 you, that you and Mrs. Crittenden would be good 
 friends. You know Barry is like a brother to me, 
 and I could n't wish him better luck than to have 
 his mother and his wife get on together." 
 
 The paths of diplomacy are very thorny, espe 
 cially in their earlier stages. This was Peyton's 
 first essay in social finesse, and he had no reason 
 to feel elated with his success. He felt very hot 
 and embarrassed, as he went out into the dark 
 alone and remembered what he had said. He was 
 afraid he had been more than questionably im 
 pertinent : what possible right had he to force his 
 advice upon this unhappy girl, whose dignity 
 touched him instead of chilling him? He could 
 not explain to himself what had moved him to 
 speak, when in every other situation in life he 
 would have kept silence. But the feeling had 
 been too strong for him ; even now he felt that, if 
 it were to be done over again, he would do the 
 same. He saw the trouble the poor young wife 
 was in, and the rescue that was held out to her. 
 How could he make her see and take hold of the
 
 TARTAR. 119 
 
 rope that was within her reach ? It would have 
 been impossible for him to speak to Mrs. Critten- 
 den ; it would be equally impossible for him to 
 speak to Barry. Why it was possible for him to 
 speak to Phoebe was one of those mysteries that 
 one has to accept, and not solve, in the matter of 
 reticent natures. When one thinks of the varied 
 forms of misunderstanding that are possible in a 
 world peopled with such varied tempers, tempera 
 ments, whims, wills, concealments, prejudices, and 
 perplexities, it seems amazing, not that there is so 
 much discord, but that there is anything else. It 
 is difficult to decide whether the outspoken people 
 or the inarticulate people contribute most to the 
 general misunderstanding. 
 
 Peyton walked up and down in the shrubbery 
 several minutes before he could get sufficiently 
 over the sense of oppression that these thoughts 
 suggested, to go into the house. He must let them 
 go their way, he supposed, but it was a bad job. 
 He only wondered that anybody lived in peace, 
 since there are so many bad people in the world ; 
 what must be their condition, when these good 
 ones seemed to have such difficulty in coming to 
 an understanding ! 
 
 Phosbe's reflections were not so general in their 
 character, but even more oppressive. After Pey 
 ton went away, she moved restlessly about the 
 small premises for a little while ; then, with a wise 
 instinct to seek employment as a defense against
 
 120 PIKE BE. 
 
 bad thoughts, went groping her way up the nar 
 row stairs. There was a little work-basket in a 
 corner, which she found without a light. There 
 was comfort even in the touch of it. It was 
 hidden work, no one had ever seen it, not even 
 Barry ; but into those little garments she stitched 
 her teeming thoughts. Sore and bitter ones had 
 given way many times as she bent over the pretty 
 cambric ; so, with this charm in her hand, she 
 went down the crabbed little stairs again. As 
 she laid her hand on the latch of the stair door to 
 push it open, she heard voices, and looking through 
 the crack she saw Tartar and Barry standing on 
 the threshold. 
 
 " Come in," said Barry, preceding her. 
 
 " It is irregular," returned Tartar, hesitating. 
 " I should n't come till Mrs. Barry is here to re 
 ceive me." 
 
 " Nonsense," cried Barry, a little annoyed. 
 " Country people, in our position, do not stand on 
 etiquette." 
 
 " Don't say anything more like that," said Tar 
 tar, rather seriously. " Do you know, it sounds 
 bitter." 
 
 But still she did not cross the sill that divided 
 the parlor from the porch, and only looked cu 
 riously into the lighted little room. 
 
 " Overcome your scruples'," exclaimed Barry, 
 taking her hand ; " it is n't the first time you and 
 I have been in this room together."
 
 TARTAR. 121 
 
 " No," she cried, with a merry laugh, following 
 him. "Do you remember the day we brought 
 the duck's eggs to Mrs. Flanigan, and got her to 
 let us make an omelet on the cooking-stove that 
 stood there ? And oh, what a smell of soap-suds 
 and cabbage ! The windows were covered with 
 steam, and the room was furiously hot. I shall 
 never forget how ill I felt, and how the dreadful 
 stuff she gave us to fry the omelet in flew over 
 on the stove, and added to the bouquet." 
 
 " Yes," said Barry, laughing. " You got so 
 white that I was dreadfully frightened, and took 
 you out." 
 
 " And rubbed snow in my face, to revive me." 
 
 " No, by Jupiter, that I deny ! Nothing so un- 
 gallant." 
 
 " I remember the snow distinctly." 
 
 "Well, then, it was Peyton who did it. It 
 sounds like Peyton." 
 
 " Oh, Peyton ! " cried Tartar, with an almost 
 imperceptible chill of manner. " Peyton would n't 
 have seen that I was white. Besides, he wasn't 
 with us that day. He had gone back to school 
 that morning ; I remember it distinctly. You 
 had two days' longer holiday." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Barry, with a sigh. " Those were 
 happy days, Tartar. I wonder if life will offer 
 us anything better." 
 
 " Than duck omelet and Mrs. Flanigan ? Oh, 
 I hope so."
 
 122 PH&BE. 
 
 " Ah, come," said Barry, with the touch of sen 
 timent that one must always expect when men 
 speak of their boyhood, " you can't make me be 
 lieve you don't sometimes remember those times 
 Avith regret." 
 
 " I don't want to make you believe anything 
 of the kind. Of course /regret them, already in 
 the spinster sere and yellow ; but for you, in your 
 honeymoon, as it were, oh, fie ! " 
 
 Phoebe did not hear what answer Barry made 
 to this ; it was rather low, and was interrupted 
 by Tartar's sudden movement to investigate the 
 changes in the room. 
 
 " This surely is new," she said, " this funny 
 little window in the corner." 
 
 " No ; don't you remember Mrs. Flanigan used 
 to keep her milk-pans outside? We borrowed 
 one without permission once, on some occasion, to 
 tie on Major's tail. It got a good deal damaged, 
 and I think the rupture between Mr. Flanigan 
 and his master was mainly due to the little mis 
 understanding which resulted." 
 
 " I remember ! I remember ! " cried Tartar, 
 with a peal of laughter. " Oh, Barry, to think of 
 your living in Flanigan's cottage ! " 
 
 " Yes, to think of it," said Barry, with a frown, 
 walking up and down the very small space that 
 there was to walk up and down in, in that room. 
 " Time's changes, Tartar." 
 
 " Ah, well," said Tartar, mockingly, " it might
 
 TARTAR. 123 
 
 be worse. You might have had Flanigan's dinner 
 as well as Flanigan's house to eat it in. Now I 'm 
 sure Mrs. Phoebe does n't give you cabbage." 
 
 " Nor duck omelet," said Barry, stiffly. 
 " No, nor duck omelet, as I did. So, you see, 
 your fate might have been worse. Ah, now I 
 like that little fireplace. Whose idea was it 
 putting those shelves above ? Honor's, I 'm sure. 
 Honor is such a clever little thing. Why, I really 
 think I almost like Flanigan's parlor. It's the 
 drollest little place. Barry, tell me one thing 
 candidly " 
 
 But Barry's candor was never put to the test, 
 for outside the door came a reproving voice : 
 
 " Tartar ! you here ! How doth it happen ? 
 Ith the Mithreth of the houth at home ? " 
 
 " No, aunt ; this is irregular. Barry made me 
 come in." 
 
 " Then I will make you come out." 
 
 "Ah, who ever made Tartar do anything?" 
 said Mr. Crittenden, advancing across the thresh 
 old. But Aunt David refused to follow him, say 
 ing she would not enter the cottage till its young 
 mistress was at home to receive her. Mr. Crit 
 tenden gave a curious glance around, and silently 
 followed her without entering further. Tartar 
 pouted a little, and said they must go, notwith 
 standing the protestations of Barry, who would 
 have detained her. And so their voices died 
 away down the road. Aunt David was tired with
 
 124 PHCEEE. 
 
 her long walk through the vegetable gardens and 
 around the grounds. The quartette who had 
 started out to look at cauliflower and beans went 
 slowly back, having seen some other things per 
 haps as entertaining. 
 
 Pho3be pushed open the door, after they had 
 gone, with her work in her hands, and a burning 
 color on her cheek. She sat down by the lamp, 
 and worked a full hour before her husband's step 
 crossed the little porch. 
 
 "How long have you been at home?" he said. 
 " When I went to find you, just now, Peyton said 
 he 'd left you here." 
 
 Evidently he had not been frightened about 
 her, which was no doubt what she had been hoping 
 during the hour she had been waiting for him. 
 What woman is above hoping her husband may 
 get frightened about her ? Desirable as confidence 
 is, solicitude is more subtly flattering. Phoebe ex- 
 plainea the circumstances of her return in a voice 
 of which the tremor was not perceptible. Then 
 Barry threw himself into a chair by the window, 
 and smoked, but did not talk. By and by he 
 tossed his cigar away, and sat gazing out into the 
 darkness ; after a while, he got up and said it was 
 bedtime, and he was tired, and, without further 
 amplification, made his way up the narrow little 
 staircase to his room.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MARROWFAT. 
 
 FOR two or three Sundays after their arrival in 
 Marrowfat, Phoebe found many good reasons for 
 not going to church, the principal, but least prom 
 inently mentioned, being that she had not any 
 summer bonnet. Going to church had never been 
 a well-defined duty in her mind. She had got 
 farther and farther from it as she grew up. Log 
 ically, she could not see why she might not as 
 well read a good book at home, when she had no 
 nice bonnet to go in. Since edification was all 
 that she had been instructed to look for, she felt 
 she found it better in a chapter or two of the 
 " Saint's Rest," in old brown calf and yellow 
 pages with long s's, than in the diluted platitudes 
 of the worthy minister of the Congregational 
 meeting-house at Maiden. The brethren who 
 found their way to that remote village were not 
 generally of high cultivation or keen intellect. 
 The sanctuary in winter smelled of hot iron, and 
 made her head ache, and in summer glared with 
 white paint, and produced the same effect. When 
 she had her new clothes and the weather was fine, 
 it was very nice to go and see how they compared
 
 126 PH(EBE. 
 
 with other people's ; when she had not, it was not 
 clear to her why she might not stop at home 
 without offense. This was a great sorrow to her 
 mother, who was not logical. She considered it 
 your duty to hear a sermon once a week, whether 
 you had a good bonnet or not. If it did not do 
 you any good, it was your own fault ; it ought to 
 do you good, and The Sermon was not to blame. 
 Preaching she looked upon as a sort of eighth 
 sacrament; one might almost say a unique sacra 
 ment. Phoebe, with a very earnest desire always 
 to do right, but with that unfortunate turn for 
 logical correctness which she must have inherited 
 from her father (since her mother did not even 
 know it when she saw it), could not accept the 
 dogma. If all you went to church for was to be 
 done good to, you 'd better stay at home when 
 you found it did not do you any good ; that is, 
 unless it amused you or pleased somebody else. 
 
 Therefore it happened that she had been three 
 weeks in Marrowfat before she went to church. 
 It was a warm, lovely June day, and she walked 
 with Barry under the shade of the wide elms, in a 
 perfectly satisfactory white muslin dress, and a 
 coarse straw bonnet, trimmed with white mull. 
 At her belt she wore a large bunch of the dark 
 red roses that seemed to have blown for her par 
 ticular adornment. Barry had looked at her with 
 complacency ; she knew she was all right. They 
 were rather late; that is, the bell had stopped
 
 MARROWFAT. 127 
 
 ringing, and the pews were all filled, and the cler 
 gyman was just entering from the sacristy, when 
 they reached the door. It was an old stone 
 church, with many vines about it, greensward, 
 and fine trees. It looked much more agreeable to 
 Phosbe than the bare and unadorned ecclesiastical 
 edifices of Maiden and Brixton, and she thought 
 she should probably be well enough pleased to 
 come often, if Barry wanted to. 
 
 The organist was playing a low and unobtrusive 
 strain ; the clergyman, having just entered, was on 
 his knees, where, unfortunately, the congregation 
 had not followed him. They were all ready to 
 criticise the young couple who now walked down 
 the silent aisle ; very far down, too, they were 
 obliged to walk. It was the one moment in the 
 week when they would be most conspicuous. 
 Barry felt it, and an unconciliatory hauteur 
 straightened his shoulders. Phoebe felt it, and her 
 color went and came in a very pretty manner. 
 They were as handsome a pair as had ever trod 
 that aisle. Marrowfat held its breath and looked 
 at them. After all, it is possible to be too good- 
 looking. This was the first glimpse they had had 
 of Phoebe, for everybody had been hanging back, 
 and no one had liked to be the first to call. They 
 were prepared to see some one dowdy, or flashy, 
 or commonplace. They were prepared to be 
 deeply sorry for the family downfall. 
 
 For the whole story had been current for
 
 128 PHCEBE. 
 
 months in the place. A journeyman tailor in 
 Marrowfat had married a wife in Greene County, 
 who had a cousin who had moved to Maiden and 
 bought out the keeper of the village " store " two 
 years before ; and there was not a detail of the 
 unfortunate matter that was not talked over the 
 counters of every shop in Marrowfat before it was 
 a month old. We never can be sure how much 
 our friends know or wfcat they are saying of us, 
 and the Crittendens could not be blamed for hop 
 ing that distance and obscurity had hidden the 
 sorrowful truth from their neighbors. That Barry 
 had made a rash and undesirable marriage could 
 not be concealed, but the whole truth, surely, one 
 might reasonably have hoped need not be pub 
 lished. 
 
 But itjaad been published, illustrated and em 
 bellished ; and in the face of it here were Barry 
 and his wife walking down the aisle with their 
 heads up. If Barry had looked shabby, dethroned, 
 undefiant ; if his wife had had mouse-colored hair, 
 thin shoulders, a dull skin, or a bad walk, this 
 story might never have been told, and virtuous 
 Marrowfat have added to its virtues that of a large 
 and liberal charity. It is easy to forgive acknowl 
 edged defeat ; it is hard to forgive defiant success. 
 Barry looked a greater swell than ever, and his 
 wife was so much handsomer than anybody else in 
 Marrowfat that it was simple nonsense to talk of 
 ignoring the past. If one did not want to be
 
 MARROWFAT. 129 
 
 walked over by these young persons tliey must be 
 put down ; self-preservation joined hands with vir 
 tuous indignation ; to cancel the past would be to 
 sacrifice the future. Scarce a mother in Marrow 
 fat but felt a bitter sense of injury as she thought 
 of Barry. Not only had he set the worst possible 
 example to her sons, but he had overlooked the 
 charms of her daughters ; not only had he out 
 raged public opinion, but he had disappointed pri 
 vate hopes. Society should hold him to a strict 
 account ; Marrowfat was not to be trifled with 
 when it came to matters of principle. 
 
 It was an old town, with ante-Revolutionary 
 traditions ; there was no mushroom crop allowed 
 to spring up about it. New people were per 
 mitted, but only on approbation of the old. It 
 was not the thing to be very rich in Marrowfat, it 
 was only tolerated ; it was the thing to be a little 
 cultivated, a little clever, very well born, and very 
 loyal to Marrowfat. It was not exactly provincial; 
 it was too near the great city and too much mixed 
 up witli it to be that; but it was very local, and it 
 had its own traditions in an unusual degree. That 
 people grew a little narrow and very much inter 
 ested in the affairs of the town, after living there 
 a while, was not to be wondered at. It is always 
 the result of suburban life, and one finds it diffi 
 cult to judge, between having one's nature green 
 like a lane, even if narrow, or hard and broad like 
 a city pavement, out of which all the greenness
 
 130 r IKE BE. 
 
 has been trampled and all the narrowness thrown 
 down. 
 
 The climate of the place was dry and pure : it 
 was the fashion for the city doctors to send their 
 patients there, and many who came to tough re 
 mained to build. The scenery was lovely : you 
 looked down pretty streets and saw blue hills be 
 yond; the sidewalks were paved and the town 
 was lit by gas, but the pavements led you past 
 charming homes to bits of view that reminded you 
 of Switzerland, and the inoffensive lamp-posts 
 were hidden under great trees by day, and by 
 night you only thought how glad you were to see 
 them. The drives were endless, the roads good ; 
 there were livery-stables, hotels, skilled confec 
 tioners, shops of all kinds, a library, a pretty little 
 theatre, churches of every shade of faith, schools 
 of every degree of pretension ; lectures in winter, 
 concerts in summer, occasional plays all the year ; 
 two or three local journals, the morning papers 
 from the city at your breakfast table ; fast trains, 
 telegraphs, telephones, all the modern amenities 
 of life under your" very hand ; and yet it was the 
 country, and there were peaceful hills and deep 
 woods, and the nights were as still as Paradise. 
 Can it be wondered at that, like St. Peter's at 
 Rome, it had an atmosphere of its own, and defied 
 the outer changes of the temperature ? 
 
 Marrowfat certainly was a law unto itself. 
 Why certain people were great people, in its
 
 MARROWFAT. 131 
 
 view, it would be difficult to say. Why the tele 
 graphs and the telephones, and the fashionable 
 invalids from the city, and the rich people who 
 bought and built in its neighborhood, did not 
 change its standards of value one can only guess. 
 But it had a stout moral sentiment of its own ; it 
 had resisted innovations and done what seemed it 
 good for a long while ; and when you have made 
 a good moral sentiment the fashion, or the fact by 
 long use, you have done a good thing. Marrow 
 fat never tolerated married flirtations, looked 
 askance on extremes in dress or entertainment, 
 dealt severely with the faults of youth. All these 
 things existed more or less within its borders, of 
 course, but they were evil doings and not approved 
 doings. 
 
 In a certain sense, Marrowfat was the most 
 charitable town in the world ; in another the most 
 uncharitable. If you were to have any misfortune 
 befall you, Marrowfat was the place to go to have 
 it in : if you lost your money, if you broke your 
 back, if your children died, if your house burned 
 down, Marrowfat swathed you in flowers, bathed 
 you in sympathy, took you out to drive, came and 
 read to you, if need were took up subscriptions 
 for you. But if you did anything disgraceful or 
 discreditable, it is safe to say you would better 
 have done it in any other place. 
 
 It may be said that Barry, having dwelt there 
 all his life, should have known better than to have
 
 132 PIKEEE. 
 
 come back there to live, with such a stain upon 
 him. But in truth we are not apt to analyze the 
 atmosphere we breathe ; he had not realized the 
 severity of it while he was in good social health. 
 He had been a great favorite, an eminently 
 important person, man and boy ; it had always 
 seemed to him that the sun shone in Marrowfat 
 all the year round, and almost all the twenty-four 
 hours in the day. The Crittendens had been as 
 important people as there were in Marrowfat. If 
 there was any blue blood in the place it certainly 
 flowed in their veins. Mr. Crittenden was ap 
 proved for being a son of the soil, and for having 
 done credit to the soil in his subsequent career. 
 Mrs. Crittenden was approved for her many good 
 qualities, for her talents, and for her ready adapta 
 tion of herself to the place. The children were 
 approved for their good looks and good manners. 
 The family were in fact quite model citizens. 
 When their style of living improved with improv 
 ing fortune, their neighbors were tolerant of 
 the change ; when Barry put on airs, they were 
 rather proud of him ; when Honor refused to 
 speak to the milliner's daughter at the rink, they 
 secretly sustained her. It seemed impossible for 
 them to do amiss. Mrs. Crittenden was indispen 
 sable to all the clubs, book, musical, charitable ; 
 nothing could be done without her. Her entertain 
 ments were assured successes ; her ways of man 
 aging were spoken of with respect ; her methods
 
 MARROWFAT. 133 
 
 with her children, with her vegetables, with the 
 languages, were equally superior. Her son was 
 the best match in Marrowfat, her daughters were 
 pretty, her house was always open in easy hospi 
 tality. It was no wonder she was an important 
 person. 
 
 But now all \this was to be changed. That 
 amid the waving field of general approbation 
 there must have been some secret seeds of envy, 
 the harvest proved. Aristides must pay for' his 
 title; one cannot be just and be called just and 
 have only glory always with impunity. It was 
 amazing, the rapidity with which the opinion 
 spread that Mrs. Crittenden was an overrated per 
 son, that she had made many mistakes in judg 
 ment, that she had brought up her children badly, 
 that the girls were assuming, that no words could 
 say what Barry was or what he would become. 
 It was plain, also, from the retrenchments they 
 were making, that they had been living beyond 
 their means. It was even rumored they were 
 heavily in debt ; trades - people were vaguely 
 warned not to let their accounts run on too long. 
 It was evident that theirs was no longer a house 
 whence much amusement would emanate. Then 
 Virtue stepped in and said, " Is it a house where 
 one ought to go ? Give me your hand and come 
 out with distinction, and give no countenance to 
 the doings of this young libertine." 
 
 When one can make a show of virtue, and vent
 
 134 PHCEBE. 
 
 a long-cherished spite, and lose not even a whist- 
 party by it, human nature cannot be expected to 
 resist. It was a most fatal addition of fuel to 
 this fire when Barry straightened his shoulders 
 so defiantly as he went down the aisle, on the oc 
 casion of his first appearance with his wife. And 
 Phrebe's two weeks' labor over that pretty mus 
 lin, what a hundred pities that it hung so well ; 
 that her ribbons brought out the color in her 
 beautiful skin to such perfection ; that the roses at 
 her belt were in such harmony with the ribbons, 
 the muslin, and the skin ! She became a danger 
 to society, a flaming ship set loose amid peaceful 
 vessels moored at anchor. A dreary beacon, a 
 ship aground, beating and pounding on the bar, to 
 warn people where destruction lay, this was 
 what she was to have been, in the anticipations of 
 Marrowfat. Poor Phcebe ! she little knew how 
 dangerous to morals she was, as she turned over 
 the leaves of the strange Prayer-Book Lucy 
 handed her. Her heart thumped audibly against 
 her Jacqueminot roses. She felt all the family 
 despised her because she could not find her places ; 
 she hoped Barry would not look till she got right 
 about the morning Psalms. 
 
 She had never seen people kneel down publicly 
 before. The very faithful in Brixton used to tip 
 their heads forward a little when the minister 
 made a prayer. The prayers at Brixton were 
 " oblique sermons," shied at heaven at an angle
 
 MARROWFAT. 135 
 
 that made them equally available for instruction 
 and edification to the hearers below : perhaps that 
 was the reason the people tipped their heads a 
 little forward when the minister shut his eyes and 
 lifted his eyebrows and began what was called his 
 prayer ; they did not want to be hit. Here every 
 thing was new and strange. It would be saying 
 too much for Phoebe's intelligence and piety to 
 affirm that she was impressed by a ritual which 
 was presented to her for the first time, when there 
 was so much to agitate her in her surroundings. 
 The liturgy was pretty much lost upon her that 
 morning, but when the sermon began, she settled 
 herself to hear it with the feeling that now she 
 was en pays de connaissance ; the firstly and sec 
 ondly were like old friends to her and quite re 
 stored her composure. The text was, " And let 
 all the angels of God worship Him." 
 
 As a sermon, it was nothing very remarkable ; 
 nothing beyond a plain and well-defined instruc 
 tion upon the subject of worship. The preacher 
 was not an orator, but he was an excellent thinker, 
 and never found any difficulty in getting you to 
 understand his thoughts. This sort of teaching 
 suited the young stranger ; she listened eagerly. 
 It was a revelation to her to be told that she 
 did not go to church for any good it would do 
 her, nor even to set an example ; but to pay to 
 Almighty God an act of service, a homage as un 
 connected with these results as the sweeping of a
 
 136 PIKE BE. 
 
 room would be with the making of a batch of bread. 
 Everything was to be done to his glory, "as for 
 God's laws;" but this was especially a thing to 
 be done for that and that alone. It would bring 
 a blessing,, it would do you good, as all duty done 
 honestly would do ; but that was a secondary ef 
 fect, something given by the grace of God, not the 
 thing to be put forward as an object.' If you 
 found, after years of church-going, that you were 
 not any sweeter-tempered for it, you must not 
 be any more discouraged than if you had been 
 learning Greek and did not find yourself any 
 farther ahead in mathematics because of it. Very 
 likely you would be able to get ahead much 
 farther for it because of the mental discipline, 
 but you would not expect it as a direct result, or 
 do it with that as a direct object. Greek is Greek, 
 mathematics are mathematics ; worship is worship, 
 and not charity nor self-improvement. Your duty 
 to God as God is a distinct matter from your duty 
 to your neighbor and your duty to yourself. 
 
 The duty of public worship the preacher set 
 forth plainly as he saw it, bringing up the exam 
 ple of the older dispensation, of our Blessed Lord, 
 of the Christian church from its earliest breath, 
 of the heavenly pattern, where before the throne 
 unendingly 
 
 " Faint mists of seraphs rise and fall." 
 
 And he showed them, as he saw it (one cannot do 
 any more, and I suppose ought not to do any less),
 
 MARROWFAT. 137 
 
 that the great act of Christian worship is paid in 
 the offering of the Holy Eucharist. He did not 
 pretend to understand the mysterious strength of 
 sacrificial service ; in a certain sense, that is an 
 intellectual sense, nobody had ever understood it, 
 from Cain up to Kant. But, accepting faith as 
 a faculty distinct from reason, " believing that 
 he might understand, not understanding that he 
 might believe," he could see the meaning of the 
 chain of sacrifice, from the first sin in Eden to 
 the Great Oblation on Calvary ; coming on from 
 thence to the last sin that shall offend the " most 
 worthy Judge eternal," extends the Christian sac 
 rifice " shown forth till He come," encircling the 
 ages in its mystic round. From Eden to Calvary, 
 from Calvary to Eden ; the signet that clasps the 
 chain the Great White Throne set up in the new 
 heavens and the new earth. 
 
 The vacant plea of a memorial, a picture in 
 stead of a presence, a talk about a thing instead of 
 the thing itself, had never satisfied Phoebe. She 
 was either too spiritual or not spiritual enough to 
 be contented with Protestant teaching on the sub 
 ject of the sacraments. It was an unexpected 
 comfort to her to find there was something she 
 could take hold of in the very misty sea of Chris 
 tian, doctrine on which she had been drifting. 
 
 " If it means anything it must mean that," she 
 said, almost aloud. She had spent so much of her 
 life in listening to preachers engaged in rubbing
 
 138 PH(EBE. 
 
 out the meaning of Holy Writ, it was quite a 
 surprise to see one stand up and write it out in 
 strong lines afresh, and teach in effect if words 
 mean anything they mean what they express. 
 The belief in the supernatural had been so faintly 
 emphasized, so detached from all contact with the 
 natural, in the teaching to which she was used, 
 that logically she rejected it, being, as has been 
 said, too spiritual or not spiritual enough to abide 
 in such an impalpable kingdom. To such a mind 
 it was a great deal easier to follow the utmost 
 length of sacramental doctrine than to accept the 
 volatilized essence of a word as the point of un 
 ion between God and man. If you believe in the 
 supernatural at all, it is a great deal better to be 
 lieve in it as the Word of God and the Church 
 Catholic teach it than as you in your ethereal 
 daintiness might wish that it had been arranged. 
 " Except a man be born of water and the Holy 
 Spirit," " Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of 
 Man, " " Whosesoever sins ye retain, they are re 
 tained, " are as easy to accept as " Ye are the 
 temples of the Holy Ghost," " This kind goeth 
 not out but by prayer and fasting," " Whatsoever 
 ye shall ask the Father in My name He will grant 
 you." Why reject what the Christian world for 
 fifteen hundred years agreed to believe as the su 
 pernatural truth, while you accept a more subli 
 mated portion of the same faith on the same 
 terms? As against the scientists and hard deal-
 
 MARROWFAT. 139 
 
 ers in facts you can have little or nothing to say ; 
 you are not talking in the same language ; but if 
 you have the happiness to believe anything that 
 God has revealed, why can't you believe it all, 
 and do Him the honor of submitting yourself to 
 Him unquestioningly ? 
 
 These thoughts gave Phoebe a rapid sense of 
 satisfaction. She assimilated difficult truths with 
 the force of a young and healthy spirit. 
 
 When she went out of the church by Barry's 
 side, her heart no longer thumped against the Jac 
 queminot roses. She was happily so engrossed 
 with her new and satisfactory basis of faith that 
 she did not see that nobody came forward to speak 
 to them, and that Barry strode out flushed and an 
 gry-looking ; for two or three people had looked 
 away when he caught their eyes, two or three 
 more he had seen whispering and looking at her, 
 and for once in their lives Honor and Lucy were 
 being permitted to walk home alone. 
 
 These and other little occurrences of the next 
 few days gave definite ground to Mrs. Crittenden 
 for believing that the current was setting against 
 them very strongly. It is hard to bear injustice 
 and insult for one's self, but I fancy no one will 
 deny it is harder to bear them for one's children. 
 Mrs. Crittenden could, perhaps, have nerved her 
 self to see Barry punished for his wrong-doing, 
 though it would have been a bitter sight. But 
 he had sinned. He had made his bed, and he
 
 140 PUCE BE. 
 
 must lie in it. He was working out his punish 
 ment, and it might be the best thing for him that 
 it was sharp. It was a different thing when it 
 came to seeing Lucy and Honor neglected and ta 
 booed. 
 
 Who does not know what a daughter's triumphs 
 are to a mother? One's own triumphs in youth 
 are half lost by the greedy inexperience that does 
 noj know what a triumph is and when to be satis 
 fied, and by agitation of nerves and uncertainty of 
 judgment ; it is generally more hazy than brill 
 iant. But with matured judgment, with calmed 
 nerves, with an egotistic pleasure refined from self 
 ishness, with romance stimulated by the prose of 
 one's own fate, with base calculation mixed with 
 purest sentiment, a woman watches the career of 
 her young daughter with a satisfaction that the 
 daughter misses. She feels no self-reproach at her 
 pleasure, no uncertainty as to the result, for such 
 love is always full of hope : it is the purest and 
 most unselfish romance of which a woman's heart 
 is capable. But turn the chances, and give her, 
 for success, failure. What compares with that for 
 sharp distress ? The calmness of nerves is gone, 
 the mature judgment has quite failed her, the in 
 justice is a great deal more stinging than if she 
 had the inner consciousness of some desert, which 
 people always have when the injustice is personal. 
 The better woman she is the more she suffers ; the 
 tenderer her heart, the livelier her imagination,
 
 MARROWFAT. 141 
 
 the more unreasonable her sufferings. " These 
 sheep, what have they done ? " What she could 
 have borne for herself with heroism, she fails to 
 bear for them with even passable dignity or pa 
 tience.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 HONOR'S WOUNDS. 
 
 "MAMMA," said Honor, coming in from the 
 post-office one morning in late June, with her 
 hands full of letters and her cheeks flushed and 
 an angry light in her eyes, " I have something to 
 tell you." 
 
 Mrs. Crittenden had grown to dread what Honor 
 might have to tell her ; she laid down her work, 
 and said " Well ?" in a patient voice. 
 
 Lucy, who had been reading aloud, put her book 
 on her lap, and looked up too. They were sitting 
 on the piazza, which was covered with a tangle 
 of roses and honeysuckle, all in bloom. Honor 
 looked charmingly pretty in her simple muslin 
 dress and round hat. She threw down the letters, 
 of which there were quite a number, as if they 
 were of very little interest, and, sitting on the arm 
 of a piazza chair, began pulling off her gloves. 
 
 " I don't think you will believe me when I tell 
 you : the Meadow Club had their first meeting 
 yesterday." 
 
 " Impossible ! " said Lucy, quickly. "Why, we 
 got up the Meadow Club. I was thinking only
 
 HONOR'S WOUNDS. 143 
 
 this morning it was time we started it again for 
 the season. It 's the fourth year now, you know, 
 and we always have to give it a start to begin ; 
 but this year I really had n't thought about it till 
 to-day." 
 
 " Well, you 're saved the trouble, then. It 's 
 started, and we are left out." 
 
 " How absurd, Honor ! It does n't seem self-re 
 specting, it does n't seem quite nice, to think such 
 things possible," said her sister, reproachfully. 
 
 " It 's less nice to have them happen," retorted 
 Honor, sharply, stretching out her gloves to their 
 greatest length in her two hands, and holding 
 them across her knee. 
 
 " What is n't nice ? Pray let us have your 
 woe," said Mrs. Crittenden, taking up her work 
 again, and trying to seem unmoved. ^ 
 
 " It is n't nice," cried Honor, with passionate 
 tears springing to her eyes, " to be left out of 
 everything, to be snubbed by everybody! This 
 morning, when I came out of the post-office, the 
 Merryhews' carriage stood there, and I went across 
 the sidewalk to speak to Fanny and Sue, who were 
 waiting in it. They seemed a little embarrassed, 
 I did n't know why ; but while we talked Fred 
 Warden came up and joined us, and in a moment 
 he said to me, ' Why were n't you at the Meadow 
 Club yesterday ? There was such a large meet 
 ing, everybody was there. I looked around for 
 you.' At that Sue and Fanny colored up, and I
 
 144 PH(EBE. 
 
 saw Fanny give him a look, and he got so con 
 fused. Then I said I did n't know there had been 
 a meeting, and Fanny said, Oh, it was quite in 
 formal ; they did n't mean to have the Club very 
 large this year, just among themselves. This 
 only seemed to make it "worse, and Sue tried to 
 say something, in her stupid way ; and I was so 
 blind with agitation that I could n't look at any of 
 them. Then Fred went blundering on, and began 
 to ask if they were going to the Burleighs' to 
 night, who it seems are to have a party, and what 
 time they were going, and how many would be 
 there. Everybody was going, they said, so glad 
 of something else to talk about ; and then I got 
 away before they could ask me if we were going. 
 I think Fred wanted to walk home with me, but I 
 would n't look at him, I would n't let him come 
 near me. I hate him. I hate them all. I want 
 to go away from this horrid place. I won't, I 
 won't stay here any longer ! Marnma, what do 
 they mean by treating us so ? How dare they do 
 it ? How dare they do it ? " 
 
 And poor little Honor flung herself down on 
 the piazza floor beside her mother, and, burying 
 her face in her lap, sobbed passionately. 
 
 " You are tired with your hot walk," said her 
 mother, disengaging her hat with hands that trem 
 bled, and smoothing back her hair. "It is too hot 
 for you to go for the letters in the morning now. 
 I will send one of the women."
 
 HONOR'S WOUNDS. 145 
 
 "I will never go again," sobbed Honor. "I 
 won't ever go out any more. I never want to see 
 a soul in Marrowfat as long as I live. I want to 
 go away. Oh, mamma, mamma, take us away ! 
 What is the use of staying here to be snubbed 
 and snubbed like that ? " 
 
 " Oh, my baby, that 's a trifle," said her mother, 
 bending over her. " Why do you mind a thing 
 like that?" 
 
 " It is n't a trifle," cried Honor, " to be left out 
 of a club that you got up yourself, and not to be 
 invited to a general party at a house where you 've 
 visited all your life ! Lucy may n't mind ; she 's 
 above such tilings, perhaps ; but I do mind, and 
 they 're not trifles to we." 
 
 Lucy looked as if she did mind, though ; her 
 questioning eyes had been on her mother's ever 
 since Honor began her story, and her sensitive 
 face showed all the pain she felt. 
 
 " I don't understand what it means," she said, 
 falteringly. 
 
 " Ah," said her mother, still smoothing down 
 Honor's hair, " these are things that are happen 
 ing every day in the world. We have been fortu 
 nate never to have had them come to us before. 
 Just do not think anything more about it. It 
 seems, as Lucy says, not self-respecting to care at 
 all for slights like these." 
 
 " But I can't help caring. I can't think about 
 anything else. I shall always be wondering what 
 
 10
 
 146 PH(EBE. 
 
 is coming next. It is n't as if it were a big place, 
 where you could get away from people ; but it is 
 all or none here. You run up against people who 
 have been rude to you all the time. Everybody 
 knows whether you 're invited or not, and every 
 body watches you. Mamma, mamma, I wish you 'd 
 go away." 
 
 " Well, I am sure I gladly would," said her 
 mother, putting the girl's arms off her lap, and 
 rising to get the letters. " I am sure I gladly 
 would, to please you, if we had the money. We 
 have n't the money, and so we must stay and make 
 the best of it." 
 
 She took out her own letters from the package 
 and went away to read them, feeling she could not 
 bear a word more now. 
 
 She had a good deal of the same sort to bear as 
 the summer went on. The gayety was all in the 
 hands of a young set, who seemed to have no com 
 passion and no principle. Lucy and Honor were 
 as much excluded as if they were not living in the 
 place. The intimacies of years were undermined ; 
 not of course in a moment, but one or two slights 
 brought coldnesses and misunderstandings, and 
 Honor was on the lookout for neglects. Tartar 
 was not there to fight the battle for them. She 
 was of too much social importance and had too 
 much force to have been ignored. But beyond 
 that little visit in the last of May they saw no 
 more of her all summer. Lucy was easily crushed,
 
 HONOR'S WOUNDS. 147 
 
 Honor was too young and hot-headed 'to make any 
 effectual resistance, and Mrs. Crittenden could 
 only submit to what had befallen her. 
 
 As for Barry, no one knew what he felt ; with 
 all his genial ways, he was deeply reserved. He 
 worked early and late at the office, however, and 
 made his fatigue an excuse for the rather uncon- 
 vivial character of his conduct at home. Phosbe 
 probably did not know what was going on outside 
 the fence that bounded the Crittenden domain : 
 she could not be expected to guess that it was 
 something new that so few carriages came past 
 her humble door, and strange that so few people 
 took the opportunity of making her acquaintance. 
 Barry had agreed with her that it was best to dine 
 at home on most days, and she had a good deal to 
 do in making the dinners acceptable to his rather 
 fastidious taste. She had a great deal of sewing 
 to do, besides, and little as the house was it was 
 not a trifle to keep it in good order, with such a stu 
 pid maid as Mary Ann, who could not even set a 
 chair back as she was told. That Barry was not 
 morose, that Tartar did not come again, that her 
 sisters-in-law did not pay her too many visits, that 
 her mother-in-law let her alone a good deal, and 
 that she had to see her father-in-law only once or 
 twice a week at dinner, were so many things to 
 be thankful for, and, added to her constant occupa 
 tion, good health, and her interest in thinking over 
 the new creed presented to her, made her, perhaps,
 
 148 PH(EBE. 
 
 the most contented member of the family group. 
 She eagerly imbibed the habits and manners of 
 those who surrounded her, and took good care to 
 copy the dress of her sisters with as much accu 
 racy as was possible with her purse. She went to 
 church quite regularly, whether Barry went or not, 
 looking dangerously handsome, but not at all con 
 scious of it, and much more interested in finding 
 the places in her new Prayer-Book and in digesting 
 the very strong teaching of her new faith. Once 
 or twice some friend of Barry's had walked home 
 with her when she was alone ; but these friends 
 found so little coquetry combined with her beauty 
 that they were not encouraged to try it again. 
 They, however, did not cease to extol her attrac 
 tions before their families. Discussions about her 
 became, in fact, almost as much a part of the Mar 
 rowfat Sunday dinner as the roast-beef itself. The 
 rest of the week was comparatively peaceful, as 
 she was rarely seen save on Sundays. The more 
 the fathers and husbands and brothers praised her, 
 the more the mothers and wives and sisters con 
 demned her.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A DAY IN TOWN. 
 
 THE summer, as to weather, proved very hot, 
 and no rain fell for many weeks. The vines dried 
 up around the piazzas of the big house and the 
 porch of the little one. The lawn grew crisp and 
 brown, and dust flew up in one's face as one walked 
 over it. The days were sultry and the nights op 
 pressive. The bread-winners came home fagged 
 from the city, and the eaters of bread at home re 
 ceived them with spiritless languor. Honor and 
 Lucy missed their pony-phaeton and pony more 
 than ever when after sunset the carriages began 
 to appear, to catch the faint breezes on the road. 
 Mrs. Crittenden looked at her pitiful garden, and 
 thought almost bitterly of the faithful old Michael 
 who had been mowed down by the scythe of re 
 trenchment, now fighting the drought on the prem 
 ises of a prosperous neighbor. Mr. Crittenden 
 was more doggedly economical than ever, and more 
 unreasonably apprehensive that they were going 
 to total ruin. Small things and great seemed com 
 bined to make the summer intolerable. But the 
 drought alone was fearful. One got a feeling at
 
 150 PH(EBE. 
 
 last that if it would only rain one would never 
 complain about anything else. 
 
 At last it did rain, lightly to be sure, in the 
 night. The air was a little cooled and the dust 
 laid and the sun faintly shaded by clouds when 
 people got up in the morning. They had so long 
 been doing nothing that the change inspired them 
 with plans. Those who had carriages ordered 
 them and went about to make visits and give in 
 vitations and do errands ; and the rest of the popu 
 lation went to town to do the shopping that had 
 been so long neglected. 
 
 Among these latter was Phrebe, who had only 
 been once or twice before, and to whom it was a 
 great event. The day proved a very delightful 
 one to her. They had gone in an early train, and 
 Barry had detailed a clerk from the office to show 
 her the way about the shops ; she had made some 
 unequaled bargains, and had invested her small 
 capital most successfully. Then Barry had met 
 her at a restaurant, and they had taken luncheon 
 together. He had expanded, once out of the 
 smothering moral atmosphere of Marrowfat, and 
 the excursion had been really a little honeymoon. 
 The luncheon was the work of a much more ad 
 vanced artist than Mary Ann, and it was delight 
 ful to the housekeeping soul of Phoabe to have 
 known nothing of its previous history, and to have 
 no responsibility about the disposition of its re 
 mains. They sat by a window, where the air
 
 A DAY IN TOWN. 151 
 
 came in very pleasantly through tall coleus and 
 draceenas and blossoming plants, which had not 
 been permitted to feel the drought that had with 
 ered the greenery at home. The people about 
 them were all strangers ; the little tables were 
 charmingly neat and well served ; the waiters' ob 
 sequiousnesses were as good as a play to the inno 
 cent Phoebe. 
 
 " I '11 tell you what I have in mind, Phoebe," 
 said Barry. " Another year we '11 cut Marrowfat, 
 and come to town and be free. We '11 take a little 
 flat somewhere, ' up in the sky, up in the sky,' and 
 get out of the way of people and do as we dern 
 please. When we want to be amused we '11 go to 
 the theatre, and when we want to be convivial 
 we '11 come here and get our dinner. It 's only a 
 question of finance. Save your pennies up for 
 that, my dear." 
 
 Phoebe did not answer, but he saw by the shin 
 ing of her eyes that she was thrilled with pleasure 
 at the prospect. They went to look at some pic 
 tures and into one or two shops that were shows 
 of magnificent unattainableness, and all the time 
 Barry talked of the flat, and of the happiness of 
 getting away from people and being where nobody 
 would know them. Phoebe told him how much 
 she thought they would have to pay for a servant, 
 and exactly what per diem would be needed for 
 the table. She asked questions about gas, and he 
 promised to inform himself. Rent was the great
 
 152 PIKEBE. 
 
 item, and the next day, he said, he would go to 
 some agents and find out. It seemed rather early 
 to canvass the matter, as they could not possibly 
 leave Marrowfat till the following spring,' unless 
 the sky rained briefs and the flood of success soft 
 ened the father's heart. But the thought gave a 
 motive and a hope, and the two young people 
 walked the hot pavements with more buoyant 
 tread because of it. 
 
 They went back to Marrowfat in the afternoon 
 train, in which all the business men and shop 
 ping women went back. With the sight of the 
 first familiar face came a shade over Barry's. He 
 bowed stiffly and carried Phoebe's parcels with a 
 less degag& air. On the ferry-boat, he took her 
 outside among the carmen and the nursery-maids, 
 hoping to escape contact with his townsmen. But 
 once on the train, they were surrounded by them. 
 Phoebe's inward blessedness added to her ordinary 
 beauty. She was not tired nor hot, as the other 
 shopping women were. Their presence did not 
 annoy her, because she did not know they were 
 Marrowfat people who had not called upon her. 
 One or two elderly gentlemen came up first, and 
 Barry not very graciously presented them. They 
 took the nearest seats, and talked to her a great 
 deal. Encouraged by the conduct of these heads 
 of families, the young men came up too, and before 
 the train reached Marrowfat they were standing 
 three deep around her seat, presenting what Mrs.
 
 A DAY IN TOWN. 153 
 
 Corbin, sitting alone with her bundles in the rear 
 of the car, characterized afterwards as " a disgust 
 ing spectacle." 
 
 Phoebe did not know that Mrs. Corbin and 
 her bundles were there ; she did not know it was 
 irregular for an Ex-Judge and an Ex-Commodore 
 to be talking to her, when Mrs. Ex-Judge and 
 Mrs. Ex-Commodore had not been to see her. 
 She only knew Barry and she had had a very 
 happy day together, and that down in her tight- 
 est-tied-up bundle there was a tiny gown, all 
 lace and cambric and embroidery, that warmed 
 her very heart to think about. She talked natu 
 rally and happily, but not very much, and she 
 looked most dangerously handsome. The Ex- 
 gentlemen shook Barry's hand warmly at parting : 
 upon their words, they thought to themselves, he 
 was not to be blamed. Their elderly compliments 
 had had as much effect upon Phoabe as elderly 
 compliments ordinarily have upon the average 
 young girl. They had made her a little un 
 comfortable, and filled her with a vague wonder 
 whether these gentlemen knew how old they were, 
 and how grizzled and unpleasing. The young 
 men all seemed to her vastly below Barry, and 
 not nearly so nice as Peyton Edwards ; but since 
 they were his friends, of course she must be as 
 well-mannered and amiable as she knew how to 
 be. When they got off the train the most persist 
 ent of them carried her bundles, and led her to
 
 154 PHCEBE. 
 
 his dog-cart, before which were horses harnessed 
 tandem, and which was altogether the most con 
 spicuous seat she could have occupied. But when 
 she found that she would have to go alone, there 
 being no place for Barry, she declined, and went 
 away with Barry through the fast-dispersing mul 
 titude. 
 
 She did not consent to his proposal to take a 
 hack ; had he not told her there was a motive for 
 which to save her pennies? But when they got 
 half-way up the hill, Barry looked so scowling 
 she regretted the economy. Crowds of carriages 
 were passing them ; the rain of last night had all 
 evaporated, and they were powdered with dust 
 from the gay equipages, whose inmates looked out 
 with the fine scorn of luxurious comfort upon the 
 toiling pedestrians. Barry was loaded with bun 
 dles ; there was even a basket of peaches tbat 
 was materially heavy. 
 
 " Why in thunder did n't you give these things 
 to an expressman?" he said, impatiently. 
 
 " That would have cost as much as a hack," 
 said Phoebe, simply. 
 
 " Bother the cost ! " he said, trying to shift them 
 into less prominence. But bundles are bundles ; 
 they are a mathematical fact, and not a chemical 
 combination, which by the heat of your furious 
 disgust you can resolve into more portable ele 
 ments. Assort and pack them as he would, they 
 still remained an ungainly armful.
 
 A DAY IN TOWN. 155 
 
 " I can't think what you wanted of all these 
 things. Women are never happy unless they are 
 getting the house full of trash from shops. I wish 
 you 'd only told me that you had such a lot of 
 parcels." 
 
 Phoebe looked hurt ; she did not tell him that 
 the parcels had not increased in number since 
 they were in the city, but were identical with 
 those he had carried cheerfully for her there. 
 Mrs. Corbin, now in her comfortable carriage, 
 with her own bundles beside her on the seat, 
 thought them looking very far from happy as she 
 passed them. 
 
 " He is tired of her already," she ejaculated, 
 " and she is already spoiled by the flattery of those 
 unprincipled men." 
 
 Mrs. Corbin did not make a secret of these 
 discoveries ; by noon the next day it was well 
 known in Marrowfat that Barry and his wife did 
 not live happily together.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 LUCY HEARS THE STORY. 
 
 BY a later train that day, Mrs. Crittenden and 
 her two daughters had gone to town unpremedi- 
 tatedly, being tempted by the change in the 
 weather. They returned in the same train that 
 brought the others, and found themselves in the 
 rear of the same car, with a dozen people whom 
 they knew seated near them. After the exchange 
 of a few greetings, they were virtually quite as 
 much alone as if they had been on their own 
 piazza. The events of the last few months had 
 increased the coldness on both sides ; it was as 
 difficult now to approach any of the Crittendens 
 as it had at first been to treat them with neglect. 
 
 Honor was tired with the day in town and a 
 little flushed with the heat, and possibly the con 
 tact with so many of her former friends. She 
 certainly did not look as pretty as usual. Lucy 
 had a worn, unyouthful expression, which had 
 been growing lately on her face ; it stung her 
 mother to see it. Looking bitterly at the two, 
 she did not wonder that, social reasons apart, the 
 young men preferred her daughter-in-law, at this
 
 LUCY HEARS THE STORY. 157 
 
 moment, to her daughters. There is nothing so 
 successful as success. A good heartache from a 
 love affair, or a deep grief, sometimes adds depth 
 and pathos to beauty ; but beware of care, dis 
 appointment, chagrin, anxiety of the ordinary 
 kind, if you have control of a young girl's career. 
 There is nothing ages so fast and so surely. 
 
 Honor buried herself in a book, and did not 
 look up to receive the perfunctory salutations 
 of the gilded youth of Marrowfat who passed 
 through the car. Lucy saw them or not, as hap 
 pened, and returned them gravely and distantly. 
 No one stopped to talk to them. The circle round 
 Phoebe was too conspicuous not to attract the 
 notice of the most indifferent spectator. Mrs. 
 Crittenden saw the whispering heads of some ma 
 trons in her neighborhood, and knew but too well 
 of what they whispered. Lucy's eyes met hers 
 once or twice in a troubled, questioning way. 
 Poor Lucy ! must she know ? Mrs. Crittenden 
 had fought bravely to keep her in the dark, but it 
 began to force itself upon her that this was no 
 longer right. Concealment is fatal to those " set in 
 families." When one member suffers, all the mem 
 bers must suffer with it ; bandages and ligaments 
 and all the muffling in the world will not keep the 
 secret of the wound from the rest of the body. 
 Lucy must suffer for Barry's sin, and she had bet 
 ter .do it intelligently than blindly. Her first con 
 tact with evil of this sort would come cruelly near ;
 
 158 PHCEBE. 
 
 but things must work themselves out. We cannot 
 pick and choose for our children, this trial now, 
 that chastisement a little later on, such and such 
 an experience by and by. The great wheel of 
 their lives has been set in motion by a higher 
 hand than ours, and we must patiently submit to 
 see its workings. 
 
 And so that night, as she sat alone in the 
 library, she called Lucy to her from the piazza. 
 The lamps had not been lighted. The slow, dull 
 heat had returned, the temporary freshness having 
 passed away with the effects of the short-lived 
 shower. The house was still, the air was stag 
 nant ; the servants, even, sitting about the kitchen 
 steps in the rear, fanning themselves with their 
 aprons, had not the spirit to be noisy in their pet 
 ulant complainings. Lucy sat down beside her 
 mother and put her hand in hers. It was hard to 
 begin the story, but once begun it was an inex 
 pressible relief to the mother. She did not spare 
 anything, from the first hearing of the news to the 
 last feeling that she had had that day in the cars 
 when she had seen in such strong light the social 
 gulf that Barry's marriage had put between them 
 and their little world. And when she described 
 the harrowing doubts that had beset her lest she 
 had done wrong in using all her influence to effect 
 it, Lucy's quick breath and tightened grasp of her 
 hand as she whispered, " Mamma, how could you 
 ever have doubted ? " lifted a weight from her
 
 LUCY HEARS THE STORY. 159 
 
 heart. Lucy would help her bear this burden 
 that had seemed so intolerable. Lucy said few 
 words, and those very low- whispered ones ; but 
 her mother felt the beating of her heart and the 
 hot trembling of her hand, and was thankful for 
 the darkness that hid the shame and pain in her 
 eyes. At last came the question that she dreaded : 
 
 " Mamma, do you think that he loved her, and 
 that he would have done it of himself ? " 
 
 " That, Lucy, you know as much about as I 
 do. When the secrets of all hearts are revealed I 
 may know, but not before. I shall never get near 
 enough to Barry to ask him ; he will never of his 
 own will approach anything so painful. Some 
 times I think he never could have left her, there 
 is so much to make her beloved ; then, again, I 
 watch in vain for any sign of the lover. I appeal 
 in vain to my knowledge of human nature. Barry 
 is a sealed book to me in these days. I don't 
 know whether he is one of those men to whom 
 love is impossible without respect, or whether the 
 tenderness of his early passion would cover the 
 frailty of virtue that to most men is unpardona 
 ble. All experience is against the probability of a 
 man's valuing what is forced upon him. And yet 
 he had an alternative ; he was not forced into it. 
 It was made possible for him to go away. On the 
 other hand, did he do it from duty, from the 
 sort of conviction that you and I have, Lucy ? 
 Your father would tell me that such a view of
 
 160 PHCEBE. 
 
 duty is just a woman's notion : and we have never 
 thought Barry likely to take a woman's view of 
 duty ; happy if he took a man's ! No, my child, 
 it 's all a riddle to me. I can only watch with a 
 sore heart the working out of what with perhaps 
 rash assurance I at first said was the right thing 
 to do. Your father is against me in it, and every 
 day hardens his convictions and weakens mine. I 
 have put it out of my power to win Phoebe's 
 confidence, by my unhappy failure of charity 
 when her wretched mother came to me. I am her 
 enemy, and I am not Barry's friend, apparently. 
 I have spoiled life for you and Honor, and the 
 courage of my convictions seems to have left me 
 just when I needed it most. You must help me, 
 Lucy, help me, and forgive me if I have done 
 you and Honor harm. God knows nobody ever 
 meant to do right more earnestly. I thought I 
 knew what it would cost." 
 
 " And if you had known, mamma, you would 
 have done it. If you had it to do to-morrow you 
 would do it again. I shall never think that you 
 could do anything else." 
 
 And so Lucy helped bear the bitter load. A 
 new light came into her eyes, and the worn, anx 
 ious look left her face. She had a mission, to help 
 Barry, to soothe Honor, and above all to aid her 
 mother to bear courageously the penalty of doing 
 right. Perhaps no discipline could have been as 
 good for her as this was. It gave play to all her
 
 LUCY HEARS THE STORY. 161 
 
 virtues, self-sacrifice, tenderness, high conception 
 of duty, while it corrected some of her mistaken 
 enthusiasms, and supplied her with the wholesome 
 though bitter tonic of practical common sense. 
 
 After all, parents do not always know what is 
 good for their children, and it is just as necessary 
 to submit in an humble spirit to their children's 
 discipline as to their own. 
 U
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LEFT BEHIND. 
 
 IT was February ; damp snow below, wet fog 
 above. Little rivers ran parallel with the side 
 walks, where there rose little mountain-chains of 
 snow banks, as yet undigested by the thaw. The 
 air was full of splash and drip, and a smell of moist 
 wood and moist earth and moist everything. The 
 country was at its most unlovely point, the " awk 
 ward age " of the year. The " getting about " 
 was so bad that nobody got about. The Critten- 
 dens' door-bell did not ring once a day. But 
 some changes had taken place in the household since 
 the August drought. The cottage was shut up, 
 and the third floor was now the home of Barry and 
 his wife and the little boy who had been born to 
 them in December. The draughts, and the leaks, 
 and the necessity for stoves made the cottage a 
 more desirable residence for gardeners than for 
 gentle-folks. Phoebe had consented for the baby's 
 sake to give up her own will, and Barry found 
 himself so fretted by the discomforts of the little 
 shanty that he would have made a much more de 
 cided abdication of independence than this without 
 complaint.
 
 LEFT BEHIND. 163 
 
 Virtue was its own reward, however. Shortly 
 after the change had been made another was de 
 termined on. The successful termination of one 
 or two important suits gave Mr. Crittenden an 
 impression that he was not nearly so poor as he 
 had thought himself all summer. A good deal of 
 money in his hand is apt to change the views of 
 even the most prudent man. No doubt Mr. Crit 
 tenden ought to have invested it all in government 
 bonds, and gone on in his path of retrenchment un 
 moved. But instead he considered that his girls 
 had had a very dull summer and that seven o'clock 
 came much too early for comfort at this season, 
 and he proceeded to find them a charming and not 
 inexpensive suite of rooms in town, whither with 
 much dispatch and some rejoicing they went for 
 the winter, leaving Barry and Phoebe to keep 
 house alone. 
 
 This was delightful, and Phoabe was most happy 
 till the fogs and the snows and the thaws seemed 
 to make it a necessity for her husband to spend 
 two or three nights in every week with them in 
 town. Barry's spirits improved very much about 
 this time. These little tastes of town invigorated 
 him. He appeared to have thrown off the incubus 
 of Marrowfat condemnation. His sisters were 
 enjoying themselves, Tartar was constantly with 
 them, the atmosphere was a fresh one, his ready 
 popularity made him happy again. People are not 
 critical in a large city ; they want to be amused,
 
 164 PHCEBE. 
 
 and they do not ask questions. Barry -was unen 
 cumbered ; he was " small change " for dinner 
 parties ; he was always in demand ; he had so many 
 invitations that he had a feeling of great virtue 
 when he waded through the slush every other 
 night, on his way home to his wife and baby. 
 
 " It is n't every man would do this," he would 
 say to himself as he kicked the snow off his boots 
 at the door, on some dismal nights when it was 
 pitch dark at six o'clock. Yet he liked to do it ; 
 he liked to feel he was doing better than most men 
 would do. He was not bitter about it ; he was 
 quite cheerful. He enjoyed the baby ; the house, 
 when he got to it through the slush and fog, was 
 quite as delightful as any city house could be, 
 his little dinners were above criticism, and his 
 wife always handsome and not reproachful. If it 
 had not been for the importunity of the givers of 
 dinners and the getters-up of theatre-parties it is 
 quite possible he would have come home every 
 night without feeling bored. Still it did heighten 
 his spirits to taste the wine of social pleasure 
 again ; it did please him to be desired and ap 
 proved. 
 
 A most absorbing interest, too, arose at this 
 time. Somebody got up some theatricals, and 
 found the Crittendens useful. Honor was de 
 lighted to be asked to play, and Barry was 
 " roped in, " according to his own account very 
 much against his will, but he did not seem to
 
 LEFT BEHIND. 165 
 
 make great struggles to get free. The rehearsals 
 were endless ; every page of the three-act drama 
 must have consumed about a week of time, if 
 everybody's studying, rehearsing, costuming, con 
 sulting, journeying, were summed up accurately 
 together. Barry professed great disgust of the 
 whole thing before it was over. "If he were ever 
 caught in such a scrape again ! " But he did not 
 seem to think he could be excused from anything, 
 not even one of the three suppers which succeeded 
 the final and not very triumphant representation 
 of the play. Phoebe ought to have admired his 
 sense of duty very much. " When you 've once 
 undertaken a thing you 've got to see it through." 
 
 It is needless to say that the days were very 
 long and the nights very dark to the young wife 
 left at home. But she had her baby, she was 
 very busy, and she was not inclined to dwell upon 
 the thought that she was ill-used. 
 
 At last, however, there came a day so dark that 
 it made all these look light, when she recalled 
 them. Barry had come home looking unusually 
 animated and eager. She had a feeling that some 
 thing had happened to rouse him beyond the or 
 dinary. She longed rather apprehensively to know 
 what it was, and wished that she had the ability 
 to say plainly to him, What is it that has excited 
 you so much ? 
 
 Evidently he had made up his mind not to re 
 veal his matter till after dinner. He caressed the
 
 166 PHCEBE. 
 
 baby with unusual fervor, he praised the dinner 
 freely ; there was compunction with his fervor, 
 surely. Pho3be's appetite faltered fatally ; what 
 was coming to explain his mood ? At last it 
 came, after the dinner had been taken away, and 
 the baby, and they were sitting alone by the 
 library lire. 
 
 " What should you say, Phoebe, if I went away 
 for a little while ? Could Master Baby take care 
 of you for a matter of six weeks or two months ? 
 He looks to me capable of it. Let me tell you all 
 about it. We 've had a certain turn of things at 
 the office. These railroad matters have occupied 
 my father pretty closely, and a telegram yesterday 
 settled it that he 's got to go across. Then came 
 the worry about leaving my mother and the girls. 
 Going abroad is what they 've all been longing 
 for, for years, here was the chance. Mamma 
 had a thousand minds about it, but Honor only 
 one, and I believe Lucy was ' unanimous ! ' So 
 the fact is, I 've been racing over town all day 
 like mad, have arranged everything: given up 
 their apartments, got state-rooms, written letters, 
 settled matters at the office, and done the work of 
 twenty able-bodied men. Father growls, but I 
 think he likes the idea, and there is n't a doubt 
 but that the change will do them all good. They 
 had got in a rut, and the girls would have a beast 
 of a time this summer if they stayed at home." 
 
 " But you," said Phoebe, faintly, " I don't 
 understand."
 
 LEFT BEHIND. 167 
 
 " Oh, well, I had n't got there yet. You see 
 this is the way it stands. If I don't go with them 
 my father 's got to come back at once. If I go I 
 can take the first steamer home after it 's settled, 
 bring back the papers, and attend to the matter 
 at this end of the line, and leave him to a holiday 
 of several months. There is enough there to re 
 quire his attention and to give him a feeling that 
 he 's right to stay ; in fact, if he did n't stay I 'd 
 have to. Somebody 's got to be on hand there as 
 well as here. You see, it 's an important matter, 
 and we have just got to give up our individual in 
 terests, and take hold of it. I don't like to ask 
 you, Phoebe, to stay so long alone, but I don't see 
 how it can be helped. I 've thought it over on all 
 sides. It seems the best arrangement I can make. 
 Father needs the rest. It would be hard on him, 
 at his age, to make that voyage and come directly 
 back, and probably have to go again in six weeks' 
 time. Whereas if I go with him, get all the ins 
 and outs of the matter the little while I 'm there, 
 and come back, I can intelligently conduct the 
 case here, and bring things to a successful issue. 
 There 's a good deal of money in it and a good 
 deal of glory, and I like to feel my father trusts 
 me enough to leave things on this side to me. It 's 
 just the place where, if I hung back on the score 
 of leaving you, he could reproach me with my 
 marriage. I 've counted on you, Phoebe, to help 
 me, and I know you won't mind, for such a little 
 while."
 
 168 PHCEBE. 
 
 Such a little while ! If one night was long, what 
 would sixty be. A terrible sinking of the heart 
 made Phoebe's lips white, but she managed to say, 
 " I can see that it is best for you to go." 
 
 " That 's right," he said, stooping down and kiss 
 ing her. " I knew you 'd look at it in that way. 
 I don't mind telling you now that my mother op 
 poses it, and thinks I ought not to leave you alone, 
 with the baby so young and all that. I told her I 
 would put it before you, and if you did n't think 
 it best there should not be a word more said about 
 it. But I shall be proud to tell them you 're not 
 the woman to stand in the way of your husband's 
 business interests." 
 
 " And private pleasures," said a voice within 
 her. Her heart had grown so stony heavy it 
 did not seem that it could sink any lower. That 
 he was going would have been bad enough, but 
 that he was going with such spirit, with such ill- 
 concealed pleasure in the change of scene and 
 prospect of amusement, made it almost more than 
 she could bear. Once having got over the bad 
 business of telling her of it, his relief made him 
 more communicative than his usual habit. He 
 drew upon her sympathy in all his plans ; he ex 
 pected her to see how great the advantage to him 
 was, how much he would gain by the experience. 
 All the details of preparation were delightful to 
 him, and he seemed to think they would naturally 
 be the same to her. He was the sort of man who
 
 LEFT BEHIND. 169 
 
 makes a good traveler, loving travel, being sys 
 tematic, observant, self-reliant. He had never 
 had enough of it, and had resented that part of 
 his fate always, and in other days been inclined to 
 reproach his parents with not giving him a year 
 abroad before settling him down at the study of 
 the law. 
 
 Phoebe was not unreasonable : she repeated 
 these facts over to herself ; she added to them 
 that he had been working hard for several 
 months ; that he was stimulated by the prospect 
 of pleasing his father and showing himself a man 
 in business matters. He was going with his fam 
 ily, too, who were in every way agreeable and 
 companionable. It was but for a short time, as 
 the world counts time. She was safe, well pro 
 vided for ; the baby was perfectly healthy. It 
 was in no way an unjustifiable request that she 
 should stay contented at home while he went 
 abroad on a legitimate call of business. It was 
 not unjustifiable, but oh ! 
 
 Your inarticulate natures have a good deal to 
 bear in the way of imposed attributes. If a woman 
 does not say she is unhappy, it is so much more 
 comfortable to think she is happy, that those near 
 her get in the habit of concluding that she is ; 
 if she does not scold, that she does not mind ; if 
 she does not draw a dagger, that she is not jealous ; 
 if she does not complain, that she is satisfied with 
 what is being done; if she listens silently, that
 
 170 PHCEBE. 
 
 she is wholly sympathetic. Now Phoebe found it 
 not the least of her trials that she was talked to as 
 if she were his elder sister, or his aunt, or almost 
 his mother, by this eager youth on the threshold 
 of his adventure in the world. And not only by 
 him, but by the others, who came home for their 
 last day and night, to settle up matters for their 
 absence. 
 
 " Is n't it nice for Barry ? " whispered Lucy, 
 counting on her sympathy. 
 
 " Does n't Barry look like a prince in his new 
 ulster?" cried Honor. " Phoebe, you won't mind 
 if we don't tell people that lie 's married ! " 
 
 " If Barry keeps his mind on his business, he 
 may make something yet," said her father-in-law 
 to her as he went in to dinner. As he rarely said 
 anything to her, she concluded it was meant to 
 indicate he approved of her for not putting any 
 thing in the way of Barry's going. Only her 
 mother-in-law was silent and watched her nar 
 rowly. " You are a little pale," she said, when 
 they were alone in the nursery. 
 
 " Oh, no," said Phcebe, with a rush of crimson 
 to her face. 
 
 " You must n't let the baby keep you awake at 
 night," said the mother, with foreboding, seeing 
 where the wound was, and that she could not 
 offer sympathy. " Let Mary Ann take him, if he 
 bothers you at night. You know young mothers 
 must get sleep enough."
 
 LEFT BEHIND. 171 
 
 It was a very bright-shining day, that last day 
 at home. The sun shone with brilliant effect 
 on the fresh snow that had fallen the night be 
 fore. The sky was unnaturally blue, it seemed to 
 Phoebe. It hurt her eyes to look out of the win 
 dow. Sleigh-bells sounded from the road with a 
 jingle that fretted her nerves. They were all to 
 go in a late afternoon train ; their steamer sailed 
 the next morning. It had at first been planned 
 that Barry should stay at home, and follow them 
 in an early morning train. But some doubt arose 
 about somebody being seen at the office, whom 
 Mr. Crittenden did not think he would have time 
 to see if he had the charge of the family's get 
 ting off. So it was decided Barry should go with 
 them and spend the night in town. 
 
 This decision was arrived at just before they 
 sat down to their early dinner. It was not an un- 
 cheerful meal. Honor's spirits were wild. Lucy 
 was quiet, but probably happy. Barry was too 
 busy to be depressed; every few moments he 
 thought of something to tell Phoebe, which he 
 had forgotten. The father and mother were full 
 of care and plans, but the journey was a hopeful 
 one ; they took all their dearest with them ; for 
 them there was no parting. The sunshine gave a 
 stimulus to their spirits ; the evergreens outside 
 the windows were sparkling like so many mam 
 moth aigrettes ; the hills were white against the 
 brilliant sky of blue. They were all hungry and
 
 172 PUCEEE. 
 
 healthy and hopeful and going. Pliosbe alone 
 was heavy-hearted and unhungry and to be left 
 behind. 
 
 " Oh, by the way," cried Honor, " what have 
 you done about Aunt David's state-room, Barry ? 
 Has she made up her mind to submit to the ex 
 tortion, or does she take the other one ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Barry, absently, he was 
 making an addition to his already endless memo 
 randa, writing on the table between his plate and 
 Phosbe's, " that 's all settled. Don't bother me, 
 Honor, till I get these things written down." 
 
 " Just think, Phoabe," said Lucy, " of Aunt 
 David's consenting to go at four clays' notice ! 
 She is like a girl in her spirit and energy. She 
 will be the youngest of the party, I am sure. 
 Was n't it hard upon her, though, to break up 
 her winter quarters, and go off on a sea voyage 
 in midwinter ! But she can't deny Tartar any 
 thing." 
 
 " Tartar would have gone without her, if she 
 hadn't consented," cried Honor. "She has just 
 followed because she did n't want to be left be 
 hind. No great credit in that. Nobody wants to 
 be left behind ! " 
 
 Mrs. Crittenden's eyes involuntarily sought 
 Phoebe's face : it was so white she almost made 
 the blunder of starting up to go to her. But 
 Phoebe had not looked up and had not seen her 
 solicitude. She sat still, her eyes cast down, her
 
 LEFT BEHIND. 173 
 
 agitation showing itself only by the pallor of her 
 face and the deep breaths she drew. It showed 
 itself, however, only to those who looked, and no 
 body looked but Mrs. Crittenden. The rest were 
 all so busy. 
 
 It was rather an irregular meal, Barry leaving 
 the table two or three times to look after last 
 things, and Honor dancing to the sideboard more 
 than once to supply the place of the maid, who 
 had been sent up-stairs for something suddenly 
 remembered. 
 
 " Oh, horrid old Marrowfat ; how glad I am to 
 be going away from it ! " she cried, starting up 
 as her father left the table. 
 
 The next hour was a very busy one. The last 
 things to be put in the valises, the last orders to 
 be given to the servants ; expressmen, hackmen, 
 next summer's gardener ; a real-estate agent to 
 know if the place would possibly be in the mar 
 ket, a man with a forgotten bill of butter eaten 
 six months ago ; the reporter of the " Chronicle " 
 to write up a local item ; a laundress who wanted 
 a recommendation ; a poor man whose family had 
 developed pneumonia ; the carpenter to see about 
 the parlor shutters ; the locksmith to tighten the 
 hasps of one of the steamer trunks. It was a 
 racking pressure ; the afternoon sun was sinking, 
 the brilliance fading from the snow, when the 
 hour for starting came. 
 
 "Come," cried Mr. Crittenden, impatiently
 
 174 PH(EBE. 
 
 (every one was at the end of his or her patience), 
 " there is no time to be lost if we catch the train. 
 The sleigh is at the door." 
 
 Phoebe stood half-way down the stairs on the 
 landing-place, with the baby in her arms. Barry 
 was up-stairs, the rest were below. The girls ran 
 up and kissed her good-by, and caressed the 
 placid baby. It was the instinct, probably, of not 
 taking the baby too near the outer door, where the 
 cold air rushed in, that made her stand there and 
 allow her father-in-law to come up and give her 
 his cold kiss and a half mocking good-by to the 
 little heap of white cambric in her arms, but she 
 did not say so, or explain herself. She went down 
 a step to meet her mother, whose kiss was not 
 cold, and who whispered in her ear, 
 
 " Good-by, I will take care of him for you." 
 Then she had some right in him ! But she did 
 not answer. They might as well have been saying 
 good-by to a statue on the landing-place. They 
 hurried out and into the sleigh, and the horses 
 shook their bells restlessly, but still Barry had not 
 come. His father called out for him impatiently, 
 almost angrily ; the hall door stood ajar, and the 
 icy current of air was forcing itself into the hall. 
 Phcebe stood instinctively holding the baby's 
 head against her shoulder with her hand, but she 
 was not thinking about it much. She was listen 
 ing for Barry's step above, and hearing his father's 
 voice below. There was indeed not a moment to 
 lose.
 
 LEFT BEHIND. 175 
 
 ** Yes, I 'm coming ! " he called out from the up 
 per floor, and he came down hurriedly. " Phoebe, 
 you '11 have to see to the locking of my desk ; I 
 can't get the key out. Confound the hurry ! It 
 all comes of going so many hours before I had 
 arranged to." 
 
 A sense of suffocation came over Phoebe as his 
 step reached the stair on which she stood ; a 
 crowding of too much into a space that would not 
 hold it. 
 
 " Good-by," he said, taking her in his arms and 
 kissing the baby and her alternately. " Good-by, 
 good-by." 
 
 He held her closely, and she clung against him, 
 going down step by step, till they reached the hall. 
 Her lips moved, but she could hardly make him 
 understand the only words she could speak : 
 
 " Don't forget baby." 
 
 He laughed lightly. "And how about you? " 
 he said, giving her a final fervent kiss at the door, 
 as his father called him harshly from outside. He 
 had laughed lightly. Barry would laugh so when 
 he stepped into the boat to cross the Styx ; but 
 his face had been pale and his kiss fervent. He 
 pulled the door shut after him ; it closed with a 
 heavy noise. Phoebe, staggering against it, leaned 
 listening till the sleigh-bells passed out of hearing 
 into the road, and were lost. Then, with a low 
 cry that it is to be hoped the servants did not 
 hear, she caught the baby against her breast, went
 
 176 PIKEBE. 
 
 flying up the stairs to her own room, locked the 
 door, and, panting, put the child into its cradle, 
 flung herself upon the floor beside it, and burying 
 her face in the soft blankets rocked backward and 
 forward in her oppressive anguish. She fought 
 her battle alone ; the baby went to sleep, rocked 
 by her sorrow as he had been borne by her pain, 
 and equally unconscious. The servants gathered 
 together below, and chattered over the going in 
 the idle twilight. 
 
 And in the fast-rattling train, Barry no doubt 
 got over his pallor and his fervor, and possibly 
 even the mother's foreboding heart grew lighter. 
 It is so much easier to go than to stay, to be ac 
 tive than passive, to be a man than to be a woman.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ISOLATION. 
 
 AFTER all, to a reasonable being in fair health 
 there are few troubles that are unbearable. That 
 first night was bad enough, and the second little 
 better ; but soon the sorrow settled down into a 
 habit, and was worn accordingly, and not taken 
 into the hand and inspected hourly. Then she 
 resolved stoutly to make the best of it, and not to 
 hurt the baby by fretting. Making the best of it 
 involved keeping herself busy and scrupulously 
 attending to every smallest duty of the household. 
 Things had been left entirely to her discretion as 
 to the housekeeping. She had been told to keep 
 as many of the servants as she chose ; to use what 
 ever rooms she liked ; to act, in effect, exactly as 
 if the house were hers. 
 
 On the third day after they had gone she roused 
 herself to look into the situation and make her 
 plans. It pleased her to feel she was doing dis 
 creetly with the matters left in her charge. She 
 was saving money, if the rest were spending it. 
 Barry's baby had a right to a home ; she was 
 
 merely staying in it to take care of him. If there 
 12
 
 178 PIKEBE. 
 
 was a touch of bitterness in these reflections, they 
 gave her the nerve she might have lacked to dis 
 miss the unnecessary servants and place things on 
 an economical footing. The cook was reduced to 
 a general servant, and Mary Ann kept for the 
 baby's nurse. All the best bedrooms were shut 
 up, except the two on the third story which had al 
 ways been Barry's. The parlors were cleaned and 
 clothed in their drab coverings and locked ; the 
 dining-room alone was open. The furnace was 
 put on half rations ; the butcher and grocer were 
 made to understand that the family was almost 
 extinct ; the gas-bill was nearly nominal. All these 
 changes were not effected without effort : but your 
 true reformer is he who has not much to lose, and 
 who "sits loose to the world," as the pious old 
 books say. A dash of recklessness helps one 
 through some trying domestic situations wonder 
 fully. The whole matter seemed trivial and un 
 important to Phrebe, aching with her real sorrows, 
 and she carried it through with so high a hand 
 that it was necessarily successful. The most vital 
 element in the management of servants is not to 
 be afraid of them. Phrebe did not care in the 
 least whether Mary Ann stayed or went, or 
 whether the cook resented her reduction or not ; 
 she had at heart almost a feeling that it would be 
 agreeable to her if they all went away, and left 
 her and baby alone in the third-story room, 
 
 " Rolled in one another's arms, aiid silent in a last embrace."
 
 ISOLATION. 179 
 
 She rather invited anarchy : she was in a mood to 
 have welcomed change. And so the cook meekly 
 took her increased work and decreased pay, and 
 Mary Ann made herself agreeable to the baby 
 and filled many minor offices in the house without 
 a murmur, and the butcher and grocer were as 
 respectful as when the bills were huge. Whether 
 this was the perversity of fate or the perversity 
 of human nature out at service is not quite clear. 
 At all events, it was so, and Phoebe's days, once 
 started, rolled on without household change or 
 friction. 
 
 She never went out except to take an occasional 
 walk on the loneliest road she could find, or to go 
 to church. Often the baby made it impossible to 
 go to church ; she never felt easy to leave him so 
 long with the flighty Mary Ann, but she never 
 stayed away without a fretted feeling. She had 
 given up hoping that any one would help her and 
 hold out a hand to her in the path of faith to 
 which she was drawn. They were evidently not 
 a proselyting people, these people to whom her in 
 stincts were leading her to join herself. One day 
 her baby had been taken to church and brought 
 to " the illumination of baptism, with God's grace 
 preventing his election, and by an artificial neces- 
 .sity and holy prevention engaged to the profession 
 and practices of Christianity." She had had such 
 deep thoughts they might almost have forced their 
 way out into words. But when the service was
 
 180 PIKEUE. 
 
 over and they were coming away, the clergyman 
 had shaken hands with her cordially and cominon- 
 placely, and had said they had a fine child, and 
 that he had behaved remarkably well. His words 
 and manner were somewhat unsacerdotal, though 
 sufficiently civil. It would be difficult to know 
 what she had thought he ought to say or do, but 
 he certainly had not done it, whatever it was. 
 And from that day she grew dumber than ever, 
 and knew she could never speak to him. And to 
 whom could she speak ? Between her mother-in- 
 law and herself there was a gulf fixed ; Lucy was 
 a little afraid of her, and never knew exactly what 
 to say to her on any subject ; and to Barry nobody 
 would ever think of talking about such things. 
 So, one by one, the chances had slipped away from 
 her, till she had been left in material as well as 
 fancied isolation. 
 
 Living " in a corner of a wide house " is neces 
 sarily dreary living. The stairs resound so when 
 you go up them at night, the doors slam with 
 .such an echo, the winds blow with such insinua 
 tions, the blinds have so much to say, the nightly 
 solitude is so peopled with suggestions. The light 
 from Phoebe's room shone across the snow very 
 late at night sometimes. But the baby's good 
 condition showed that she was not fretting unrea 
 sonably, and if she sat up late it was to sew for 
 him, or to write letters to her husband, or to read 
 some book that took her thoughts away from her
 
 ISOLATION. 181 
 
 own trouble,, No young wife could have behaved 
 better than she did ; and if the two months were 
 long in passing, they did pass at last, and she 
 found herself in possession of a letter that told 
 her, when this came into her hands her husband 
 would be half-way across the ocean on his way 
 home. 
 
 Barry was not a fluent letter-writer. He said 
 very little generally, and did not say that little 
 with an air of voluntariness. One had a feeling 
 he was writing up his books, doing what had to 
 be done, getting square with his conscience. But 
 it was his characteristic, and Phoebe had steeled 
 herself against being hurt by it. His sisters al 
 ways joked about his dispatches, and she knew 
 she had no more to complain of than his family 
 had had for years. This letter, however, that told 
 of his coming home had a few unusual words in 
 it that gave her a thrill of joy. It was better 
 than all the diffuseness of other people. This he 
 must really mean, or why should he have said it ? 
 He was surely glad that he was coming back to 
 her, no matter what or who he left behind him. 
 
 The letters of the others had naturally had 
 many stings in them, notably Honor's, who, hap 
 pily for her sister-in-law's peace of mind, did not 
 find time to write very often. Tartar occupied a 
 very prominent place in Honor's occasional let 
 ters, and Barry's good spirits and great popularity 
 were strongly dwelt upon.
 
 182 PH(EBE. 
 
 " You must n't mind if lie comes back to you a 
 little spoiled," she wrote, "for between mamma's 
 and Lucy's coddling and Tartar's cousinly devo 
 tion lie is made entirely too rnucli of at home, and 
 when we go out it is positively revolting. You 'd 
 think the women here (in Nice) had never seen a 
 man worth looking at before." 
 
 Lucy's letters and her mother's were so devoid 
 of such observations, and so full of soothing sen 
 tences about dear Barry's natural anxiety to be at 
 home, that she distrusted them entirely, and found 
 them much worse than Honor's naive truth. But 
 here he was, almost back again : three days more, 
 and she could see for herself how spoiled he was, 
 or how glad to be beside her. 
 
 It was not till she knew that he was away from 
 Tartar that she realized how great and how con 
 stant the strain had been of knowing that they 
 were together ; she had been fighting the thought 
 all the time, and resisting the impulse to imagine 
 scenes and incidents that were torture to her. 
 But now she had fought her battle, and she knew 
 she had fought it well, and the sense of victory 
 over herself and of a truce with fate was very 
 soothing.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A DIDO OF TO-DAY. 
 
 IT was a stormy day in early April, the day 
 after Barry's letter had come heralding his return. 
 The little household was in busy flutter. Two 
 women were undressing the parlor chairs and so 
 fas, and washing the windows, notwithstanding 
 the persistent splashing of raindrops on them. 
 Mary Ann was busy below in some unusual work 
 resulting from the great occasion. Phoebe, in a 
 state of keen, expectant happiness, was " mind 
 ing" the baby in the little room always called 
 Barry's study, adjoining their bedchamber, on the 
 third floor. It was a pretty little corner room, 
 with two windows, an open fire, an aesthetic man 
 tel, and some nice engravings. It had never been 
 much altered since Barry's bachelor days, and 
 nothing ever spoke to his mother's heart of the 
 past as did this place. To Phoebe this associa 
 tion had not been pleasant, of course, but she 
 rigorously forbore to ask questions or to propose 
 changes. She did not know why that picture had 
 the knot of faded pink ribbon tied above the cord, 
 nor why those two pipes crossed over the desk
 
 184 PIHEBE. 
 
 must not be taken down, nor the particular value 
 of that wisp of dried grass in the Copeland vase 
 in the corner. She had endured the sight of these 
 inanimate incentives to jealousy all through the 
 lonely winter. Now she quite defied them, and 
 felt as she dusted them that familiarity had robbed 
 them of their sting. Nothing, it seemed to her, 
 could sting her to-day, she was so content. She 
 felt she had earned her peace. She knew she had 
 behaved well : she looked over the battle-field and 
 felt it had been a sharply-contested fight. 
 
 The rain outside and the peevish spits of snow 
 that occasionally mingled with it did not depress 
 her. She looked about the room, and put it, in 
 imagination, in the order in which it was to be on 
 Thursday. In the good weather which was sure 
 to come to-morrow it was to be swept and cleaned, 
 and the windows were to shine like crystal. Mary 
 Ann should spend two hours on the brasses of the 
 fire-place, and she with her own hands would lay 
 the fire that would blaze up in his welcome. 
 There should be flowers in those glasses and 
 fresh ribbons for the curtains; and .baby should 
 lie there in his berceaunette with his prettiest 
 blanket over him. It was a pity it rained so to 
 day, and she could do so little. At any rate, she 
 could put the closet and shelves in order and re 
 arrange the books in the little book-case in the 
 corner. 
 
 This took all too short a time, and still the baby
 
 A DIDO OF TO-DAY. 185 
 
 slept. Many times she went over to him, and 
 touched the swinging cradle with a light hand, 
 and moved a blanket this way or that, and gazed 
 fondly at him, and went back to her work. It was 
 a very hard part of her discipline that when she 
 was disturbed about her husband she loved her 
 baby less rather than more. Instead of clinging 
 to him and finding comfort in him she felt her 
 heart turned hard to every one, even him, and only 
 held him by an instinct that seemed no higher 
 than that of self-preservation. She looked at him 
 with cold eyes when her heart was hot with jeal 
 ousy ; she cared for him with perfunctory hands 
 when her min'd was filled with forebodings and 
 distress. But to-day she was happy in the sight 
 of his beauty and health. She began to feel that 
 he woidd be a bond to bind her husband to her. 
 They two could unite in love and interest and ef 
 fort for this child, who belonged almost equally to 
 both. She felt for perhaps the first time as most 
 ordinarily happy mothers feel always about their 
 first-born children. 
 
 Her instinct, however, was not to muse and 
 brood over joy or sorrow. So after a few minutes 
 given to these thoughts, leaning over the cradle, 
 she lifted herself up, and said, " What shall I do 
 towards getting ready for Tliursday ? " 
 
 Her eye fell upon the desk that stood beside 
 the window. She remembered the circumstance 
 of the key refusing to turn in the lock the day
 
 186 PHCEBE, 
 
 her husband went awa}% and that she had noticed, 
 when she had shut it up and locked it, that it was 
 in great disorder. She had never looked into it 
 before or since. Barry had always carried the 
 key in his pocket, and it was no doubt owing to 
 the obstinacy of the lock that day that it was not 
 there now. At another time she would have 
 thought of this, and reflected that she might bet 
 ter not look into what had never been offered for 
 her inspection. But she was too happy to-day to 
 have such thoughts. It was something she could 
 do for him. It was impossible to be doing any 
 thing with any other motive. Whatever she did, 
 even down to her little cares for "baby, was in 
 directly done with the feeling that it was for him, 
 for his child, who represented him. So very 
 light-heartedly she went to fetch the key and un 
 lock the dusty desk. 
 
 The key was cranky again, but her fingers were 
 strong and her intention was deliberate. In a few 
 moments it turned and the doors opened. Oh, 
 what an untidy place ! Phoabe loved order and 
 neatness and thrift, but she thought it rather a 
 manly attribute to be regardless of all these. 
 She laughed softly to herself as she said, 4i Oh, 
 Barry, this is just like you ! " There were keys 
 and pipes, cigars an'd visiting-cards, note paper 
 and wrapping paper, bills and family letters, 
 cheek by jowl in the most dgagg manner. The 
 shelves were literally heaped with such elegant
 
 A DIDO OF TO-DAY. 187 
 
 trifles, the pigeon-holes stuffed with papers which 
 were doubtless as incongruous. She cleared the 
 shelves first, wiping and dusting them very care 
 fully, and arranged the contents with some regard 
 to fitness of companionship. Evidently the desk 
 had not been emptied for a couple of years. 
 There were letters and bills as old as that, and 
 one knows what an accumulation of such things 
 can be acquired in two years. She assorted the 
 letters and filed the bills. Happily the bills were 
 receipted, and the letters were mostly from men, 
 or in the handwriting of his sisters and mother. 
 She did not read the letters, of course, but tied 
 them up in decent order, bundle by bundle, as she 
 did her own. When this was all done she put 
 them back neatly in piles as they belonged. The 
 shelves did not look half full ; it was a pleasure 
 to see what a little order would do. Barry would 
 know where to lay his hand on everything. In 
 future she would ask him to let her have his keys 
 and keep things in place for him. What comfort, 
 what a saving of time and temper, it would be ! 
 He would have had ten minutes more for his good- 
 by to her if he had not got embroiled with this 
 disordered desk the day he went away. 
 
 Baby moved a little uneasily. She left the con 
 templation of the well-ordered shelves and went 
 to him. He did not wake, only turned and fretted 
 for a moment ; then twisting his head down on the 
 pillow, and moving his lips in the imaginary bliss
 
 188 PHCEBE. 
 
 of nursing, sank again into repose. He was a 
 beautiful child, inheriting apparently all the mag 
 nificent health of his father and mother. He had 
 a full but delicate mouth, chestnut hair that lay 
 in soft rings upon his forehead, lustrous eyes and 
 wonderful lashes, and a fine creamy skin with 
 warm tints. There was a little moisture on the 
 chestnut rings, and she turned back the blanket. 
 She lifted the pink hand : the fingers closed 
 around one of hers; it was like undoing the ten 
 drils of a vine to get them loosened without wak 
 ing him. So! She laid the rose-tipped hand back 
 and stooped down and kissed it lightly, and then 
 with a half sigh turned again to her work. 
 
 But first she put a stick of wood on the fire ; 
 then she looked out at the unseasonable storm, 
 which was turning to hail at the moment, and 
 wondered if the invisible buds on the trees below 
 the window would be chilled to death by it, and 
 whether "the wonders under -ground," the up 
 starting, up-pushing forces of the spring, would 
 be put back by it. It was hard to fancy the sun 
 s.hining to-morrow, but it would shine; and on 
 Thursday it would be spring. 
 
 And then she went practically to her work. 
 Any one who has ever cleared out a man's desk 
 with a tenderness for the man who owned it can 
 understand the charity with which she collected 
 overturned boxes of new pens from among the lit 
 ter of old ones, and the care with which she dis-
 
 A DIDO OF TO-DAY. 189 
 
 criminated between time-tables two years old and 
 those of recent date. All memoranda in his hand 
 writing were sacred. She was a good deal in awe 
 of everything that looked like business papers. 
 Here was a crumpled slip of legal cap with mystic 
 words like these upon it : 
 
 "3 Meeson & Welsby, 140; 5 C. & P. 23. 
 See Tidd." 
 
 She lifted it with care. What might not de 
 pend upon it ? Baby's inheritance to the extent 
 of thousands might be damaged by its loss. 
 
 But here was something that did not look like 
 business. It was put away in one of the up 
 per pigeon-holes of the desk, far back. She could 
 not remember whether, when she first opened the 
 desk, she had taken away anything from before 
 it. She rather thought not. It was an envelope, 
 and it contained a paper. On the face of the en 
 velope Barry's initials were written, and in the 
 corner at the left, " February 2, 188-." It was 
 Tartar's handwriting, and the envelope, which 
 had never been sealed, was marked with her mon 
 ogram. Phoebe's heart tightened with the old 
 pang. She held it in her hands. What had Tar 
 tar had to say to him on February 2d? That was 
 just the week before the plan for going abroad 
 was started. What had Tartar had to say to him ? 
 She had a right to know. If men had been writ 
 ing notes to her, Barry would have thought he 
 had a right to read them, if he had found them
 
 190 PHCEBE. 
 
 lying in his way. She had never looked at any 
 letter of his before that he had not given her to 
 read ; but then she had never had in her hand one 
 written him by Tartar. The temptation was new ; 
 the circumstance of her present happiness and 
 confidence made it strong. She said to herself, " I 
 ought to be ashamed of myself for doubting him 
 after what he said in his letter the other day. I 
 am ashamed, and yet I do doubt. If I look at 
 this, it will stop the pain, it will clear everything 
 up. There is nothing in it ; 1 know there is noth 
 ing in it. If I put it back without looking inside, 
 the thought will torment me. It will spoil the 
 pleasure of his coming. It is best to make an end 
 of the suspicion, even by doing something that 
 may hurt my self-respect a little. But why should 
 it hurt my self-respect ? I have a right. It is 
 not as if I had had no cause for distrust. I have 
 had cause, though I have put away from me the 
 recollection of it. I want to end tins forever. 
 Perhaps this will be the last time that I shall have 
 such a feeling." Still she did not open the letter. 
 She held it in her hand, with her eyes fastened 
 on the inoffensive words upon the envelope, her 
 lips pressed together, her whole face inscrutably 
 changed. The baby roused and began to fret. 
 She went to him and bent over him, and tried to 
 quiet him, not harshly, but woodenly, without feel 
 ing or tenderness, as if she were thinking of things 
 in which he had no part. He refused to be quieted,
 
 A DIDO OF TO-DAY. 191 
 
 but twisted about, and put up his struggling little 
 arms. " Come, then," she said, for he was hungry ; 
 and taking him out of his soft bed, she wrapped 
 a blanket about him and sat down near the fire. 
 He nestled close, seeking with hungry hands and 
 with eager lips, like a little animal guided by the 
 scent of food, the breast which she made bare for 
 him. She settled him on hei\arm, and drew the 
 blanket over him, but paid no further heed to 
 him. He lay looking in her face with the half- 
 speculating but satisfied expression in his eyes 
 that one often sees in a nursing baby's ; but she 
 turned away and did not answer them. Finally 
 the wide-open eyelids began to droop, the eager 
 lips drew less and less eagerly, and the satiated 
 baby slept. She pat him back again in his cradle, 
 and settled the blankets over him, and shaded his 
 eyes from the light, turning back to put the ruffles 
 of the little pillow smooth under his shoulder, and 
 to wipe away with her handkerchief the white drop 
 that hung on his bright red lip. Then she pushed 
 the handkerchief into her pocket and drew out the 
 envelope again, going towards the window as she 
 did it. She held it in her hand, not looking at it 
 any more, but gazing with fixed eyes out upon the 
 dreary, rain-soaked scene. The shutter, loosened 
 from its fastening, came banging against the win 
 dow, with some caprice of the ill-tempered wind. 
 She mechanically put up the sash and stretched 
 out her fine white hand and arm into the cold
 
 192 PH(EBE. 
 
 rain to fasten it back. A great rush of chilly air 
 came into the room before she shut the window 
 down again. She turned, with hard eyes, to see 
 if the noise or the chill had disturbed the baby's 
 sleep. No ; he had health in his veins, and she 
 had fire in hers, and neither of them felt the icy 
 breath that had come in. 
 
 Should she read it, and put herself out of pain ? 
 For that it would put her out of pain she con 
 fidently told hei'self. An honorable instinct for 
 bade her to read what was not meant for her to 
 see ; but against that honorable instinct a hundred 
 good reasons marshaled themselves. How could 
 a poor little instinct hold out against this host? 
 The fight was a hot one, but was not very long. 
 She pulled the paper from the envelope. For a 
 moment there was a glare before her eyes, but 
 from the blur presently the words came out. 
 There was neither address nor signature, nor any 
 date. It was unmistakably Tartar's hand ; the 
 initials on the paper were as unmistakably hers. 
 
 Phoebe read : " Without disguise and without 
 excuse, I have acknowledged my love for you. 
 Concealment between us in the past was fatal ; in 
 the future it will be impossible. You have taken 
 it out of m}' hands by your abrupt words last 
 night. Why could you not have been silent, when 
 speaking could no longer do anybody any good ? 
 Ah ! what we have before us ! This is only the 
 beginning. If I see you to-morrow, as you ask,
 
 A DIDO OF TO-DAY. 193 
 
 remember never to ask it again. It cannot be 
 wrong to say good-by to you, for it shall be good- 
 by, though we may meet every day for years. 
 Remember, it must be good-by" 
 
 Phoebe had been reading, standing by the win 
 dow. Her eyes went two or three times over the 
 words before she mastered them. A feeling of 
 illness overcame her, and she made two or three 
 staggering steps towards a chair, in which she sat 
 down. There was a tight, dreadful feeling across 
 her chest, and her breath seemed stifled and 
 pressed back into it. All the color went out of 
 her face. Then it was true, all her fears, all 
 her doubts of him. All his lightness of heart at 
 going away meant that. All his staying in town 
 through the dreary winter meant that. All his 
 weariness and ennui, his commonplace answers, 
 his silences, his unlover-likeness, meant that ; and 
 all his fond words in his last letter to her meant 
 covering it up and blinding her. She had strug 
 gled with herself and reasoned herself for months 
 into believing that it was just the change that 
 comes over all men after marriage. No, it was a 
 worse change than other women have to see. She 
 had lost him. The love on which she had staked 
 every tli ing was gone, ended, dead. For the mo 
 ment, she did not feel jealous or angry. If he had 
 been there, she might almost have thrown herself 
 at his feet and implored him to give her back his 
 love. She would have sued him for it as she 
 
 13
 
 194 PH(EBE. 
 
 would have sued Heaven for her child's life, struck 
 with mortal illness. The grief that desolated her 
 would have made her forget everything else. The 
 thirst that consumed her would have dried up all 
 lesser feelings. 
 
 The Carthaginian queen stretching out her 
 arms to the ships fading from sight on the " end 
 less sea" was not struck with a suddener, more 
 appalling sense of helpless bereavement than poor 
 nineteenth-century Phoebe, sitting, stunned, by 
 the aesthetic mantelpiece in Barry's little study. 
 Human nature is much alike in all ages. You 
 cannot do more than love a man entirely, whatever 
 century you happen to be born in. You cannot be 
 more than desolated, whether it be by command 
 of the gods, to which your .ZEneas is not dis 
 inclined, or solicitation of the world, the flesh, 
 and the devil, which your Barry does not resist. 
 There are diverse ways of taking your loss, as 
 diverse as the temperaments of women from those 
 distant times till these. By far the least hard is 
 the heroic treatment, if one's nerves and creed 
 permit. Who would not rather Dido's swift 
 sword and flame, and the chance of getting square 
 with ^Eneas in the other world, and giving him a 
 piece of one's mind in Hades, than the prolonged 
 torture of a deserted woman nowadays, like the 
 Madonna carried in procession, 
 
 " Smiling and smart, . 
 With a pink satin gown, all spangles, 
 And seven swords stuck in her heart " ?
 
 A DIDO OF TO-DAY. 195 
 
 Ah, we see our JEneases sail away from us 
 sometimes, we know that they are gone forever, 
 while in their places stay with us some shadowy, 
 strange, unreal things that wear their shapes, with 
 whom we have to live, for whom we have to smile 
 our smiles and curb our tongues and bear our bur 
 dens. All that was easy to do before is hard and 
 hateful now. 
 
 As Phoebe sat motionless with the letter in her 
 hand, looking at the smouldering fire without see 
 ing it, some far-away anticipations of the life she 
 would have to lead came over her, succeeding the 
 first agony. It would be only two days before 
 she would be obliged to meet him, to treat him as 
 nearly as might be as she had treated him before 
 before what ? His treachery ? Had he meant to 
 desert her? Had he meant to do what his fate had 
 made him do ? No, surely, he had never been a 
 coward, he had never been cruel. It was simply, 
 destiny was too strong for him. He had loved his 
 cousin all his life; he had been diverted from 
 it by some misunderstanding. His cousin was 
 the one to whom he belonged ; his wife was the 
 usurper. Then what a sharp pang came, and with 
 it a rage of anger, a fire of jealousy. No ; he 
 might have loved Tartar, she had played with 
 him, had thrown him off, perhaps, in the old days ; 
 but he had loved her, Phoebe, in that strange, 
 delirious time, that was so full of bitter and sweet 
 to remember, and Tartar had robbed her. She 
 was desolate no longer, but maddened.
 
 196 PIIWBE. 
 
 If she could have hated him steadfastly it would 
 have been -easier. She did hate him, in bitter 
 gusts and tempests of feeling, but she yearned for 
 him so passionately that her hatred melted again 
 and again at some chance recollection, and she 
 only hated for ever and ever the woman who had 
 lured him from her. 
 
 How do people live through days like this ? It 
 gives one a respect for the human brain and the 
 material part of us to know that they seldom dis 
 solve or go into chaotic disorder under such press 
 ure. 
 
 When Mary Ann came up to tell her mistress 
 that her dinner was ready, the girl started, and 
 asked, looking blank, if she were ill. As Mary 
 Ann's perceptive powers were of the lowest order, 
 there must have been some conspicuous change to 
 call out the question. Phoebe turned her face away 
 from her, and said she was not ill, but only tired ; 
 she had the feeling, which she did not arrange into 
 words, that she was then putting on the mask 
 which she would never take off again as long as 
 she lived. When we are very young, everything 
 is going to be " forever." As we grow older we 
 find that it is possible to outlive .^Eneas himself 
 and the sword of despair, and even the flames of 
 annihilation. Middle-aged anguish says to itself, 
 " This will wear out." It is by so much less a 
 stimulant.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 PEYTON EDWARDS. 
 
 TOWARDS evening the rain turned to snow. 
 The ground was chilled enough to bear a thin coat 
 of it. It looked a winter scene when Phoebe pushed 
 her way out of the heavy, slowly - moving front 
 door into the early twilight. The snow had 
 ceased to fall, but the chill of it filled the air, 
 which was damp as well with the long day of rain. 
 The sky was dull with monotonous clouds : it was 
 all most dreary. There are some states of mind 
 in which one cannot stay in the house ; Phoebe 
 had gone out because it seemed as if she could not 
 draw another breath in the stifling atmosphere 
 within. She longed to walk and tire herself, 
 and get rid of this pain which was to last forever, 
 and which had just begun. She had no purpose in 
 her walk, only to walk, and that not slowly. She 
 had waited for the twilight because she did not 
 want to be seen by any curious eyes. Since Mary 
 Ann had recognized the trouble on her face, she 
 did. not want any one else to have a chance to 
 see it. 
 
 The houses along the road are just beginning
 
 198 PHCEBE. 
 
 to be lighted : at the door of one a young wife 
 stands waiting for her husband, coming down the 
 walk on his return from town. Poor Phoebe 
 turns away with a bitter pain. At another, a 
 nurse sits in the window with a white baby in her 
 arms, who drums upon the pane, while a carriage 
 turns in at the gate, and an eager pair lean for 
 ward and wave salutations to the baby. 
 
 The stage comes rolling down the road ; people 
 are getting out at another expectant cottage, 
 guests, valises, welcomes, kisses. The light from 
 the door shines across the snow, such a babble, 
 such merriment. Sore-hearted, she wonders what 
 they can find to be so happy about. 
 
 She passes an old house that stands but a little 
 way back from the street. The great trees in 
 front of it, now bare, do not protect it from the 
 passers-by, nor the dry, brittle hedge on which 
 the snow is lying. A light streams across the 
 wide piazza ; between the pillars of it is a window, 
 through which one sees the peaceful picture of an 
 old lady reading by a lamp. The street is quiet 
 here, no one is passing ; Phoebe leans against the 
 fence and gazes in. It is a face she knows well 
 and has often seen in church, and thought of when 
 she was in trouble : a sort of benediction that 
 blesses the eyes that look on it, serene with love 
 of God, tender with love of man, cheering, self- 
 forgetting. Ah, Phoebe wonders, as she looks, 
 was that peace bought through suffering? Is that
 
 PEYTON EDWARDS. 199 
 
 power to bless its price ? She knows that in the 
 churchyard, hard by, lie more than one beloved 
 who have left her. But they left her that way. 
 One might be the better for sorrow, but not this 
 sort. She thinks of the children that rise up and 
 call this calm woman blessed, of the troops of 
 friends that gather round her old age, of the silent 
 influence she has, of the honor in which her town's- 
 people hold her. Was it 
 
 " The not uupeaceful ending of a day 
 Made black by morning storms " 1 
 
 She longs to speak to her, to ask for her pity, her 
 prayers. But the calm saint reads on by the 
 peaceful household lamp, and poor Phrebe goes 
 away uncomforted. 
 
 She turned down another street and went to 
 wards the churchyard, of which the gate stood 
 open. The church itself was shut, not resembling 
 in all things the God whom it professed to repre 
 sent, who neither slumbers nor sleeps. It looked 
 dark and cold. She tried the door, but it was 
 fastened against her. If she could have found 
 sanctuary there for a little while, and in the si 
 lence and dimness have cried to God before that 
 altar ! Well, she was not sure that it would have 
 done her any good. She sat down on the step 
 a while till she grew cold, and then, remembering 
 scornfully that she had a body yet to be taken 
 care of, she got up and walked through the snow 
 to the graves that lay so still under the still, bare
 
 200 P1HEBE. 
 
 trees and the still, dark sky. " To mortals no 
 sorrow is immortal." At least, she thought, there 
 is cure here. She wished that her baby were ly 
 ing here dead, and she beside him. She thought 
 of the many paragraphs in the papers, that she 
 had read with horror, of poor mothers who had 
 drowned, or burned, or butchered their children, 
 and then themselves, when the furnace of domes 
 tic misery had become too fiery hot, and their tor 
 tured nerves had reached the point of madness. 
 She did not mean to kill herself ; she knew she 
 was not mad ; she almost wished she were, that 
 would be one way out of it. What way was there 
 out of it for long-living, healthy, strong-suffering, 
 silent Phoebe ? 
 
 But it was cold. Her feet were wet, and her 
 skirts draggled with the snow and slush. Her 
 sense of neatness felt the outrage, even at her high 
 tragedy pitch. She left the cold graveyard and 
 the colder church, and went out again at the gate, 
 more desolate than she had come in. Outside the 
 gate there was a street lamp, and in the halo of 
 this she stood for a moment irresolute. Presently, 
 out of the misty dimness beyond it, came the 
 sound of a man's step, and she started uncomfort 
 ably. The side street on which the churchyard 
 opened was without houses ; it was a lonely spot, 
 though near the heart of the town. Before she 
 could get out of the range of the lamp the step 
 was beside her, an amazed exclamation, and she 
 was face to face with Peyton Edwards.
 
 PEYTON EDWARDS. 201 
 
 " What are you doing in the churchyard ? Has 
 anything happened ? " he said, in a direct way, for 
 it was impossible to talk conventionally in such a 
 spot, and with Phoebe's face arid dress testifying 
 so loudly to her abandoned misery. She did not 
 answer, but turned silently towards home, and he 
 walked beside her. 
 
 " Nobody is ill ? " he asked. " You have n't 
 heard bad news from them ? " 
 
 " No," she said, slowly. 
 
 " There 's something wrong," he went on, after 
 waiting a minute or two for her reply, while they 
 made their way through the slush and mire. " I 
 should think you might speak to me. You know 
 they 're like my own people." 
 
 "I am not your ' own people.' I'm nobody's 
 people," she thought ; but she only said, " I 'm 
 not, though." 
 
 " Well, I 've always felt as if you were, any 
 way," he answered. A sort of sob rose in Phoebe's 
 throat. She had always trusted Peyton Edwards. 
 He had seemed more like a friend than any one 
 else in her new, strange home. 
 
 " I 've had a lonely time," she said. " I have n't 
 had a soul to speak to since they went away." 
 
 " I was afraid so. I 've thought about you a 
 great deal," he answered. "I 've just come from 
 the train, for it 's been bothering me all day, and I 
 made up my mind to come out and see how you 
 were getting on."
 
 202 PHOEBE. 
 
 " You did n't come for anything else ? v 
 
 "No." 
 
 " You have n't heard anything ? " she asked, 
 with a suspicious glance at his face, which the 
 corner lamp under which they had come showed 
 her. 
 
 " No," he answered, straightforwardly. " I 
 sent around to the office this afternoon, but they 
 said there was no news. Barry has n't written 
 to me since he went away." 
 
 Phoebe did not speak. 
 
 " I suppose Barry '11 be coming home pretty 
 soon ? " he asked. 
 
 " He '11 be here on Thursday," she said. 
 
 " Thursday ? Then you ought n't to be look 
 ing this way." 
 
 She did not answer, and they walked on for the 
 length of a block in silence. 
 
 " Is n't he well ? " asked Peyton, at last. " If 
 there 's any trouble, I wish you 'd tell me." 
 
 "It's my trouble," she answered. "May be 
 you would n't think that counted." 
 
 " I do think it counts. I 've thought about you 
 a great deal. I felt Barry ought not to have 
 gone." 
 
 " Then you knew, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Knew what ? " 
 
 " Oh, it was n't just his leaving me alone." 
 
 " Well, that was all I blamed him for ; the baby 
 being so little, and you a stranger here, and and
 
 PEYTON EDWARDS. 203 
 
 . the place and the people being so new to 
 you." 
 
 " I understand. Oh, I did n't mind that. As 
 long as it was all right between him and me I 
 could stand all that." 
 
 " Well, I hope it 's all right now. You 're not 
 the kind of woman to fancy things. You don't 
 need me to tell you how Barry feels about you." 
 
 " No, I don't need any one to tell me," she said, 
 between her teeth. 
 
 Peyton looked anxiously towards her, for it 
 crossed his mind that her loneliness might have 
 worn upon her nerves and rendered her morbid, if 
 not absolutely unsound mentally. He remembered 
 how young her baby was, and how much of a 
 strain there had been upon her for the whole past 
 year. Silent and unmistakably manly as he was, 
 there was an acute understanding in him of 
 women's sufferings, and an acute tenderness, too, 
 well understood by the little girls who swept the 
 crossings that he passed daily, and the women 
 who scrubbed the halls and stairways of the down 
 town offices which he frequented. His heart was 
 tolerably hard towards men, but very soft towards 
 women who were " down on their luck." And it 
 was not necessary that the objects of his sympathy 
 should be good-looking always, either. By this 
 time, with their halting slow talk, and steady, 
 though rather quick walk, these two people who 
 were not in the habit of talking about their feel-
 
 204 PH(EBE. 
 
 ings, got inside the gate, and well on towards the 
 house. 
 
 " You think I 'm crazy, I suppose," said Phoebe, 
 abruptly, as they approached the piazza steps. 
 
 " No, not that altogether," he answered, hesi 
 tatingly, for it was so exactly what he had been 
 thinking that he could not honestly deny it, and 
 he had not the readiness to dissemble. 
 
 " I 've had enough to make me," she said, " but 
 I don't suppose I 'm the kind that goes crazy. All 
 along I have been blaming myself for everything, 
 but now I know I have been badly used." 
 
 "Well, I can't tell" 
 
 " No, I know you can't. I did n't think I could 
 ever talk to anybody about such a thing as this. 
 But won't you ring the bell ? Mary Ann has 
 locked the door." 
 
 While they waited for the opening of the door 
 they stood without speaking, Peyton not looking 
 at her, but with silent, deep thoughts, no doubt, 
 and a clouded face. When Mary Aim, quite out of 
 breath, got the door open, Phoebe walked in first, 
 and reproved her for not having the hall lamp 
 lighted. Mary Ann always had a good reason 
 to give for what she did and what she omitted 
 to do. It was the baby who was fretting, and 
 wouldn't let her lay him down a minute, ma'am. 
 Phoebe left her in the full tide of her explanations, 
 and shut the library door, and so cut off the 
 stream.
 
 PEYTON EDWARDS. 205 
 
 The library fire was burning, and the room 
 looked comfortable by its blaze, but there was 
 no lamp lighted. Phoebe took off her bonnet 
 and cloak and laid them on a chair in the corner, 
 then went to a jar that held matches, and, stoop 
 ing down, lighted one at the fire, and went over 
 to the lamp. Peyton sat down. He did not look 
 into the fire or about the room, nor did he follow 
 with his eyes the movements of the tall, beautiful 
 young woman whose unknown trouble was occu 
 pying all his thoughts, but stared before him at 
 nothing, and was as silent as a Sphinx. 
 
 Certainly he was not sympathetic looking; why 
 did Phoebe and the scrub-women and the cross 
 ing sweepers pick him out from all the crowd of 
 handsomer, more genial, more amiable-looking 
 men ? People in trouble have an instinct that 
 rarely leads them wrong. When Phoebe had 
 lighted the lamp and put the shade on it and 
 turned it carefully to the right height, she sat 
 down, too, and gazed before her some minutes 
 without speaking. Her hand was in her pocket, 
 as if she held something there on which her 
 thoughts were centred. She tried to speak several 
 times, but failed ; then with a slow, determined 
 gesture with the hand that lay upon the arm of 
 her chair, she said, 
 
 "I 'm going to show you something that I found 
 to-day. I don't believe you '11 think me crazy 
 when you read it. I suppose you know the writ-
 
 206 PHCEBE. 
 
 ing; perhaps you know more about what's past 
 than I do. It isn't new to me, but it 's " 
 
 Her voice choked. She pulled the envelope 
 from her pocket, and taking the paper out of it 
 handed it to him. He got up and went towards 
 the light to read it. The writing he certainly 
 recognized. A slight flush mounted to his fore 
 head, but faded as he read. In fact, he turned a 
 stony gray ; his face was no longer expressionless 
 and neutral, but showed that he was enduring a 
 pain sharp enough to need much self-control. 
 Phoebe did not move her eyes from him, but with 
 parted lips watched the effect upon him of what 
 he read. A look of satisfaction came into her eyes. 
 It was not imagination, then. Poor Phosbe had 
 had so many struggles with herself against doubts 
 that she could not prove that it was in a certain 
 sense a satisfaction to find she held a proof that 
 gave so much pain to some one else. Her com 
 panion did not speak for some minutes. His eyes 
 went over and over the words before him ; he 
 seemed to hunt for escape froni some most painful 
 conviction. When he first attempted to speak, 
 his voice failed ; liis failure to control himself 
 seemed to make him angry. When he spoke 
 again, it was quite distinctly. 
 
 "Where did you find this note?" he said, 
 still looking at it, and not at her. 
 
 " In Barry's desk, that I was putting in order." 
 
 " It has been there since since before he 
 went away ? "
 
 PEYTON EDWARDS. 207 
 
 " There is the date of it," she said, getting up 
 and giving him the envelope. 
 
 "You don't often go to the desk?" he asked, 
 slowly, after a few moments' pause. 
 
 " No, never before. He always kept it locked. 
 At the last moment the day he was going away, 
 there was great hurry and confusion ; just as he 
 was locking it, while they were calling to him from 
 down-stairs to come, the lock broke ; he had to 
 leave it or be left. He told me to take the keys 
 out and attend to it. I suppose for the moment 
 he forgot what was in it or thought I would 
 not likely look." 
 
 There was a silence. Phoebe sat down again, 
 but Peyton stood motionless, his eyes fixed on 
 vacancy, the hand with the letter in it hanging at 
 his side, his face pallid. 
 
 " I don't know anything about the past," she 
 went on slowly, at last. "I don't know whether 
 he could have helped that part of it or not but 
 going away together " 
 
 " The envelope was not sealed," he said, as if 
 he had not heard her, looking down at it. 
 
 " No ; she has handed it to him some time. 
 They were together every day ; I knew that. So 
 many nights he did not come home. And this 
 was just the week before the sudden plan to go 
 abroad. I never knew she was going till till 
 that last day at dinner." 
 
 Peyton seemed hardly to hear her, but to be 
 carried on by his own thoughts.
 
 208 PHCEBE. 
 
 " Damn him ! " he said, suddenly, under his 
 breath, crushing the paper that he held in his 
 hand, and throwing it from him. 
 
 " Damn her ! " said Phoebe, setting her lips to 
 gether and lifting her burning eyes to his. A 
 shudder passed over him ; he walked two or three 
 times across the room, then stopped before the 
 mantelpiece and leaned against it. 
 
 " Don't speak so," he began, in a husky voice. 
 " A woman ought to say her prayers " 
 
 " I shan't say any prayers for her." 
 
 " Well, she needs them " 
 
 "I hope she'll need them more and more; I 
 hope" 
 
 " Hush," said Peyton, hoarsely, lifting his head. 
 Phoebe and he looked each other in the eyes for a 
 moment ; and then Phoebe, with a sort of sigh 
 that was half a groan, leaned back in her chair 
 and looked away from him. It was a bitter, mis 
 erable consolation to know that some one else was 
 enduring the pain that she was, some one 
 stronger, and some one whom she had respected. 
 If jealousy and the wound of treachery could 
 make his face so ashy and his eyes so fierce, she 
 need not feel ashamed for herself. She got up 
 and went across the room and picked up the paper 
 that he had thrown from him, and smoothed it 
 out and put it back into the envelope. 
 
 At this moment Mary Ann rolled back the 
 door that led into the dining-room, and appeared
 
 PEYTON EDWARDS. 209 
 
 in the entrance with the baby under her arm, an 
 nouncing tea. At this interruption the two who 
 were so far away from thoughts of commonplace 
 comfort or discomfort experienced the wholesome 
 though hateful shock of recall to actual life. Pey 
 ton's first impulse was to go away, but he sub 
 mitted when Phrebe said, " You 'd better stay." 
 
 They went to the table ; it was as small as it 
 could be made, but was still far too large for the 
 two people who sat down to it and the slender 
 meal set forth upon it. Phosbe's hands shook a 
 little as she poured out the tea. Peyton set down 
 his cup, and scarcely tried to drink it. He took 
 some things to eat upon his plate, but did not eat 
 them. He sat looking before him in a fixed way, 
 not attempting to speak. Mary Ann chirruped 
 to the baby, which was the only conversation that 
 enlivened the meal except the apologies which she 
 made for bringing him down-stairs. He just 
 would n't go to sleep, she said, and it was the 
 cook's night out, and tea could n't be kept wait 
 ing any longer. It may have surprised her that 
 these apologies did not have any interest for Mr. 
 Peyton Edwards or her mistress ; she gradually 
 grew more reticent, and chirruped in a whisper 
 to the baby when she passed him. She had set 
 him down on the sofa and barricaded him in with 
 pillows. He goo-ed at her with placid interest, 
 and struck .aimless blows upon the pillow before 
 
 him. The baby in his wide unconsciousness and 
 14
 
 210 PIHEBE. 
 
 the nurse in her narrow ignorance made a strange 
 contrast to the two others of the partie carre. f 
 When at last these latter moved away into the next 
 room, Mary Ann in haste clattered the tea things 
 off, with kind consideration for the cook's outing. 
 The baby set up a little whine for his mother ; 
 she took him in her arms and walked about with 
 him for quiet's sake. Mary Ann, with more apol 
 ogies and more whispered chirrups, went off to her 
 own supper. Peyton stood looking into the fire 
 as if there was no one in the room beside himself. 
 Once or twice he started as if to speak, but 
 stopped, walked two or three times across the 
 room, and stood again beside the fire. The com 
 mon-place tea and Mary Ann had turned the key 
 on his utterance and on Phcebe's, and they could 
 no more go back to the mental attitude of the 
 hour before than they could make it six o'clock 
 instead of seven. 
 
 The baby fell asleep uneasily, and lay across 
 his mother's knees, a heavy weight. Mary Ann 
 came back and tiptoed about the room, not to 
 wake him. At last the slender meal was all out 
 of sight, the windows barred, the light turned 
 down, and the large, empty-looking dining-room 
 left to its night's repose. Then Mary Ann, with 
 slightly curious glances, came into the library iind 
 held out her arms for the baby. Phosbe put him 
 in them, wrapped his blanket round him, drew 
 an end of it over his head, and opened the door 
 for her.
 
 PEYTON EDWARDS. 211 
 
 " The hall is cold : be quick," she said. 
 
 Mary Ann looked back furtively -while her mis 
 tress was closing the door; she wondered what 
 they were going to talk about. She need not 
 have wondered. They were not going to talk. 
 After a while Peyton got up and told her he was 
 going ; he would see her in the morning. This 
 was a relief ; it would be easier to talk to-morrow. 
 After he was gone she turned down the lamp, and 
 drew her chair close to the fire, and sat down and 
 bent forward towards it and tried to warm herself, 
 for she was strangely cold. She began to think 
 after a while that she was going to have a chill. 
 All that wet snow in the churchyard and in the 
 streets and the damp night air and her terrible 
 excitement would be so many deadly enemies to 
 the poor little mortal who took his life from hers. 
 The baby, she almost hated him as she got up 
 from her low seat and went to find some medicine, 
 and a shawl to wrap herself in. She was denied 
 even the luxury of brooding over her trouble, of 
 desperately risking herself. And finally came the 
 voice of Mary Ann : the child would not sleep ; 
 there simply was not any use in rocking him ; he 
 just would not. Then setting her teeth together 
 she followed the nurse up-stairs, and spent the 
 first night of her great desolation with a fretting 
 baby in her arms, and spongia and aconite in 
 alternation with despair and jealousy.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 BARRY'S RETURN. 
 
 BUT before Thursday the baby got over his 
 croupish attack, and Phoebe was not seriously the 
 worse for her chill. They were well endowed 
 physically, both mother and child, and it takes a 
 great deal of mental anguish to undermine a good 
 country constitution. Phoebe had spent nineteen 
 years in a fine climate, with calm and uneventful 
 days alternating still and peaceful nights ; she 
 had been much in the open air ; she had not been 
 idle either in mind or body ; she had had no quar 
 rel with her simple life, but had been happy in it. 
 She had inherited from a robust father fine health 
 and power of endurance. It would take a good 
 many months of such nights and days as she had 
 just passed through to make her permanently ill. 
 
 Peyton had come out once each day to see her. 
 There was not much that he could say, but he 
 seemed to have a care of her, and she clung to 
 him in thought as her only earthly friend. He 
 telegraphed on Thursday morning to her that the 
 steamer was in, and again that the passengers 
 were landed, and on what train it would be possi-
 
 BARRY'S RETURN. 213 
 
 ble for Barry to go out to Marrowfat. After 
 tliis came a telegram from Barry himself, saying 
 at what hour he would be at home. So there was 
 no uncertainty and no long waiting. 
 
 The day had been a fine and clear one ; the sun 
 set was just reddening the sky and bronzing the 
 bare trees and the brown earth, when Phoebe 
 from the library window saw a carriage drive into 
 the grounds. She held the child tight in her 
 arms ; her breath seemed to stop. She saw Barry 
 burst open the door of the cab and leap out, with 
 an eager look up at the house. She tried to go 
 forward and open the door, but there are some 
 things we cannot do, even if we try. Barry had 
 to open the door for himself, which no doubt was 
 a little chill to his enthusiasm. In the hall, by 
 the entrance to the library, stood Phosbe, white 
 and quiet, with the baby in her arms. 
 
 " Well ! " he cried, with eager joyf ulness, dash 
 ing at them and enfolding them in one embrace. 
 He kissed Phoebe again and again, and then the 
 baby, and then Phosbe. He looked brown and 
 well, with a fine ciolor in his cheeks, and his eyes 
 dancing with pleasure. You could not fancy a 
 happier-looking man ; so handsome, too, in his 
 traveling clothes, so distinguished, so broad and 
 high and manly. " Well ! You are n't glad, I sup 
 pose.!" he cried, as he gave her another kiss and 
 another. 
 
 " The door," she said, faintly, gathering the
 
 214 PHCEBE. 
 
 baby's blanket up when for an instant he released 
 her. " I am afraid he '11 feel the air." 
 
 Barry turned back and banged the door shut in 
 the driver's face, who was bringing in some things 
 that had been left in the carriage. 
 
 " Bother the man ! he 's got to be paid, I sup 
 pose," he exclaimed, plunging his hand into his 
 pocket and tossing him a coin while Phoebe re 
 treated into the library. He did not wait for the 
 change, but telling the man to leave the things in 
 the hall, he followed Phoebe into the library, and 
 threw his arm around her. 
 
 " It's rather rough on a fellow," he said, "not 
 only to have to open the door for himself, when 
 he 's come a journey of three thousand miles to see 
 his family, but to be told the first thing to shut it 
 after him. But no matter ! " 
 
 " Baby 's had a threatening of croup," said 
 Phoebe, rather huskily. 
 
 " He has ? Bless the little man, he does n't 
 look it." 
 
 He caught the child in his arms, and threw him 
 up, and looked at him with pride and pleasure, 
 and kissed him again and again. " There is n't 
 another child as handsome in the world," he said. 
 " And he 's grown tremendously. You rascal, sir, 
 I ought to have brought you a set of razors and 
 a pair of riding-boots." He smothered him with 
 kisses after this flight into the future, and then he 
 gave him back to his mother, and put his arm
 
 BARRY'S RETURN. 215 
 
 around her waist, and drew her head against his 
 shoulder, as if it were she, and not the child, af 
 ter all, that he was most glad to have again. " It 
 seems a year," he said fondly, " since I went 
 away." Then he held her off from him and looked 
 at her. " But you 're not looking exactly well," 
 he said. " You 're pale." 
 
 "Baby's kept me awake," she said, evasively, 
 looking away. 
 
 " Why do you let him ? Turn him over to 
 Mary Ann. I '11 set all that right," and he took 
 her in his arms again. The fact that she was hold 
 ing the baby made some excuse for his not having 
 his caresses returned. You cannot caress a person 
 very much without the use of your hands. When, 
 therefore, Mary Ann appeared shyly in the door, 
 Barry hailed her with a bluff greeting, and told 
 her to take the baby for a little while. 
 
 " Don't let him get cold," he added, as the girl 
 carried him away. And then he turned to Phoebe, 
 and with his arm around her waist and both her 
 hands pinioned by his walked towards the fire 
 place, where a gay little fire was crackling. Phoebe 
 had grown paler and paler. This was infinitely 
 worse than a captious, cold, or constrained greet 
 ing. The thought of its falseness never left her 
 mind, nor the conviction of his nature's shallow- 
 ness and easiness. It was such a cruel travesty of 
 the past ; it was so torturing to the hunger of her 
 heart. It takes a good deal of cold to chill the
 
 216 PIHEBE. 
 
 circulation of some people's blood, and it took a 
 good deal to chill the circulation of Barry's hope 
 and confidence, but by and by he began to feel 
 indefinably the lowering of the temperature. He 
 had thrown himself into a chair before the fire, 
 and, stretching out his arm, tried to pull Phoebe 
 down upon his knee. But she resisted, standing 
 back by the mantel, and saying, " I must go and 
 see about baby." 
 
 " Well," he cried, in a tone of pique, " that 's 
 pretty soon to desert me, don't you think ?" 
 
 "Why, you," she said, embarrassed, "you'll 
 want to go up-staivs yourself. Don't you want to 
 wash your hands before dinner, and brush your 
 hair a little ? " 
 
 " What ! do I look such a savage ? " he said, with, 
 the confidence of a handsome man, pushing his 
 hand through his brown hair. He got up and 
 stood beside her, close to her. It seemed as if he 
 could not keep away from her, cold or kind. He 
 began to look about for some explanation of her 
 lack of warmth. Perhaps it was unprepared ness. 
 He knew she was reserved and undemonstrative ; 
 possibly she had not received the warning of his 
 coming, and the shock to her nerves of his sud 
 den appearance might account for her pallor and 
 silence. 
 
 " Did you get the telegram ? " he said. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "The last one just an 
 hour ago."
 
 BARRY'S RETURN. 217 
 
 " The last ? Why, I only sent one." 
 
 " I know : but Peyton Edwards telegraphed me 
 after he went away this morning that the steamer 
 was in the bay, and then later that you had prob 
 ably landed." 
 
 " Peyton Edwards ? You don't say. I did n't 
 even suppose he knew that I was on the way home. 
 I wonder that he did n't come down to the wharf 
 to meet me." 
 
 They were standing before the fire, which had 
 deepened into a broad blaze. Barry was looking 
 into his wife's face in the interested way in which 
 we look into the faces of those from whom we have 
 been parted for a length of time. As he said these 
 words, carelessly, scarcely thinking that she heard 
 them or would note them, a sudden rush of color 
 came over her face. She was thinking, " When 
 will he know why he did n't go to meet him ? " 
 And when she felt the hot blush on her face, and 
 saw that her husband was startled by it, her 
 thought was, not that he would have any un 
 worthy suspicion of her or of his friend, but that 
 he would in it read the truth. She felt as if the 
 story were printed on her face, and forgot (as peo 
 ple unused to deception often do) how much more 
 she knew than he did. The blood receded, and she 
 grew pale again, and her eyes were troubled and 
 downcast. Barry scrutinized her face keenly for a 
 moment. Then his glance brightened. It was im 
 possible to doubt her (or his own empire, either).
 
 218 PHCEBE. 
 
 " Come," he said, " if you insist on my ablutions, 
 I will go up with you." 
 
 But he did not put his arm about her again, and 
 he went up-stairs after her, both of them laden 
 with shawls and bags and books, that the cabman 
 had left in the hall, and that the flighty Mary Ann 
 had failed even to lift from the floor. 
 
 " Where are all your servants ? " he said, on the 
 way up. 
 
 " I have n't got any but the cook, and she 's 
 busy with the dinner, and Mary Ann can't leave 
 the baby." 
 
 " What 's become of the waitress ? " 
 
 " Oh, I concluded to do without her." 
 
 " Why this parsimony ? " 
 
 " I 've been trying to economize." 
 
 Barry laughed lightly. " Well, we won't do 
 any more of that," he said. " Affairs are march 
 ing very well. We 've made a good thing of it. 
 Even my father can't find anything to grumble at, 
 and I am more than satisfied. I tell you, Phoebe, 
 that little fellow in his cradle up-stairs will have a 
 better start hi life, a good deal, than his father 
 had." 
 
 " I don't think you had much to complain of." 
 
 " Oh, there are starts and starts. I mean the 
 boy shall have some advantages that I Ve always 
 felt the need of." 
 
 " People always say that." 
 
 " I know : but it 's well for the race to go on 
 improving."
 
 BARRY'S RETURN. 219 
 
 " Only nobody can see the improvement. The 
 ones that don't have any start always get ahead." 
 
 When they were at the dinner-table (it had 
 been tea when she was alone ; now it had risen to 
 dinner, and was served in courses as long as the 
 baby would lie still), Barry again reverted to Pey 
 ton Edwards's telegram, and with similar results. 
 
 " It was very good-natured in him to see about 
 the steamer and send you word," he said, " very. 
 I must look him up to-morrow." 
 
 Again the strange color and pallor and agita 
 tion followed each other on Phoebe's face. Barry 
 would have been more than mortal if he had not 
 felt a sudden sharp suspicion cross his mind. But 
 he was a man of the world. He went on carelessly, 
 with no change in his voice : 
 
 " Has he been out lately ? " 
 
 " He was here this morning," returned Pho3- 
 be, her voice gathering strength, for this was not 
 what agitated her. 
 
 " Ah ! And what does he have to say ? What 
 has he been about lately ? I suppose he 's work 
 ing like a dog, as usual." 
 
 " No, I should n't think so. But I don't know. 
 He would n't be likely to talk about business to 
 me." 
 
 The thought of what he did talk about, the 
 only thing of any kind regarding which they had 
 exchanged a word, made her flush guiltily again. 
 Would Barry see it all ? Would he ask her in the
 
 220 PHCEBE, 
 
 next breath how she dared to speak to another 
 of their relations to each other? This was her 
 thought and dread, and only this. 
 
 Barry had seen enough for this time. He 
 changed the subject, and went into details of his 
 journey and accounts of the family party left 
 abroad. His mother was not looking well ; travel 
 ing seemed to tire her, while it freshened up his 
 father wonderfully. Honor was as gay as a bird ; 
 she kept them all in fine spirits, was admired every 
 where, and as willful as ever. She declared she 
 never would come home, and he almost believed 
 she would keep her word. She hated Marrowfat 
 with a hate unprecedented. Lucy was sweet and 
 good as ever ; mended everybody's gloves as well 
 as tempers, carried out all plans but her own, kept 
 the peace between Tartar and Aunt David, and 
 was the good fairy of the party. Plioebe could not 
 find voice to ask any questions ; she felt as if she 
 were choking while Barry talked about his life of 
 the past two months so easily and carelessly. He 
 grew a little absent-minded as he talked, and his 
 brow knit. He was leading back to the subject 
 which was uppermost in his mind, and he wished 
 to reach it naturally. 
 
 " By the way, I must n't forget," he said. 
 " I 've got a little package for Peyton from Tartar. 
 It's in my valise, I think. Help me to remember 
 it in the morning. I '11 take it over to him." 
 
 His keen and angry eyes did not miss a shade
 
 BARRY'S RETURN. 221 
 
 of the change that came over her face at these 
 words. She did not attempt to look up, but sat 
 with her head a little bent down, a deadly, sickly 
 pallor taking the place of her ordinary coloring. 
 She was thinking of that deep imprecation, that 
 fierce " damn him," that Peyton had uttered when 
 he first discovered Barry's treason. What would 
 their meeting be ? She wished that she had died 
 before she had told him anything. What good 
 was his sympathy compared with all this peril to 
 Barry and to him ? She had never sinned much 
 in giving her confidence to others ; why should 
 her first fault of unreserve have such a punish 
 ment ? What would she give to unsay what she 
 had said ! How could she prevent or postpone 
 this meeting? It seemed to her that anything 
 that could put it off a while would be so much 
 gained ; just a few days till Peyton should have 
 cooled down a little. Alas, she remembered that 
 people like Peyton do not cool down ; they are al 
 ways at one heat. What Peyton meant to do half 
 an hour after the letter was in his hands he would 
 go on meaning to do, and doing, till his steady 
 heart stopped beating. He would always be good 
 to her ; he would always be hard, though just, to 
 Tartar ; he would always be unrelenting towards 
 Barry. Time could not change him nor years wear 
 out his first impression. Still, she wished that she 
 could hold them back from meeting: her hand 
 was feeble, but she stretched it out to retard the 
 crash a moment longer.
 
 222 PH(EBE. 
 
 "Don't fail to remind me," he said, as he 
 dropped the stopper in a decanter, and took up his 
 glass. 
 
 " I don't know but I think that is I be 
 lieve he is going away to-morrow you would 
 n't see him if you went " 
 
 " Oh, I '11 send him a dispatch to-night, and get 
 him to wait over a train. It would be too bad to 
 miss him. I wonder where he 's going." 
 
 " I think it 's Washington, but I can't be sure. 
 I have forgotten what he said about it. I think 
 he goes quite early in the morning." 
 
 " That will be all right. He '11 wait for me." 
 
 Barry's tone was generally confident ; this time 
 it was a little more than confident. Phoebe knew 
 that he was angry ; all his good spirits and vi 
 vacious talk could not conceal it. There was no 
 more warmth, and there were no more caresses re 
 ceived or rebuffed. The baby gave a rough, bark 
 ing cough, and she had to go in haste up-stairs 
 with him. Barry was left to spend his first even 
 ing at home alone. He walked up and down the 
 room, pulling at his mustache, and drawing his 
 brows together in perplexed thought. He was not 
 of a suspicious or unloving nature ; it was hard for 
 him to make up his mind that he had ground of 
 complaint against either wife or friend. But this 
 looked so amazingly like it. When he went away, 
 Phoebe and Peyton had not been on any terms of 
 intimacy that would have made it seem probable
 
 BARRY'S RETURN. 223 
 
 that lie would come out to Marrowfat to see her. 
 They had not met more than half a dozen times ; 
 the last year there had been a great diminution of: 
 the frequent visits of the old days. Perhaps he had 
 come out to see some one else in the place, and had 
 only called at the house in passing. No : Barry 
 ran over in his mind all the people whom he could 
 have had occasion to come to see ; they were all 
 away. He had not an intimate friend in Marrow 
 fat. Barry remembered once, just before they 
 went abroad, Peyton, in speaking of the dullness 
 of the winter and of the changes in the place, said 
 he had not a friend left there but themselves. It 
 would have been difficult to account for even one 
 visit, but there had been many. Two telegrams, 
 after having seen her this morning ! And no word 
 to him ; not even a clerk sent down to the steamer 
 to get his news, if it were impossible for Peyton 
 to go himself. But all this, all Peyton's part, 
 could have been easily remanded to that deep 
 vault of unclaimed property, of unexplained omis 
 sions, that all generous-minded people keep open 
 all their lives, and never trouble themselves to de 
 scend into unless at the request of some anxious 
 owner. " Always trust your friend " had been 
 Barry's maxim through life, and he had been per 
 fectly satisfied to follow it. But a wife is a differ 
 ent thing. She belongs to you, while your friend 
 belongs, perhaps equally, to a great many others. 
 While you know she has no material rights that
 
 224 PHCEBE. 
 
 are not subordinate to your right over her, there 
 is a vague uncertainty about your title to her in 
 ner life that naturally makes you less easy than 
 if you held it in fee simple. If any one had told 
 Barry yesterday that he would to-day be doubt 
 ing his wife's unquestioning devotion to him, he 
 would have been much amused. But this cold 
 ness, those hot blushes, that mysterious agitation 
 and eagerness to prevent a meeting, how could 
 they be explained ? Barry would have been more 
 than mortal if he had not been suspicious, and lie 
 certainly was not more than mortal, not any more. 
 The evening was not a pleasant one to him. 
 The last eight or ten, when he had been seasick 
 and bored and chilly, were agreeable in compari 
 son. He wrote his dispatch, but when it came to 
 sending it found himself at a loss for the direction. 
 He knew that Peyton had changed his hotel ; he 
 was just doing so when they went away. What 
 one had been decided on he had never known, or 
 had forgotten. It was useless to send his dispatch 
 to Peyton's office. He could himself get there in 
 the morning before it; if Peyton had gone it would 
 do no good ; if he were there he could better judge 
 what ground he had for complaint if he met him 
 without preparation. As for asking Phoebe for 
 the address, he could more easily have done a much 
 more difficult thing. Though good-natured and 
 genial, he was as reserved in one sense as Phcebe 
 herself. He could not talk about what he felt,
 
 BARRY'S RETURN. 225 
 
 though he could talk endlessly about what he did 
 not feel. He did feel this unexpected doubt most 
 uncomfortably ; in fact, most damnably, he admit 
 ted to himself. He could no more have gone up 
 stairs and opened the subject with her or spoken 
 Peyton's name than he could have taken her 
 by the throat and made an end of it and of her 
 on the spot. He was unprepared for either step. 
 So he went up at bedtime, and scarcely looked at 
 her when she came into the room and told him 
 that she had known he would not want to be dis 
 turbed, and so had had the baby's crib moved into 
 the adjoining room, where she would probably 
 have to sit np and watch him through the night. 
 His hoarseness had increased, but she was giving 
 him very frequent doses ; if before midnight it did 
 not yield to treatment, she thought they ought to 
 have the doctor. Did he think so ? 
 
 He thought she knew much more about the 
 matter than he did, he said, and he should be sat 
 isfied with whatever she decided, unpacking his 
 valise, with his back turned to her while he did 
 it. He had the conviction that the baby's illness 
 was merely her defense against him, and he was 
 quite resolved not to take any notice of it. 
 
 " I will send the cook and Mary Ann, if I have 
 to send. I know I ought not to disturb you." 
 
 He said, coolly, perhaps that would be as well ; 
 he was pretty tired. Disturb him ! He wondered 
 if she did not think she had disturbed him enough 
 15
 
 226 
 
 already. He counted all the hours strike till five 
 o'clock, when he dropped into an uneasy sleep, 
 during which he successively fought a duel with 
 Peyton and suffered shipwreck in mid-Atlantic. 
 Out of this he was awakened by Phoebe's muffled 
 opening of her wardrobe door at eight o'clock. 
 He said something very cross, and did not even 
 ask how the baby was. Phoabe took what she had 
 come in for and went out, telling him, when she 
 got outside the door, to ring when he was ready 
 to have his breakfast put upon the table. 
 
 When he came down to the dining-room he 
 found her there, ready to pour out his coffee. 
 This soothed him a little : a man is always the 
 happier for feeling he is being served by the 
 woman whom he ought to be serving. He showed 
 his ameliorated state of feeling by asking how the 
 baby was. The baby was better ; she had not 
 had to send for the doctor. As if that were any 
 news to him, who could hear the lightest move 
 ment in the room adjoining, and who knew per 
 fectly well that the baby had not even coughed 
 since half-past ten o'clock ! It was all a put-up 
 job, that croup, and he hardened again as he 
 thought of it. 
 
 He hurried off in the 9.15 train, feeling hot and 
 angry when he thought how certainly he should 
 miss Peyton if he were really going to Wash 
 ington, and how long it would be before he could 
 have any definite light shed on what disturbed him.
 
 BARRY'S RETURN. 227 
 
 To think of bearing this suspense for a week or a 
 fortnight put him in a very bad humor. He knew 
 himself capable of behaving as well as any other 
 man in this position, if the uncertainty were not 
 too protracted. Now, by daylight, he said t him 
 self, he did not suppose that there really was any 
 thing for him to resent in their relations to each 
 other. He was disposed to be reasonable. He 
 knew that he had left Phoebe alone for a long 
 time and under rather trying circumstances. He 
 must not wonder if Peyton had had some non 
 sensical views about protecting her, and all that. 
 It could not be anything but duty ; it was impossi 
 ble (by daylight) to associate Peyton with any 
 thing but a stolid pursuit of the " stern daughter." 
 And Phoebe, perhaps, had not understood him; 
 was embarrassed, frightened. It was equally im 
 possible to think of Phoebe as anything but 
 perfectly devoted to him. 
 
 On the cars he was at once surrounded by gentle 
 men glad to welcome him back. Some newspaper 
 paragraphs about the success of the business inter 
 ests that had taken Mr. Crittenden abroad may 
 possibly have contributed to this welcome. There 
 is a great deal of human nature even in the 
 provinces ; the Crittendens were rising into notice 
 again. Mr. Crittenden was a good deal spoken of 
 among railroad men. It would be his own fault 
 if he did not make a good deal of money in the 
 course of the next few months. So Barry was
 
 228 PHCEBE. 
 
 slapped on the shoulder and shaken by the hand, 
 and familiarly welcomed by all the solid 9.15 men 
 on the train. It made him feel quite like his old 
 self. He was not so stupid as not to see why 
 the tide had turned, but as long as it had turned, 
 why, that was enough. He was too good-natured 
 to be critical. Human nature is human nature ; 
 he would not exactly forget the past, but he 
 would not rake it up. Hie jacet : he would per 
 haps keep the moss scraped from the stone, but 
 he would not do anything so unhandsome as to 
 go below the surface and dig among the bones ; 
 he knew they were there, but there let them lie. 
 The experience had done him good ; it was incor 
 porated into his life ; he had got all out of it that 
 it could give him, that was enough. Such was 
 Barry's easy philosophy, and so he met the wel 
 come cheerfully and with his old jolly freedom of 
 manner. 
 
 The 9.15 train is the banker, the head-of-the- 
 house, the out-of-business-looking-af ter-investments- 
 man's train. These gray-beards are not always the 
 dfscreetest. Among them was one who never 
 thought of Barry but as the possessor of the hand 
 somest wife in Marrowfat or a much more extend 
 ed district. To do him justice, he seldom thought 
 of him or her at all, but when he did it was in 
 this relative position and in this light. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, leaning towards him from the 
 seat behind and speaking in his ear, "you were a
 
 BARRY'S RETURN. 229 
 
 brave man to go away and leave your handsome 
 wife alone ! " 
 
 He did not speak so low but that another el 
 derly person of valor, sitting beside Barry, heard 
 him, and added jocosely, "Mason thinks you'd 
 better leave her in his charge, next time. We 
 old fellows are much more responsible than these 
 younger ones. Now I can recommend Mason, and 
 Mason can recommend me, eh ? " 
 
 And then they both laughed, a senile laugh, 
 that sent Barry into a hot rage of resentment and 
 jealousy. It was a perfectly random shot. Neither 
 of them had probably seen Phoebe during her 
 husband's absence, and had not thought of her 
 after the little local gossip about her being left 
 alone had subsided. It was in very questionable 
 taste to speak of her in this way to her husband, 
 but good taste does not seem the natural result of 
 advanced age in men, and in men living in the 
 country especially. Barry flushed so perceptibly 
 that they both saw he was annoyed. The conver 
 sation was abruptly turned upon something else. 
 In a moment more the express train had drawn 
 breath in the depot, and bankers and book-agents, 
 lawyers and laundresses, had made a rush-and- 
 tumble exit, and were plunging pell-mell to the 
 ferry-boats. 
 
 Naturally Barry got rid of his aged neighbors ; 
 but the new deal did not help him very much. 
 He was joined on the ferry-boat by a couple of
 
 230 PIKEBE. 
 
 young men, who, having been at a german the 
 night before, were rather late in getting down to 
 business. They greeted him cordially. 
 
 " You 've been back a week or two, have n't 
 you ? No ? I Ve seen Edwards on the train sev 
 eral times, and I thought he was going up to see 
 you." 
 
 And a look of well-bred inquiry. The look was 
 perfectly accidental, but of course Barry thought 
 it was a studied insult. His young friends found 
 him so stiff and irresponsive that they moved 
 away, and agreed between themselves that foreign 
 travel had not improved his manners. 
 
 Barry hurried to Peyton's office. Phoebe was 
 quite right. He had gone away in the eleven 
 o'clock train for Washington-; stay indefinite, ob 
 ject unexplained. Barry made sharp and not very 
 civil inquiries of Peyton's confidential clerk. The 
 young man, not pleased with his manner, answered 
 more unsatisfactorily than he would have done if 
 he had been spoken to with greater suavity. The 
 impression Barry got from him was that the 
 journey was a mysterious one ; it looked more 
 like a flight than a journey, to his jaundiced eyes. 
 The clerk admitted that there was a possibility 
 that Mr. Edwards might be gone for weeks or 
 even months. This, to any one who knew Pey 
 ton's business habits, was astounding news. Barry 
 was not to be blamed for feeling it meant a great 
 deal. He wanted to knock the clerk down for
 
 BARRY'S RETURN. 231 
 
 giving him such intelligence and for having such 
 cold blue eyes ; but they were not quite valid ex 
 cuses for doing so, and he went away with a curt 
 snarl that made the man's cold blue eyes flame 
 fire, as he looked after him. 
 
 Once in his own office, the press of business 
 after such an absence drew him away from him 
 self. He spent four hours in close and engrossing 
 consultation with men who had been awaiting his 
 return with anxiety. Large interests were at 
 stake, and Barry found himself lifted into a place 
 of unusual authority for one of his years. It 
 stimulated him, naturally. He felt himself equal 
 to it, and knew his business life was opening up 
 great vistas of promise. A healthy, honorable 
 ambition stirred in him. For four hours he forgot 
 Phoebe and his paltry jealousy ; forgot everything 
 but the work for which his powers were expand 
 ing. It was not until he neared home in the fast- 
 flying train that the morning's doubts reasserted 
 themselves, still in a modified way. He was 
 somewhat ashamed to remember them, but they 
 came upon him with little sickening rushes of con 
 jecture, and then died away, and then came on 
 again. He felt as if he could almost hear the little 
 devils spitting and hissing in his ears. He grew 
 more and more irritated by his return to such low 
 vexations, when he remembered Wall Street and 
 his life, there. He resolved to think of that ex 
 clusively, and to let his life at home shape itself as
 
 232 PHCEBE. 
 
 it would. He would not prejudge any one. He 
 would give Phoebe a fair chance to show herself 
 an affectionate and dutiful wife. If she did not, 
 it was time enough then to look into matters. As 
 long as he could keep his temper everything else 
 would keep. And he resolved to keep it. There 
 was no hurry. 
 
 He found Phosbe quiet and undemonstrative, as 
 the day before. She looked even paler, but she 
 was not as agitated. Something seemed to have 
 reassured her. A gay little devil pierced Barry's 
 ear with the whisper that she had had the in 
 telligence that he and Peyton had not met. The 
 conversation between the two was rather forced 
 at dinner. After it, one or two people came in 
 on business. Phoebe went up to the baby, and 
 did not come down again. When Barry, at ten 
 o'clock, went to his room he found that the baby 
 had developed a little hoarseness, and Phosbe in 
 her wrapper was anxiously bending over him. His 
 crib was still in the adjoining room, and he was 
 wide awake. Mary Ann was sleepily making the 
 last arrangements for the night, and went away 
 asking if there was anything more wanted in so 
 tired a tone that only a brute could have had the 
 heart to keep her up any longer. 
 
 " Why don't you call that girl back and let her 
 take him ? " asked Barry, as he saw his wife move 
 an easy-chair up to the crib and sink down in it. 
 
 "She is half asleep already; what would she be
 
 BARRY'S RETURN. 233 
 
 by two o'clock ? " answered Phcebe, leaning her 
 head back wearily and putting her hand through 
 the crib rails to pat the baby. 
 
 " It 's all nonsense, this sitting up to watch him. 
 He has no more croup than I have, and you are 
 only injuring him by all this coddling. It is sim 
 ple mismanagement, and you will soon have your 
 hands full if you don't make up your mind not to 
 spoil him so." 
 
 The undermining the principles of a baby of 
 three months made Phoebe's lip curl, but she did 
 not reply, and softly pushed shut the door with 
 her foot after Barry's exit, which was final for the 
 night. 
 
 The baby did not have croup, nor even any 
 more hoarseness, but he lay awake a long time 
 and looked at his mother with much interest. At 
 last he slept ; then she crept to the sofa and cov 
 ered herself with a shawl, and went to sleep too. 
 Healthy people cannot stay awake continuously, 
 even if they are in trouble. Barry probably slept 
 also, but he got up in a bad humor, and came 
 down to breakfast later than he had meant to 
 come. He would again have to take the 9.15 
 train, and it would be the loss of an hour in Wall 
 Street, which he did not like. He rather longed 
 to be in Wall Street again, to get out of himself 
 and his fretting doubts.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A BUTTON OFF. 
 
 IN the dining-room Phoebe was waiting for him. 
 She sat by the fire reading the paper, but when 
 he came in she got up without speaking and went 
 across the room to ring the bell. The cook 
 brought the breakfast, but Phcebe put it upon 
 the table herself, moving about the room silently. 
 Barry was not in the habit of thinking of her 
 beauty, but he furtively studied it now while he 
 pretended to read his paper. He could see what 
 those old duffers meant ; she was very different 
 from ordinary women. He thought at that mo 
 ment he would have preferred a wife who would 
 have commanded less general attention. But out 
 of humor as he was, he was just enough to remem 
 ber that it was not her fault that she was striking- 
 looking, and that he must put her standing with 
 the old duffers out of the question and confine 
 himself to her relations with Peyton, which was 
 his only quarrel with her at the present moment. 
 
 Breakfast was very quiet. Mai'y Ann had been 
 left tip-stairs with the bal^, and the cook drew 
 the line of her concessions at waiting on the table,
 
 A BUTTON OFF. 235 
 
 so Phoebe quietly left her seat and changed Barry's 
 plate for him, and got h.im hot cakes from the 
 pantry, where the cook had brought them, and 
 " waited " upon him without any sense of degra 
 dation. It was what she had been used to doing 
 all her life at home, besides cooking the breakfast 
 and sometimes making the fire when the " hired 
 man " overslept, and it was in no way a trial to 
 her. 
 
 But in his present condition of ill-humor it was 
 gall and wormwood to Barry to see her doing it, 
 and being reminded of the different social place 
 which she had occupied. It seemed to make all 
 his doubts possible to recall the past. He rather 
 curtly told her he wished she would engage an 
 other servant at once, and have things a little " in 
 order." She said, " Very well," and flushed pain 
 fully. It was difficult to imagine things in better 
 order than they were, except in the matter of 
 service. Probably no man in Marrowfat had sat 
 down to a better breakfast or a daintier looking 
 table. The whole house was a miracle of neat 
 ness. Phoebe had only this outlet for her rest 
 less misery. She had not allowed herself an hour 
 of idleness yesterday, she had promised herself 
 this solace again to-day ; she literally could not 
 sit still and think. Now she must go out and get 
 another servant, who would take this occupation 
 away from her. There was no longer any need 
 for economy, if what Barry had told her was true.
 
 236 PHCEBE. 
 
 She wished it were not true. All the good that 
 she could possibly have been to him was wasted 
 if he were to be rich. 
 
 After breakfast Barry went into the hall and 
 brought in his ulster : a button had come off. He 
 hesitated to ask Phoebe to do anything for him in 
 his present humor, but he said, " I wish you 'd tell 
 Mary Ann to put this button on at once." 
 
 She took the coat and went into the library, 
 and from a corner closet took out her work-basket 
 and opened it. 
 
 " You '11 have to hurry," he said, ungraciously, 
 following her. 
 
 She evidently meant to, for her ringers shook a 
 little as she hunted for the thread and thimble. 
 The black thread she wanted was not there : she 
 laid down the coat, and went quickly up-stairs to 
 get it. Barry glanced at the clock and saw there 
 was plenty of time. He knew that she would 
 hurry. He walked uneasily around the room. 
 His eye fell on the open work-basket which she 
 had left. A letter lay face downward in it. He 
 gave it a snip with his fingers and turned it over. 
 His heart seemed to turn over sharply as he saw 
 the writing. It was Peyton's, and the letter was 
 addressed to Phoebe. The clerk in the post-office 
 must have been in the devil's employ, for the clear 
 stamp on it glared up in his very face. There 
 was no ambiguity. It was mailed in the city, 
 Station A, at ten o'clock the day before ; the
 
 A BUTTON OFF. 237 
 
 last thing Peyton did, probably, before be took the 
 eleven o'clock limited express for Washington. 
 Barry did not touch the letter after he turned it 
 over with his finger. He stood and looked at it 
 till he heard Phoebe's step on the stair, and then 
 he turned his back and looked out of the window. 
 She hurriedly entered, and he heard her swift 
 needle drawn in and out of the coat. But he 
 heard something else. He heard her crush down 
 the lid on her basket. That roused the dumb 
 devil in him into speech. He turned to her just 
 as, having fastened and cut the thread, she held 
 
 the coat out to him. His eve fell on the basket ; 
 
 " * . 
 
 it was covered, and she had pushed it, accidentally 
 
 or otherwise, a little out of sight. 
 
 " I see you are corresponding with Peyton Ed 
 wards," he said. " I don't ask any explanation, 
 but I leave you to judge whether it would be wise 
 to offer one." 
 
 He paused and stood looking at her, a dark fury 
 in his eye. She did not raise her eyes nor at 
 tempt to speak. 
 
 " I don't ask an explanation," he said, slowly, 
 " because between husband and wife, in ordinary 
 circumstances, it would be an insult. But I sup 
 pose one would hardly say that our circumstances 
 are ordinary. I don't think that a woman who 
 has once given the world ground to doubt her dis 
 cretion can complain if she is warned to be at 
 least decently careful in her conduct."
 
 238 PHCEBE. 
 
 With this stab he turned and left the room. 
 The hat-stand was just outside the door. He did 
 not omit because of his wrath to brush his hat, 
 select his cane, take out his gloves. Not a sound 
 came from within. He was too furiously angry to 
 trust himself to glance back. He held the hall- 
 door open for an instant, said, " You need not wait 
 dinner for me to-night," shut it sharply, and was 
 gone. 
 
 If he had looked back, he might not have gone 
 so quickly. Even very healthy people can come 
 pretty near fainting when they are stabbed deep 
 enough. The poor young woman's face turned 
 ashy white. She leaned back in the chair in 
 which she had been sitting upright. It is doubt 
 ful whether for a few moments she knew clearly 
 what had happened. It was a whole half hour 
 before she got up from her chair, and seemed 
 to try her strength by walking once or twice 
 across the floor. She sat down again, evidently 
 waiting for the physical ability to clo what her 
 not-baffled mind proposed. It was not long in re 
 turning to her. She had appai'ently been coming 
 to some decision, which was stimulated by a glance 
 at the clock. She got up, took her work-basket, 
 one or two books that lay on the table, and glanced 
 around the room in search of something else she 
 wanted. She rang the bell, and the cook came. 
 
 "Mary Ann's forever about coming down to 
 her breakfast," said this functionary, out of humor.
 
 A BUTTON OFF. 239 
 
 " Yes," said Phoebe, whose voice sounded as if 
 she had not used it for a good while. " I am going 
 up-stairs, and I '11 send her down to you. It 's my 
 fault. When she comes, help her bring up the 
 smallest of the two trunks that stand near the 
 door of the lumber room. I am going away rather 
 suddenly, and shall have to take her with me. 
 You will have to get along for a day or so alone. 
 There won't be any dinner to get to-night. You 
 may give me my luncheon at half-past twelve. 
 Don't let Mary Ann waste any time down-stairs." 
 
 The sudden marching orders delighted Mary 
 Ann, and were not unpleasing even to the cook, 
 who loved a return to her ancient solitary reign 
 occasionally. Phoebe locked herself into her room. 
 The baby slept. With swift hands she assorted 
 the contents of wardrobes, drawers, and closets. 
 Her brain must have worked with great rapidity, 
 for the work she did between ten and half-past 
 twelve o'clock was very considerable. She never 
 seemed to pause or doubt, or .have a misgiving or 
 a regret. Mary Ann was a little afraid of her, 
 she was so quick and her eyes shone so, that was 
 the only drawback to her pleasure in the unex 
 pected outing. 
 
 A little after twelve Phoebe sent Mary Ann 
 down to bring her luncheon to her. She glanced 
 around the rooms. They were in perfect order. 
 The trunks stood packed and strapped. The 
 baby in his fresh dress lay happy in his crib, his
 
 240 PUCE BE. 
 
 cloak and cap and veil lying on the bed ready to 
 put on. Phoebe went to a drawer in her wardrobe, 
 took out a roll of bills and counted them over : here 
 she showed her only sign of perturbation or dis 
 tress. The use of money suggested a field of anx 
 iety to her to which she was not accustomed. Her 
 hands shook, and she went over them again with 
 agitation. Yes, forty-seven dollars. That was all 
 right. It had seemed a good sum to her when she 
 had counted on it for some little indulgence. Now 
 it was doubtful whether it would go very far. It 
 was a secret hoard. She had never told Barry of 
 it. It was a legacy, and she felt sure he would 
 laugh at the idea of a legacy of forty -seven dollars. 
 An old aunt had died since she came away from 
 home, who had left in her will a sum of money to 
 be divided between her nieces and nephews. The 
 dividend was not princely, to be sure, but it had 
 given a good deal of satisfaction in the remote 
 country homes to which it had found its way, and 
 it had been a ray of light, a rope of safety, a bea 
 con of hope to poor Phoebe that morning when 
 she had first remembered it. She had blessed 
 Aunt Abby's memory many times that dark day. 
 She took out another purse, that in which she kept 
 the ordinary money, for household purposes and 
 all that, and taking out from it a little key and 
 some small memoranda, wrapped it in paper with 
 the change left in it, and put it in her drawer. 
 She forced herself to eat some luncheon when it
 
 A BUTTON OFF. 241 - 
 
 was brought : her manner had a resolution in it, as 
 if something external to herself were carrying her 
 forward. The cab came while she was still trying 
 to eat. Mary Ann, very much excited by the pros 
 pect of adventure, caught up the baby and began 
 to put on his cloak. There certainly was not a 
 moment to lose. 
 
 When, a few moments later, Phoebe passed over 
 the threshold of her husband's house, and shut 
 the door after her, a bright spot burned on each 
 cheek, but nothing in her eyes or manner indi 
 cated that she felt the deep significance of what 
 she was doing, or was overcome either by sorrow 
 for what was past or by terror for what was to 
 come. The baby, in his wide-eyed unconscious 
 ness, gazed out of the carriage window at which 
 his nurse was dandling him, and showed neither 
 interest nor apprehension of the fact that he had 
 turned his back upon the only legitimate home 
 that the world offered to him. 
 
 16
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 HAGAR. 
 
 IT was the second night after Phoebe's flight 
 from home. Midnight was just striking from the 
 city clocks. From the fifth story of a great hotel 
 she looked down upon the gas-lights far below her 
 in the streets. There was a dull, slow rain against 
 the pane ; a mist filled the space between her and 
 the gaslights below, and above it was all dark. 
 Mary Ann, no longer in high spirits, slept on a 
 little cot beside the bed in which the baby lay. 
 The room was small, and hot, and littered with the 
 contents of the open trunks. There was no shade 
 for the little flaring jet of gas ; there was no glow 
 in the little ashen fire which had made the air so 
 suffocating. There was discomfort and homeless- 
 ness in every inch of the cheerless place. 
 
 Phoebe sat down by the oval white marble table, 
 and pushing a little space free put her elbows on 
 it, and leaned her face down on her hands. Yes, 
 it was true, something must be done, something 
 promptly, or she had failed. In her lap lay her 
 porte-monnaie, and in it were the remains of the 
 fast-melting forty-seven dollars. Her ignorance of
 
 HAGAR. 243 
 
 traveling expenses had made it a shock to her to 
 discover that she could not get far away from home 
 with that amount of money. Here they were only 
 at Albany, and there would be but thirteen dol 
 lars left after the hotel bill was paid, if indeed 
 that did not swell up and even swallow the thir 
 teen dollars. It made her feel faint whenever she 
 remembered the bill and thought of the possibility 
 of its exceeding her estimate of its amount. There 
 had been so many things that she had not thought 
 of, the porter, the express, the fire, and last, 
 not least, the doctor for the baby. The hoarseness 
 had come back, and she had had a great terror of 
 his being ill where she could not get a doctor. It 
 was on account of this attack that they had not 
 pushed on at once. Evidently they could not 
 travel very fast with a delicate young baby, and 
 evidently they could not travel very far with 
 such a slender purse. No, Phrebe admitted to her 
 self, a ^crisis had come: her first plan must be 
 abandoned ; she must do what she could, and not 
 what she would. The fiery strength with which 
 she had started had long since failed her; her pur 
 pose was not weak, but it was leaden, and sunk 
 her to the earth. She moaned as she laid her 
 head down on her arms upon the marble. Oh, that 
 she and her baby were indeed at rest; indeed hid 
 den out of sight ! There was no rest, there was no 
 hiding ; she could not get far enough away from 
 people's eyes. How they looked at her wherever
 
 244 PIKEBE. 
 
 she went; how impossible it was to disappear! It 
 had seemed so easy when she had planned it. It 
 was like a nightmare, eyes, eyes, wherever she 
 turned, following her, meeting her, looking down 
 upon her from heights and up at her from depths. 
 She felt as if Hagar and Ishmael must be written 
 on their faces. She had made sure, when once 
 they got away from the little strip of territory 
 where her name and face were known, that she 
 could sink out of notice, and be no more an object 
 of interest to any one. But porter, hall-boy, 
 waiter, gazed ; commercial travelers, clerks, men 
 and women, old and young, shot glances, inquir 
 ing, admiring, deriding, what not. How did she 
 happen to be traveling alone? How did she happen 
 to have such appealing eyes and such an agitated 
 manner when anybody attempted to get speech of 
 her ? She was too handsome and well dressed to 
 be unnoticed ; the baby was appareled like a lit 
 tle prince, and was beautiful. Mary Ann thought 
 the interest they awakened very flattering. She 
 did not fail to encourage it as far as she was able. 
 It was no use : slipping away and not being seen 
 was impossible. The whole thing was at an end. 
 All she could do was to cheat fate by changing 
 her mind. She had been awake so many nights 
 she was almost like ordinary women for nervous 
 ness and unreasonableness. She wanted to cry, 
 but she was too frightened, too close drawn into 
 herself ; a kind word would have broken her
 
 HAGAR. 245 
 
 down, but that did not seem likely to come, seeing 
 Mary Ann was rather afraid to speak to her, and 
 the baby did not know how. 
 
 It was not her way to sit down and think over 
 things forever. She had been cabined and con 
 fined in this little room so long she had been 
 forced to do more of it than was natural to her. 
 Now she must end it and resolve upon some 
 thing. She got up, walked restlessly to the win 
 dow and back ; gazed down from the dizzy height 
 into the narrow misty street below, then to the 
 baby's bed, and then back again. By this time 
 her resolution was taken. She went to a trunk, 
 pulled it out, and began to rearrange and repack it 
 carefully. A few stitches were needed on some 
 of the baby's clothes. She took out needle and 
 thread, and stood close by the little gas jet and 
 mended them. Her own traveling - dress she 
 brushed carefully, and she even pulled out the fin 
 gers of her gloves and examined them. It was 
 plain she was afraid her occupation would not last 
 her the night out ; she was quite right. At four 
 o'clock she had to lie down beside the baby and 
 consider that there was nothing else to do. She 
 felt a shuddering horror of the dark and silence 
 and covered up her eyes and tried to get asleep. 
 
 As soon as it was dawn she waked Mary Ann 
 and told her they were going away ; she must 
 get up and dress. She dressed herself, and went 
 down to get her breakfast in the great, gray,
 
 246 PHCEBE. 
 
 empty dining room, where the million subtle scents 
 of as many savory meals slew appetite and filled 
 one to repletion. One or two sleepy, stolid-looking 
 travelers were breakfasting ; the waiters seemed 
 to blink and their steps to resound in the bare, 
 empty room. The clerk at the desk where she 
 went to pay her bill looked sleepy, too, and indif 
 ferent. The bill was not quite as large as she 
 had thought possible ; she had fifteen dollars in 
 stead of thirteen wherewith to meet the world. 
 There were yet so many things to think of, the 
 hall-boy, the luncheon, the railway tickets, the 
 chamber-maid. 
 
 While Mary Ann went down to get her break 
 fast, and the baby lay on the bed and amiably 
 shook his rattle in the air, she counted out a cer 
 tain sum and laid it by itself, hurried into a 
 valise the few possessions of Mary Ann, put that 
 young woman's bonnet and cloak beside it, and 
 taking out her watch counted the moments till she 
 came back. 
 
 " I am afraid you are late," she said, in a voice 
 in which there was a little agitation autlible. 
 *' Your train goes in fifteen minutes. Put your 
 bonnet on as quickly as you can." 
 
 Mary Ann looked bewildered, but obeyed. 
 
 " The baby," she said. " Shan't I dress him 
 before I put my cloak on ? " 
 
 " No," answered her mistress, looking at her 
 watch, and not at the woman. " You are to go
 
 HAGAR. 247 
 
 home this morning. I have thought that is 
 it seems best for you to take this first train 
 to New York. When you get there you can find 
 your way easily to the Marrowfat train. Any 
 policeman will tell you, but I Ve written it all 
 down here in case you forget anything. Here is 
 the money for your ticket ; there are crackers in 
 the bag for your luncheon." 
 
 " But " said Mary Ann, too dazed and help 
 less to button her cloak " the baby who is to 
 mind the baby " 
 
 " Oh," said Phoebe, desperately, putting the 
 bag into her limp hands and almost pushing her 
 towards the door, " don't stop to think about the 
 baby. You really have n't a moment to spare. 
 The hall-boy is waiting outside to take you to the 
 depot and show you where to get your ticket. 
 Remember to keep it in your porte-monnaie. And 
 here is your return ticket to Marrowfat from the 
 city. Put that in the other side. There, good- 
 by ; you really must not stay another minute." 
 
 Mary Ann cast a mute, distracted look towards 
 her little charge on the bed, but had not the com 
 posure necessary to ask for a last embrace of him. 
 She grasped the bag and the porte-monnaie, and 
 impelled by the stronger will of her mistress went 
 out of the dooE without another word. Phoabe 
 gave the waiting hall-boy directions about the 
 train and the car in which he was to put the pli 
 ant Mary Ann. It was all done so promptly and
 
 248 PH(EBE. 
 
 so assuredly that the poor girl did not get her 
 breath till she was in the cars and fairly on her 
 way to the city. There was but one form of 
 words which came to her relief. " Well-I-never," 
 she began to murmur at Greenbush, and at Spuy- 
 ten Duyvil she had not got any farther, but only 
 emphasized the expression of the same idea, if 
 Well-I-never may be said to be the expression of 
 an intelligent idea.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE COOK ASSISTS. 
 
 BARRY had said lie would not come home that 
 evening ; he was even more vindictive than he 
 promised, for he did not come home on the follow 
 ing. It was a satisfaction to him to know that he 
 could in this silent way express his feelings of in 
 dignation. He shrunk from another interview. 
 He felt ashamed of himself for what in his anger 
 he had said to his wife, but yet in a way he was 
 ashamed of feeling so. He said to himself that 
 he ought to have said more, that lie could not 
 punish her enough ; and yet his heart told him he 
 had done a cruel and unmanly thing when he 
 taunted her with his own wrong-doing. He was by 
 turns furiously jealous and sickeningly repentant. 
 
 But away from Marrowfat the whole thing 
 weakened and lost coloring. He hated the idea of 
 going back and having the uncomfortable sensa 
 tions revived. He was not pacified, but he was 
 diverted. His natural kindliness of nature was 
 glad of the reprieve ; his habitual feeling of what 
 others owed to him oply consented to it as a re 
 prieve. When after the pressure of an exciting
 
 250 PHCEEE. 
 
 day in Wall Street lie concluded to go up town 
 and dine with a friend, he thought to himself he 
 was acting very handsomely in not locking him 
 self up in a hotel room and brooding over his 
 wrongs, or even blowing his own or Peyton's 
 brains out. He felt few men would h;ive done 
 better. He even went to the theatre that night ; 
 and though there was a weight on his spirits that 
 made him vaguely uncomfortable, there was no 
 noticeable depression in his manner or expression. 
 When it approached evening on the following 
 day he found himself instinctively dreading the 
 renewal of the disagreeable experiences which go 
 ing home involved. He knew that with it he 
 must take up matters where he had laid them 
 down. He did not say to himself that he doubted 
 his doubts or was suspicious of his suspicions when 
 he was away from Marrowfat, but it was about 
 the truth. Still, when he thought of it he grew 
 angry again. He yielded to the importunities of a 
 friend who urged his staying with him that night. 
 He wrote a dispatch to Phoebe and then tore it up. 
 It would be well for her to look for him, and she 
 must bear her disappointment as best she might ; 
 it would be a wholesome lesson to her, and would 
 show her what even the faintest disloyalty to him 
 would always cost her. He grew angry as he 
 allowed himself to think of it ; he always grew 
 angry when he thought of it ; his only safety 
 was in keeping it out of his mind, and the only
 
 THE COOK ASSISTS. 251 
 
 way to do that was to have his mind full of other 
 things. Wall Street answered very well during 
 the day ; and the club and the theatre and two or 
 three old friends stood him in stead for the even 
 ing. But the night, " the dead, unhappy night; " 
 he was not so successful in the matter of the 
 night. 
 
 When the third afternoon of his absence wore 
 away to train-time he had many misgivings, but 
 he had begun to feel he had carried the punish 
 ment far enough, and that it would be unmanly 
 to be longer unforgiving, or at least unbending. 
 And at his heart there was a little uneasiness 
 lest his silence should have caused a wound too 
 deep to be healed by the palliation which he was 
 prepared to offer. Yes, he would go home ; a 
 train later than usual was the compromise with 
 his pride which he decided on. She would have 
 one full hour of thinking that he was not coming. 
 It would be very wholesome. 
 
 This train brought him to Marrowfat a few 
 minutes before seven. There were none of his 
 friends on it, so he had the time for reflection. 
 It was dark and sloppy when he got out of the 
 cars, feeling sore and ill-used, but yet in a certain 
 sense relieved by being here, with no chance for 
 retreat possible. It was not pleasant to meet 
 Phoebe under the circumstances, but it was pleas 
 ant to feel he was manly enough to do the right 
 thing, whether it was what he liked or not. Self-
 
 252 PH(EBE. 
 
 approval was very necessary to Barry ; when this 
 failed him he collapsed. Splash, splash, through 
 the mud, phaugh! what a night for a man in 
 his social standing to be coming out to a dreary 
 country home ! What a life he led ! What priva 
 tions he had suffered for the past year ! And all 
 for the sake of what, and who ? Not many 
 men would have done as he had done, as he was 
 doing ; certainly, not many men. When he 
 thought of the luxury and ease, and, what was 
 more important to him, the dignity and good 
 form, with which his life would have been con 
 ducted but for this marriage, he did not grow bit 
 ter ; he grew better tempered, because he thought 
 so well of himself. He said to himself, The money 
 is coming, and that will restore everything, and 
 all will yet be well if Phoebe will but prove her 
 self all right, and explain away the dark circum 
 stances that he was not to blame for demanding 
 an explanation oL As he neared the house he 
 began to feel an assurance that she would make 
 such an explanation. 
 
 The gate was closed, which he thought unnec 
 essary. He pushed it open, and went through the 
 damp grass to see that it was fastened back and 
 would not come shut again. He looked up to the 
 windows of the rooms they occupied on the third 
 floor. There was no light. Neither was there 
 one on the first floor. All was as dark as if no 
 one lived in the house. This did not please him.
 
 THE COOK ASSISTS. 253 
 
 People knew he was at home again, and it did not 
 look well for a man who was something very im 
 portant in a syndicate to be living like a journey 
 man tailor in a back shop. Phoebe's economies had 
 become detestable to him. He knocked the mud 
 off his boots, and fumbled about for the knob of 
 the door. The door of course was locked : he did 
 not blame her for that, but he had to hunt again 
 for the bell handle, which when found he pulled 
 very sharply once or twice. After an unreasona 
 ble time of waiting, a faint glimmer appeared in 
 the fan-light over the door, and some one said, 
 "Who 'a there?" 
 
 Barry said who was, in a very irritated tone. 
 Then an exclamation, and some one began undo 
 ing bolts and bars which seemed to have no end. 
 He rather uncivilly pushed against the door be 
 fore the last chain was dropped. The cook said 
 she was doing her best, if he would please wait a 
 minute longer. He waited, not because he pleased, 
 but because he could not help himself. The cook 
 stood back and let him pass, and set down her 
 candle on the floor while she replaced a few of the 
 household defenses. 
 
 "Why don't you have a light in the hall?" he 
 said, angrily, setting down his hat and taking off 
 his coat. 
 
 The cook said she was not expecting anybody, 
 and it did not seem worth while to be burning 
 out gas for nothing. He threw down his coat and
 
 254 PHCEEE. 
 
 pushed open the library door : there was no light 
 nor fire there ; it felt very cold and damp, as if the 
 furnace fire had not been lighted for some days. 
 By this time the cook had fastened the door and 
 taken her candle up and set it on the table. 
 
 "You '11 be wantin' somethin' to eat," she began. 
 
 " Naturally," he returned, shortly. 
 
 " There is n't a happoth in the house," she said, 
 well pleased that her economies should be recog 
 nized. 
 
 " What's the matter?" he asked, sharply, turn 
 ing to her. " Has Mrs. Crittenden had her din 
 ner?" 
 
 " Mrs. Crittenden ! " ejaculated the woman, 
 throwing up her hands. " Why, she 's been gone 
 these three days ! Bless you, has anything hap 
 pened her a-gittin' to you ? Why, I made sure 
 she and you was having a foine time together in 
 the city, after her bein' so lonely all the winter. 
 And hearin' no word from either of yez, I never 
 laid in nothin' from the butcher nor the grocer, 
 nor the iceman even. I just let 'em come and let 
 'em go, and scold and fume as much as they liked. 
 Do yez live on nothin' yerself, they said. I told 
 'em it was none of their business what I lived on 
 as long as I done my dooty." 
 
 Barry's back was turned to the woman, and she 
 did not see how pale he grew at her first words. 
 Her final ones (and a great many had intervened, 
 of no great literary or statistic value) seemed to
 
 THE COOK ASSISTS. 255 
 
 demand some kind of a response. She could put 
 some tea, anything, on the table, and send Mary 
 Ann up-stairs to tell him when it was ready. 
 
 " Mary Ann ! " she cried, throwing up her 
 hands again in genuine amazement. " What is 
 the man talking of ! You did n't think she 'd 
 left the baby behind her, and her a-nursin' of him 
 yet ! Why, Mary Ann 's went with her. You 
 had n't been an hour out of the house when such 
 a pullin' out of trunks and a packin' up of clothes 
 begun as never was. And they was off in the 
 noon train. Mary Ann, indeed ! Why, Mary Ann 
 was as pleased as Punch, and never so much as 
 passed a remark about my being left alone, and 
 not a soul in the house day in day out, to speak a 
 livin' word to." 
 
 All this time Barry was walking, dazed and 
 speechless, up the stairs. The woman's voice rang 
 after him with clear distinctness in the still and 
 empty house. He longed to get to his own room, 
 to turn the key, to think, and to adjust himself 
 to this unexpected situation. She went on talk 
 ing about his tea^ about her economies, about 
 Mary Ann. He shut the door when he got up 
 stairs, and struck a match and lighted the gas. 
 There was a chair near him, and he sat down in 
 it ; possibly he felt a little weak and ill for the 
 moment. Of all the surprises of his life, this was 
 the most complete. He did not know exactly 
 what he thought or felt. He did not for a while
 
 256 PHCEBE. 
 
 ask himself what it meant ; he only said over and 
 over to himself, Could it possibly be true ? Later 
 on he was racked with the doubt whether her go 
 ing meant guilt or indignation. But he had not 
 vet begun to weigh things, to decide, to define. 
 All he could say or think was surmounted by 
 amazement. Phosbe gone, the child gone, the one 
 spot on earth of which he felt himself in sure and 
 stable possession a blank to him. No word, noth 
 ing ? It was impossible. 
 
 After a while he got up and began to look 
 about for a letter. He had not asked the woman, 
 but if she had had any message she would have 
 given it to him. Indeed, as she had thought they 
 were together, there could have been no message. 
 He began vaguely and abstractedly ; he grew fe 
 verish and frightened as he went on. He palled 
 open drawers and closets ; he searched in boxes 
 and on shelves. All were in order ; everything 
 showed a recent definite arrangement. Every 
 thing told one story. The going was final. If 
 there had been haste in her going it was directed 
 by an intention so definite that nothing escaped 
 it. Of the child's possessions there was nothing 
 left that could be packed into a trunk; only the 
 crib and a chair or two of his remained in either 
 of the rooms. Of Phoebe's own, everything was 
 gone that had been hers before marriage ; every 
 thing was left that had been given her by her 
 husband or bought with his money gloves half
 
 THE COOK ASSISTS. 257 
 
 worn, handkerchiefs, veils, scraps of lace and rib 
 bon, a new dress or two, all arranged in perfect 
 order, and laid by themselves as if with gravest 
 intention. In her dressing - table drawer lay a 
 package containing her wedding-ring and the few 
 pieces of jewelry he had ever given her. It was 
 not even addressed to him. In another package 
 was her porte-monnaie and little account-book, 
 with a hurried entry in pencil on the day of her 
 going. The change in the pocket-book agreed 
 with the statement of household expenses up to 
 that day. He looked through her writing - desk. 
 There was nothing there but paper, pens, stamps, 
 some bills, not a scrap of her writing, not a letter 
 that belonged to her except the slim package of 
 Barry's own while he was away. 
 
 Could all this have been the work of three 
 hours ? Was it possible that she had had no in 
 tention of going away from him till he had said 
 what he did to her that morning ? Barry did not 
 know what he believed, what he apprehended. 
 He walked up and down the rooms feeling stunned 
 and helpless, like a person recovering from a pros 
 trating illness, or getting over a long debauch. 
 He felt feeble in will, weak in judgment, incapa 
 ble of continuous thought. 
 
 By and by the cook came up, bringing a tray 
 of things for him to eat. She made an exclama 
 tion at the coldness of the room, and went down 
 on her knees upon the hearth and scraped to- 
 
 17
 
 258 PH(EBE. 
 
 gether the remnants of some half-consumed wood, 
 and succeeded in lighting them. 
 
 ' It's no matter," he said, wanting to get rid of 
 her. 
 
 But she saw he was in a great deal of trouble, 
 and she was clumsily sorry for him. She had 
 liked her mistress very well, but, like a true Irish 
 woman, she liked her master very much better. 
 So she set out his tea with considerable clatter, 
 and made a nice fire, and lighted a lamp, and tried 
 to cheer him up with a good deal of rambling con 
 versation, which he did not seem to hear. Indeed, 
 she was surprised at the things which she made 
 bold to say to him, and which he did not appear 
 to resent or even understand. He had always in 
 spired her with much respectful admiration ; now 
 her principal feeling was that of admiring pity, 
 and every one knows to what length Irish admiring 
 pity is capable of going. He humbly wished she 
 would go away. He did not know what made her 
 stay ; he could not eat anything she had brought 
 him. He had swallowed the coffee and felt a little 
 nerved up by it, but not to the point of asking 
 her questions which he knew beforehand she 
 could not answer. He looked so wretched that 
 she could hardly tear herself away from the sight, 
 and yet was so irresponsive that she was finally 
 obliged to do it. She took the tray away, and, 
 promising the fire a little more wood in the course 
 of half an hour, went down the dark stairs into
 
 THE .COOK ASSISTS. 259 
 
 the dim kitchen, filled with the emotions that we 
 seek in the drama. While our servants have to 
 go to funerals and are driven to make the most of 
 fires and robberies and their friends' misfortunes, 
 we go to the theatre to get the same sensations, or 
 find them in highly-wrought fiction with even less 
 effort. It is not the least trying of the inequal 
 ities of fortune. The cook could no more have 
 given up the contemplation of the third-story 
 drama than you or I would be likely to give up 
 voluntarily the contemplation of Salvini in the 
 third act of Othello. She soon found an excuse 
 for tiptoeing up the stairs again, and tapping at 
 the door of the little study. 
 
 " A letter, sir, that 's after comin' from the 
 mail. May be you 'd be wantin' it." 
 
 She put it into his hands at the door, and so 
 arranged matters that he could not very well shut 
 it in her face ; by which means she commanded 
 for the next ten minutes a certain though imper 
 fect view of the stage and its agitated actor. If 
 one cannot have a front balcony seat, one is some 
 times thankful to catch a glimpse between the 
 flies. Barry forgot his audience ; he devoured the 
 direction on the letter with kindling eyes. It was 
 addressed to Phoebe, and was in the abhorred 
 handwriting of his childhood's friend. The post- ' 
 mark was Washington, the date was obliterated. 
 He ripped the envelope open with no paltering of 
 conscience about the act. It read as follows :
 
 260 PIKEBE. 
 
 MY DEAR PHCEBE, I reached this place last 
 evening. I leave to-morrow for St. Louis. A let 
 ter addressed to the Southern Hotel will find me 
 there till after Tuesday. Then my next address 
 will be the St. Charles, New Orleans. 
 
 Yours sincerely, PEYTON EDWARDS. 
 
 This letter acted like the application of a bat 
 tery to a comatose person. Barry's eyes seemed 
 to burn holes in the paper as he looked at it. He 
 clinched his hands, ground his fine white teeth to 
 gether, uttered some passionate exclamations, and 
 walked about the room angrily. At this moment 
 there was a ringing at the kitchen bell, which 
 seemed to the cook too cruel an interruption to be 
 borne. She was consoled only by the thought 
 that it might be another letter, equally electric, 
 or at any rate that she would not be long away. 
 She would make short work of any ordinary 
 visitor of her own, and would return on the 
 legitimate and flat-footed errand of bringing up 
 more wood. So she tiptoed down in all haste, and 
 left Barry walking up and down the room quite 
 unconscious of her interest and attendance. Her 
 return was flat-footed, breathless, prompt. 
 
 " I 've come to tell you," she panted, supporting 
 
 herself by the door-post, for she was no longer 
 
 young, and such rapid journeys up and down 
 
 the stairs, not to mention these exciting scenes, 
 
 were exhausting to her strength, "I 've come to
 
 THE COOK ASSISTS. 261 
 
 tell you Mary Ann 's after getting back this 
 minute." 
 
 "Mary Ann!" exclaimed her master, turning 
 sharply round. " Where " and he stopped short, 
 facing the lean, keen-visaged, curious Irish-woman, 
 and realizing in an instant the full ignominy of 
 his position. 
 
 The woman dropped her eyes ; she was keen 
 enough to know that he must be ashamed to ask 
 questions of his servants about his wife. " I 
 thought you 'd likely want to know how she 'd 
 left the mistress and the baby " 
 
 " Yes, send her up." 
 
 " She '11 come in a minute ; she 's sort of upset 
 like. She ain't used to going about by herself ; 
 she 's kind of childish, is Mary Ann. I '11 give 
 her a dish o' tea, and let her rest a bit, and then 
 mebbe she '11 be able to come up." 
 
 "She must hurry, then," said Barry, desperately, 
 " for I 'm going out." 
 
 This gave the cook a fright, as one would feel, 
 in the most exciting moment of a tragedy, to 
 think of the gas being turned off, the curtain 
 dropped, and the audience told to go about their 
 business. She hurriedly said Mary Ann would 
 certainly come up, if he would wait a bit. She 'd 
 see herself that no time was lost about it. 
 
 No time was lost about it. In a very short 
 space, Mary Ann stood before her master in the 
 doorway of the little study, with the tears scarcely
 
 262 PHCEBE. 
 
 dried upon her cheeks, her bonnet strings untied 
 and fluttering, her hair agitatedly awry, and her 
 cloak unbuttoned, but not taken off. 
 
 When she saw Mr. Crittenden, she began to 
 cry afresh ; what for, it would be difficult to say. 
 The sight of her rather unnerved her master ; he 
 hated tears from any source. She was young and 
 presumably innocent, and she affected him very 
 differently from the elderly and inquisitive and 
 most unbeautiful cook. He did not feel the degra 
 dation to be nearly so great to have to learn from 
 her the last news of his wife. Besides, he had so 
 constantly seen her with the child in her arms, 
 she seemed at a little less impossible distance than 
 the other. 
 
 " Well, Mary Ann," he said, suppressing a ris 
 ing sob, roused by the thought of the baby and 
 the sight of her agitation, " don't cry ; that won't 
 do any good. How 's baby, and where have you 
 left him?" 
 
 That only made her cry the more ; what for, 
 who shall say ? For Mary Ann had not been a 
 very absorbed nurse, and had frequently found 
 herself much wearied by her duties, and had given 
 warning more than once. It was a good while be 
 fore she could calm herself enough to say when 
 she had parted from her mistress. Indeed, she 
 hardly knew where ; she had very little memory 
 for names. She bethought herself at last of the 
 written directions her mistress had given her, and
 
 THE COOK ASSISTS. . 263 
 
 hunted for them in her pocket, and gave them to 
 him, a little the worse for much study and con 
 sultation with conductors and policemen and be 
 nevolent persons on the way. They were written 
 out in Phoebe's clear, strong hand ; even muddle- 
 headed Mary Ann could sail by such a chart, it 
 seemed. Barry studied it for a moment. 
 
 " When did you go there ? " he said. 
 
 " To where ? To the big hotel, do you mean ? " 
 
 " Yes, the hotel in Albany." 
 
 " Oh, the day we went away from here ; we 
 got there in the evening. The baby got hoarse, 
 that 's the reason we stayed there all next day ; she 
 told the doctor we was in a great hurry, but he 
 said it would n't do to take the baby out." 
 
 " Tell me : the day you went away from here, 
 what did you do till you took the train for Albany ? 
 Did you go anywhere, to any house, or meet any 
 body anywhere ? " 
 
 " Oh, we met lots and lots of people everywhere, 
 but nobody, I think, that spoke to us. We went 
 right up in a carriage to the depot where that train 
 started from, and stopped there till it went. The 
 baby was that good he never fretted onst all the 
 way a-goin'. You would n't have knowed there 
 was a baby in the train at all." 
 
 And Mary Ann began to cry again. 
 
 " Well," said Barry, walking up and down the 
 room, "and while you were at the hotel, did 
 did anybody come to see your mistress ? "
 
 264 PH(EBE. 
 
 " No," said Mary Ann. 
 
 " Did she send for anybody, write notes, go out 
 anywhere ? " 
 
 " No," returned the girl, rather bewildered. 
 " She was always takin' care of baby. She was 
 in the room all the time but when she was down 
 to her meals. She might have wrote notes while 
 I was asleep ; I can't say as to that." 
 
 " And what did she say to you when she told 
 you to come home ? " 
 
 " She did n't say nothing but just that." 
 
 " And when did you know she meant to send 
 you back ? " 
 
 " After I 'd got my breakfast, this morning. 
 She just told me I was to go home, and she give 
 me my ticket, and there was n't anything for me 
 to do, for she 'd packed my things up unbeknownst, 
 and she put the bag into my hand and just whizzed 
 me off before I knew what it was all about." 
 
 And Mary Ann, at the recital of her wrongs, 
 began to cry again. " And she never told me 
 whether I was to stay here after I got here, or 
 whether she did n't want me no more, or anything 
 about it. She just sent me, that was all. She 
 might a-told me, I should think." 
 
 " And do you know how long she was to stay 
 at the hotel ? " 
 
 " I don't think she was goin' to stay at all ; I 
 think she was goin' right away. She had all 
 packed up the trunks last night while I was asleep.
 
 THE COOK ASSISTS. 265 
 
 There was n't anything left out but baby's cloak 
 and cap." 
 
 " What place did she talk about ? Where do 
 you think she meant to go ? " 
 
 Mary Ann could not remember, though she 
 tried. She had heard her ask at the office for a 
 time-table ; she had heard the clerk tell her the 
 hour that a certain morning train would bring her 
 to a certain place, but the name of the place 
 she had forgotten. Barry repeated to her many 
 routes, the names of many cities. At the naming 
 of Montreal and Canada she showed interest. 
 
 " I should n't wonder if that was it," she said. 
 And that w;is as near as Barry could get to assur 
 ance of any kind. He came to a sudden conclu 
 sion ; there was no time to be lost ; the last train 
 to the city left the depot in fifteen minutes. When 
 for the second time that day Mary Ann was treated 
 to the surprise of a sudden separation from her 
 employer, she found herself better prepared to 
 meet it under the sheltering wing of the cook in 
 the comfortable Crittenden kitchen. Her " Well- 
 I-never " echoed harmlessly among the pots and 
 pans of that well-scrubbed region. The cook could 
 not hear too much of her recent strange adven 
 tures ; together they sat up till " all hours " of the 
 night, and talked " about it goddess and about it," 
 till, like their betters, they scarcely knew what was 
 truth and what was speculation.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 BACING AND CHASING ON CANOBIE LEE. 
 
 BARKY'S first telegram was sent to the hotel at 
 Albany. He could not tell if she had registered 
 in her own name or not ; but it seemed she had. 
 In due course of electricity came the intelligence 
 that Mrs. Crittenden had left the hotel on the 
 previous morning. His next was to Maiden, sent 
 in the name of one of his clerks, to know if she 
 were in the place. The answer was prompt. She 
 was not living there. His third was addressed to 
 Peyton Edwards, and contained a demand for in 
 telligence of the whereabouts of his wife. From 
 Washington came the information that he was not 
 there ; from St. Louis the same. After a couple 
 of hours of desperation, consultation with detec 
 tives, and all the unwisdom of a maddened man, 
 a dispatch arrived from Peyton at St. Louis. He 
 had just reached there, and had found Barry's dis 
 patch. He knew nothing of Phoebe ; had looked 
 for a letter from her, but was disappointed. " Try 
 Maiden." An hour after, another : " Try Brix- 
 ton. Answer." Another, after another not much 
 longer interval, evincing the keenest anxiety:
 
 RACING AND CHASING ON CANOBIE LEE. 267 
 
 " Let me know at once. Avoid publicity. You 
 may be sure it will be all right." 
 
 It began to be borne in upon Barry's mind that 
 his wife was not eloping with Peyton Edwards, 
 though the detectives did not see his grounds for 
 confidence. If he could have cleared up the mys 
 tery of her possessing money enough to go away, 
 he would have dismissed the theory of Peyton's 
 complicity in her going. But her money state 
 ments were so accurate and simple. She had had 
 no friends to apply to for funds. She had left be 
 hind her every piece of jewelry that would have 
 brought her anything. If she had gone on the 
 spur of the taunt he had thrown at her, he could 
 not account for her having enough money to 
 make the journey to Albany. If she had had it 
 long in contemplation, then Peyton was at the 
 bottom of it. But in his heart, somehow, he felt a 
 growing conviction that he had sent Phoebe away, 
 and that Peyton had not enticed her. He dis 
 missed the detectives, gorged with his money and 
 sworn to keep his secret, threw to the winds Wall 
 Street, Syndicate, and Fortune, boarded the first 
 train to Albany, and, with a heavy heart, set out 
 to find her. 
 
 At Albany he could strike no clue. The only 
 tiling was to follow the nurse's suggestion and look 
 for her in Montreal. Then there was simply noth 
 ing to help him. He spent two days in pursuing 
 phantoms ; came back from Canada despairing
 
 268 PHCEBE. 
 
 and angry, with suspicions again aroused against 
 Peyton. In this state of mind, he hurried to Chi 
 cago, led by a clue chance threw in his way. An 
 official to whom he spoke in the railway station 
 remembered a lady, with a child in her arms, buy 
 ing a ticket for Chicago some four days ago. He 
 recollected her perfectly : large, handsome woman. 
 Could not tell the color of her dress ; something 
 dark. Did not see the child's face ; thought it was 
 asleep; wondered why she did not have a nurse 
 for it; she looked "smart " enough dressed to have 
 one. She looked like a lady. She acted as if she 
 did not want people to see her. She pulled down 
 her veil when he looked at her. He should know 
 her in a minute. 
 
 Barry kept track of this lady without much 
 difficulty. She was a noticeable person and did 
 not want to be noticed. It was very plain she 
 was getting away from somebody. He traced her 
 step by step to a third-rate boarding-house in the 
 outskirts of Chicago, was treated to screams and 
 hysterics from the other side of a thin partition, 
 and finally, with many misgivings but with des 
 perate resolution, forced himself into the presence 
 of a stout, flashily dressed woman of thirty-two, 
 with a great deal of frizzed yellow hair, who 
 swooned with joy to find he was not her pursuing 
 husband, and who clutched in her arms a sickly 
 girl of three, apparently the bone of contention 
 between the ill-assorted pair.
 
 RACING AND CHASING ON CANOBIE LEE. 269 
 
 After this he had no way to turn. He had 
 given up all theories, to the one engendered by 
 this clue, that Phoebe was on her way to St. Louis 
 to join Peyton. He telegraphed to his office for 
 news ; was answered by replicas of telegrams of 
 Peyton's from New Orleans, where he was now 
 apparently pursuing the even tenor of an honest 
 way, and where Phoebe was not likely to be by 
 any ordinary mode of locomotion, with a croupy 
 baby in her arms, and with very limited experi 
 ence in making connections and studying out 
 schedules. Peyton's dispatches were not suave. 
 They were rather peremptory ; but the language 
 was ambiguous enough not to be readily inter 
 preted at the office. He wanted to be answered ; 
 he advised Maiden ; he almost demanded discre 
 tion. Barry sulkily put the dispatches in his 
 pocket ; he had no intention of giving any answer 
 to them, but because there was no other plan put 
 before him he accepted the counsel they con 
 tained, bought a ticket to Maiden, and, haggard 
 and worn-looking, took his seat in the train that 
 with many changes and turns and much provin 
 cial deliberation would bring him to Maiden by 
 the coming on of dusk.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 GRAY SHINGLES ON A WET DAY. 
 
 THE spring rains had swollen the brooks and 
 gullied the roads about Maiden. The mud was 
 deep, the air was raw. Phoebe got out of the train 
 with a sickening weariness of the dreary scene. 
 It was not raining, it was just "misting;" and 
 though it was not cold enough to prevent the snow 
 left along the edges of the fields and in sheltered 
 spots from melting rapidly, the air seemed more 
 chill than winter. The stage-driver even walked 
 up and down the platform, and beat his heavily 
 gloved hands together to keep them warm. He 
 opened the door of the stage for Phoebe with a 
 little nod of recognition. He did not look more 
 interested and surprised than if she had been 
 away a week instead of a year. She had not 
 wanted to make a sensation ; she had longed to 
 steal back in the night and not be seen. But this 
 coming back by midday, and being nodded at. as 
 if it were not the deepest wretchedness that had 
 brought her, this was even worse than active 
 curiosity. It seemed to her such a note of the 
 life to which she had returned, stagnant, common-
 
 GRAY SHINGLES ON A WET DAY. 271 
 
 place, uneventful, low. She had gone away from 
 it in bitterness ; she had come back to it with 
 loathing. Nothing but the direst necessity had 
 forced her to it. If there had been any other 
 shelter for her she would have taken it. But 
 these few days of battling for life among strangers, 
 with a weight of helpless care in her arms, had 
 cured her of her bold hope and steadfastness. For 
 the child's sake she submitted to give up, to seek 
 the only refuge that was open to her, and steeled 
 herself to endure the most repugnant life she 
 could imagine. She felt beforehand the taunts of 
 her neighbors ; she knew that she must work hard, 
 live low, forget the past, endure the present, re 
 nounce hope for the future. 
 
 No wonder that her face was stern and set as 
 they jolted along the muddy roadway that led 
 from the station to the little village. The driver 
 looked back askance at her, and concluded not to 
 make any conversation ; he leaned forward on his 
 elbows, hummed a Moody and Sankey tune, and 
 drove on stolidly. There was no other passenger. 
 Phosbe had the back seat and the " buffaloes " 
 quite to herself. The baby was wrapped in a 
 traveling-shawl ; the fine cloak had gone two or 
 three days ago to a greedy shop-woman, who paid 
 her. a third of what it cost. Phoebe did not look 
 any too grand to be riding in the Maiden stage. 
 Her dark dress had a little mud on it, and the in 
 definable shade of careless and constant wear.
 
 272 PHOEBE. 
 
 She had wound a blue veil around her bonnet to 
 keep it from the rain. 
 
 It was a strange coming back, she thought, 
 looking at the baby in his crumpled cap sleeping 
 on her arm, which ached. She had sometimes had 
 dreams of how she would return to Maiden with 
 her beautiful boy and her devoted husband. She 
 had felt it was not altogether unpardonable that she 
 should have such dreams, considering her humili 
 ations. She had fancied how, in some prosperous 
 future summer, they would drive over the hills 
 in an open carriage, making all the journey from 
 Marrowfat in that luxurious way ; she had even 
 seen in her mind's eye the sash and the sailor 
 hat, and the soft brown curls of the pretty boy ; 
 there should be a maid in a white cap, and a man 
 possibly with a silk hat and a band around it and 
 a buckle. She did not go the length of a livery, 
 but the velvet band would be so possible, even 
 if they had grown only moderately prosperous. 
 Phoebe was economical even in her dreams. She 
 had always had the picture in her mind of their 
 arrival at the gate of her little old home. It was 
 always towards evening of a June day that they 
 arrived : everything about the house and yard was 
 looking its best ; her mother, proud and smiling, 
 was standing at the gate to welcome them ; the 
 little cavalcade filled the roadway, Barry, hand 
 some, merry, and sunburned, with a dog or two 
 about his feet, stooped down, uncovered, to kiss his
 
 GRAY SHINGLES ON A WET DAY. 273 
 
 mother-in-law ; the man stood at the horses' 
 heads ; the maid held up the boy, who shouted in 
 delight ; and always at this moment passed Mary 
 Carpenter and Letitia Gregg, who had said the 
 bitterest and hardest things about her. 
 
 And this was the way she was coming home: 
 outcast and forlorn, and alone forever but for the 
 baby who lay a dead weight in her tired arms ; 
 the June evening, the fine carriage, the attendants, 
 found their fulfillment in the damp April drizzle, 
 the lumbering old stage, the grizzled, psalm-singing 
 driver. Poor Phosbe ! she could not cry, she did 
 not want to cry. She was hard and bitter and 
 resentful. 
 
 She knew every barn and hay-rick they passed. 
 That pump, this stile, she had not thought of 
 them since she went away, but they were as famil 
 iar as if she had been seeing them every day. The 
 dreariness, the weariness, of it ; and underneath 
 all the wound that had brought her back to it. 
 
 In the drive from the station to the village, 
 Peterson's half-witted boy tending the cattle at 
 the farmyard gate, and old Nancy Briggs wrapped 
 in the faded plaid shawl that she remembered so 
 long, were the only human beings that they 
 passed. The village was silent as a graveyard. 
 The "store" door was shut, but a mist on the 
 panes of its one window and a " team " hitched 
 outside showed that the tide of commerce was still 
 flowing through the little hamlet. Half a dozen 
 
 18
 
 274 PH(EBE. 
 
 silent, spitting, steaming male figures were un 
 doubtedly seated around its sulky stove. The 
 driver stopped at another rival mercantile house ; 
 this was new since Phoebe went away. Here the 
 mail-bag was left; a small board over the door said 
 Post Office. The man stayed a good while inside ; 
 he came out puffing at a very bad cigar, the smoke 
 of which floated back into the stage for the remain 
 der of the way, and made Phoebe ill and angry. 
 
 The last house was passed that lay between the 
 village and her old home. Her heart began to 
 beat, and the tears that had refused to come for 
 so many suffering days were gathering in her 
 eyes. Beneath all the revolt at coming home and 
 the certainty of misery there, there had been a 
 yearning to throw herself into her mother's arms 
 and weep out her despair. She knew that the 
 comfort would be short-lived ; that more wretched 
 ness than solace would come from telling out her 
 griefs to one of so different a temperament from 
 her own. But the impulse was deep as nature 
 and old as Holy Writ : " as one whom his mother 
 comforteth." 
 
 It required all her force of will to keep back 
 the flood of tears that the mere thought of meet 
 ing her mother brought. The horses climbed the 
 little ascent slowly ; Phoebe scarcely dared look 
 out. At last, with a jolt, the stage stopped before 
 the gate, and the driver called out Whoa ! in a loud 
 voice intended more to rouse the inmates of the
 
 GRAY SHINGLES ON A WET DAY. 275 
 
 house than to check the horses, who scarcely 
 needed any invitation to stop. 
 
 The house stood near the road ; below this road, 
 in front, the land dropped away suddenly, and a 
 wide stretch of pasture land, several miles per 
 haps, lay out in view, bounded by bare-looking 
 hills, now covered with mist, in the distance. At 
 the right of the house lay a patch of garden ; ad 
 joining it the barn and out-houses. At the back 
 of it the hill rose so suddenly that the house lost 
 a story in consequence, and was built up against 
 its base. The hill was covered with bushes and 
 trees, now dripping and bare and brown. The 
 house looked very old and very small ; it was un- 
 painted, and its gray shingles were dark with the 
 soaking rain. It did not look out of repair ; two 
 or three great stems of vines mounted to its roof, 
 and in summer no doubt made it very pretty. A 
 stone wall surmounted by a low paling separated 
 it from the road ; three or four steps led up from 
 the road to the gate, which was also low, not more 
 than two feet high. The shrubs and flower-beds 
 were perhaps nicely kept in summer; they were 
 not much to look at now. A little path led to 
 the front door, but it was evidently unused. A 
 line of boards lay towards the kitchen door, indi 
 cating that as the usual way of entrance. 
 
 The driver pulled open the stage door. Phosbe, 
 grasping the child in her arms, got out, giving 
 a hurried look towards the house. No one had
 
 276 PHCEBE. 
 
 appeared at the call of the driver; everything 
 seemed so deadly still. You could hear the breath 
 ing of the tired horses and the creaking of the old 
 stage with their slight motion. She pushed open 
 the low gate ; it sagged and stuck at a certain 
 point as she remembered it did when she was a 
 little child. She hurried up to the kitchen door 
 and opened it without allowing herself time to 
 think again. 
 
 The room was all still and warm and in order. 
 Coming down the little stairway that opened into 
 it was her mother, who, dazed and frightened at 
 the sudden apparition, gave a sort of cry and 
 stopped. Phoebe ran to her, gave her a kiss, and 
 then threw herself down upon the lowest step of 
 the stairs, and hiding her face in the shawl 
 wrapped round the baby began to sob. The 
 mother, in terror, began to cry too, and moan and 
 wring her hands and ask what was the matter. 
 
 " Oh, nothing ! " cried Phcebe, getting up and 
 trying to master herself ; " only I 've come home 
 to you, mother. Oh, you must be good to me ! " 
 
 " But what ' the matter ? Why did you come ? 
 Where's Barry ? Oh, my goodness, I always knew 
 it would n't come to any good ! Oh, my poor 
 child, why would n't you listen to me ? This is 
 more than I can stand. You must n't take on so 
 unless you want to break my heart." 
 
 At this moment the driver, rather tired of wait 
 ing, knocked at the door, which stood half open.
 
 GRAY SHINGLES ON A WET DAY. 277 
 
 Phoebe darted into the little bedroom that opened 
 from the kitchen at one side, to conceal her agita 
 tion from the man. Her mother stood helpless 
 and bewildered while he asked if there was any 
 body to help him in with the trunks. Mrs. Hoi- 
 den said she did not know ; what trunks 
 where ? 
 
 " Why, your girl's trunks ; she as has just come 
 home. Come out and look at 'em, if you don't be 
 lieve me." 
 
 " I '11 go and ask Phoebe," said the mother. 
 
 " Oh, mother," cried Phoebe, who had thrown 
 herself upon the bed beside the baby in a par 
 oxysm of weeping, " pay the man and send him 
 away ! Don't let him in here ; don't let him see 
 you're feeling bad. Pay him and send him away, 
 and let me be alone for a little while." 
 
 Thus entreated the mother went away, and col 
 lected herself enough to call the " hired man," 
 Joe, to help about the trunks ; but three times 
 she had to break in upon Phcebe's passion of 
 weeping, to decide where they should be put and 
 to make change to pay the man the fare. 
 
 " I have n't got any change, I have n't got a 
 cent !" said Phoebe. " Why can't he come in 
 another time ? He passes here two or three times 
 a week. Oh, don't, dont make me talk about it 
 now !" 
 
 Mrs. Holden was so used to crying herself, a 
 puling stream of tears that was never quite dried
 
 278 PH(EBE. 
 
 up, that she could not understand what the objec 
 tion was to being asked about the spare room and 
 the driver's change in the midst of weeping. 
 Phoabe's tears and hers differed, that was all 
 that could be said : an April shower and a mid 
 winter tempest ; a perennial meadow brook and 
 a suddenly swollen mountain torrent. 
 
 After the man had been paid, and had got into 
 his seat and gathered up his reins and gee-upped 
 to his horses, and gone his way much reflecting 
 upon the widow's agitation and the unhappy looks 
 of her returning daughter, the widow herself went 
 into the little bedroom and unwrapped the now 
 protesting baby from his shawl, and moaned over 
 him and plied his mother with questions about 
 him, and kissed him, and cried feebly. 
 
 " Do you feed him, Phoebe. He 's hungry ; the 
 poor darling is hungry. I am sure he 's hun 
 gry. Shall I give him a little milk ? Or would 
 some farina suit him better ? I could boil it in a 
 few minutes, if you could hold him till it 's done. 
 There, there, don't cry, petty, don't. Perhaps I 
 might as well loosen his clothes ; something hurts 
 him I am sure. Dear, dear, it 's so long since 
 I 've had a baby to look after. Not since you. I 
 almost forget how to hold one. Ah me ! I little 
 thought ! Phoebe, if you can quiet yourself a mo 
 ment to listen to me ; the child must be fed, or 
 something done to pacify him. There 's no good 
 in crying so, Phoabe. If I 'd cried like that I
 
 GRAY SHINGLES ON A WET DAY. 279 
 
 should have killed myself years and years ago. 
 Goodness knows, I 've had enough to cry about, 
 but I try to control myself, and that saves every 
 body. Think about your baby, Phoebe, think 
 about me. You don't want to hurt us, and 
 you '11 kill us if you go on like that." 
 
 Poor Phoebe ; she would not have minded, that 
 moment, if she had been told that she had killed 
 her mother and her baby. It was the blackest mo 
 ment of her life ; it was totally black, and noth 
 ing could have made it blacker while it lasted. 
 She was paying for the long strain and the unnat 
 ural silence of the past eight days. The discon 
 tents and rebellions and complainings of ordinary 
 lives would make up quite as .heavy an account as 
 she paid for all at once in that one awful hour of 
 despair. She was not generally discontented and 
 complaining, but of a full, sound nature and very 
 patient. It was not to be wondered at that her 
 mother was frightened, and gathered up the baby 
 and went out when she told her to. She hovered 
 about the door all the .afternoon and listened, but 
 did not dare even to turn the knob or implore her 
 to drink the tea or eat the toast, relays of which 
 she had eased her maternal heart by preparing. 
 These slow-gathering, heavy-bursting storms have 
 this advantage, that they get themselves respected 
 and in a measure let alone. We stay in-doors and 
 keep out of the way of a tempest, but in frequent 
 paltry showers we arm ourselves and flit about de 
 fiantly.
 
 280 PECEEE. 
 
 Late in the afternoon Phoebe came out of her 
 room, pale and spent. She took her baby in her 
 arms and sat down silently beside the fire. Her 
 mother fluttered about and made ready a fresh 
 supply of tea and toast, prepared the table for the 
 evening meal, and added whatever was possible 
 from her not very abundant larder. She did not 
 even try to " make talk ; " she was awed into si 
 lence for once. When it was all ready, she hum 
 bly offered to take the baby and to keep him 
 while Phoebe took her tea. But Phoebe held him 
 on her arm, and came to the table with him. 
 When they sat down at the board for the first time 
 for so long, and in such painful circumstances, the 
 widow's ready tears overflowed. But they did 
 not touch the source of her daughter's grief nor 
 call hers forth again. She soothed the baby, who 
 fretted a little, and silently ate some of the food 
 put before her. Her mother waited on her anx 
 iously, getting up to bring this and that to her. 
 She did not remonstrate or express gratitude, but 
 took it all simply and did her best to eat. After 
 the meal was over she got up and tried to help 
 her mother put away the " tea things," but prob 
 ably found it beyond her strength, and sat down 
 silently by the fire again. The widow was busy 
 for an hour or two in matters about the house. 
 The " hired man " came in and helped her to bring 
 down a cradle from the garret and make it ready 
 for the baby.
 
 GRAY SHINGLES ON A WET DAY. 281 
 
 " You '11 sleep with me to-night ? " she asked of 
 Phoebe, hesitatingly. " It '11 be cold for the baby 
 up-stairs in your old room. Joe '11 make the fire, 
 though, if you want it." 
 
 " 1 don't care ; it does n't make any difference 
 to me." 
 
 After she had prepared the baby for sleep, and 
 put him in the cradle, and seen him close his eyes 
 heavily and finally for the night, she came out and 
 sat down by the fire again. Her mother sat there 
 rocking herself backward and forward. Phoebe 
 knew she had to tell her mother something of the 
 reasons for her coming home. It was very hard 
 to speak now, in cold blood, but there was no 
 question but that she had to do it. If she could 
 have done it at the moment when she first threw 
 herself into her mother's arms, it would not have 
 cost so much. 
 
 " I hope you don't mind having me home again, 
 mother," she began, while they both sat looking 
 into the fire. 
 
 " Why, no, Phcebe : it 's been lonely enough 
 without you, gracious knows. Only " 
 
 "Yes, I know what you mean. Well, we must 
 n't care what people say, and as long as I am doing 
 what I know is right I don't think you ought to 
 mind about it." 
 
 " But are you ? that 's the thing," and the 
 widow's voice faltered, as if she were struggling 
 with a fresh supply of tears.
 
 282 PHCEBE. 
 
 " Yes, I believe I am. It 's hard to talk against 
 Barry and I hope you '11 let this be once for 
 all, and never say anything to me about it af 
 terwards. I 've found he did n't feel the way 
 he used to towards me. There was somebody that 
 he was attached to from the time he was a boy." 
 
 " Powers o' mercy, then why did n't he stay at 
 home and marry her, and leave us here in peace ? " 
 cried the mother, hotly. 
 
 "No matter. He did n't, and there's the end 
 of it. But and this is why I won't go back to 
 him he has said things I can't stand ; he 
 must want to be rid of me, or he would n't have 
 said them. Don't let us talk any more about it, 
 mother. I 've come back to you, and I '11 try to 
 be a help to you, and I hope you won't mind the 
 baby. He's very good, if he 's only well. I can 
 earn enough at sewing to keep him and me in 
 clothes and you won't mind giving us our 
 board. You 're getting old, and you '11 be glad of 
 a little less work. I 've thought it all over, and 
 I don't see that there's anything better can be 
 done." 
 
 " But, Phoebe," cried her mother, now genuinely 
 broken down, " my child, I don't like to hear you 
 talk about it in that sort of way. Don't you know 
 it 's an awful thing to go away and leave your hus 
 band ? Why, it 's wicked. Oh, it might bring a 
 judgment on you. Have you thought about it, 
 have you prayed about it ? "
 
 GRAY SHINGLES ON A WET DAY. 283 
 
 " Yes," said Phoebe, setting her teeth together, 
 " and it 's done, and I don't want to talk about ii 
 any more." 
 
 "But y.ou must talk about it," moaned the 
 mother. " You have n't told me anything. You 
 just come home, and say you won't live with your 
 husband any more, and that there's the end of it. 
 What did he say ? What does he say 's the mat 
 ter ? How can you expect me to know whether 
 you 've done right till you tell me all about it ? " 
 
 " There is n't anything more to tell," said 
 Phoebe, stolidly. " If you don't want me to stay, 
 I'll pack my trunk to-morrow and go and earn 
 my living somewhere else. There are plenty of 
 places ; I should n't have to starve." 
 
 The widow was frightened, and began to dread 
 another tempest ; she wept, and hurried to assure 
 her daughter that she was more than welcome to 
 her home, no matter how she came. 
 
 " But I can't help thinking, Phoebe " 
 
 " Well, try to help speaking, if you can't help 
 thinking, mother," said Phrebe, getting up and 
 going towards the table. " Shall I take this lamp, 
 or is there one outside? " 
 
 She had never seen Phcebe like this before : it 
 was like having a child come back to you that did 
 not belong to you. She dissolved in tears, and sat 
 rocking herself by her lonely fire long after x her 
 daughter had gone silently to bed.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN DOOR. 
 
 THOUGH Phoebe had subdued her mother and 
 got herself let alone that first night, it would have 
 been too much to hope that she had made a per 
 manent conquest. Weak natures are the hardest 
 to conquer, and in dealing with them the stronger 
 ones are generally fain to confess self-conquest is 
 the only way to peace. Mrs. Holden had a fee 
 ble judgment and a vehement will. That this 
 will vacillated, and was set now in this direction, 
 now in that, made it none the easier to get along 
 with her. The widow brooded over her child's 
 troubles ; they were as her own, for she loved her 
 passionately. She could no more have restrained 
 herself from advising and trying to influence her 
 than she could have made herself a strong, sensible 
 woman sur-le-champ. After one night of weeping 
 and wakeful ness, she would tell her, under protest, 
 that it was borne in upon her that she ought to go 
 back immediately to Barry. Perhaps before even 
 ing she would have reached so different a conclu 
 sion that Phoebe could not stay in the room and 
 hear her bitter reproaches of her son-in-law. She
 
 OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN DOOR. 285 
 
 was wearing herself out, praying, crying, striving 
 to see what they ought to do in this most dreadful 
 situation. 
 
 " Why don't you stop thinking about it, mother ? 
 It 's my doing ; you are not to blame. Just leave 
 it to me, and be as quiet as you can. People have 
 got to live their own lives ; even their mothers 
 can't do it for them." 
 
 " But their mothers can't sit still and see them 
 going to destruction. You '11 find that when your 
 baby gets a little older. Oh, Phoabe! you 're pos 
 itively unnatural and cruel to me. You seem to 
 forget that it 's only a few years ago that I was 
 doing all for you that you 're doing for that baby, 
 and slaving for you day and night." 
 
 " Well, mother, I did n't ask you to, any more 
 than the baby asks me to. And I hope I '11 never 
 throw it in his face that I took care of him after 
 I brought him into the world, or that I '11 think it 
 gives me any rights over him after he 's a man. 
 
 " You '11 see ; it '11 look different to you then." 
 
 " May be, but things generally look one way to 
 me." 
 
 Plioabe had been at home just three days, when 
 a messenger came to tell Mrs. Holden of the 
 serious illness of her sister, living on a farm about 
 ten miles away. The summons was urgent ; the 
 poor woman was doubtless near her end. Mrs. 
 Holden was dreadfully agitated by the news. She 
 could scarcely make the necessary preparations for
 
 286 PH(EBE. 
 
 going. She thought Phoebe ought to go too and see 
 her aunt before she died. But Phoebe did not in 
 the least see it so. Her aunt was very little to 
 her, being old and money-getting and narrow- 
 minded. She was sorry for her sufferings, but 
 she knew she could do nothing to alleviate them ; 
 half a dozen women were probably standing around 
 her bedside night and day. It would be intoler 
 able to her to spend hours, perhaps days, in the 
 turmoil of such a household, meeting all her rela 
 tions for the first time since her trouble. She sim 
 ply refused to go on the baby's account, and busied 
 herself in forwarding her mother's preparations. 
 Her mother could not accept the excuse. Mal- 
 vina would bring her three children ; none of the 
 others had ever stayed away on account of having 
 babies ; it would look unnatural. 
 
 When the wagon drove away with only her 
 mother in it beside the neighbor who had been 
 sent to fetch her, Phrebe said to herself it was 
 unnatural ; but she knew she felt a relief and 
 breathed freer now that she was all alone. She 
 was not glad that her aunt was ill ; it gave her a 
 feeling of awe that one of her own blood had 
 drawn so near the impenetrable boundary. But 
 it did not touch her affections, and in the gloom of 
 her own distress it did not seem a thing for des 
 perate grief that any one should have reached the 
 end of life. And for her mother, she felt that a 
 change, another grief, would really be a benefit. 
 

 
 OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN DOOR. 287 
 
 She had suffered so much in watching her mother's 
 helpless perplexity about her troubles that it was 
 a relief to think, for the time, they would fall into 
 the background. 
 
 The day was comparatively a peaceful one. 
 There was constant occupation for her in the 
 household work and in caring for the baby. She 
 laid out her work for the spring; she went up 
 stairs into the unused best room and threw open 
 the windows, and planned for the house-cleaning 
 and for some changes which her enlarged experi 
 ences of decent living now suggested. The day 
 was beautiful ; a sudden spring day after a long 
 course of damp, raw weather. It was in the lat 
 ter half of April, but up to that time there had 
 been nothing to give one thoughts of spring and 
 longings to be out-of-doors. The flood of warmth 
 and sunshine seemed like the opening of heaven. 
 One panted for the summer, and hated the bar 
 riers of winter. 
 
 After dinner Phosbe put the baby into a little 
 wagon which Joe had brought in from a loft in 
 the barn, and dragged him up and down the path 
 before the house. She threw the windows of the 
 kitchen wide open, and let the fire die out. She 
 had to loosen the baby's wraps ; April though it 
 was, the heat was oppressive. The baby blinked 
 and crowed ; he liked the sunshine, but it was 
 pretty strong for him. He looked a little pale ; 
 high tragedy is not good for nursing babies.
 
 288 PHCEBE. 
 
 Phoebe decided for his sake to avoid the feelings 
 of high tragedy, no matter what facts were forced 
 upon her. She sat down beside him on the step 
 of the little unused porch. How delicious the 
 flood of sunshine, how sweet the still, warm air! 
 The grass was greening in the little plat between 
 the house and the gate; the earth was drying. 
 The crocuses were pushing up their heads in a 
 little patch under the parlor window. The long 
 spears of the daffodils were thrusting themselves 
 through the dead grass and fallen leaves and bare 
 shrubbery along the fence. One saw pink buds 
 swelling on the trees as the sun shone through the 
 naked branches. Phoebe thought almost with a 
 sensation of pleasure of the time when 
 
 " All this leafless and uncolored scene 
 Should flush into variety again." 
 
 The tide of spring was bringing a little hope into 
 her heart. 
 
 " If I could be let alone," she thought, as she 
 drew a deep breath, " and have nothing but God 
 and the baby and out-doors, I could get along, 
 perhaps." 
 
 The sound of a wagon coming up the little 
 hill made her go quickly into the house. It was 
 only Farmer White and his man going to the 
 sugar-bush, with an empty barrel jolting in the 
 back of the wagon, but it broke in upon her 
 dream of peace. People would be the obstacles 
 to her " getting along," she had known from the
 
 OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN DOOR. 289 
 
 first. Man's inhumanity to man, intentional or 
 accidental, seems to be at the bottom of more than 
 half our mourning. 
 
 The lengthening April day drew to its end. 
 The sun had set behind the far-off hills, but he 
 seemed to have warmed the earth so fully with 
 his all-day shining that no chill came on with the 
 growing dusk. The baby was asleep in his cradle. 
 Phoebe had eaten her solitary evening meal, and 
 Joe had taken his in the little outer kitchen. The 
 work of the day was over. Phoebe threw a cloak 
 on her shoulders and pulled the hood up over her 
 head, and went out into the still, warm twilight. 
 She left the door open that she might hear the 
 baby if he woke, and walked up and down the 
 path, and then wandered off into the old orchard 
 that adjoined the garden. Here had been the 
 playground of her childhood. Her head nearly 
 touched the tops of one or two low old trees which 
 she had considered it a feat to climb then. The 
 shade had seemad dense and mysterious to her; 
 the rocky side of the hill that arose abruptly be 
 hind the orchard and the house had been the 
 boundary to who can say what, in her childish 
 fancy. And here her boy was to grow up ; here 
 drink in his first draught of conscious life. Well, 
 it was healthy, it was simple ; it might be an hon 
 est and honorable home. 
 
 As she wandered aimlessly on, the latch of the 
 gate fell. She heard a step upon the board walk, 
 
 19
 
 290 PH(EBE. 
 
 and a sound as of some one knocking, low, at the 
 kitchen door. If it were some neighbor come to 
 feast his or her curiosity, he or she might go away 
 again. She felt the same trouble at the thought 
 of meeting any one ; she wondered whether this 
 feeling would ever go away, or whether she would 
 grow " queer," as the country people called it, 
 as she grew older, and, shunning her kind, be 
 shunned of them and held in ridicule and aver 
 sion. She shrunk behind a tree and watched. 
 The visitor did not go away. It was too dim to 
 see whether any one was standing in the door ; 
 she had not left any light in the house. After 
 a moment came a pang of fear for the child ; the 
 knock had been too low to be a neighbor's or 
 dinary visit. She started towards the house ; just 
 as she reached the path she discerned the tall form 
 of a man standing in the doorway. He took a 
 step towards her, and husband and wife stood 
 confronting each other. 
 
 " You ! " said Phoebe, huskily, her breath com 
 ing quick. It was too dim to see his haggard, worn 
 face ; she only heard the almost harsh tone of his 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, why not ? I suppose you knew that I 
 was likely to come." 
 
 She did not speak, and he resumed, after a si 
 lence. " You know best what you went away for. 
 This sort of thing is a disgrace to people who have 
 any kind of place to keep in the world."
 
 OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN DOOR. 291 
 
 "When they haven't they don't mind," thought 
 Phcebe, or something like it. 
 
 Now Barry had had a hard day of it, not to say 
 a good many hard days. The heat, the worry, the 
 bad fare, the humiliation, the vulgar people he had 
 had to ask questions of, had set his teeth on edge. 
 He had at last found his wife. It was a little like 
 the Lost Heir : last night he would have thrown 
 himself at her feet, perhaps ; to-night he felt more 
 like throwing reproaches at her head. All his 
 self-accusation vanished, and he felt himself in 
 jured by everything she had done and by every 
 thing she was doing, especially by the coldness 
 and self-control that she was showing. 
 
 " I don't know what excuse you have to make 
 for yourself," he said. She was silent. " But you 
 never can make up to me for these last few days." 
 
 As she did not speak, he went on, harshly : 
 " Do you know how the world looks upon people 
 who quarrel and who can't get on together ? First 
 it laughs, ad then it sneers at them, and then it 
 turns its back upon. them. We have made our 
 selves a laughing-stock, and now we shall have to 
 spend the rest of our lives trying to get people to 
 forget our folly." 
 
 Poor Barry ! It seemed to Phcebe he was only 
 thinking of what the world said about them, and 
 not at all of any wounded love. In reality, he 
 scarcely knew what he was saying, he was so sore 
 and angry, so relieved and so ashamed of his past
 
 292 PHCEBE. 
 
 fears and yearnings, and so fatally wrong-headed 
 in his treatment of her. They stood confronting 
 each other in the dusk, silent, for some minutes. 
 
 " I have come to take you back with me, at 
 once," he broke the silence by saying hoarsely. 
 
 " I am not going back," she returned slowly. 
 
 " Do you mean to say " he began. 
 
 " I mean to say that I am going to stay here, 
 or somewhere else, if it seems best, and earn my 
 own living as I can. About the child, I suppose 
 you came about him, you know the law gives 
 him to me till he is seven years old. I don't think 
 you could get any court to let you have him. You 
 care so much about what people think, it does n't 
 seem to me it would be wise to try. I will do the 
 best I can for him while I have him. I can teach 
 him ; the country is good for him. After that 
 may be we shan't any of us be alive. There is 
 no use in looking ahead and worrying." 
 
 u You seem to have made your plans." 
 
 " Why, yes ; I would have been very foolish 
 not to." 
 
 " Have you had any help about it ? " he cried, 
 hotly. 
 
 " Take care," she said, in a restrained voice. 
 
 " Listen to me, Phoebe," he said, firmly. " I 
 have come to take you back. I am willing to over 
 look everything, to forgive you, to treat this out 
 rageous episode with eternal silence. I shall be 
 lieve in you if you tell me I can trust you. All
 
 OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN DOOR. 293 
 
 the past shall be wiped, out. I don't know another 
 man would do it in my place. You have the 
 choice before you, respectability and peace, or 
 disgrace and misery. Now choose, once for all." 
 
 " I have chosen. There is no use in talking." 
 
 " Do you tell me you refuse my forbearance, my 
 forgiveness ? " 
 
 "Your forgiveness!" and Phoebe's smoth 
 ered voice had deeper contempt in it than Barry 
 knew how to bear. 
 
 " Yes, my forgiveness. Perhaps women don't 
 know what it is to disgrace a man so before the 
 world, to belittle his name and his child's by mak 
 ing them common talk." 
 
 " You are angry, Barry ; it is best not to talk 
 any more. I am not angry." 
 
 " No, by Heavens, I don't think you are. I 
 think you are rather pleased than otherwise." 
 
 "I'm not as much troubled as you are about 
 the opinion of other people." 
 
 " I think the standard of opinion of well-bred 
 people is to be respected. It 's dangerous setting 
 up for one's self." 
 
 " A person's heart sets up for itself once in 
 a while, whether one will or no," thought Phrebe 
 vaguely, but she did not say it. Her silence 
 seemed to irritate him more than anything that 
 she had said. 
 
 " I don't make any threats," he said. " I don't 
 propose to tear the child away from you and rip
 
 294 PIKEBE. 
 
 open this scandal any further. But I give you 
 the chance of doing right by him and by me, and 
 repairing in a measure the wrong that you have 
 done us. If you come home, we have probably 
 both of us self-control enough to live peaceably 
 before the world, and get on as well as half the 
 married people do, whose dissatisfaction one does 
 not hear anything about. I place it definitely be 
 fore you : Go back with me to-morrow morning 
 by the early train, and all will be right. I shall 
 make no reproaches. Refuse to do it, and I sail on 
 Saturday for Europe, and join the family there. 
 I shall live abroad ; my life in this country would 
 be unendurable to me with this social stigma on 
 it. You can understand what you will be respon 
 sible for. I shall not, likely, be a saint." 
 
 Phrebe did not say what a more fluent woman 
 would probably have said, that she declined to 
 save him on these terms. 
 
 " I am sorry," she said, " if you are going to lead 
 a bad life, but I can't help it." 
 
 " I have told you that you can help it." 
 
 A silence. "Well?" 
 
 " I don't know why you make me say things 
 twice that you don't like to hear. I am not go 
 ing back. Why should we talk any more about 
 it?" 
 
 " Why, indeed," he said, fiercely, as with a ges 
 ture of throwing something from him he turned 
 away and strode down the path.
 
 OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN DOOR. 
 
 295 
 
 " Don't you want to see the baby ? " she said, 
 faintly. 
 
 He did not answer, probably he did not hear. 
 The little gate swung on its creaking hinges, and 
 shut her back into the old life alone. The dark 
 ness swallowed up Barry's figure, and silence, 
 such a silence, settled down upon the low, solitary 
 house.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 AFTER ALL ! 
 
 A YEAH and a half had passed ; the second 
 summer of Phoebe's return to her home was over. 
 The short autumn days had come, one by one grow 
 ing shorter, growing chiller, warning of the dreary 
 winter that would be upon them soon. Dwellers 
 in isolated mountain homes do not look forward 
 with zest to the five or six months of winter. The 
 men make their preparations with very little en 
 thusiasm for shoveling snow and building fires 
 and housing cattle. It is even less hopeful for 
 the women ; their housework is doubled and their 
 liberty curtailed. To the two lonely women in 
 the little house climbing against the hill, the com 
 ing winter brought gloomy anticipations. The 
 widow was growing old, and the privation of fresh 
 air and the long housing made each winter harder. 
 Phoebe felt the imprisonment with this uncheer- 
 ful companion to be almost insupportable. The 
 summer days, spent in wandering about the si 
 lent woods with her baby, after the short morn 
 ing's work was over, had been endurable, almost 
 peaceful. But the winter brought interminable
 
 AFTER ALL! 297 
 
 hours of sewing, irruptions of inquisitive neigh 
 bors from whose visits she could not escape, mo 
 notony of occupation and scene, and no solitude. 
 The child, too, would fret at the confinement. The 
 first winter had been bad enough, when he was 
 just beginning to walk. What would this be, 
 now that he was active and self-willed and " into 
 everything," as his grandmother said. She was 
 very fond of him, but she took the liberty of slap 
 ping his hands, and pulling him out of " every 
 thing" with a promptness that his more even- 
 spirited mother disapproved. There were just 
 two rooms in the little habitation which could be 
 inhabited in winter with anything like comfort : 
 the summer's sitting-room was the winter kitchen ; 
 the bedroom opening into it could be warmed 
 with the same fire. 
 
 With a heavy heart Phoebe had that day moved 
 the baby's crib down into this room, where she 
 and her mother and he were to sleep during the 
 cold weather. The low room up-stairs could not 
 be made warm enough for the child. She had left 
 her little refuge with a feeling that she had said 
 good-by to herself in doing it. To be chained 
 for six months to a fellow-prisoner seemed a fate 
 many degrees blacker than solitary confinement. 
 
 A temporary respite had come, however. One 
 of her many sisters had sent that morning and 
 taken the widow away for a few days' visit. Be 
 fore the walls of snow closed in around them it
 
 298 PIKEEE. 
 
 was well that these old women, with perhaps not 
 many winters left, should see each other once 
 again. She had gone with many regrets for 
 Phoebe's loneliness, for it was well understood 
 Phcebe would not darken any door in Maiden if 
 she lived to be a hundred in it. It was twilight ; 
 the little boy, tired with his day's play, had been 
 put to sleep in the old cradle that he had almost 
 outgrown. To have him near her as she sat by 
 the fire, she had dragged the cradle from its cor 
 ner ; occasionally she touched it with her foot. 
 She had her basket of work beside her, but she 
 had not yet lighted the lamp upon the table. The 
 fire was blazing on the hearth, and sent a cheer 
 ful glow through the room. She looked at it with 
 affection ; she almost felt as if she could have 
 endured the winter with that to keep her com 
 pany. But it was only an autumn pleasure ; with 
 the real setting in of winter would come the board 
 ing up of the fire-place, the putting away the bright 
 andirons, and the erecting of a black monster that 
 would bake, boil, roast, and stew them and their 
 "victuals," that would not "go out" all winter, 
 and that would probably last many years longer 
 than its victims. The windows of the kitchen 
 would be stuffed with cotton ; the doors would be 
 " listed." Phoebe wondered what color the baby's 
 cheeks would be by April. 
 
 She sat on a low chair by the fire, leaning for 
 ward on her elbows; looking now into the fire,
 
 AFTER ALL! 299 
 
 now into the hooded cradle, now into vacancy. 
 She wore a dark stuff dress ; around her neck was 
 tied a bright red silk handkerchief. She had 
 grown rather thinner in the year and a v half, and 
 looked indefinably older. Her skin had a clear, 
 healthy tinge, but the expression of her eyes was 
 troubled, and her mouth had a firmer, more 
 " set " look. Her rich, heavy hair was put back 
 smoothly in a knot low in her neck. She had no 
 look of carelessness in her dress ; the room was in 
 faultless order ; whatever she did she did well and 
 thriftily. There was not a cent wrong in the lit 
 tle account-book in her desk beside the window, 
 nor a pan that did not shine in the buttery out 
 side the door ; the bread was sweet that she had 
 baked that day ; the butter that she was laying 
 down for winter would bring the best price at the 
 "store." Her "preserves" were better than her 
 mother's had ever been ; the linen, the clothes, 
 were all kept in better order. The garden flour 
 ished under her care ; the little farm was none the 
 worse for her oversight of it. In a certain way 
 she was interested in her work, and liked to feel 
 she was doing it well. But there came times, and 
 this was one of them, when she felt too weary to go 
 on, when, as people say sometimes, she did not 
 feel as if she could put one foot before the other. 
 The fire-light made the room cheery, but her 
 heart was heavy ; the way was long, and to what 
 end did it lead ? The child might be taken from
 
 300 PHCEBE. 
 
 her ; at best she could only keep him with her for 
 a few years. She could not deny those who had 
 a right in him, when they asked for him to give 
 him a proper education. Her mother's health 
 was failing ; it was dreary with her, but blood is 
 thicker than water, it would be drearier with 
 out her. It was all pretty dark, whichever way 
 she looked. She did not often allow herself to go 
 over the past, but to-night she was alone, and sat 
 long idle, thinking of all that had happened and 
 that had failed to happen in the months since 
 Barry had swung the little gate shut after him, on 
 that warm April night, and gone away from her 
 forever. Not a line had ever come from him. 
 Why should he have written ? She knew nothing 
 but what she had gathered from one or two letters 
 which had come. 
 
 The first, about two months after she had 
 parted from Barry, had been from his mother, an 
 earnest, loving appeal to her to give up her wrong 
 decision and come back to him to save him. It 
 was a letter which would have touched her very 
 much, if she could have felt that he was to be 
 saved from anything but his infatuation for his 
 cousin. In that effort she declined assisting. She 
 was a true woman, and unfortunately a jealous 
 one, and nothing could move her that looked to 
 condoning his infidelity of heart. The letter, she 
 judged, was written after Barry's first meeting 
 with his mother. It bore marks of agitation. She
 
 AFTER ALL! 301 
 
 did not answer it at once. She never liked writ 
 ing ; but this was so painful an effort that she put 
 it off as long as possible. Her mother, who al 
 ways insisted on knowing everything that befell 
 her fellow-prisoner, and who could not withhold 
 advice or abstain from trying to influence, had re 
 vived the recollection of the one interview she had 
 had with Mrs. Crittenden, and rehearsed every 
 cruel word. (All this Phoebe had been trying to 
 forget.) 
 
 After she sent her cold and not very well ex 
 pressed letter, she waited long months for an 
 answer. She had looked for one earlier, she did 
 not know why. When it came, it was from Lucy, 
 and not from her mother. It was written in a 
 frightened, uncertain way, just as Lucy would have 
 talked if she had been compelled to confront this 
 sister-in-law, who had got so far out of reach upon 
 such a tempestuous sea that she could understand 
 neither the elements nor her. Lucy did not know, 
 evidently, how to address her, nor what to talk 
 about after she had told her that dear mamma 
 had received her letter just before her great ill 
 ness ; that she was not yet well enough to sit up, 
 but when she was better she would write to her. 
 They were still abroad, waiting for mamma to be 
 strong enough for the journey home. P;ipa had 
 gone as soon as mamma was considered out of 
 danger. It was very necessary for him to be in 
 New York, and he had been very worried at be-
 
 302 PH(EBE. 
 
 ing away so long. It was evident poor Lucy did 
 not know whether she ought to mention Barry or 
 not, and that she had finished her letter with the 
 conviction that it would be better not to do it, and 
 that Mrs. Crittenden was not well enough to be 
 consulted. But before she sealed it she had had 
 as strong a conviction in the other direction, and 
 had opened it to add a P. S., which said that 
 Barry was with them and was well, and as soon 
 as mamma was strong enough they would go to the 
 South of France with him, and he would bring 
 them home in the spring, if the doctors thought it 
 safe and wise. 
 
 Phcebe did not answer this letter at once ; and 
 since her reply there had been nothing. It was 
 possible to imagine delays and miscarriages of let 
 ters, even to think that death had come to some of 
 them, and that she was not considered near enough 
 to them to have been written to about it. Her 
 mother was not slow to tell her they were glad to 
 have got rid of her ; that the first thing she would 
 hear would be that a divorce had been granted 
 Barry for desertion, and that he was married to 
 the woman whom he wanted. It seemed to give 
 Mrs. Holden a great deal of satisfaction to talk in 
 this way. She considered herself very forgiving 
 and as possessed of an excellent Christian spirit. 
 She often said she wished no ill to the Crittendens, 
 and she felt that that showed a very exalted char 
 acter. The edification of her example would have
 
 AFTER ALL! 303 
 
 been greater to Phoebe if she had not rehearsed 
 so unendingly the ill that she considered they had 
 done to her. 
 
 Phoebe herself, deep in feeling, slow in utter 
 ance, was not unforgiving ; a great way down in 
 her heart there was the germ of a true faith, a 
 holy life. How did it get there ? " The wind 
 bloweth where it listeth," and the rest. One 
 must not limit the work to good counsel, of which 
 Phoebe had not had very much. Nobody had held 
 out a hand to draw her into the ark that seemed 
 safety to her, but she had managed to get a pretty 
 firm grasp of it, notwithstanding. Has not some 
 body said (if nobody has, somebody ought to, for 
 it is true), Let me compile the books of devotion 
 for a people, and who pleases may draw up their 
 creeds ? There was a little book that Lucy, on a 
 birthday or something, had given with much hes 
 itation to her silent sister. It had red edges and 
 crosses on it ; it would have frightened Mrs. Hoi- 
 den into a fit, and Phoebe kept it, very properly, 
 very far back on a high shelf in her room. But 
 more than once every day she took it down and 
 locked her door and said her prayers out of it. 
 This " Treasury of Devotion " and her Prayer 
 Book were all the ecclesiastical spoils she had 
 brought out of Egypt with her, but they seemed 
 to have been all she needed for her sojourn in 
 the wilderness. 
 
 To-night in the unusual silence and solitude she
 
 304 PH(EBE. 
 
 sat idle long. At last with a deep sigh she got 
 up, and going across the room lighted the lamp 
 and put the shade on it, and brought her work 
 and sat down by the table to sew. Once she 
 thought she heard a step outside; she lifted her 
 head a moment and listened, and then bent it 
 down again and went on with her work, silent and 
 steady. 
 
 By and by there was a sound outside, and then 
 a knock. She started a little ; not that she was 
 nervous, but she never liked a knock after dark. 
 The place was lonely ; Joe was gone away to the 
 village. If any one should come with evil pur 
 pose to her or to the child, what defense had she ? 
 Her hand trembled a little as she laid down her 
 work and went to the door. She opened it quite 
 wide, for she did not mean to show she had any 
 fear, and raising her eyes looked directly into the 
 face of Barry. 
 
 He held out his hand ; she did not know exactly 
 what she did, but she put hers in it, and he stooped 
 down and kissed her. He did not look defiant, 
 but anxious, thinner, and older than he had before. 
 He came in, and she shut the door and went and 
 sat down where she had been sitting. It was pos 
 sible she felt as if she could not stand up any longer 
 without showing how she trembled. Barry, too, 
 was not unmoved, though he came in slowly and 
 went and stood beside the fire. When he first 
 tried to speak his voice was not audible ; after a
 
 AFTER ALL! 305 
 
 moment of silence he commanded it enough to 
 say, 
 
 " You see, Phoebe, I have come back again, 
 though I believe I said I was n't ever coining." 
 
 Phoebe sat with a beating heart, wondering 
 whether, as her mother had been repeating to her, 
 he had come to tell her he had got a divorce from 
 her ; she only said, trying to speak calmly, 
 
 " I thought it likely you 'd want to see the baby 
 after a while." 
 
 " Well, I did. I 've wanted to see him all the 
 time." 
 
 " He 's asleep now," she said, looking at the 
 cradle. " Shall I wake him up ? He 's been very 
 well all the time, and he 's grown to be the 
 nicest little fellow." 
 
 " He always was that, was n't he ? " 
 
 " Well, but he 's so different now. He knows 
 so much. And he 's so big, a great deal bigger 
 than any of the children of his age around." 
 
 Phoabe's heart was heavy with the dread that 
 her mother had been for a year and a half instilling 
 into it: was Barry come to claim the child and 
 show her that she had no right to him? "I've 
 taken the best care of him I could," she said. 
 " He 's all I have, and I should die without him." 
 
 And abruptly she put her face down on the ta 
 ble and began to sob. The sudden meeting had 
 been too much for her. Barry came over and 
 stooped down and tried to take her hand.
 
 306 PH(EBE. 
 
 " I have n't come to take him away from you, 
 Phoebe," he said, in a husky voice. " I 'm not a 
 brute, though you seem to think I am. I 've come 
 to ask you once again to come back to me. Is 
 there any use in asking you ? " 
 
 Phoebe shook her head, though she did not lift 
 it, and he kept his hand upon hers. 
 
 " I can't get along without you, though I 've 
 tried every way. My life is just spoiled. I 'd rather 
 die than go on like this. And you are not any 
 too happy here, perhaps. Why can't we make it 
 up and begin again together? My mother, my 
 father, all of us, entreat you to come back." 
 
 Phoebe's tears were drying up. She was wanted 
 to help along the reform of the prodigal son. She 
 did not feel the same confidence in the exaltedness 
 of her Christian character that her mother felt 
 in hers. She was afraid, when it came to that 
 thought, that she was almost pagan. She could 
 only hope that her salvation did not depend upon 
 her being willing to reconcile Barry to living 
 without his cousin Tartar. She lifted her head 
 and passed her handkerchief across her eyes, and 
 put it in her pocket. 
 
 " I can't see," she said, " how you can ask me, 
 after what has passed." 
 
 " I can't see how I can myself. You see how I 
 must be in earnest, when I can humble myself so 
 much. For, Phoebe, I don't want to say anything 
 that you won't like, but I can't see that you had
 
 AFTER ALL! 307 
 
 a just excuse for carrying it so far. I can see 
 I was to blame in a good many ways. I can un 
 derstand you resented what I said that day ; but 
 if you 'd loved me it would not have been im 
 possible for you to forgive just a fit of jeal 
 ousy." 
 
 The color was coming and going in her face, and 
 she drew away her hand as he went on speaking. 
 He let it go, and turned to the mantelpiece again 
 and leaned against it. 
 
 "I don't want to justify myself, Phoebe," he 
 went on. " I 'm ready to be as humble as a man 
 can be. I am only here to plead with you to come 
 back, and to forgive me whatever I 've done wrong 
 or whatever you think I 've done wrong. I know 
 I went away to Europe selfishly ; it was not the 
 thing for me to go, leaving you so lonely. But 
 when I came back and I 'd been counting the 
 days you could not forgive me. You were as 
 cold as ice. You threw me back so. I was trying 
 to find some reason for it. I have seen that I 
 found the wrong one. I ask your forgiveness for 
 being jealous of Peyton. It is not easy for me 
 to say a thing like that, Phoebe." 
 
 "I am sure, Barry, you know There is no 
 use in talking. If it had been only that ! " 
 
 " Well, what under heavens was it, if it was 
 not that? I don't know another thing Phoebe. I 
 swear to you I never have been able even to con 
 jecture anything else that you could magnify into
 
 308 PHCEBE, 
 
 a cause for quarrel with me. That -was bad 
 enough. What I said that morning was unjusti 
 fiable, but I thought you might have put it down 
 to the right cause. I have felt bitter and resent 
 ful, Phoebe, and have only come back because I 
 can't keep away, because I love you so much I 
 can't be happy without you. I have felt bitter 
 and resentful that you could be so unrelenting for 
 so small an injury. For a hasty word, it isn't 
 quite the thing to ruin a man's home and break 
 up everything. If I had done anything that you 
 could lay your hand upon and charge me with " 
 
 " It seems to me," said Phosbe, getting vip and 
 standing with her hand upon the table, leaning a 
 little towards it, and speaking slowly, "it seems 
 to me a strange sort of thing to say this to 
 me, Barry, for you must know." 
 
 " Must know what ? Phosbe, speak plainly. 
 Before Heaven, I tell you I know nothing more 
 than I have told you that would give you the 
 smallest reason to inflict on me what you have in 
 flicted. I know nothing that any woman might 
 n't forgive after a half hour's fit of crying." 
 
 " See if a woman could forgive this after a half 
 hour's fit of crying," said Phoebe, with a dark flame 
 burning in her eyes, turning with a swift move 
 ment to the old desk beside the window, and bend 
 ing down to unlock it. Her hand shook no longer. 
 A sort of still strength seemed to carry her for 
 ward, as it had carried her the day she walked
 
 AFTER ALL! 309 
 
 steadily out of her husband's house, leaving it in 
 order. She took a paper from the desk, and pull 
 ing it out of the envelope handed it to him, with 
 her eyes fixed on his face. He took it eagerly, 
 read it perplexedly, re-read it ; but there was no 
 sign of agitation on his face. 
 
 " It 's Tartar's writing," he said. 
 
 Phoebe, white to the very lips, looked at him 
 silently. He stretched out his hand for the en 
 velope, which she gave him ; studied it for a 
 moment ; glanced again at the note, then at the 
 date, then at Phoebe ; caught the tragic look on 
 her face, exclaimed, 
 
 " You don't mean that you thought " and 
 then burst into laughter that rang through the 
 little house. He threw himself into the chair be 
 side the table, and laughed and almost sobbed. If 
 he had been a woman you would have talked about 
 hysterics. He buried his face on his crossed arras, 
 and tried to hide the tears, perhaps, and to sub 
 due the laughter. Phoabe, meanwhile, with whiter 
 face and darker-burning eyes, drew back from 
 him, and did not speak. " Those miserable 
 theatricals ! " he cried, lifting his head at last. 
 " Phoebe, you poor girl, you most silly child, 
 you don't tell me this was at the bottom of all 
 your trouble ! This oh, it is n't possible that 
 so much misery could come from anything so 
 paltry ! Don't you see why, how could you ever 
 have helped seeing why, there 's the date ! You
 
 310 PH(EBE. 
 
 couldn't have thought Tartar was such an utter 
 fool as that and I. Well, upon my word, 
 Pho3be, you '11 have to be the one to ask forgive 
 ness now." 
 
 And he got up and went to her to take her in 
 his arms. 'But she held away from him, and said 
 with coldness, but trembling from head to foot, 
 
 " I don't understand ; I don't see what there 
 is so much to laugh about." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, earnestly, " I 
 did n't mean to laugh. I believe it is the relief 
 that makes me feel like laughing, as well as the 
 awful absurdity of such a mistake making such 
 trouble between people. Where did you find the 
 paper ? Did I leave it at the house ? " 
 
 " It was in your desk," she answered, looking 
 away. 
 
 " I used to empty my pockets every two or 
 three days of all the letters in them. I suppose I 
 stuffed this in among the rest. How well I re 
 member now about Tartar's writing it ! It was 
 the morning before we were to play. As I was 
 going down the stairs, I recollected that I had n't 
 written out the note I was to read, and that, de 
 pending upon reading it, I had n't committed it 
 to memory. I was in a great hurry, and I called 
 up to Honor to write it for me before night. 
 Honor was in one of her pets, and said she had 
 her hands full with learning her own part, and 
 that I could write mine for myself. I answered
 
 AFTER ALL! 311 
 
 a little sharply, for I was late. Tartar called 
 down to me over the stairs not to mind ; she 'd 
 do it for me. And when I came home at night, 
 I found it on my dressing-table, waiting for me. 
 I remember I thought it was so good-natured of 
 Tartar, who is apt to have her caprices as well 
 as Honor. It's insupportable to think of such a 
 thing as that, such an accident of temper, doing 
 all this mischief, influencing all our lives. Talk 
 of a Providence ! " 
 
 He strode up and down the room a few times, 
 till he had got himself a little under control, and 
 then came back to Phoebe, who stood as if turned 
 into stone. 
 
 " You blame me," she said, as he paused before 
 her. 
 
 " I don't blame you, exactly, but I think you 
 might have known me better." 
 
 " How could I know you ? " she cried. " You 
 never used to talk to me. That summer you 
 grew all absorbed in business, and in winter all 
 in pleasure ; and you stayed away, and I saw 
 from a great many things that they had wanted 
 you to marry Tartar and you can't deny that 
 you were very fond of her" 
 
 " Fond of her ! Yes, as a cousin. But I never 
 wanted to marry her, nor she to marry me. I am 
 willing to tell you the truth, Phoebe. I thought 
 always that she liked me, and that I could have had 
 her if I'd wanted her, and it flattered my vanity
 
 312 PH(EBE. 
 
 to think so. I found out, that time she was at 
 my father's, just after we came home, that it was 
 all a mistake, and that she 'd never cared for any 
 body but a very different man from me. The 
 discovery mortified me a little, but we 've always 
 kept good friends, and latterly it 's drawn us to 
 gether very much, for she 's anything but happy. 
 You see, Phoebe, nothing could have been further 
 from the truth than your suspicions, nothing." 
 
 " Not half so far as yours, if you will think 
 about it." 
 
 " There 's no use in going over that. I 've asked 
 your pardon, and it ought to end it. But if you '11 
 let me say, Peyton's conduct to us all shows that 
 something has changed him very much ; I can't 
 say it was entirely unreasonable for me to doubt 
 him. A man who could cut himself off from all 
 his friends, break up such a business as he had 
 worked up for himself, and go away, without an 
 explanation, to live the life of a rough frontiers 
 man in a strange country, must have some flaw 
 somewhere in his character." 
 
 " Poor Peyton," said Phoebe, in a faltering 
 voice, " has he done that ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Barry, coldly. " And you can't 
 much wonder at me. I 've never seen him, and 
 he won't even answer when I write to him. It 's 
 no harm, perhaps, telling you, but he 's treated 
 Tartar abominably. The poor girl has been so 
 ill. I doubt whether she '11 ever be quite well
 
 AFTER ALL! 313 
 
 again. She 'd always been very sharp and pep 
 pery with him, it's her nature, and she can't 
 help it ; but her feeling for him is the deepest 
 you can fancy. She went abroad with us from 
 a sort of pique, I think. They 'd had some little 
 tiff or other. But when she got there she was 
 so deadly homesick nothing but her pride kept her 
 from starting directly back again. I knew some 
 thing by that time of what was going on, and 
 she, trusting to some assurance I had made her 
 of what I thought his feelings were, sent back by 
 me a little gift for him, and a note that I suppose 
 said a good deal in a suppressed way. I don't 
 know how long it was before he answered her at 
 all. But when he did well, it just killed her. 
 She '11 never get over it. I 've seen the letter, 
 and it was simply brutal. There 's no use in talk 
 ing, Phoebe. A man who could treat like that a 
 woman who had shown she cared for him could 
 do anything and everything. It 's shaken my 
 faith in human nature. I had never had a friend 
 that was as much to me as Peyton Edwards. I 
 should as soon have thought " 
 
 " Oh, Barry ! " cried Phoebe, hiding her face in 
 her hands. "I want to tell you something." 
 
 " I 'in not sure that I want to hear it," he said, 
 jealous suspicions very easily awaking into life 
 again. 
 
 " Oh, but you must n't make it any harder for 
 me," she said, laying one hand upon his arm, and
 
 314 PH(EBE. 
 
 with the other covering her face. "Promise 
 promise me that you '11 forgive me " 
 
 " I shan't promise anything," he said coldly, 
 stepping back, but she kept her hold upon his arm. 
 
 " I know you '11 be angry, Barry and I am 
 more sorry than I can tell but it all came about 
 without my knowing that I was going to do any 
 thing that would have so much influence upon 
 other people." 
 
 Barry by this time was as white as she was ; 
 he would have shaken off her hand, but that she 
 kept a strong grasp upon his sleeve. 
 
 "I I showed Peyton that note " 
 
 " What note ? " 
 
 "The paper the one I've just showed you." 
 
 " You did ! I think you might have had better 
 business. Well ? " 
 
 " And it was just as bad to him as it was to 
 me. Barry it is that that has done it all I 
 never can be ashamed enough " 
 
 " You don't mean to tell me, Peyton thought 
 Tartar had written that to me ? " 
 
 "How could he help thinking so any more 
 than I could ? He never seemed to doubt ; and, 
 Barry, if you '11 think a minute you '11 see it was 
 no wonder. Tartar and you were always inti 
 mate ; you were forever staying in the city all 
 that winter, and seeing her every day ; she left 
 everything, and went away to Europe with you 
 all at a minute's warning. How do you suppose
 
 AFTER ALL! 315 
 
 people feel that are left alone that way ? 
 They have a good deal of time to think, and it 
 is n't strange if they don't always think right." 
 
 " Oh, Phoebe ! " he cried, with a groan. " It 's 
 a miserable business. Four people made so 
 wretched, a year and a half of such unhappiness, 
 the breaking of so many plans, the upsetting of 
 business interests, family comfort, the scandal, 
 the disgrace, and all for what ? Because that 
 little minx of an Honor would n't do as she was 
 asked and because " 
 
 " Because I could n't trust you, I suppose ! " 
 and Phoebe began to cry, burying her face in her 
 hands. " Oh, I hope the baby '11 never 
 know anything about it " 
 
 " Well, we won't tell him, Phoebe," said Barry, 
 putting his arm around her. " We 've been a 
 pair of fools, I mean I have been a fool ; I 
 don't pretend to say what anybody else has been, 
 
 and all that we can do about it is to be wiser 
 for the future." 
 
 " And I suppose you think that will be easy," 
 said Phoebe, lifting up her head and wiping away 
 her tears. " But for me I am afraid it won't 
 be very." 
 
 " Why, what 's to stand in the way of it ? " he 
 said, sitting down beside her and drawing her close 
 to" him. He seemed not to be thinking very much 
 of what she said now, but to be devouring her 
 with his eyes, and feeling most of all that he had
 
 316 PH(EBE. 
 
 got her in his arms again. She, however, had 
 something to say, and she said it with her face 
 against his shoulder and her hands before her 
 eyes. 
 
 "I believe that, to-morrow I should be un 
 happy if I saw you pleased that other people 
 thought that you were handsome " 
 
 " Well, you won't be troubled that way much," 
 he said, laughing and kissing her hair, for he 
 could not get at her face. "I don't believe 
 you 've looked at me, Phoebe, or you 'd see I 
 was n't very dangerous nowadays." 
 
 But Phoebe would not look ; ifc had cost her a 
 good deal to make her small confession, and she 
 preferred to have her hair kissed and to feel 
 Barry's arms around her to looking in his face 
 and seeing the ravages of time, and possibly a lit 
 tle lurking smile about her jealousy. 
 
 " You have n't seen," he said, " what a miser 
 able-looking fellow I am, and you don't know, I 
 suppose, how near I 've been to being no fellow at 
 all. This time two months ago they thought it 
 was all over with me. Feel how thin my cheeks 
 are," and he took her hand and laid it on his face. 
 
 " You have been ill ? " she said, startled, lifting 
 her head and looking at him. " Oh, Barry I " 
 she cried, throwing her arms around his neck nnd 
 bursting into tears, "and you never sent for 
 me!" 
 
 " Considering that I should have been dead six
 
 AFTER ALL! 317 
 
 times over before you could have got to me, and 
 that I was beyond being consulted, and that you 
 probably would n't have come if you had been sent 
 for, I don't think you need reproach me very 
 much. Such as I am I 'm here, and that ought 
 to be enough for you." 
 
 " What was the matter with. you? How long 
 were you ill, and who took care of you ? " 
 
 "If I said Tartar, you know you wouldn't like 
 it." 
 
 "No, I shouldn't," said Phoebe, growing crim 
 son, and taking her arms away from his neck. 
 He made amends by getting his much firmer 
 round her, and by holding her so tight against him 
 that he could feel her every breath. 
 
 " You are a jealous woman." 
 
 " You knew that before," she said, trying to 
 get away from him. 
 
 " No, by heavens, I did n't. I thought you were 
 too quiet to get jealous." 
 
 " Being quiet does n't help things," she said. 
 
 " No, it seems not. Well, about Tartar taking 
 care of me. If she had n't I probably should n't 
 have been here. For we 've had the most infer 
 nal time of it. My mother and Honor last spring 
 came down with a fever, that they 'd picked up in 
 Naples probably, just as we were getting ready to 
 come home. Tartar was barely up after her own 
 illness of the winter, but my mother was so ill she 
 and Lucy had to forget themselves in looking
 
 318 PH(EBE. 
 
 after her and Honor. They both pulled through ; 
 but we were all pretty well used up, and before 
 the invalids were fit to start for home I was taken 
 with I suppose very much the same sort of a fever. 
 It had been longer in developing, and it played 
 the very deuce with me when it did develop. 
 Lucy had by this time got so run down herself 
 she was of hardly any use at all ; and if it had n't 
 been for Tartar, as I said, Heaven knows what 
 would have become of me. Come, Phoebe, I hope 
 you'll forgive her. Aren't you willing to accept 
 me as a gift from her ? It was n't any trifle, 
 those two months of nursing, two thirds ill her 
 self, poor girl." 
 
 " People in Europe generally send for a Sister 
 of Mercy, when they 're ill in a story-book." 
 
 " Well, I was n't ill in a story-book, but in a 
 cursed little Italian town, where you could n't 
 have got a Sister of Mercy to save your soul (or 
 nurse your body). Now, Phoebe, do the hand 
 some thing. Tell me you forgive Tartar for hav 
 ing known your husband before you did, and that 
 you thank her for saving his life, and that you 're 
 prepared to love her like a sister." 
 
 He kissed her and kissed her, and did not seem 
 to care what he said himself or what she answered 
 him as long as he held her in his arms. But 
 Phoebe, more earnest, could not consent to dry her 
 tears. " You seem to think it 's all over. But 
 I 've been too unhappy to believe that."
 
 AFTER ALL! 319 
 
 " You have n't been any more unhappy than I 
 have," he said, a little more seriously. " But I 'm 
 inclined to think we won't be any the worse for 
 it. We began life wrong, Phoabe, God forgive 
 us ! Have n't we wiped out the score a little, all 
 these two or three years of misery? Come, there 's 
 no use talking about it." 
 
 " Yes, there is use," said Phoebe, with tears. 
 " Oh, Barry, it's so hard to look at just 
 sins." 
 
 " Well, it is n't the pleasantest kind of contem 
 plation, I know," said Barry, with a sigh. " The 
 fact is, Phosbe, I don't like to look back. I think 
 I was about as well equipped to go to the devil as 
 any young fellow I know. If I 'd turned wrong at 
 a certain point in my life, Heaven knows where I 
 should have brought up. I 'm not much to brag 
 of now. But, zounds, if I had had my swing ! " 
 
 He released Phoebe, and walked two or three 
 times across the room. " It makes one shudder," 
 he said, " to look down the precipices <one just 
 has n't slipped over. I don't see, though, how my 
 mother's son could have got so deuced near the 
 edge." 
 
 " Phoebe, remember this," he said, stopping be 
 fore her : " whatever remnant of happiness we 
 have now we owe it to my mother. In our first 
 desperation and misery I doubt if I should ever 
 have had courage to do right but for the help that 
 I know she made my father hold out to me. He
 
 320 PH(EBE. 
 
 alone would have cowed me. I was afraid of the 
 world, and he was on the world's side. I knew by 
 instinct what side she was on, though she was too 
 pure-minded ever to have named to me the sin 
 that I had fallen into. The thought of her al 
 ways helped me. You must love her, Phoebe. 
 She's better worth it than I am, and I know you 
 love me." Then more lightly, " But I want to tell 
 you one thing more : I believe I am discharged 
 cured in the matter of caring what people think." 
 " I 'm sure I 'm glad of that," said Phoebe, sim- 
 
 pty- 
 
 "It 's lucky," he went on, " for we '11 probably 
 never have money enough to make people respect 
 ful to us on that account, and I don't think we 've 
 behaved ourselves so as to make them respectful 
 to us on any other. We '11 just live for ourselves 
 and the boy, and all that." 
 
 " All that" was probably meant to cover duty, 
 the service of God, loftiness of aim, and unworld- 
 liness ; at least, so Phoebe understood it, and was 
 satisfied.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 IN MY LADY'S CHAMBER. 
 
 IT was near midnight : the bell was ringing in 
 the belfry of the not very distant church. Mrs. 
 Crittenden, lying on the sofa in her little dressing- 
 room, heard the door close and the sound of voices 
 die away below the window as the last ones of the 
 family went out to the midnight celebration. First 
 Phoabe and Barry went, then Honor and her young 
 English lover, then Tartar and Peyton Edwards, 
 and lastly Lucy and her father. 
 
 They were all again at Marrowfat, and the 
 blinds, dingy with the dust of two years, were 
 again open, and lights shone from the windows. 
 There had been a good deal for Lucy to do, but it 
 was well for Lucy to be busy, particularly as no 
 amount of business ever damaged her serene tem 
 per. There had been the house to open, new ser 
 vants to get, the whole machinery to put in motion 
 again. The Christmas party now assembled was 
 not inconsiderable for a house just on its feet, and 
 for such a young housekeeper. Barry and Phoebe, 
 the boy and his nurse, Aunt David, Tartar and 
 Peyton Edwards, had come from the city by the 
 21
 
 322 PHCEBE. 
 
 six o'clock train ; the young Englishman had ar 
 rived earlier, and was in a sense a permanent 
 guest. Honor was looking very pretty ; her hair 
 had been cut short after her Italian fever, and was 
 coming out in delightful little curls. Her eyes had 
 a soft and shy expression, and she went about in 
 a dream of bliss. Naturally she was not very use 
 ful to Lucy in the management of the house and 
 the entertaining of the visitors ; except, of course, 
 the visitor with the blonde mustache and the 
 many-jointed name. 
 
 It was a still night, very light, but with no moon 
 or stars that one could see ; there was a deep but 
 well-trodden snow on the ground ; the air was not 
 sharp, though not mild or damp. You could hear 
 sounds very far off; Mrs. Crittenden almost 
 thought she heard the music swell after the bell 
 stopped ringing. 
 
 She had had much experience in imagining how 
 scenes and people looked that she was not per 
 mitted to see, and she was likely to have much 
 more as the years went on, for it did not seem prob 
 able that she would ever again go far beyond the 
 limits of her own room. She was told that there 
 was great reason for surprise that she was still in 
 the land of the living, and that she need never 
 look again to be in the ranks of the working and 
 enjoying. She had accepted the decree, and had 
 settled herself into the life that lay before her with 
 silent fortitude.
 
 IN MY LADY'S CHAMBER. 323 
 
 She knew when her active life got its death 
 blow : that night when she watched the stars out 
 in this same room. The very springs of her being 
 seemed to have been broken by that blow. She 
 had never been a well or strong woman since ; she 
 had just been going down, down, one illness after 
 another, till she had come to the not uncommon 
 lot of a " confirmed invalid." Too common ; like 
 the Egyptian plague, there seems scarcely a house 
 where there is not one dead, dead to pleasure, 
 to active duty, to natural, buoyant feelings. In 
 our rushing, tumultuous modern life, perhaps it is 
 necessary for some souls to be stretched on the 
 rack for the world that will not pause to pray 
 for itself; that the apostleship of suffering be laid 
 on some elect ones. But it is sometimes impos 
 sible not to faint at their tribulations for us ; it 
 requires faith to see that by their bonds we are to 
 be partakers of their grace ; it is hard to accept 
 for our dear martyrs what they have accepted for 
 themselves. All that we now see of suffering we 
 see through a glass darkly ; when the last word 
 is spoken of that gospel, we shall change our esti 
 mates of its value, very likely. " There is only 
 one power against sin, and that is, suffering. 
 JESUS CHRIST has taught us that love alone is not 
 sufficient." 
 
 To the eyes of those around her Mrs. Crit'tenden 
 was a serene, even a cheerful sufferer ; when there 
 were no eyes upon her, as to-night, the cheerfulness
 
 324 PHCEEE. 
 
 went, though rarely the serenity. She could never 
 cease to love, almost to long for, God's gifts of 
 health and bright social life, and the power to en 
 joy nature, what Phoebe, in her contracted vocabu 
 lary, would have called " out-doors." She had an 
 eager mind and keen senses ; she was not the sort 
 of woman who easily sinks into helplessness ; she 
 was the last person to take kindly to a sofa and 
 bromide of potassium. Her steps downward she 
 had taken with a clear mind and a strong abhor 
 rence of her fate. " If it be possible " 
 
 But it was not possible ; and when she reached 
 the last step and was at the bottom and was shut 
 into her dim cell, where not a ray of earthly 
 hope could penetrate, there was a desperate re 
 volt, an hour of darkness ; and then one of those 
 miracles of grace began which are the despair of 
 materialists and the edification of supernatural- 
 ists. Intense pain, alternated with languor inex 
 pressible, and deprivation of all life's healthy 
 pleasures do not seem to the candid carnal mind 
 the elements out of which to form a strong faith, 
 a cheerful temper, and "a good understanding." 
 That this unlikely result was in evidence daily and 
 hourly in the Crittenden family no one could 
 deny. 
 
 Her life was lonely and high. The ill are al 
 ways lonely : it is " a strange land " upon which 
 they have entered ; no one goes with them, and 
 they have to learn its speech and laws for them-
 
 IN MY LADY'S CHAMBER. 325 
 
 selves. Lucy stood closest, and went farthest with 
 her. But even she could not go far. She, with 
 healthy senses, could see the moonlight and the 
 sunlight, and smell the evening breeze as it blew 
 across from the hills. She could read with zest, 
 eat with enjoyment, sleep with profound forget- 
 fulness, move with the freedom of youth and 
 health. And yet her heart was full of love for 
 her mother ; her life was consecrated to the care of 
 her. She had infinite tact and a good deal of imag 
 ination. But with all that, she could only stand 
 upon the borders of the land where her mother 
 lived, alone. In days of health 
 
 " Not even the tenrlerest heart and next our own 
 Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh." 
 
 How much more exiled from human sympathy 
 must they be who always live in pain, " their lives' 
 sad undersong," who do not know a moment of 
 healthy vigor or an hour of unbroken sleep, upon 
 whom the thousand unhappy sensations of a dis 
 eased body are continually pressing ! That spirit 
 can rise above matter and through long years 
 keep its ascendency at such a disadvantage gives 
 one a respect for that which is not material. 
 
 Mrs. Crittenden lay listening to the music that 
 she seemed to hear, and picturing to herself what 
 the scene was in the church: the warmth, the glow, 
 the smell of the evergreens, the shining of the 
 laurel leaves, the soft depths of the fir branches, 
 the rich colors of the altar and its many lights.
 
 326 PHCEBE. 
 
 She put out her hand upon the crib in which the 
 sleeping boy lay who had been left in her care, 
 while his mother should be away at church. She 
 whispered, leaning over him, 
 
 " Soon will a thousand bells ring out, 
 A thousand roofs the choral shout 
 Prolong, where Kings with Shepherds meet, 
 His manger with their gifts to greet. 
 What shall we do, mine infant dear, 
 Who may not those glad anthems hear ? 
 How shall we serve Him, thou and I, 
 Far from that glorious company ? " 
 
 Poor little boy ! he had had an illness, and the 
 hand that lay in hers was thin and frail. She 
 wondered wistfully if his life would be better or 
 worse than that of his father, of whose future she 
 had spent so many years in dreaming here in this 
 very room, here on this ver}^ pillow. Ah, Barry, 
 Barry ! you have wrung our hearts ; you have 
 killed our hopes ; you have failed to make a name 
 and place for yourself among your fellows. Who 
 could be less of a success than you ? 
 
 And yet there was deep peace in her heart that 
 night. Barry's son might have a worse fate than 
 to be like his father. The courage of her con 
 victions had come back to her. Yes, she had 
 done right. If she had helped him to lose the 
 world, she may be had helped him to save his 
 soul. And to people bound to beds of pain the 
 saving of one's soul looks so much larger than 
 even a great measure of temporal success. Yes,
 
 IN MY LADY'S CHAMBER. 327 
 
 she was glad that Barry had undone himself in the 
 eyes of the world. Without the sin, she would ask 
 nothing better for this pretty baby, whose small 
 hand she held, than what his father was starting 
 with now, a true love and a low fortune, the 
 fear of God and small countenance from men. 
 
 At last voices sounded again below the window, 
 and steps crossed the piazza, and the hall door 
 opened. They were coming back, one after an 
 other ; it was nearly two o'clock. Their voices 
 were subdued and quiet, as became those who 
 were coming back from such a service. One after 
 another they came softly to the door of the dress 
 ing-room. First, it was Phosbe, who entered with 
 a wistful look towards the little crib. 
 
 " He has n't wakened? " she said, in a whisper, 
 leaning down towards her mother-in-law. 
 
 " No," she answered, with a smile. " There 
 hasn't been anything to do, though I promised 
 you I would take care of him for you." 
 
 " You said that once before to me," said Phrebe, 
 with sudden emotion in her voice and face. "I 
 wish I had " 
 
 "I don't understand," said Mrs. Crittenden. 
 " When did I say it ? " 
 
 " That day when Barry went away with 
 you"- . 
 
 " Oh, I remember," whispered the mother, draw 
 ing her down to her, and putting her arm about 
 her neck. " Dear child, we did a cruel thing.
 
 328 PHCEBE. 
 
 I always reproached myself that you were left. 
 I knew it was wrong. But you have forgiven 
 us." 
 
 " Forgiven you oh ! " said PJioabe, with a 
 sort of shudder. 
 
 " What do you mean? You can't? Or that 
 you think it is the other way ? Oh, let me tell 
 you this to-night: I thank God for you; you are 
 one of the blessings of my life. I could n't ask 
 anything better for Barry. Love me and trust 
 me, Phoabe, and forgive me for anything pain 
 ful in the past in which I have ever had any 
 part." 
 
 If Pho3be's life had hung upon it she could not 
 have said what she felt. It was fortunate that, her 
 mother-in-law understood her and interpreted cor 
 rectly her kiss and clasp of the hand. 
 
 " What is this ? " said Barry, coming in. " My 
 mother still awake? A merry Christmas to you, 
 mother, and a robuster grandson to keep you 
 company next year." 
 
 He stooped down and kissed her. The little 
 movement around him made the child wake up ; 
 he put out his arms to his father, who took him 
 up and said, 
 
 " Tell us all merry Christmas." 
 
 He laid his sleepy head down on his father's 
 shoulder, with his eyes wide open, and did not 
 show the least intention to speak. 
 
 " It 's pleasant for a parent to be obeyed," ob-
 
 IN MY LADY'S CHAMBER. 329 
 
 served Barry, " but it 's a pleasure I don't often 
 taste." 
 
 " Here are some flowers for you, mamma," said 
 Honor, at the. door. " May Reginald bring them 
 to you ? " 
 
 " It seems to be in order to say good-night 
 here," said Tartar, following. 
 
 " Yes, but it is n't in order to say anything else," 
 cried Lucy. " Mamma won't have a moment's 
 sleep if you all don't go away." 
 
 " Oh, it won't hurt me to give Tartar a kiss. 
 And is n't Peyton in the hall ? " 
 
 Peyton answered for himself, and gaunt ancj 
 tall stooped down to kiss her hand. 
 
 " This is quite worth staying awake all night 
 for," she said, still holding his hand, and looking 
 up with shining eyes upon the group that stood 
 around her sofa. " Last year half of us on one 
 side of the ocean and half on the other." 
 
 " Yes," cried Barry, with a laugh. " I think 
 we '11 all agree this Christmas is worth two of last. 
 Come, Tartar, tell us if it is n't ! " 
 
 "Answer for yourself," said Tartar, turning 
 away, her dark skin suddenly darkened by a blush. 
 " What was the matter with last Christmas ? I 
 for one enjoyed it thoroughly. It had been the 
 dream of my life to be at Rome on Christmas." 
 
 " Oh, nothing. Only it did n't seem to me you 
 were in the very highest spirits, if I remember 
 right."
 
 330 PH(EBE. 
 
 " Well, you don't remember right, since you 
 bad the fever. You rarely do. Lucy, did n't you 
 tell us we ought to say good-night ? " 
 
 She stooped and kissed Mrs. Crittenden lightly, 
 and went out into the hall, picking up her bon 
 net and muff, and hurrying to the stairs that led 
 up to her room. But Peyton was as quick, and as 
 she put her hand upon the newel-post he put his 
 over it. 
 
 " You must take that back," he said. 
 
 " Take what back ? " she asked, looking up at 
 him defiantly." 
 
 " Wasn't there anything the matter with last 
 Christmas ? Come, you 've got to tell me that 
 there was." 
 
 " There was n't anything the matter with it ; 
 the sun shone in a perfect glory." 
 
 " Oh, I was n't talking about the day. I was 
 talking about you." 
 
 " Well, then, you did n't express yourself with 
 accuracy." 
 
 " I '11 be accurate now. You said that you en 
 joyed it thoroughly." 
 
 " Why not ? I remember I had a little head 
 ache towards the afternoon, but the morning had 
 been heavenly." 
 
 " Had you been crying, that you 'd got a head 
 ache, Tartar ? " 
 
 " Crying ? What had I to cry about ? Pey*
 
 IN MY LADY'S CHAMBER. 331 
 
 ton, you '11 please remember I have n't given you 
 the right to say such things as that to me." 
 
 " Oh, yes, you have. You can't take that back, 
 you know." 
 
 " We '11 see ! " she cried, tearing off a ring with 
 a great diamond in it, and dropping it upon the 
 floor of the hall. While Peyton stooped to pick 
 it up, he had to take his hand off hers. She 
 profited by the release to fly swiftly up the stairs. 
 
 But he followed her in three bounds, and caught 
 her at the landing-place, where there was no light 
 except from the hall below. 
 
 " You '11 make me hate you," she cried, panting. 
 
 " I 'm not afraid," he said, holding her hands. 
 " You did it to make me kiss you, and I don't 
 mean to disappoint you, ever." 
 
 Her slender hands had not as much power of 
 resistance as her tigerish heart. He got the ring 
 on again, and he got his kiss, but he did n't get 
 her to recant about last Christmas. 
 
 " It was a perfect day, and I enjoyed it thor 
 oughly ; more, a great deal more, than I shall this. 
 Of that I 'm very certain." 
 
 The others were coming up by this time, and he 
 had to let her go. His eyes followed her. Why 
 should she say such things? That, perhaps, will 
 always be a problem to him, but nothing will ever 
 disaffect him. 
 
 Tartar will go on saying what she does not
 
 332 PIKEBE. 
 
 mean, and Phoebe failing to say what she does, to 
 the end of their mortal pilgrimage ; and Peyton 
 and Barry will go on loving them and cherishing 
 them, admiring them if not understanding them, 
 thanks to that law of love, affinity, election, sym 
 pathy, whatever it is that brings Jack to Gill and 
 keeps him constant to her.
 
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