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BY THE AUTHOR OF THIS VOLUME. 
 
 The Quick or the Dead ? 
 
 The Witness of the Sun. 
 
 i2mo. Cloth. $1. oo each. 
 
 "The wonderful books of this authoress 
 have, perhaps, made a deeper impression on 
 our American literature than any work of fic 
 tion since Uncle Tom s Cabin. "New York 
 Herald. .... 
 
 Herod and Mariarnne. 
 
 In No. 249, Lippincott s Magazine. 
 
 Paper, 25 cents ; half cloth, 50 cents. 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COHPANY, 
 
 PUBLISHERS, 
 
 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 
 
BARBARA DERING, 
 
 A SEQUEL TO 
 
 THE QUICK OR THE DEAD? 
 
 BY 
 
 AMELIE EIYES. 
 
 --- &t4t-C0 
 
 
 " Life teaches us 
 
 To be less strict with others and ourselves : 
 Thou It learn the lesson, too. So wonderful 
 Is human nature, and its varied ties 
 Are so involved and complicate, that none 
 May hope to keep his inmost spirit calm 
 And walk, without perplexity through life." 
 
 ; . .GOETHE: Iphigenia. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 
 1893. 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1892, 
 
 BY 
 J. B. ttippiNcorr COMPANY. 
 
 PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA* 
 
" SOCRATES. . . . Every discourse, once written, is tossed 
 about from hand to hand, equally among those who under 
 stand it and those for whom it is in no wise fitted ; and it 
 does not know to whom it ought, and to whom it ought not, 
 to speak. And when misunderstood and unjustly attacked, 
 it always needs its parent to help it ; for, unaided, it can 
 neither retaliate nor defend itself." PLATO : Phcedrus. 
 
 1* 
 
 3003 
 
BARBARA DERING. 
 
 MORE than two years had passed since Bering 
 left Eosemary. There was a soft, gold-gray mist over 
 everything; the tulip-tree leaves glimmered a pale 
 yellow against the dark evergreens on the lawn; the 
 Indian-corn, standing in great tasselled shocks, gave 
 forth a dry rustle now and then as a field-creature 
 scampered through it ; a crow could be heard some 
 times very faintly, as though drowsing on its listless, 
 slow-moving wings ; but, except for such noises, the 
 warm autumn day was silent and the air still. 
 
 Barbara was walking through the cornfield, reading 
 as she went. Her figure, in its dimly-tinted gown, 
 looked thinner. She was pale, and her mouth had a 
 tired bend at its fine corners. 
 
 Under her broad hat her hair was gathered into a 
 sleekly-plaited great knot, like that of a school-girl. 
 She looked younger, and at the same time there was 
 an expression of deeper experience in her large eyes, as 
 she lifted them gravely from her book to the murky 
 blue of the hills or the rich coloring of the meadows 
 through which she was passing. 
 
 Presently she came to some words which seemed to 
 her like a personal message : 
 
 " As long as suffering seems grievous to thee and thou 
 seekest to fly from it, so long will it be ill with thee, and the 
 
 7 
 
8 ^ BARBARA DERINQ. 
 
 tribulation from which thou fliest will everywhere follow 
 thee. 
 
 11 If thou set thyself to do what thou oughtest, that is, to 
 suffer and to die to thyself, it will quickly be better with thee, 
 and thou wilt find peace." 
 
 " I do try," she said aloud, as though speaking to 
 some invisible presence. Her lip quivered a little, like 
 that of a child when it wishes to signify that it means 
 to be good, and she looked up appealingly into the calm 
 sky above her, which seemed like a symbol of the peace 
 for which she yearned. 
 
 Barbara had outgrown much of her old, wayward 
 impulsiveness in these long, lonely months. She seemed 
 to herself to have faded mentally, as pastel portraits 
 fade sometimes, until their once vivid colors are only 
 dull half-tones. She seemed to have lost even her 
 power of suffering keenly. The pain that haunted her 
 was scarcely more than that sense of heaviness with 
 which a narcotic veils physical anguish. Usually, when 
 she thought of Dering, it was with a pitying regret for 
 the misery which she had caused him, sometimes with 
 a swift, fleeting desire to have him with her. She was 
 very lonely. 
 
 "He hates me, I suppose," she told herself. "He 
 thinks dreadful things of me ; but I deserve it. It is only 
 what I ought to bear. I ought to have been brave and 
 to have borne what I brought upon myself. After all, 
 life is so very, very short. I am nearly twenty-nine now. 
 I believe women change a great deal between twenty- 
 six and thirty. I could have made him happy if I 
 could only have conquered my miserable self. How 
 morbid I was ! It seemed to me that Yal was following 
 me and laughing at me with some one else. As if the 
 great, wise dead could condescend to such pettiness ! 
 
BARBARA BERING. 9 
 
 It was very awful. I seem to have passed through a 
 furnace. There is no sap of life left in me. And yet 
 one longs so for love, for companionship." Her eyes 
 filled slowly with tears which did not fall. She began 
 to read again, and again the words seemed like a 
 message : 
 
 " What I have given I can justly take away, and restore 
 it again, when I please. 
 
 " When I give it, it is still mine ; when I take it away 
 again, I take not anything that is thine; for every best gift 
 and every perfect gift is mine" 
 
 " How strangely God speaks to me out of books !" 
 thought Barbara, with her old conviction in Heaven 
 sent coincidences. " How sweet these dear, old-fashioned 
 sentences are !" She lifted the little volume and pressed 
 her lips upon the open page with more emotion than 
 she had felt for a long while. 
 
 A gun fired suddenly in the next field made her 
 start. Something in the man s dress and bearing, as 
 he walked after the rabbit he had shot, reminded her 
 of Bering. She stood still, and her heart began to 
 beat quickly. 
 
 " How strange such likenesses are !" she said to her 
 self. " But I must ask him not to fire so near the 
 house. It will frighten away the birds on the lawn." 
 
 The sportsman proved to be a young Canadian, 
 whom she knew slightly, and he promised not to fire 
 again until he had reached the northwest end of the 
 meadow. In spite of this, however, Barbara decided 
 to go still farther away into the woods. The sound of 
 a gun always irritated her ; so she walked rather rap 
 idly until she reached a large tree just within the 
 outer fringe of the forest. As she looked at it she was 
 swept suddenly back into the past as though on a 
 
10 BARBARA DERINQ. 
 
 strong wind of memory. It was the tree in which 
 Dering had found her playing with the greyhounds. 
 She put her ungloved hand against the rough bark and 
 gazed at it curiously. How such a thing would have 
 made her suffer two years ago ! Presently she sighed 
 and withdrew her hand. 
 
 " I wonder if it s better to be like this ?" she asked 
 herself. " I seem only half alive." 
 
 Then sitting down on the trunk of a fallen tree, she 
 tried to fix her attention again upon her book. But 
 somehow her thoughts wandered. She seemed to see 
 Dering, to hear his voice, as though he were actually 
 with her. The words of A Kempis grew suddenly 
 cold and unreal to her fancy, as though written from 
 a stand-point too much apart from human interest. 
 
 Barbara was one of the women who idealize the 
 absent. She remembered only the kind and sympa 
 thetic moods of Dering. His harsh words had all been 
 forgotten. Like most generous, impulsive characters, 
 she forgave fully and forgot in spite of herself, and when 
 she wished to record some offence committed against her, 
 unless she wrote it down at once, she had a blurred 
 and incoherent memory of it in less than a fortnight. 
 Dering appeared to her always pale and sorrowful, 
 never rough and indignant. Often she had an almost 
 intolerable desire to write to him and beg him to 
 send her some words of forgiveness with which to com 
 fort herself in moments of acute self-reproach. The 
 thought of his saddened life made her heart settle 
 heavily in her breast. She could not analyze the feel 
 ing exactly. She wished to see him, and yet the 
 thought of it was painful. She longed for his com 
 panionship, and yet dreaded the revival of the old 
 unrest that it might bring. She would have given much 
 
BARBARA DERING. 11 
 
 to ask his forgiveness personally, and yet the fear of 
 hearing him refuse it filled her with a childish terror. 
 
 " If I could see him, just for a minute, I think it 
 would help me," she murmured. A long, catching sigh 
 broke from her, and she let her forehead sink against 
 her upturned palms. Some one stepped upon the fallen 
 leaves at her side. " Barbara," said the voice of Bering. 
 
 II. 
 
 BARBARA did not look up at once. For an instant she 
 was overcome with actual, sharp, physical fear. Then, 
 with the effort that we sometimes make to wake from 
 a terrifying dream, she started convulsively and lifted 
 her eyes to his face. She was so white that he, in his 
 turn, grew frightened. 
 
 " I ought to have let them tell you. I have hurt you. 
 Forgive me," he said, speaking in the old rapid way, 
 that seemed as familiar as the brown-leaved oaks about 
 them. 
 
 " What can I do ? Tell me. Let me help you," he 
 urged. "I m miserable about it. Great blundering 
 idiot that I am !" 
 
 "It was so sudden," Barbara managed to say. 
 Her lips were still colorless. " I was thinking of of 
 you just at that moment. Things startle me more than 
 they used to." 
 
 " You don t look as strong as you did," he said, anx 
 iously ; then with great gentleness, " My poor Barbara 1" 
 
 " Please don t," she said, trembling. " I can t bear 
 it." He sat down beside her and lifted the fallen 
 
12 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 book mechanically from the ground. " The same old 
 A Kempis !" he could not help exclaiming, with a smile. 
 "Do you still open books for advice and comfort as 
 you used to do ?" 
 
 " I know it s very childish," she said, flushing. 
 
 " I always loved it in you," he answered, rather ab 
 sently. " But what heavy markings ! And here s a page 
 all puckered. Dear /" he ended, with a sudden change 
 of voice, " How you must have been suffering all this 
 time !" 
 
 " It was fair ; I deserved it," she said, eagerly. " I m 
 so glad to be able to tell you that. I think I m a better 
 woman for it. Please don t think I m pretending to be 
 humble. These things are so hard to say. But I hope 
 you will believe me." 
 
 " Your face shows it," he answered, looking at her. 
 " What a wonder you are ! I thought I might have 
 exaggerated your eyes in this long absence. But I 
 haven t. They re marvellous. And there s something 
 more more I don t mean womanly exactly. Help 
 me out, dear. We were always frank with each other." 
 
 " Perhaps you mean they are gentler ?" she suggested, 
 almost timidly. " I ve changed very, very much in some 
 things." She turned away suddenly from his steady 
 gaze, a deep crimson floating even over her smooth 
 throat. 
 
 " Have you ?" he said. " I wish I thought you had 
 changed very, very much in one particular thing, 
 Barbara." He paused, so that her name lingered on 
 her ear like a caress, before the sentence was finished. 
 " You must know why I am here." 
 
 She could think of nothing to say. Her lips refused 
 to move and she trembled. 
 
 "But you shall not have more pain to bear," he 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 13 
 
 continued. " Don t look like that, as though you were 
 afraid of me." 
 
 "No, no; indeed I m not," she whispered. 
 
 " Well, then, try to be quiet. I ll only say gentle, 
 soothing things. And if I make you unhappy I ll go 
 away without another word." 
 
 " No, no !" protested Barbara, her lips quivering ; and 
 then with a sudden, uncontrollable burst of tears she 
 sobbed out, " It is so good to see you. I have missed 
 you so." 
 
 Dering sat rigidly self-controlled, beating the palm of 
 one hand softly with his doubled fist, in his determina 
 tion not to startle or offend her by any demonstration 
 of feeling, and in a few moments she was quite calm 
 again. 
 
 " I haven t cried for a long while," she said at last, 
 in a shy voice. " I m dreadfully ashamed of myself. 
 I think it must have been the shock of seeing you so 
 suddenly." 
 
 " Why, of course it was," he assured her. " The most 
 natural thing in the world. But I m afraid you ve been 
 on a great strain." 
 
 " I think it s more the loneliness," she said, simply. 
 " One gets so pent up." 
 
 " Gad ! I know the feeling," exclaimed Bering. " I 
 never could talk of myself to any one but you. Other 
 chaps chaff so, and, as a rule, I make an awful mess of 
 it with women." 
 
 There was silence for a few moments, and then he 
 said suddenly, 
 
 " Take off your hat, will you ? I ve a fancy to see 
 you without it." 
 
 Barbara drew out the long pin which fastened it 
 above her plaits and uncovered her shining head. 
 
14 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 " Yes, I thought so," said Dering. " You ve got it 
 arranged differently. You look more like the Milo than 
 ever with that crinkly parting. And you ve got a little 
 nick in your right eyebrow just as she has." 
 
 " I m afraid mine is nothing more romantic than a 
 scar from varioloid," replied Barbara. 
 
 " Well, it s delightful, all the same. By Jove ! that 
 parted hair makes you look wonderfully meek !" 
 
 " I feel meek," she said, with a smile. 
 
 "Then it s just a mental coiffure, too, which you 
 happen to wear this afternoon. Fancy you meek !" 
 
 " I see you don t believe how I have changed." 
 
 " I confess I can t accept the idea of your meekness." 
 
 " I shall have to prove it to you." 
 
 " There are ways I could suggest." 
 
 "Of course people might differ in their ideas of 
 meekness." 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " Some people might call spiritlessness meekness." 
 
 "Well, isn t it?" 
 
 " No, I don t think so ; not exactly." 
 
 " You are much thinner, too," observed Dering, with 
 irrelevancy. 
 
 " Am I ?" she asked, pinching mechanically her loose 
 sleeve. " Yes, I suppose I am ; but then I always was 
 afausse maigre" 
 
 " I don t like to see you looking so pale, either." 
 
 " No, I don t like that," confessed Barbara, candidly. 
 " I often wish it wasn t vulgar to use a touch of rouge." 
 
 "Eouge is devilish," said Dering, harshly. "If a 
 woman whom I liked were to use rouge and I found it 
 out, I believe I should hate her." 
 
 "How unjust!" exclaimed Barbara. "It s nothing 
 but a custom, after all." 
 
BARBARA DERING. 15 
 
 "It has disagreeable associations. I ve always 
 thought it a hideous idea. But your paleness is lovely. 
 I only dislike it because it means you have been ill." 
 
 " Oh, no !" said Barbara. " I m almost terribly healthy. 
 Sometimes I have thought that physical pain would be 
 a great relief." 
 
 " Oh, you poor soul !" exclaimed the young man. 
 He half put out his hand impetuously, then drew it 
 back. 
 
 "You have changed, too," she said, after a while. 
 " You are thinner yourself." 
 
 " Oh, I ve been knocking about so. For one thing, 
 I walked a good bit over the Himalayas with an Eng 
 lish officer not long ago ; I got pretty sick of it, too !" 
 
 " I wish women could do that sort of thing," sighed 
 Barbara. 
 
 " Well, so they can nowadays." 
 
 " Yes ; but one doesn t like the idea of scampering 
 around the globe by one s self." 
 
 "I should think not," said Bering, with rather a 
 grim smile. " I should think not," he repeated, 
 slowly, this time with a laugh. Barbara rose under a 
 sudden impulse. 
 
 " It is getting chilly," she suggested. " Suppose we 
 walk." 
 
 The sun had appeared through a molten-looking 
 gap in the gray clouds, and there was an uncertain 
 wind. As they walked the haze gradually cleared, 
 and a great green-gold star flared out in the north 
 east. 
 
 " How I love the smell of the corn !" said Barbara, 
 throwing back her head with one of her free gestures, 
 " and the pennyroyal ! It is the essence of autumn 
 to me." She stooped, and gathering a spray of the 
 
16 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 little, transparent blue flowers, with their rough, dark 
 leaves, crushed it, to bring out still more the pungent 
 odor, and held it close to her nostrils. 
 
 " How keen you are about everything !" exclaimed 
 Dering. 
 
 " No, not about everything," she answered, seriously. 
 " I was thinking to-day how much less I feel things 
 than I used to. Sometimes I fancy I have quite the 
 sensations of a very old person." 
 
 "That s first-rate!" he cried, laughing. "There 
 never was such a naive creature. No wonder other 
 women seem flat after you." 
 
 " Do they ? asked Barbara, out of sheer embarrass 
 ment, not at all knowing what she said. 
 
 " As bits of paper," answered Dering, briefly. 
 
 Barbara could not help laughing. " You seem rather 
 fond of playing with paper-dolls, then," she retorted. 
 : I have heard of you in London and Paris and Eome. 
 And this summer I am sure you were very gay at 
 Newport. I even heard the name of the young girl 
 you were engaged to." 
 
 " I ve been trying awfully hard to fall in love with 
 some one ever since I last saw you," said Dering, hon 
 estly. Barbara was glad that the purplish veil of tho 
 twilight hung betwen them. 
 
 She felt that he was watching her narrowly. As 
 they passed under the low-hanging boughs of an old 
 cherry-tree, she saw that here and there upon the 
 sleek twigs were little knots of white bloom. 
 
 " Why, it s blossoming and in September !" she 
 exclaimed. She broke off a bit and held it out to him. 
 
 " Thank you, Barbara," he said, quietly. " Spring 
 flowers in autumn. It is a good omen. I feel cheered." 
 
BARBARA DERING. 17 
 
 III. 
 
 " How is Siegfried the fair, the unlovable, the tiger- 
 lily maid of Rosemary ?" asked Bering, as they went 
 up the low stone steps at the back of the house. 
 " Does she still knit as many baby-socks and drop as 
 many stitches as ever ?" 
 
 " How absurd ! I had forgot that you called her 
 Siegfried, " laughed Barbara. " Yes, she is just the 
 same." 
 
 " Everything seems the same," he said, with a sort 
 of curt breath that was his nearest approach to a sigh. 
 " But where are you taking me ? This isn t the way 
 to the drawing-room." 
 
 " To. I m a great musician now. I have a music- 
 room." 
 
 They went up a short stair-way and she opened a 
 door. Before them lay a long, wide apartment, with 
 a large window at one end, which framed the dying 
 light without, and through which they saw the vapory 
 saffron of the just-risen moon magnified by the mists, 
 which were again gathering. Beyond, the fields lay 
 dully gold, fretted with violet shadows, and some dead 
 acacias were etched against a rose-brown sky. A 
 curious smell of lemons, fur, and flowers filled the room. 
 In the immense fireplace the core of a wood-fire glowed 
 richly. There were heavy curtains of crimson brocade, 
 and the walls were panelled to the ceiling with light 
 oak. A grand piano stood among a little group of 
 lemon-trees in one corner. 
 
 Pictures of the sea, in storm and calm, hung low, 
 6 2* 
 
18 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 above the lounging chairs, and carved tables. There 
 was a lion-skin on the hearth. 
 
 "I spend most of my time here," said Barbara. "I 
 have never played for you, have I ?" 
 
 " No. You had no piano when I was here before. 
 I love music. Can t I have some now ?" 
 
 " Presently ; but let us get warm first. You know 
 my lazy ways. To be entirely happy I must have 
 on a tea-gown. I will send you some tea while I 
 am gone." 
 
 Left alone, Dering threw himself on a sofa which 
 was drawn up to one side of the fireplace, settled 
 down among the heap of cushions, with his head 
 thrown back on his interlaced fingers and his eyes 
 closed. The feeling uppermost in his brain was that 
 he was again under the same roof with Barbara. 
 Somewhere, not far away, she was brushing out the 
 ripples of her vivid hair ; the things that she loved 
 and touched daily were all about him ; the very cush 
 ions upon which his head rested held that perfume of 
 Iris and Damask roses with which he always associ 
 ated her. She would come again in a few moments, 
 and he would speak with her and watch the firelight 
 in her eyes and on her glancing throat. Barbara 
 Barbara Barbara, the very name had a strange 
 charm and vitality in it. How short now seemed the 
 years which had been so long spent away from her ! 
 
 " All things come to him who knows how to wait," 
 he muttered, drowsily, and just as he finished speaking 
 the door opened and she stole in. He gazed at her 
 curiously as she came forward with long, slow steps, 
 and at last stood silent before the fire, looking down 
 at her graceful hands, which she held out as though to 
 warm them. She was all in white. An old necklace 
 
BARBARA DERING. 19 
 
 of seed-pearls and great green jewels made splashes of 
 color in the flickering light. 
 
 " That is the same gown you used to wear," he said, 
 quietly, though his heart was jumping. 
 
 " Yes," was all that she answered. 
 
 " But I never saw the necklace before." 
 
 "No; it s an old family relic. These aren t real; 
 they re what the French call bijoux de fantaisie. It s 
 a French thing." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " Will you play for me now ?" asked Bering, finally. 
 
 "Are you sure that you really love music?" she 
 returned, smiling. 
 
 " I tell you I dote on it !" he exclaimed, rather im 
 patiently. " Please don t tease me." 
 
 " Very well," said Barbara, docilely, and moved 
 towards the piano. A low, murmuring melody began 
 to float through the room. Dering, who loved music 
 without comprehending it, closed his eyes and drew in 
 his breath luxuriously, half fancying that the light 
 touch of her fingers was falling upon his hair. Ho 
 told himself that he had had a bad dream last night, 
 that no surly years of dogged resolution separated the 
 past from the present, and that when she took her 
 hands from the piano-keys she would come and slip 
 them into his with the old freedom. But instead, she 
 let her white length sink slowly into a deep chair on 
 the other side of the fireplace, and said that she was 
 too tired to play any more. A little Angora kitten 
 trotted suddenly out of the shadows, and jumping 
 upon her knee, began to pat with one paw at the 
 jewel which fastened her gown. She caressed it 
 smiling, and Dering could hear distinctly its loud purr 
 of delight. Somehow this irritated him. 
 
20 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 " You used not to like cats," he said, rather gruffly. 
 
 " But I always liked kittens," returned Barbara. 
 
 " That distinction s a little beyond me." 
 
 " Why, they re quite different, I think. Kittens are 
 dear mites, so so Could one say cuddlesome ?" 
 
 " One could if one felt the need," he answered, with 
 the dry laugh that she remembered. 
 
 " Now I ve vexed you !" she exclaimed, penitently. 
 "Get down, Higgles." Miggles struck the lion-skin 
 with a soft bounce, and began to play good-naturedly 
 with her evasive tail. 
 
 " What has become of the greyhounds ?" said Dering. 
 
 " Oh, they sucked eggs so that they had to go. 
 But I have a supreme favorite now that takes the 
 place of all the rest." 
 
 "What on earth can that be ? A bear cub?" he 
 suggested, crossly. Barbara laughed. 
 
 "No. It s my horse, Wilful. Such a dear! The 
 color of my hair, with a white splash on his forehead. 
 And red-silk nostrils. His muzzle would fit in a tea 
 cup, and yet he s seventeen hands. Such hoofs ! like 
 black onyx, and his pasterns spring out of them like 
 gold-flames. He s as wild as a hawk, and I was going 
 to say as kind as a kitten, but the simile might jar," 
 she ended, mischievously. She could never resist teas 
 ing him in one of his surly fits. 
 
 " This is another new taste," he said, still grum. " I 
 didn t know you rode." 
 
 "Yes, very well," she assured him, with feigned 
 gravity. " I ll put Wilful over some fences for you." 
 
 " Snake-fences ?" asked Dering, with his grin. " If 
 he jumps snake-fences, you ought to call him Peg 
 asus." 
 
 "How very witty!" said Barbara, and they both 
 
BARBARA DERING. 21 
 
 laughed. Neither spoke for Borne moments, and then 
 Dering said, suddenly, 
 
 " Hold up your hand a second." 
 
 She did so, wondering. 
 
 "No. Your left hand." 
 
 She drew it from under the kitten, which had again 
 jumped into her lap, and lifted it in the firelight, then 
 started and flushed, dropping it among the folds of her 
 gown. 
 
 " So you found it ?" asked Dering, whose mood was 
 undoubtedly malign. 
 
 " I I hate you when you speak to me like that !" 
 she cried, springing imperiously to her great height. 
 "You make me hate you!" she repeated, passionately. 
 Her heart had not throbbed with such emotion for 
 many months. 
 
 Bering s eyes were masterful. As he gazed at her 
 in silence she turned her head nervously aside, and 
 presently went over to the open window, through 
 which the moonlight now fell in a long, barred pattern 
 upon the polished floor. He followed her. She heard 
 his voice at her shoulder. 
 
 "You d be apt to forgive what a man said under 
 thumb-screws, eh, Barbara ?" 
 
 " You can be so horribly cruel," she gasped. 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 " I have done nothing, nothing." 
 
 " Not this time, but that evening we were both think 
 ing of just now." 
 
 " When you say things like that to me you change 
 all my thoughts." 
 
 " Thoughts of what, may I ask ?" 
 
 " Of you." 
 
 "Of me? Barbara!" 
 
22 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 "No! don t touch me. You have been too cruel 
 Don t, don t !" 
 
 But he had her hands in his. Their eyes defied each 
 other. In the man s was a certain mocking look. 
 She saw it at once and her pupils spread with anger. 
 
 " You wild thing ! You tigress ! How you would 
 like to hurt me I But I have you fast." 
 
 " Let me go ! You rouse all the wickedness in me. 
 You make me wicked. I felt so gentle to you. I 
 wished to make amends to you. When you hold me 
 like this something in me rises against you." Her 
 voice changed suddenly to a sort of wail: "Jock! 
 Jock ! do you really mean to hurt me so ?" 
 
 She felt him drop to his knees beside her and draw 
 the soft stuff of her gown close about his face. They 
 remained in this position for a second or two, quite 
 silent, then she stooped and touched his curls timidly 
 with her lips. 
 
 " Oh, Barbara !" he whispered, with a great boyish 
 sigh, and, putting up his hand, pressed her cheek 
 against his, and so held her in her bending attitude. 
 
 " Is it sweet ?" he asked presently, still in a whisper. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, trembling. 
 
 "As it used to be?" 
 
 " More," trembling greatly. 
 
 " More ? Darling, then give me your lips." 
 
 " No, no ! Let me go now. To-morrow, to-morrow, 
 Jock. I promise. Indeed, indeed ! Let me go." 
 
 " To-morrow, then ? You swear it ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ! I swear it." 
 
 " But when, to-morrow ? Where? When, Barbara ?" 
 
 " I don t know. Only let me go, now. I am ill, 
 I am dizzy. I have promised. You hurt my throat 
 keeping it bent so." 
 
BARBARA DERING. 23 
 
 " One minute. Let me kiss you." 
 
 " I cannot. I must not. It is for life and death this 
 time. It will be final. I must think, I must pray. I 
 tell you, you are really hurting me." 
 
 "Well, then!" He released her, with a quick 
 breath, and jumped to his feet ; but before he could 
 Bpeak to her again she had slipped past him with a 
 supple movement and left the room. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE next morning, while he was drinking his coffee 
 in the same lodging that he had occupied on his former 
 visit to the neighborhood, Beauregard Walsingham 
 entered and placed a small blue envelope beside his 
 plate. Bering s heart gave a quick flare of expecta 
 tion, and he handed Beauregard a silver piece, which 
 the small black at once tucked away into one of his 
 cheeks with his old gesture and a low bow of thanks. 
 When he was alone, Dering tore open the envelope 
 with an eagerness which gave his eyes a stern glare 
 and drew a deep mark between his dark brows. As 
 he read, the expression of his face died into a pale 
 quietude, and he ended by crumpling the note slowly 
 in one hand and tossing it into the fire. It had run 
 as follows : 
 
 " There is to be a country dance to-night at an over 
 seer s house two miles from here. I know his wife very 
 well, and have helped her to nurse her children in ill 
 ness, so I can invite myself and bring any friend I 
 choose with me. Aunt Fridis will chaperon us. I 
 
24 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 fancy it will be very funny. Do you care to come ? I 
 am going. B." 
 
 When Bering reached Rosemary that evening Bar 
 bara was not ready, but she entered in a few moments 
 buttoning her long glove. Her short gown of trans 
 parent black with its gold belt gave her a girlish look. 
 Her hair was twisted high into a sort of helmet shape, 
 and in it sparkled a winged-comb of small diamonds. 
 
 " You beauty !" said Bering, under his breath, 
 watching her from his place at the mantle-shelf, but 
 not coming towards her. 
 
 " What ?" she asked, a little nervously. " I didn t 
 hear what you said." 
 
 "Oh, I ll tell you all about it on our way home," 
 said Bering, quietly. " I suppose our Siegfried is very 
 wonderful in ball attire ?" 
 
 " No ; she s rather nice. I did her myself." 
 
 Miss Fridiswig here entered in a dark-green silk 
 with black lace draperies. Her pink curls had been 
 imprisoned into careful plaits, and her small red nose 
 elaborately powdered. She giggled and circled about 
 Bering, flirting her unusual costume this way and that 
 for his admiration. 
 
 "You re positively stunning, Miss Fridis," he assured 
 her, and she coyly fastened in his button-hole a white 
 carnation and a bit of fern as a reward for this gallant 
 speech. 
 
 The road was terribly rough, but there was brilliant 
 moonlight, and they did not seem long in reaching the 
 scene of the dance. Along the whitewashed fence, 
 which surrounded what in Virginia is so often called 
 " the circle," that is, the round plot of grass edged 
 with a carriage-way, they saw traps of all sorts and 
 
BARBARA DERING. 25 
 
 unsaddled horses. The monotonous sound of a tinny 
 piano and two fiddles scraped against their ears. 
 
 Inside was a merry noise of dancing, laughter, and 
 shrieking. Barbara grew quite excited, and the small 
 feet of Miss Fridiswig pattered on the floor of the 
 carriage. 
 
 "Come!" cried Barbara. "Do let s hurry! I m 
 afraid we re late now!" 
 
 They entered a narrow hall lighted by a kerosene- 
 lamp, and a glistening black girl beckoned them up 
 stairs to take off their wraps. When they came down 
 their hostess met them, affable and glowing in a 
 costume of lace window-curtain over Turkey- red 
 calico. 
 
 "Now, this cert n y is nice of you to come, Mis 
 Pomfret! The gyrls cert n y will be pleased!" she 
 said, clasping Barbara s arm in a moist but hospitable 
 palm. " They re darncin th Coquette. All the young 
 fellows re engaged, but you n Mr. Mr. " 
 
 " This is Mr. Bering, Mrs. Twampler," put in Bar 
 bara, flushing. 
 
 "You n Mr. Dering 11 make ellergant partners." 
 Then she broke off and stared at Dering in a way 
 that made him frown. 
 
 He had given a swift guess at what happened to be 
 the truth, namely, that Mrs. Twampler had heard the 
 story of his former acquaintance with Barbara. 
 
 His frown deepened into an air of such grimness that 
 his hostess gave a nervous laugh and began to arrange 
 the large hair-brooch which dented her ample chin. 
 
 She then provided chairs for Barbara and Dering, 
 who said that they did not know how to dance " The 
 Coquette," and, after seeing them settled, bore Miss 
 Fridiswig away. 
 
 B 3 
 
26 BARBARA DERIXG. 
 
 11 Try not to look quite so glum," whispered Barbara, 
 presently, fanning herself and looking at the dancers, as 
 though not thinking of her companion. " I thought it 
 would amuse you. You really make me feel as though 
 I were boring you." 
 
 " Did you ever try to find Mark Twain funny when 
 you didn t feel in the humor?" 
 
 "Ye-es." 
 
 " Well, then, you have an excellent idea of my pres 
 ent sensations." 
 
 " But act a little. Can t you pretend ? After all, it s 
 not very flattering to me." 
 
 " What on earth made you bring me to this con 
 founded place, then ? It s enough to put a seraph out 
 of temper. Idiots!" 
 
 " I m sure I didn t urge you to come." 
 
 " No ; but you knew perfectly well that I would. I 
 was determined to see you to-day." 
 
 " Now that you see me, you don t seem to appreciate 
 it." 
 
 " In this den ? I fancy not !" 
 
 Barbara was silent, trying not to laugh. The fact 
 was that she had taken this desperate means of delay, 
 ing her interview with Dering, and could not help find 
 ing his impotent rage amusing, although her soul was 
 torn with its great struggle. She had not slept the 
 night before. The hand that held her fan trembled, 
 and tears were as near her eyes as laughter to her 
 lips. 
 
 " Good Lord ! this is too much !" burst forth Dering 
 suddenly in a whispered explosion. "There s that 
 infernal ass !" 
 
 " Who ? Where ?" asked Barbara, startled. 
 
 " Why, there in front of you, dancing this monkey- 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 27 
 
 shine. I forget what it s called. There! in that flowered 
 waistcoat. Our old friend Buzzy ! What an ape !" 
 
 " Hush !" said Barbara. " He hasn t seen us. Don t 
 look at him." 
 
 Buzzy, who was " coquetting" to a huge girl in blue 
 silesia, fastened up her square, waistless back with white 
 shoe-buttons, capered on, unconscious of the angry 
 eyes which Dering had fastened upon his pomatumed 
 locks. He wore a dress-coat too large for him, lined 
 and faced with bright blue satin, a tie to match, and a 
 waistcoat embroidered with rose-buds. 
 
 The Coquette is a dance which is executed in the fol 
 lowing manner : the company being arranged in a circle, 
 the young man or woman whose turn it is to coquette 
 advances with coy movements, which keep time to a 
 spirited tune, towards the person opposite. At the last 
 moment a toss of the head or a tantalizing placing of 
 the hands behind the back signifies that the male or 
 female coquette has decided to select a different partner, 
 and this engaging performance is renewed indefinitely. 
 
 Had Dering not been in one of his most perverse moods 
 he would have driven a much longer distance over 
 rougher roads to see Buzzy s present antics ; but there 
 are moments in which our sense of humor seems 
 crowded out by fiercer emotions, and Dering followed 
 with sombre eyes the evolutions of the flowered waist 
 coat about the silesia bodice. He even watched, without 
 a smile, one lank woman of thirty -five, who was at least 
 six feet tall, and who wore a pale-green cotton-velvet 
 corsage over a skirt of pink tarlatan, giggle through 
 the most complicated contortions before six different 
 swains, and select finally a dapper little youth of twenty 
 with a cosey dimple in his chapped chin. Once only 
 during the evening was there so much as a flicker 
 
28 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 about his lips. It was when, just before supper, the 
 women, old and young, left the room, and returned hav 
 ing their front ringlets frankly powdered with flour. 
 Brunette and blonde alike had adopted this coiffure, and 
 bore themselves with a self-satisfied air, evidently the 
 result of conscious beauty. 
 
 After supper a repast of which Dering had refused 
 to partake, in spite of Barbara s urgings a polka was 
 struck up, and Mrs. Twampler was seen coming towards 
 them with the blue-silesia young woman hanging be 
 hind, but still advancing, though reluctantly. 
 
 " Mis Pomfret, this is Miss Huggins from over Tur 
 key Mountain. Mr. Dering, sir, let me interjuce yuh 
 tuh Mis Huggins. She s mighty light on her feet," 
 she added, as though in apology for the young lady s 
 solid figure. " She s heaps the bes darncer down our 
 way. I hope, sir," she continued, extending one comfort 
 able hand, upon which rested the fat white fingers of 
 Miss Huggins, boneless and with square, dark-rimmed 
 tips, " I hope, sir, you ll oblige me by darncin this 
 polka with her, as yuh don t seem tuh be havin a very 
 gay time." 
 
 Barbara was at first too appalled by Bering s expres 
 sion to feel any inclination to laugh, but as she saw him 
 helplessly advance and place his arm across the vast 
 back of Miss Huggins, she started up, and, after looking 
 wildly about her for an instant, rushed to the nearest 
 window and, flinging up the sash, thrust her head far 
 out into the frosty glare. 
 
 " Mind ! that button s loose !" called Mrs. Twampler, 
 following her. " What s the matter ? Th room too 
 warm?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," murmured Barbara. " Can we stay here 
 a little while, Mrs. Twampler ?" 
 
BARBARA DERING. 29 
 
 " Why or cose," said Mrs. Twampler, cheerily. " Yuh 
 do look sorter weakish. Will yuh have some blackb ry 
 cordial?" 
 
 "No, thank you so much You are very, very 
 kind," said Barbara, who was apt to gush to the lower 
 classes in her excessive desire to be civil. " I never 
 drink cordials." 
 
 "Don t yuh, now? Why, yuh look s if twould be 
 reel good fuh yuh. Do yuh have rheumatism ? Poke- 
 b ry an whiskey s perffeckly ellergant fuh rheumatism. 
 Lemme give yuh haifer bottle. Do now ?" 
 
 " No, no, I never have rheumatism ; but thank you 
 ever so much all the same. How delicious this air is ! 
 Is is Mr. Dering still dancing ?" 
 
 "No, he ain t darncin now. He s fannin Pussy 
 Huggins. She does darnce beautiful that girl, though 
 yoh wouldn t think it from her fat. But then fat 
 people oughtn t tuh be so heavy by rights. I ve heard 
 tell as how reel fat people float in th water like corks. 
 Is it true, you reckon ?" 
 
 " I I don t know," said Barbara, hesitatingly. " I 
 think it is." 
 
 " Well, I clare !" exclaimed Mrs. Twampler. " It s 
 hard tuh take in, ain t it, now? But you d better 
 come way from this winder fore yuh ketch yo death. 
 Oh, here s my nephew, Horace Buzzy. I think you 
 wuz very kynd tuh him onct on th way tuh Charlottes- 
 ville. Didn t his waggin break down, or somethin ?" 
 
 " Did you say his first name was was Horace ?" 
 asked Barbara in a low voice, with her head still out 
 of the window. 
 
 "Yes. His ma loves them hifalutin names. He s 
 got a sister name Una, an another name Antonet, an 
 his little buddy s called Norval. You know it s from 
 
 3* 
 
30 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 that verse of poetry bout th Grampus hills. Some 
 body told me th other day that them hills went under 
 water in Scotland an came up in Faginia ez th Blue 
 Eidge, but I reckon they wuz gasin . Here s Horace 
 now. Howdy Horace. O cose you know Mis Pom- 
 fret ?" 
 
 "Well, I reckon! hyah! hyah!" exclaimed Buzzy. 
 " Wuzn t that bout th wust busted waggin ever you 
 saw, Mis Pomfret?" Then, without waiting for a 
 reply, "See yo fren s back. Wuzn t he jess ragirf 
 with me bout two years ago ?" and again he became 
 mirthful. 
 
 " You cert n y have been flirtin shameful with Pussy 
 Huggins, Horace. Ef I wuz th other gyrls I wouldn t 
 speak tuh you tuh save yo neck." 
 
 " Well, you couldn be but one other gyrl !" cried 
 Buzzy, jovially. " Though there is enough or yuh tuh 
 make two, Aunt Looly ! Hyah ! hyah !" 
 
 He then turned to Barbara : 
 
 " Say, Mr. What s-his-name, yo friend s run off with 
 my mash. It s jess bout fyar you should come long 
 with me, don cher think ? Less have a polka." 
 
 Barbara was protesting, and Buzzy endeavoring to 
 put his long arm about her waist, when she saw Dering 
 approaching with an expression of condensed fury 
 about his lowered brows. He said good-night to Mrs. 
 Twampler with an abruptness which astonished that 
 kind soul, and, bearing the drowsy Miss Fridiswig off 
 on his other elbow from her nook by the fire, placed 
 both ladies in the carriage before they were quite 
 aware of what had happened. " I m cold ! I ve left 
 my mantilla up-stairs!" whimpered Miss Fridiswig, 
 shivering. " How very impetuous Mr. Dering always 
 is, Barbara !" 
 
BARBARA DERING. 31 
 
 " Yes, it s certainly rather chilly," assented her niece, 
 who was laughing weakly. 
 
 Dering, who had dashed off when Miss Cabell began 
 speaking, now returned with an armful of wraps, in 
 which he proceeded to enfold his companions. Miss 
 Fridiswig struggled bravely to get her mantilla adjusted 
 properly to her little figure, but Barbara submitted with 
 entire meekness to having her long cloak thrown about 
 her upside down and its sleeves crossed upon her lap. 
 This feat accomplished, Dering arranged his silk muffler 
 fiercely about his throat, drew on a pair of fur-lined 
 gloves, and flung himself into the carriage beside Bar- 
 bara. 
 
 "I suppose I need not apologize," he said behind his 
 teeth, as they drove off. " I suppose you have had 
 enough fun at that delightful entertainment. By gad! 
 my coat smells yet of that Huggins creature s patch 
 ouli ! I m glad you find it so amusing, Barbara. I 
 fancy you won t mind my smoking until you ve thor 
 oughly indulged your inclination for mirth. A good 
 cigar will be better than this stench, at all events !" 
 
 He lighted a cigar with savage energy, and, drawing 
 the rugs about him, settled himself grimly in one 
 corner. 
 
 " I suppose it will add to your amusement to know 
 that I ve caught a cold into the bargain !" he announced, 
 before relapsing into final silence. 
 
 " If you have pneumonia, I promise to come and 
 nurse you," said Barbara, with soft seriousness. 
 
 " Umph !" returned Dering, grumpily. 
 
32 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 V. 
 
 AFTER a while Barbara stood up and put on the 
 cloak, which Bering had only tucked about her shoul 
 ders. Miss Fridiswig had drawn her tiny heelless 
 slippers up on the seat, and was napping comfortably, 
 with her head on her huge old-fashioned muff. 
 
 " Does this smoke bother you ? Shall I throw away 
 my cigar ?" asked Dering, suddenly, 
 
 " Oh, no," she answered , " I don t mind it at all, and 
 Aunt Fridis is asleep." 
 
 " I m going to throw it away, at any rate," he said, 
 finally. 
 
 The horses were walking slowly up a steep hill, and 
 the branches of some shrubs brushed softly against the 
 sides of the carriage. 
 
 " Are you very tired, Barbara ?" he asked again after 
 some moments. 
 
 " A little. It s rather pleasant." 
 
 " Why in the name of common sense did you drag 
 me and yourself to this ridiculous thing ?" 
 
 " I sometimes they are very amusing. You were 
 very funny with Miss Huggins." 
 
 " Oh, I dare say." 
 
 " But I am glad you saved me from Buzzy." 
 
 " Impudent jackanapes !" 
 
 "Is Miss Huggins as beautiful a darncer as Mrs. 
 Twampler said ?" 
 
 "Ugh! What an awful thing she was to touch! 
 And how abominably she smelt ! If there s anything 
 I loathe, it s patchouli. Are you comfortable ?" 
 
 " Yes, thank you." 
 
 He leaned forward to draw the wrap more securely 
 
BARBARA DERING. 33 
 
 about her, and his hand touched hers. He let his 
 fingers rest where they were, and her hand, though it 
 quivered a little, was not withdrawn. In the silence 
 that followed they descended another hill and crossed 
 a stream. 
 
 " What a cool night for this season !" she said, under 
 her breath. 
 
 " Yes, awfully," replied Dering. He had her hand 
 in both his now, her lithe arm lay lightly along his 
 sleeve. She had turned her head, as though looking 
 at the brown fields without. 
 
 There was something about him that dominated and 
 mastered her as of old, though her soul was not at 
 peace, and she felt uncertain as to the road that she 
 was to follow. 
 
 She sat quite motionless. His touch was like an 
 elixir of life flowing through her veins, which had so 
 long been numb. At least one would live in the pres 
 ence of this man. Existence would not be the mere 
 consciousness which it was under ordinary circum 
 stances. 
 
 He leaned a little towards her, and half involuntarily 
 she made a motion of agreement. Their cheeks were 
 very near together. Presently they touched, but still 
 no word was spoken. She felt his face turning slowly 
 until his lips rested on the delicate curve just below 
 her ear. 
 
 " How your heart is beating !" he whispered. 
 
 " Yes, I know." 
 
 " Barbara." 
 
 " Hush ! Don t. She will hear you." 
 
 " Faugh ! She is sound as a tabby/ 
 
 " She may be pretending." 
 
 "How you dote on teasing me! eh? But I know 
 
34 BARBARA DER1NG. 
 
 you. Give me your hand, I say. The other I There, 
 now ! Come to me again." 
 
 " I cannot ! I cannot ! Don t ask me. Oh, why is 
 it so sweet ?" 
 
 " Because it is meant to be, because you must yield 
 to it. Darling, why can t you just give yourself to me 
 without all this fuss ? We could be married so easily. 
 There, I ve startled you now. You d be off like a 
 shot if you could. Come, Barbara ; come, my beauty ! 
 Let me take you and make you happy. I could." 
 
 "Yes, I I think that." 
 
 " Then stop struggling. Tell me you will marry me. 
 Never mind haunting thoughts, only be my wife, and 
 I will exorcise them. Never fear." 
 
 Barbara s pulses were vibrating wildly. She was 
 confused by crowding thoughts. At last one stood out 
 clear, definite. She owed this man a reparation for 
 the way she had treated him in the past. The old 
 morbidness was gone. She could not add to or take 
 away from her dead husband s happiness. Besides, 
 for Dering she felt a love new, different, but very 
 powerful. Life without him seemed to hold nothing 
 but loneliness. With him she might accomplish many 
 things which now appeared impossible. He felt that 
 she was wavering and pressed her close against his 
 side. 
 
 " There is only one end of it for us both, Barbara. 
 Why do you take such delight in drawing out the 
 agony? Why not give in? You ll have to. You 
 can t send me away a second time. What a preposter 
 ous ass I was to listen to you ! I ought to have turned 
 back at the lawn gate. I know you would have given 
 your little finger to call me from the window. Why 
 don t you answer? Oh, my dear witch, have I seen 
 
BARBARA DERING. 35 
 
 into your heart? Did you call me, Barbara? Did 
 you write me a letter next morning and tear it up? 
 You did! You are blushing. I can feel your cheek 
 grow hot against mine. You have loved me through 
 it all ! Eh, enchantress ? As I ve loved you in spite 
 of my rage? For, gad! I was furious with you. Your 
 talons drew blood, my dear. I thought I hated you 
 for a long time, but afterwards I couldn t get away 
 from you. I swore I d never see you again, and then I 
 took a steamer from Liverpool. Then, when I landed 
 in New York, I swore I d never cross Mason and 
 Dixon s line, and the next day I found myself here I 
 What a rat-a-plan the dear heart keeps up ! You look 
 like a great snow-queen in this dim light, with gems 
 for eyes. Your eyes stir me, Barbara. What is it 
 that I see in them ?" 
 
 Barbara seemed to be gazing at her own rapid 
 thoughts, whirling as in circles of fire against her 
 closed lids. She heard herself saying in a broken 
 whisper, 
 
 " Do you think I could make you happy ? Do you 
 think you would not get out of patience with me ? I 
 have changed. I am more reasonable, but still I am 
 different. You would have to be very patient. Please 
 let me go. I can t think so close to you." 
 
 Dering gave a low laugh of exultation and released 
 her. She leaned back, covering her face with her 
 hands. What would be their future spent together? 
 How would it really seem to be the wife of this man, 
 who looked at her with Yal s eyes, yet without his 
 gentleness? who spoke to her with Yal s voice, yet 
 without his tenderness? who fascinated her, conquered 
 her, and yet so often failed to comprehend her? She 
 had suffered so intensely. What she craved was rest 
 
36 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 in love. Would Dering really give her this ? Would 
 he be patient ? Would he never feel angry and incensed 
 against her when their moods happened to clash? 
 She sat erect suddenly, with a sharp indrawn breath. 
 
 " What is it ? What is the matter ?" asked Dering, 
 quickly. 
 
 " Suppose I were to marry you and you were to get 
 angry with me ? I could not bear it. It would kill 
 me." 
 
 " My own dear, as if I could muster up a vexed feel 
 ing against you !" 
 
 "But you said you had. You said you had been 
 furious with me. I d rather die than have that." 
 
 "Now, Barbara," said Dering in a rather hope 
 less voice, "are you really going to drum up such 
 feeble, threadbare objections now that all the others 
 have been done away with? I must say it s rather 
 rough." 
 
 " I must say what I feel," she returned, desperately. 
 "I must say everything that s in my heart, because 
 this time it is final." 
 
 " Well, I should say," remarked Dering, with grim- 
 ness. 
 
 " It s final, of course," she went on, getting a little 
 excited ; " and I must be sure, you must be sure." 
 
 "I m sure enough. Pray don t bother about me," 
 he replied, laughing again. " I really can t have you 
 wasting force on that score." 
 
 " Well, then, I must be sure for you. Suppose I dis 
 appointed you dreadfully. Suppose I couldn t make 
 you happy. Suppose you found that I didn t love you 
 as as you expect to be loved." She paused, and her 
 brilliant eyes regarded him anxiously. He nodded 
 reassuringly at her over his calmly-folded arms. 
 
BARBARA DERING. 37 
 
 " I ll attend to those matters if you are sure of 
 yourself. That s all I ask. Your love quite satisfies 
 me, if that will be any help to you in coming to a 
 decision." 
 
 "I want more than anything else to make you 
 happy," faltered Barbara. " I have been very wretched 
 over my cruelty to you." 
 
 " Oh, well. I was dreadfully impatient," he ad 
 mitted, easily. " I ought to have given you more line. 
 Fishing you is like fishing a salmon, you need lots 
 of line and time. I am being patient enough now. 
 Don t you think so ?" 
 
 " Yes. You are very good to me," she replied, some 
 what absent-mindedly. 
 
 To herself she was saying over and over, " Could I 
 give him up again ?" It seemed to her it would be 
 like tearing off an arm to put Bering from her a second 
 time. Then why did she not find rest and peace in 
 the thought of marrying him, now that her feverish 
 and unnatural fancies about Val had all vanished? 
 Surely he would wish her to secure such happiness 
 and comfort as remained to her in this life. It was 
 not any thought of Yal that disturbed her at this 
 vital moment. She was possessed rather by a vague 
 and half-realized dread, which trickled in bitter drops 
 through the delicious, gushing draught of unexpected 
 love and sympathy. Why was there not more satis 
 faction in her feeling for Bering ? Why could she not 
 give herself to him at once, and with that sense of com 
 pletion, of withholding nothing which makes the purest 
 ecstasy of love ? 
 
 " Well," he asked, suddenly, " are you asleep, Bar 
 bara?" 
 
 " No," she said. " I ve been thinking." 
 4 
 
38 BARBARA D BRING. 
 
 " Does it take such a tremendous effort to make up 
 your mind ? How flattering !" 
 
 She moved uneasily, again covering her face with 
 her hands, but did not answer. 
 
 Afterwards she felt Bering s arm about her, and, 
 almost in spite of herself, her tense figure relaxed in 
 his steady embrace. Little by little her head sank 
 down upon his shoulder. She was very tired. There 
 was no passion in her feeling for him then. It was 
 one half of gratitude, half of willing submission. He 
 desired to dominate, to conquer her. She was anxious, 
 almost eager, to yield. They sat thus, silently clasping 
 each other, until the carriage drew up before the door 
 of Rosemary. 
 
 YI. 
 
 THE hall-clock was striking eleven when they en 
 tered, so she asked him to come into the music-room 
 and have a cup of tea before going away. Miss Fridis- 
 wig curled up sleepily in a large chair before the 
 drawing-room fire, and said that she would wait for 
 them there. In her drowsy mind she was feebly con 
 scious of thinking some such words as these : "I do 
 hope, if Barbara is going to marry that Mr. Bering, 
 she ll do it pretty soon. It ruins my digestion sitting 
 up as late as this. I don t see why she potters so 
 about it. It s exactly like my new pepper-and-salt 
 berege. It s new, but no one can tell it from the old 
 one. I can t see any difference myself, except, perhaps, 
 it cuts a little under the arms. He is so exactly like 
 Valentine. I really think that it s sheer perversity 
 that makes her hesitate. I m sure he is very good to 
 
BARBARA DER1SG. 39 
 
 come back after she had treated him so abominably. 
 Dear ! dear ! how sleepy I am ! and I suppose he 
 won t think of leaving before twelve." 
 
 The two others, in the meantime, had reached the 
 music-room, and Dering, in his evening-dress, made a 
 rather incongruous figure as he arranged the fire, 
 carrying great hickory logs from the wood-box under 
 the window-seat to the tiled hearth. Barbara, in her 
 place behind the huge, old-fashioned silver urn with 
 its dented coat of arms, could not help smiling as she 
 watched him. 
 
 " I am as bad as a boy about liking a big blaze," he 
 said, coming towards her. " Oh, my dearest girl, isn t 
 this comfy ?" 
 
 Barbara had a sudden rush of spontaneousness. 
 She bent her face backward with a gleeful little laugh 
 of pleasure and pressed her soft crown of hair against 
 his breast. Dering was sometimes very wise. His 
 response to this movement was a gentle hand laid 
 lightly against the curved throat, while, with the other, 
 he tilted the now boiling water from the urn into the 
 empty cups. Even the kitten, which approached with 
 an exuberant purr, was kindly greeted. He stooped, 
 and, lifting it by the nape of its sleek neck, placed it 
 on the arm of the big chair beside Barbara. 
 
 " Why, I am happy ! I am happy !" Barbara was 
 telling herself, in utter astonishment. " How dear he 
 is ! how kind ! how companionable !" 
 
 The shadowy dread which had beset her during 
 their drive home had entirely gone. She felt that she 
 could trust herself to him with a feeling of perfect 
 peace. 
 
 " How prettily you drink !" exclaimed Dering, sud 
 denly. " Oh, sweetheart, is there anything you don t 
 
40 BARBARA DERI NO. 
 
 give a charm to ? Even your faults are bewitching. 
 I could not part with one thing about you. My dear 
 lily, the little freckles make you all the lovelier." 
 
 Barbara stooped with a swift movement and kissed 
 his hand as it held her teacup and saucer. 
 
 " Don t ! you ll make me break the cup," he ex 
 claimed. " Oh, Barbara, Barbara, Barbara, is this 
 heaven, or is it not ?" 
 
 " I love you," she returned, trembling, and almost in 
 a whisper. " I love you, Jock ; we are going to be 
 happy, after all ! I cannot realize it. Tell me it is 
 true. Tell me that you believe it." 
 
 " Believe it !" cried Bering. He set the things that 
 he was holding upon the tray, and turning, took her 
 into his arms. " Do you belong to me ?" he asked, in 
 a deep breath. " Is it for always ?" 
 
 " Yes, for always ! I swear it !" she answered, under 
 a sudden conviction. " I will never change again. You 
 can trust me absolutely this time." 
 
 " Can I ?" he asked, holding her closer and closer 
 until it was painful. But of this she gave no sign, 
 only nodded in reply to his ardent whisper. " You do 
 swear it ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," she said, turning her head eagerly from 
 side to side, as though looking for something. " Let 
 me go for a minute," she went on. Darting over to a 
 table, she returned with a book in her hand. " It is a 
 Bible," she told him, putting it into his hand and 
 keeping her own upon it. " I will swear to you on 
 this that I will never change." 
 
 " That you will marry me ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And soon ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
BARBARA BERING. 41 
 
 " In a month ?" 
 
 She dropped her eyes for a moment and her strong 
 lip wavered. Then she answered, in the same still 
 voice, 
 
 Yes." 
 
 He drew the Bible gently from under her fingers 
 and placed it on a chair. Then he put his arms about 
 her, holding her in a throbbing silence which had 
 something solemn in it. He did not attempt to kiss 
 her. With her forehead bent forward upon his breast 
 she stood quiet, waiting for him to speak or move. 
 
 At last he said, 
 
 "If you should by any chance fail me this time, 
 you d do me a mortal injury." 
 
 " What can I say ?" she said, desperately, her face 
 quivering. Then suddenly a brilliant look flowed into 
 her brown eyes. 
 
 She drew a little away from him and began to pull 
 eagerly at her wedding-ring. It came off in her hand 
 with a leap, and she turned and thrust it out to him. 
 
 " There ! I give you that ! Is that proof enough ?" 
 Bering gazed steadily into her eyes with a powerful 
 look of determination. 
 
 " Come with me," he said, finally. She leant will 
 ingly upon him and they walked over to the fire 
 together. 
 
 " Here," he said, putting the ring into her fingers, 
 " throw that into those hottest coals there." 
 
 She did so without flinching. 
 
 "Now!" he cried, and, turning, they kissed each 
 other with mutual ardor. 
 
42 BARBARA BERING. 
 
 VII. 
 
 BARBARA and Bering had been married two weeks. 
 She was still very shy with him, and the fact of 
 signing her name " Barbara Dering" still sent a sharp 
 pang through her, as though she were driving a needle 
 into some helpless creature. 
 
 As regarded her husband, she had sometimes a fleet 
 ing sensation of being slightly apart from him in cer 
 tain mental questions, while Dering had discovered 
 that a very impassioned woman may also be supremely 
 spiritual. Although neither admitted it, even to them 
 selves, they were beginning to jar a little on each 
 other in those trivial nothings which make the all of 
 married life. 
 
 Bering s manner often caused Barbara to wince, 
 while some of her ideas and objections struck him as 
 weak and sentimental. Still, this slight coolness that 
 blew across their intense feeling, from time to time, 
 was no more serious in its effects than the chill of an 
 early autumn day, which is only unpleasant as long 
 as one remains in the shadows. In moods of sunshine 
 the two were as near and dear to each other as before 
 their marriage. 
 
 One day after their return to Eosemary, Dering, 
 coming in from a long ride, found Barbara at the 
 library window with a book in her hands. He slipped 
 behind her and began to read over her shoulder. It 
 was an unmeasured delight to feel her heart quicken 
 its beats under his touch and to see the bright color 
 leap along her throat. 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 43 
 
 " What are you reading ?" he said at last, referring 
 to the Poems of Rossetti which she held. 
 
 " This one, Her Love, " she answered. " It is so ex 
 quisite. Men so seldom really understand women. I 
 love to find a poem like this, written by a man." 
 
 " Let s see," said Dering. " I don t know his poems 
 at all." So they read together the sonnet in question. 
 It was this : 
 
 "HER LOVE. 
 
 She loves him ; for her infinite soul is Love, 
 
 And he her load-star. Passion in her is 
 
 A glass facing his fire, where the bright bliss 
 
 Is mirrored and the heat returned. Yet move 
 
 That glass, a stranger s amorous flame to prove, 
 
 And it shall turn, by instant contraries, 
 
 Ice to the moon ; while her pure fire to his 
 
 For whom it burns clings close i the heart s alcove. 
 
 Lo ! they are one. With wifely breast to breast, 
 
 And circling arms, she welcomes all command 
 
 Of love, her soul to answering ardors fanned. 
 
 Yet, as morn springs or twilight sinks to rest, 
 
 Ah I who shall say she deems not loveliest 
 
 The hour of sisterly sweet hand in hand ?" 
 
 Her back was to him, so that she did not see the 
 smile of frank amusement which disclosed his bright 
 teeth, but something in his tone stung her as he said, 
 laughing, 
 
 " By gad ! he did make her out rather a molly-coddle 
 in the end ! I don t think we ever tried the what is 
 it? Let me see again. Oh, yes, the sisterly sweet 
 hand in hand. Did we ?" 
 
 " I don t think you exactly comprehend what Rossetti 
 means," she answered, a little coldly. "He doesn t 
 mean sawny sentimentalism like that of two country 
 bumpkins at a fair. He is trying to express that 
 
44 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 deep undertone of mutual understanding and rest and 
 bliss that perfect love brings. I suppose it was rather 
 daring to try to describe it. Any one knows what you 
 mean when you try to express passionate love, but 
 even when poets attempt to put into words that spirit 
 ual essence of love which is not mere affection, or 
 companionship, or or anything else that is generally 
 known, it is like trying to describe a subtle harmony 
 to some one who has never heard it." 
 
 " What eloquence !" said Dering, rather nettled in 
 his turn. "Do you really mean to say that you d 
 rather hold my hand than have me kiss you?" 
 
 " I think one has different moods," she returned, 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 "But, good Lord! that Eossetti fellow says the 
 woman in his sonnet prefers it ; or if he doesn t say 
 it, he hints it. Let s see it again." 
 
 " No, don t," said Barbara, rather unkindly. " Let s 
 put it back in the bookcase and forget that it was 
 ever written. Did you have a pleasant ride ?" 
 
 Dering looked at her with obstinate lips. 
 
 " Do you really fancy, my dear girl, that I m going 
 to be brushed aside like that ? I want you to be so 
 very kind as to come over here to the sofa and explain 
 just what you understand by that rather astonishing 
 statement." 
 
 " Oh, dear, dear!" sighed Barbara, "I m sure I don t 
 know exactly what it does mean now. I m completely 
 mixed up." 
 
 "Well, come over here and I ll help you unravel a 
 thought or two. Come /" rather peremptorily, as she 
 hesitated. 
 
 " I don t like it at all, Jock, when you speak to me in 
 that tone," she said, flushing. " I am perfectly willing 
 
BARBARA DERING. 45 
 
 to do what you ask, but I am certainly not going to 
 run at your bidding like a good little girl." 
 
 " Why, positively, you re cross about it, Barbara ! 
 I didn t think you d make such a fuss over a little 
 thing." 
 
 " It s not I," she said, her eyes beginning to flash. 
 " I m sure I would have let it drop at first. It was you 
 who would discuss. Besides, it isn t a little thing either. 
 It s a vital question, and one that I find we disagree 
 upon." 
 
 " By Jove ! we do disagree, if you mean to say that 
 you prefer feeling a sort of mawkish friendship for me 
 to what I thought was a fiery love. After all, I sup 
 pose women are all more or less alike." 
 
 " Who am I more or less alike ?" asked Barbara, with 
 tartness. " Whom are you classing me with ?" 
 
 "I don t like your tone anymore than you liked 
 mine just now," he retorted, curtly, and rising, moved 
 over to the window with his hands in his pockets and 
 his lips pursed as though to whistle. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Barbara, feeling a wild 
 and undignified desire to cry. She took up a book 
 which lay on the table and made an elaborate pretence 
 of reading. Then, all at once, something stirred in her 
 heart. She felt that she had been sharp and hasty, and 
 that, although he had hurt her more than he knew 
 by laughing at words which seemed to her to express 
 her inmost soul, she had been wrong to visit such an 
 unintentional thing upon him. If some of their opinions 
 already made a slight barrier between them, was she 
 not very wrong and unwise to risk increasing it by 
 any show of resentment ? She threw down the book, 
 and rushing over to his side, with one of her eager 
 movements slipped her arms about his throat and drew 
 
46 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 down his head to hers. Bering s neck bent a little 
 stiffly under her strong clasp. 
 
 " My love ! I am so sorry !" she whispered. " I was 
 very, very, abominably, hideously cross, and you can 
 punish me in any way that you like." Still Bering s 
 eyes remained distinctly cold. 
 
 " I shouldn t mind your having been cross," he said, 
 " if I could get at my offence. I can t make out what 
 I said to put you in such a rage." 
 
 " You couldn t call it a rage, Jock," Barbara returned, 
 also cold again. " It isn t very just of you to say that 
 I was in a rage." 
 
 " Oh, well, hang it all !" he exclaimed, impatiently, 
 " for goodness sake don t let us go on splitting hairs in 
 this childish fashion ! Call it righteous wrath, or just 
 indignation, or whatever you will. I never saw you 
 disagreeable like that before, and it makes a mighty big 
 change in you, I can tell you that." 
 
 " Oh !" said Barbara, turning away with a pale face. 
 
 "You ve shown yourself ill-natured and unkind," 
 Bering fumed on. " And if I were inclined to be rude 
 I might add silly. Where are you going ?" he broke 
 off. " I ll be very obliged if you ll pay me the ordinary 
 respect of remaining until I ve finished speaking." 
 
 " I d rather not," answered Barbara, quietly. " I think 
 we should both be sorry afterwards if I were to stay." 
 
 ; Well, look here," said Bering, frowning, " I demand 
 it of you, no matter what you think. I m not used 
 to having women treat me as mammas treat naughty 
 school-boys." 
 
 " I m not used to. being spoken to in this way either," 
 said Barbara. Her eyes had grown black and her 
 face looked dangerous with its white, compressed lips 
 and dilated nostrils. " What cause did I ever give you 
 
BARBARA DERING. 47 
 
 to think me a meek Griselda who could be ordered 
 about at will ?" 
 
 " Come back !" thundered Dering. 
 
 Barbara smiled and went out, closing the door softly. 
 
 Till. 
 
 BARBARA, having locked her door, stood in the centre 
 of her bedroom and looked about her with a dazed air. 
 Then, as the consciousness of what had passed be 
 tween herself and Dering grew upon her, she threw 
 herself down upon the floor and buried her face in 
 her folded arms. At first no tears would come, but 
 presently she began to feel herself shaken by short 
 sobs, which she controlled in a moment or two by a 
 great effort. 
 
 " I won t ! I won t !" she kept saying, in a soft voice. 
 " He shall not make me cry ! I will not let him make 
 me cry !" Then she sat up and pushed back her heavy 
 hair. " How dreadful !" she murmured. " I almost 
 dislike him ! It frightens me !" 
 
 With a sudden, sickening swoop, the thought of Yal- 
 entine s gentleness came down upon her. She hid her 
 face again and uttered some desperate words of prayer. 
 She felt sure that God would not let this awful torture 
 remain. And presently, as she knelt waiting, the vivid 
 ness of the present came to her relief. 
 
 " He is my husband ! I do love him !" she whispered, 
 with a great gush of tears. " But how harsh he was ! 
 How cruel ! I can t realize that he really spoke to me 
 like that. Oh, what a bitter world !" 
 
 She rose and went to the window, gazing sadly out 
 
48 BARBARA D BRING. 
 
 at the dark box-bushes, against which showed a yellow 
 lace-work of autumn leaves. The sun had nearly sunk 
 behind the violet-gray of the far hills. Slanting beams 
 struck across the withering grass on the wide lawn and 
 touched the rose-gray seed-pods on a magnolia-tree near 
 the window, making the half-disclosed scarlet beans 
 shine like jewels. A rabbit came jumping suddenly 
 towards her, then swerved to one side and disappeared 
 among the shrubbery. Overhead, two crows flew 
 slowly, with social cawings, their bodies showing a 
 rusty black in the gold light. 
 
 There was a sadness through it all, and Barbara 
 pressed her hands together with a long catching breath. 
 
 " What a poor, poor blind fool I was to think that 
 happiness could come twice in one life ! I was wrong 
 just now; but he made me so indignant. It has 
 always made me wicked to be taunted and ordered 
 about. I would have done anything he wished if he had 
 only been gentle. Oh, me ! how hard it all is ! I know 
 I was very, very wrong, but I did say I was sorry, and 
 he met me with such coldness. It makes my cheeks 
 burn to think of it. How terrible the intimacy of 
 marriage is unless it goes with absolute tenderness, 
 and, oh, how he always laughs at that word ! Oh, he 
 doesn t understand ! He doesn t understand I" she 
 ended, beginning to cry heart-brokenly and sinking 
 on the floor by the window. 
 
 " And I am afraid he will never let me teach him, 
 that he doesn t care to learn ! There seems to be only 
 one side to his love for me. If one could see the mean 
 ing in it all sometimes ! There is one thing at least. I 
 am learning that I need a great, great deal of disci 
 pline. I have such a craving for happiness. It is 
 wrong, I think. I care much more for other people 
 
BARBARA DERING. 49 
 
 than I used to do ; but how obstinate I am ! When I 
 think of how he looked at me just now, I feel so de 
 fiant, so insolent ! I feel as though I should only taunt 
 him and aggravate him if he came to ask my pardon. 
 I " 
 
 A half-hesitating knock at the door made her start. 
 
 " It s Jock, Barbara," said a low voice from without. 
 
 The blood rushed into her face, and she sat where she 
 was, quite silent, her hands gripped together, her lips 
 just curved with a revengeful little smile. At the 
 moment she felt hard and cruel and as though he were, 
 in some sort, her enemy. 
 
 " Barbara," said Dering again. Still she was silent. 
 
 After a moment or two he turned away, and she 
 heard his footsteps going from her along the uncar- 
 peted floor of the hall. 
 
 " He treated me insolently," she said, with her teeth 
 fast shut. " No man shall speak to me like that." And 
 she remained in the gathering twilight, her heart grow 
 ing more and more desolate and bitter, her body be 
 ginning to shiver as the fire died out on the hearth. 
 
 All at once some one flung up one of the windows 
 with a bang, and she looked up to see Dering leap into 
 the room from the top of the portico outside. 
 
 She got to her feet and stood facing him with defiant 
 eyes, but he came and crushed her in his arms as 
 though she had been a wilful child, and began a 
 bewildered outpour of regret, apology, repentance,, 
 reproach, love. 
 
 "You cruel, cruel, beautiful, wicked, devilish dar 
 ling !" he ended finally, and Barbara began to laugh 
 in spite of herself. " If you haven t the knack of 
 torturing a man out of his wits down to a fine point ! 
 First you go and tell me that you agree with a biood- 
 c d 5 
 
50 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 less numskull who says that holding hands forms the 
 sum of human bliss ! Then you follow it up by telling 
 me you don t agree with me on a vital question ! Then 
 you treat me with the coolest insolence, and walk off 
 in the middle of what I am saying to you, shutting 
 the door in my face ! Aren t you ashamed, honestly ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am," she said, her face roguish in one of the 
 flashing changes which gave her her potent charm. 
 " I told you so ; but you were too odious !" 
 
 " Yes, I know I was," he admitted. " I haven t a 
 very nice temper." 
 
 " Indeed you haven t ! No one ever spoke to me so 
 in all my life. Do you know there was one minute 
 when I almost hated you !" 
 
 " I felt something rather like it for you," he returned, 
 laughing. 
 
 "But you did begin it, Jock! I m sure you ll be 
 just about that. I didn t want to discuss it from the 
 first. Now, did I ?" 
 
 "That s just what provoked me. You ve such a 
 grandiose way of waving aside any one who does not 
 agree with you exactly." 
 
 " Oh, Jock ! what a horrid picture you make of me !" 
 
 "Well," said Bering, dragging at his moustache 
 and assuming a grave, rather judicial air, " you have 
 some faults that you re not at all aware of. That s 
 one of em." 
 
 " I don t see why you waited until now to tell me 
 about it," she answered, stiffly, her head, with its 
 ruffled, flame-like hair, very erect. " I must confess I 
 like people to speak out frankly at the time ; not go 
 on for months laying things up as it were." 
 
 " I m speaking frankly now, and you don t seem to 
 like it much." 
 
BARBARA DERING. 51 
 
 "That s not the question at all. Why didn t you 
 speak at first ?" 
 
 " Well, you see, my dear girl, I had such an awfully 
 hard time getting you to marry me at all that I cer 
 tainly wasn t going to risk my chances by setting up 
 as a mentor." 
 
 "Can you think of anything else that displeases 
 you about me just now ?" asked Barbara, quietly, but 
 with a feeling of angry protestation swelling in her 
 heart. 
 
 In married life the first occasion of fault-finding is 
 an event from which conjugal dates are evolved. 
 Barbara remembered that this was the twenty-second 
 of October, and was, moreover, sure that she would 
 never forget it. 
 
 " Can you ?" she repeated, as Dering stood silent, 
 still pulling at his moustache. 
 
 " Yes, I can," he answered at last, rather abruptly. 
 "But I m not such an ass as to mention it. I ve 
 fussed you up enough for one day." 
 
 " I m not in the least fussed up, as you call it," said 
 Barbara, icily ; " and I would much rather have all the 
 charges against me mentioned at once." 
 
 "Oh," exclaimed Dering, exasperated, "who the 
 mischief spoke of * charges against you ? Do you 
 really fancy yourself faultless ? By Jove ! you have 
 been shamefully spoiled and flattered ! It s a wonder 
 you are as simple and natural as you are." 
 
 " Thank you," said Barbara. 
 
 He wheeled about suddenly. " I tell you what it is," 
 he remarked, energetically, "we re both acting like 
 idiots to stay here squabbling in this barn of a room. 
 I m catching cold this minute. I can always tell. 
 What on earth possessed you to let the fire go out ?" 
 
52 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 " There s the bell," said Barbara. " If you ring twice, 
 Martha Ellen will come and make a fire." 
 
 " Martha Ellen!" jerked Dering, with an angry 
 laugh. " Why on earth do most negro girls have these 
 double-barrelled names? Why don t you call her 
 Martha or Ellen ?" 
 
 " You can, if you choose," said Barbara, dryly. " She 
 will answer to almost anything. My name for her is 
 Rameses. Perhaps you would like that better." 
 
 " Jove !" exclaimed Dering, with another laugh, 
 "you can make yourself unpleasant. I m sorry I 
 should have had to mention one of your failings to 
 you, but, as your husband, I don t choose to be made 
 ridiculous in the eyes of the world by the absurd 
 childishness you sometimes indulge in." 
 
 Barbara rose, and, going to the dressing-table, lifted 
 one of the big ivory brushes and began to smooth her 
 disarranged hair with hands that trembled. Then she 
 looked at him in the glass until their eyes met, when 
 she said, in a cold, quiet voice, 
 
 " I shall not forget what you have said to me." 
 
 " No ; it s my wish that you should not," he returned, 
 staring back at her with hard eyes, which she wondered 
 how she could ever have thought handsome. 
 
 "It s seven o clock," she then said, glancing down 
 at the little Louis Quinze watch of old red enamel 
 which lay on the pin-cushion. " If you ll be so kind 
 as to go, I should like to dress for dinner." 
 
 "All right," he said, rising at once. "Only I hope 
 you won t dawdle as much as usual. The soup is always 
 cold, and this country cooking is beastly at the best." 
 
 "I shall be punctual," said Barbara, and he closed 
 the door rather noisily and went off, whistling " Wait 
 till the Clouds roll by, Jenny," with elaborate flourishes. 
 
BARBARA BERING. 53 
 
 IX. 
 
 BARBARA, left to herself, turned around, with hands 
 clinched at her sides and furious eyes fastened on the 
 shut door. 
 
 " I hate him ! I hate him !" she said, in a voice low 
 but of condensed energy. " I hate you !" she repeated, 
 as though addressing some one before her. Then she 
 gazed about her, as though in search of some relief. 
 A little square yellow stain on one of the walls near 
 the fireplace caught her attention. It was evidently 
 the mark made by a picture which had hung there a 
 long time. She ran over and laid her cheek against it. 
 " Oh, Yal !" she said, with a deep sob. Then turning 
 quickly away, took her forehead between both palms 
 and pressed it hard, whispering to herself, "No, I 
 must not do that. I shall go mad if I begin that." 
 
 She threw herself on the sofa presently, feeling all 
 of a sudden weak and cold. In the confused whirl of 
 emotions which beset her she could not single out that 
 which was strongest. Her mind seemed to be a tan 
 gled and fiery web of new fierce thoughts which 
 frightened her. She gave herself up to the clutch of 
 what she considered despair with that sense of the 
 finalness of things which so often misleads the newly 
 married. It was impossible that she could ever again 
 feel love for a being whom she had once allowed her 
 self to hate. It was impossible that one who really 
 loved her should speak to her as Dering had spoken 
 this afternoon. The old familiar rustling in the boughs 
 of an elm near her window struck her as derisive. 
 She seemed to be some one else, and the objects in the 
 room had to her an air of disapproval. Then, in her 
 
 6* 
 
54 BARBARA BERING. 
 
 bewildered brain, she tried to go back over what they 
 had said to each other and to see where she had been 
 wrong, but before she could remember anything con 
 secutively, Bering s last words struck her memory s 
 ear like a blow and set every nerve tingling with 
 angry denial. 
 
 "He does not chose that I I shall make him 
 ridiculous in the eyes of the world ! Oh, what words, 
 what words to speak to a woman ! And we have only 
 been married two weeks !" 
 
 That vague, dark terror that she remembered came 
 down upon her. " My God, what is our life going to 
 be ?" she said aloud in a childlike tone of great fear. 
 She felt her throat beginning to ache and the pressure 
 of coming tears behind her eyes, then started up and 
 began to unhook her morning gown and to look 
 nervously into different drawers and closets for the 
 dress that she wanted. She would not ring for Barne 
 ses. She could not bear the thought of even the most 
 loving eyes watching her through this grim hour. As 
 she drew the last fold into place the gong sounded for 
 dinner, and she turned to leave the room, but coming 
 back, fell upon her knees for a moment. 
 
 " Don t, don t make it too hard ! I will try to bear 
 it," was somehow all that she could find to say, and in 
 reply she seemed to hear these stern words repeated 
 in a voice of cold severity : " I have somewhat against 
 thee because thou hast left thy first love." 
 
 She almost ran from the room, driven by a dread 
 sense of friendlessness and isolation. In some strange 
 way the very silence seemed urging upon her the 
 truth of Bering s criticisms. 
 
 " Perhaps it is so, perhaps I am all that he says," 
 she thought, pausing on her way down-stairs to grasp 
 
BARBARA DERI NO. 55 
 
 the railing of the banisters with a terror-stricken 
 look, as though she had met some spectre coming up. 
 Then she heard Miss Fridiswig s little feet pattering 
 through the hall, and ran down to join her. Dering 
 was standing before the dining-room fire in evening 
 dress as they entered. His face had a frozen, stolid 
 look, as though carved in metal. Looking at Barbara, 
 he saw only that she was very pale and that her lips 
 and eyebrows were haughty. His thoughts of her 
 had not been gentle. He was a man of quick, impe 
 rious temper, not accustomed either to opposition or to 
 the ways of women. Pride and resolution were prob 
 ably his strongest characteristics, and Barbara had 
 wounded the first and roused the second. He liked to 
 impress his individuality upon others, and he was 
 determined that Barbara should conform to his ideas 
 in a general sense, if not in detail. 
 
 Their discussion over Eossetti s sonnet had left him 
 smarting in two ways. First, her tacit criticism upon 
 his comprehension of love had angered his vanity, and, 
 secondly, the mere idea that her keen passion for him 
 was waning into a poetic sentimentality gripped him 
 with that spasmodic kind of pain which brings with it 
 a savage irritation. He felt that she loved him when 
 it harmonized with her mood, and that when he opposed 
 her she could instantly call up the icy irony of manner 
 which had so galled him during the past interview. 
 
 At the same time, with a strange, vehement undercur 
 rent of feeling which swept his thoughts in an opposite 
 direction, he was conscious that her exquisite feminine- 
 ness and beauty roused in him an intense adoration, and 
 that in hurting her he was forcing upon himself throes 
 of bitter pain. In addition to all this he was haunted 
 by the memory of her wild fluctuations, uncertain 
 
56 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 humors, frankly cruel egoism, throughout their first 
 engagement. He felt that he was dealing with a 
 powerful and incalculable force, and that he had no 
 certainty as to whether her love for him would remain 
 steadfast under trying circumstances. This doubt, 
 however, was soothed by his firm belief in his own 
 mastery of the situation and strength to compel events 
 into the order which he wished them to assume. Upon 
 one thing he was absolutely determined : Barbara 
 should acknowledge that in him she had found her 
 conqueror. In his secret mind he considered that his 
 cousin Yalentine Pomfret had been a rather weak and 
 unavailing fellow, and he was given to saying that he 
 detested chaps who went about as though they had 
 springs in their backs and moved by electric shocks ; 
 this being Bering s method of expressing his dislike 
 for the usual drawing-room manner of this century. 
 
 He watched Barbara furtively during dinner. Every 
 motion of her large, fair hands, every turn of her sup 
 ple throat under its clear and elastic skin, every flicker 
 of her straight brows and dark-red lips, thrilled him 
 with that sense of supreme personality which the being 
 we love holds for us even in lapses of indignation. To 
 him she appeared self-satisfied, indifferent, cool, while 
 in reality her heart dragged heavily like a sick thing 
 in her breast, and the food which she was eating seemed 
 to have no taste. 
 
 " It is all over," she was saying to herself. " I have 
 married him and I dislike him. It was an illusion, a 
 fascination. He is cruel and cold-hearted. Every fibre 
 of me loathes him to-night." 
 
 She went up-stairs very early, threw herself into the 
 wide bed, and slept heavily like a child after a long fit 
 of sobbing. 
 
BARBARA DERING. 57 
 
 X. 
 
 WHEN Barbara woke the next morning she was 
 astonished to find that her mood had changed during 
 the night, and that her anger against Dering had died 
 down into a feeling of isolated hopelessness and grief. 
 She heard him moving about in his dressing-room, and 
 the snapping of a newly-kindled fire told her that he 
 had just got up. She felt that she was very weak, 
 because of a strong yearning which tempted her to put 
 her lips against the crack of the door which separated 
 their rooms and bid him good-morning. 
 
 " I seem to have no strength of purpose," she told 
 herself, tossing about impatiently, while Rarneses flung 
 open the Venetian blinds, letting in a twinkling sluice 
 of October sunlight, and filled her tub with water, 
 which gave forth an icy crackle as it gushed into the 
 hollow of zinc. While she waited for these preparations 
 to be made she read in one of those little books of 
 which women are so fond. It was called " Daily 
 Strength for Daily Needs," and the title had been a 
 source of great amusement to Dering, who found it 
 unique. She turned to the page dated October the 
 twenty-third. There was a verse from the Psalms, a 
 bit of Lucy Larcom s poetry, and two selections, one 
 from George Eliot and one from Frederick Robertson. 
 The extract from > r omola" was as follows : 
 
 " You are seeking -four own will, my daughter. You 
 are seeking some good other tJuin the law you are bound to 
 obey. But how will you find good ? It is not a thing of 
 choice. It is a river that flows from the foot of the In 
 visible Throne, and flows by the path of obedience. I say 
 
58 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 again, man cannot choose his duties. You may choose to 
 forsake your duties, and choose not to have the sorrow they 
 bring. But you will go forth, and what will you find, my 
 daughter f Sorrow without duty, bitter herbs and no bread 
 with them." 
 
 Barbara lay quite still after reading this, her hand 
 thrust deep into the loosened masses of her hair, her eyes 
 upon the golden nutter of the leaves against the dark- 
 blue atmosphere, shrouding the great evergreens beyond. 
 
 " Yes, it is my duty," she said finally, in a firm 
 voice. "How hard it seems to be for me to learn 
 things ! I don t want to be wrong and wicked, and 
 yet, somehow, I am always stumbling into such burn 
 ing mistakes !" 
 
 She turned absently to the next page, and saw this 
 extract from Mrs. Stowe s writings : 
 
 " Talk of hair-cloth shirts and scour gings and sleeping 
 on ashes as means of saintship ! There is no need of 
 them in our country. Let a woman once look at her 
 domestic trials as her hair-cloth, her ashes, her scourges, 
 accept them, rejoice in them, smile and be quiet, silent, 
 patient, loving under them, and the convent can teach her 
 no more. She is a victorious saint" 
 
 Barbara dashed from the bed with a gay laugh. 
 " Eamie !" she exclaimed, seizing the smiling little 
 negress by both arms, " Eamie, dear, I m going to be 
 a victorious saint !" 
 
 " Well, you cert n y is pretty, I don keer what else 
 you is," answered Martha Ellen, drawing her delicately- 
 formed, rough little hand, with a loving gesture, over 
 her mistress s brilliant hair. 
 
 " Dear Eamie I I m going to be pretty is as pretty 
 does. That s much better. Does Tobit ever make 
 you feel like being ugly is as ugly does, Eamie ?" 
 
BARBARA D BRING. 59 
 
 "Tobit s mighty aggravatin sometimes, Miss Barb ra. 
 I kin sca cely hole my han s." 
 
 " How is he aggravating ? Is he cross to you ?" 
 
 "No, that s jes hit. I cyarri make him cross, I 
 done keer what I do. He s jes ez kine en good ! They 
 nuver wuz sech a man bout bein good in sickness." 
 
 " Well, that is nice, Ramie! I m going to give him 
 a watch at Christmas." Martha Ellen sank down on 
 the hearth-rug under the weight of her emotion. 
 
 " Miss Barb ra, ef you give Tobit a watch, Tobit 11 
 bust !" 
 
 " Are you sure you wouldn t like him to bust, Ka 
 mie ?" asked Barbara, wickedly. Eameses shook her 
 head in solemn denial. 
 
 " I is ben think all sorts uv things, Miss Barb ra, 
 but you does git so mixed up. An hit cert n y does 
 seem as how dee Lord does favor de men-folks. Some 
 times, when Tobit have stay out so late at night, I is 
 ben sit down en plead wid dee Lord tuh let hit thunder 
 an lighten , cause Tobit s awful fraid uv thunder, an 
 I clare tuh gracious, Miss Barb ra, sometimes he ain t 
 ben put he foot in dee house two seckints fore hit pour 
 down wid rain like buckets wuz bein upsetted. But 
 hit don nuver begin till he safe in-doors." 
 
 " What a shame !" exclaimed Barbara, with the 
 ready sympathy which made her servants give her such 
 unstinted adoration. They had all been happy slaves 
 and born on the estate, or else the children of such 
 slaves, and they treated their young mistress more like 
 a beloved child or a superior sister than a person apart 
 from them, holding a distant authority. 
 
 " Husban s is something that s shore !" sighed Barneses, 
 drawing a long blue silk stocking over her arm and 
 turning the foot that Barbara might slip it on more 
 
60 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 easily. " You cert n y wuz brave tub try hit two times, 
 Miss Barb ra." 
 
 " Yes, I think I was, Eamie ; but then you never 
 know what you ll do until you do it. I suppose you 
 think if Tobit was to to disappear you d never marry 
 again ?" 
 
 " No, honey-chile," said Barneses, solemnly. " Mar 
 tha Ellen don think nothin bout that. She know, ef 
 God wuz tuh lif her outer trouble onct, she cert n y 
 w an t goin tuh put her paws in no other trap men- 
 folks could set for her." 
 
 " So you think marriage is a failure, Ramie ?" 
 
 " I dunno bout others, Miss Barb ra," said the little 
 woman, shrewdly ; " hit cert n y is ben fail fuh me." 
 
 After Barbara had put on her gown of creamy serge 
 and arranged her hair in sleek compactness, she looked 
 as fresh and pure as some white bird just out of its 
 dip in a morning pool. Her face was no longer pale 
 and wretched as on the night before, but in her eyes 
 and about her lips was a look of alert determination 
 that grew as she searched among the trifles on her 
 writing-table for pen, paper, and sealing-wax. After 
 settling everything to her liking she sat down, and 
 bending low above the sheet in front of her, as though 
 afraid that some one might peep over her shoulder, 
 wrote the following note to Bering : 
 
 "DEAR, I feel that I have been wrong and have 
 wounded you, and I do want to make friends again. I 
 can t say more than that I m sorry. Can I, my Jock 
 o hazel e en ? (Don t think I ve made a mistake here 
 in writing e en instead of dean ! ! ! It is meant for a 
 pun !) I mean to be the goodest girl in the world from 
 this day on, though I won t say you were all in the 
 
BARBARA DERING. 61 
 
 right. But I am sorry, and I have been hideously 
 unhappy all night, and here is a kiss, if you want it 
 from your 
 
 " BARBARA." 
 
 She ended by drawing a somewhat scraggy circle on 
 the paper and placing her lips upon it, as children do 
 when they send kisses in a letter ; then sealed the little 
 envelope with a huge, documentary-looking seal, and 
 started off to slip it under Bering s door. After doing 
 this she ran down-stairs, wishing to get away before 
 he could call her, and was startled to see, lying on one 
 of the hall tables, an envelope addressed to her in his 
 handwriting. 
 
 She lifted it, with a sudden flash of pleasure quick 
 ening her face. 
 
 " How dear of him !" she said, in a low voice. " He 
 has written to me, too !" 
 
 Alone under the big walnut-trees on the lawn, she 
 stood still, and, thrusting an eager thumb beneath the 
 flap of the envelope, tore it open : then saw that there 
 was only a line or two, and her heart fell. This was 
 Bering s message : 
 
 "DEAR BARBARA, Bently has been badgering me 
 for years to come and have a deer-hunt with him in 
 the Eagged Mountains, and, as this seems about as 
 good a time as any, I m off. Yours, 
 
 Barbara stood gazing down at the bit of paper in 
 her hand, while her lips and nostrils whitened slowly. 
 
 Mixed with the stab of pain, which came in the con 
 sciousness that he wished to leave her, was a vehement 
 
 6 
 
62 BARBARA DERTNG. 
 
 feeling of wounded pride, when she reflected as to 
 what others might say and think. 
 
 " They will say that he is bored ; that he is tired of 
 me ; that I weary him." Then she turned and walked 
 a little way, not seeing the objects about her very 
 distinctly. 
 
 " How could he !" she said aloud, looking up at the 
 dazzling autumn blue with its fret-work of little dark 
 twigs, on which, here and there, spun a gay copper- 
 colored leaf. That sharp feeling of repulsion and 
 anger which had so consumed her a few hours ago 
 returned stronger than ever. She walked slowly back 
 to the house, and, opening Bering s door, lifted her note 
 to him and, after smiling at it for a second, tossed it 
 into the fire. His, however, she kept. 
 
 " I ll look at it whenever I m inclined to be impul 
 sive," she told herself. Then she sat down in one of 
 the old oak chairs with which the lower hall was fur 
 nished, and, taking her chin into the palm of her right 
 hand, stared before her at the vivid day outside. She 
 had a distinct fear of pondering too deeply upon this 
 new aspect of affairs, and made an effort to concentrate 
 her thoughts upon the masses of small polished leaves 
 which the great box-hedge in front of her was swing 
 ing gently in the light wind. 
 
 Before she knew exactly what had happened, a car 
 riage stopped on the gravel, and some one, standing 
 in slight silhouette on the threshold, knocked at the 
 open door. 
 
BARBARA DERING. 63 
 
 XL 
 
 BARBARA did not wait for a servant, but came forward 
 herself, assuming a pretty look of hospitality. She did 
 not recognize her visitor until within a few feet of her, 
 and even then hesitated. It had been a long while 
 since she had seen Eunice Denison, twelve years at 
 least, and they had both been school-girls then, and not 
 intimate ; but it seemed to her that this almost shadowy 
 suppleness of outline and floating walk could not be 
 long to another woman. 
 
 " Is it really you, Eunice ?" she asked, a little shyly. 
 " Yes, I see it is. You haven t changed much, after all. 
 It s your expression, I think." 
 
 "And yours," returned Mrs. Bransby ; " but somehow 
 you look younger, Barbara." 
 
 " Do I ?" said Barbara, still shy. She had never been 
 quite at her ease with this woman, and now it seemed 
 to her that the pale, clear little face was colder and 
 less easy to read than ever. Mrs. Bransby had eyes of 
 a cool blue, with graceful eyebrows and long curved 
 lashes. Her dark, shining hair grew in great quantities 
 from a broad but low band of forehead. Her mouth, 
 with its wide, deeply-carved lips, was very lovely. She 
 was one of those women whom fanciful people at 
 once associate with frail and faintly-colored flowers, 
 and in her dress of some soft lilac tint she reminded 
 Barbara at this moment of a drowsy branch of helio 
 trope. 
 
 She entered the hall with her languid, swaying gait, 
 and sank into the chair from which Barbara had just 
 risen, looking about her and saying, finally, 
 
64 BARBARA DERINQ. 
 
 " What a pretty old hall ! You must love this place 
 very dearly, Barbara." 
 
 " Yes, I do," replied Barbara. " I never feel quite ( me, 
 so to speak, anywhere else." 
 
 Mrs. Bransby gave her slow smile, and lifting her 
 narrow, graceful hands in their gloves of pale-grayi 
 suede, began to unfasten her veil. 
 
 " Oh, let me do it!" urged Barbara, girlishly. " You 
 will strain your sleeves, and I do so love to * potter 
 about people." 
 
 " I must be horribly frowzy," said Eunice, just touch 
 ing the thick hair under her little hat of violets. 
 
 " Oh, no," said Barbara ; " hair like yours is lovely 
 blown about. But perhaps you would rather come to 
 my room and arrange it." 
 
 " Thanks ; you are very good. I should like that." 
 
 Admitting a guest into one s bedroom establishes at 
 once a state of mental as well as physical ease. Bar 
 bara felt much less constrained as she moved about, 
 arranging little details for her friend s comfort. She 
 ended, to her own astonishment, by asking to be 
 allowed to brush the wavy dark hair which Eunice 
 had shaken over her shoulders, and soon the two 
 were chattering brightly together, like children en 
 gaged in tricking each other out to look like " grown 
 people." 
 
 Barbara found that Eunice had been married ten 
 years, and that her two daughters were named Lois and 
 Winifred ; that her husband had bought an old house 
 in the neighborhood called The Poplars, where they had 
 now come to live, and that she was " oh, yes, quite 
 happy." 
 
 " I am so glad that we are to live near each other," 
 said Barbara, warmly. " Women do need women so 
 
BARBARA D BRING. 65 
 
 much sometimes. I have always wanted a real woman 
 friend." 
 
 " I am so cold in my manner. I repel people so," 
 murmured Eunice, coloring delicately. " I always man 
 age to say the wrong thing." 
 
 "But what difference does manner make if one s 
 heart is warm?" asked Barbara, earnestly. "Some 
 times those people those seemingly cold people, I 
 mean have the most glowing natures." 
 
 Mrs. Bransby, who had been looking rather sadly out 
 of the window, now turned her quiet blue eyes upon 
 Barbara, smiling a little. 
 
 " I am smiling because I fancy how astonished you 
 would look if I told you something." 
 
 "Ah, do tell me!" said Barbara, leaning forward 
 with her ardent air of self-forgetfulness. " Is it pleas 
 ant?" 
 
 " Oh, it s not anything very much ; only I m not in 
 the habit of saying such things. You can believe me. 
 What I was thinking was this : you ve always had 
 such a strange, decided charm for me." 
 
 " I !" exclaimed Barbara, genuinely amazed. " Why, 
 I thought you almost disliked me." 
 
 " No ; I was a little afraid of you." 
 
 Afraid of me ! But why ?" 
 
 " You were so vivid, so daring. You never seemed 
 to be afraid of anything, to dread anything. I was 
 always a mousie creature." 
 
 "But I don t dare everything now," said Barbara, 
 shaking her head. " There are some things that I 
 dread with all my heart. I understand how you feel, 
 though." 
 
 " I was like a gray pigeon and you were like a cardi 
 nal-bird. You used to fascinate me. You had the 
 e 6* 
 
66 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 same charm for me that a generous wood-fire has for 
 a chilly temperament, only I was always so afraid of 
 boring you." 
 
 " Why, I had that same feeling about you," said 
 Barbara. "You seemed so placid and self-contained. 
 You were always reading some deep book. I thought 
 that I would only disturb you if I spoke to you." 
 
 " I used to watch you from a distance," continued 
 Eunice. "You seemed like a free woodland thing. 
 There was such zest in your voice, in your laughter." 
 
 " And you," returned Barbara ; " I used to watch you, 
 too. You seemed like a delicate porcelain vase in 
 which a love-letter is hidden. I longed to speak 
 with you and ask you what you thought of life, of 
 love." 
 
 " The less one dreams such dreams the nearer one 
 is to content. I am teaching my girls not to have 
 romantic ideas," said Eunice, with uneager bitterness. 
 " I hope they will never marry." 
 
 " It is a great risk," Barbara admitted. She grew 
 suddenly pale and felt that Eunice was regarding her 
 questioningly. 
 
 " One never knows. There is no way of judging 
 before marriage," she went on, falteringly. 
 
 " Barbara !" exclaimed the other. " Tell me. Why 
 do you think that marriages are so often unhappy ?" 
 
 " I don t know," answered Barbara, not meeting her 
 eyes. "I don t know," she repeated, sadly. "There 
 is something all wrong about it. One can never tell 
 what will happen afterwards. For one thing, men are 
 so much more material than we are. Passion with us 
 is an imaginative, half-spiritual thing. Their ideas of 
 it are generally very practical and matter-of-fact. A 
 man cannot understand that his very way of taking 
 
BARBARA D BRING. 67 
 
 your hand in his may set your heart beating happily 
 or chill you to the marrow." 
 
 Eunice s lips were parted. Her wide eyes were fast 
 ened upon Barbara. She seemed to be quivering 
 through and through with some life-giving emotion. 
 " Yes, yes," she said, in a tone of urgent expectancy, 
 as Barbara paused. 
 
 " As a rule they don t care for the little things which 
 make up life for us," Barbara went on. " I suppose 
 women do regard detail too much. It s so in art as 
 well as in love. We ought to look more to the broad 
 masses and the general composition of things." 
 
 " I suppose a tack in one s shoe is a detail ?" asked 
 Eunice, quietly. 
 
 Somehow the two women found that their hands 
 were tightly clasped together. Under an impulse en 
 tirely new to her Eunice leaned forward and pressed 
 her lips to Barbara s forehead. When they looked at 
 each other their eyes were full of tears. 
 
 XII. 
 
 WHEN Eunice had gone away, Barbara walked down 
 the low stone steps of the south porch upon the faded 
 grass of the lawn. The day had grown warmer. The 
 dim blue masses of the distant woods quivered through 
 ascending sheets of intense, crystal-clear heat. A bird 
 near by uttered a spring-like note. Barbara s un 
 shaded face showed a pale-gold freckle here and there 
 in the dazzle of autumn light. Her hair was a splen 
 did banner of fire. As she -walked onward with her 
 buoyant, power-suggesting gait, her white gown beat- 
 
68 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 ing about her in the wind, with motions suggestive of 
 a happy freedom, there was a tired, unhopeful look in 
 her eyes, which seemed out of key with the rest of her 
 vivid being. 
 
 She reached a gate crusted with flat rosettes of 
 green-gray, black-lined lichens, paused, hesitated, then, 
 resting her arms along its top, stared out into the shim 
 mer of delicate air. Perhaps it was the contrast of 
 her own sadness, but as she stood there a sense of the 
 world-joy that was pulsing in the sunlit spaces about 
 her began to seep into her senses, physical and mental. 
 A small, green creature on the top of the gate near 
 her elbow stretched out first one fine serrated leg, then 
 the other, then spread its frail wings, refolded them in 
 their brittle-looking sheaths, and slowly waving its hair- 
 like antennae, began a shrill, vibrant chirr of absolute 
 content. A spider was busily engaged in weaving its 
 web between the latch of the gate and a lilac twig 
 above ; not a foot away, in the warm grass, something 
 stirred, glided, was still. She had that subtle sense of 
 being gazed at. Staring more intensely, she saw a 
 pair of sparkling eyes, no larger than one seed of a 
 blackberry, set obliquely in an arrow-shaped head. 
 The young snake remained breathless to her sight, its 
 burning, bronze-brown squares unchanging, its dapper 
 head erect. 
 
 " I would not hurt you, my dear," said Barbara, ad 
 dressing it, gravely. " Why are you afraid ? Go home 
 to your pretty mate." 
 
 At the sound of her voice the moccasin lowered its 
 crest and slithered away under an evergreen beside 
 the gate. 
 
 She smiled to herself, " I should have killed it, I 
 suppose. It was a poisonous snake. But why kill a 
 
BARBARA DERI NO. 69 
 
 thing that is only poisonous in self-defence ? Besides, 
 these sun-rays reached us both at the same moment, 
 and we both love sunlight. Somehow, on a day like 
 this, one is conscious with a great triumph that God 
 makes his sun to shine on the just and the unjust, on 
 serpents as well as on flowers, that His whole world to 
 its very core is glowing with His love. You, too, little 
 one. I won t spoil your wheel of lace. I shall be 
 undignified and climb instead." 
 
 Putting her hands on the low gate, she sprang, boy- 
 like, into the field beyond. The atmosphere of the 
 day was a warm violet in the shadows, a rose-gold in 
 the light. The nestling straw-stacks, in the hollow of 
 a near meadow, shone silver dashed with pink. The 
 golden-rod was turning to ashes on its tall stalks. 
 Little apple-like, yellow balls, growing low in the rank 
 weeds, tapped against her feet as she passed. She 
 was walking aimlessly, striving to draw into herself 
 some of the plenteous sufficiency of the hour. Her 
 thoughts danced as changefully as the glistening cloud 
 of gnats that spun before her in circles of steely light. 
 As she nibbled a bit of sassafras which she had broken 
 in passing, her thoughts flew back to her childhood, to 
 her girlhood. She dropped the sweet-smelling twig 
 suddenly and stood quite still. She could see Valen 
 tine standing there beside her, the flash of his smile, 
 his extended hand, slender, strong. 
 
 " How these childish things come back ! foolish jests ! 
 little, trivial love-speeches!" It seemed to her that 
 her heart trembled within her. " 1 must reason with 
 myself," she said, aloud. " I see quite clearly that I 
 would have been far braver, far nobler, if I had con 
 tented myself with the memory of my dear " She 
 
 broke off again, then went on in a whisper, the tears 
 
70 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 falling: "Oh, he is my dear! I cannot help that, my 
 love for him is so pure, so high, it cannot clash witli 
 any duty. Why do I always remember those dreadful 
 words, Yet I have somewhat against thee, because 
 thou hast left thy first love ? God s face seems always 
 frowning upon me. Dear Yal, dear Yal. be my good 
 angel and help me, and teach me how to be good, how 
 to do what is right !" 
 
 She lifted her tear-washed face, with eyes closed and 
 quivering and hands pressed against her breast. 
 
 When she went back to the house, it was with the 
 determination to accept naturally and with courage 
 the life which she had prepared for herself. 
 
 It was a week later that Eameses knocked at the 
 door with a telegram, which ran as follows : " Splendid 
 weather. First-rate sport. Four big fellows for the 
 hall. Be with you at six P.M." She could not help 
 laughing as she recalled the king s letter in Ruy Bias : 
 " Madame, il a fait beaucoup de vent etfai tuesept loups" 
 
 Barbara had suffered intensely during the past 
 week. She was not exactly in the mood which Dering 
 would have chosen her to wear for his reception. In 
 stead of answering his wire, she sat down at once and 
 wrote a pretty note to Eunice Bransby, asking her 
 to spend the afternoon and dine with her: of course, 
 if Mr. Bransby was at The Poplars, she hoped he would 
 come too. 
 
 When Dering reached the station, a few hours later, 
 he felt rather astonished to see that Barbara was not 
 in the trap which had been sent to meet him. Then 
 he gave his shoulders a half-pleased, half-vexed shake, 
 and muttered to himself, " She s still sulking, the big 
 darling!" He thought that it would be excessively 
 pleasant to spend the next hour or so in coaxing her 
 
BARBARA DERING. 71 
 
 out of the dumps, and drew little imaginary sketches 
 as he sent the cart rattling vehemently over the abomi 
 nable roads. 
 
 " She ll be cold at first, the blessed angel, awfully 
 cold ; then she ll give me the devil of a dose of sarcasm, 
 then she ll get rather sad and forlorn, the beauty! 
 Gad! how I do dote on her! Get along, you snail, or 
 I ll sell you ! You can t trot against a cat ! Then let 
 me see. I don t know whether I ll hold her and kiss 
 her or not. I ll just get my arms around her, and she ll 
 probably kiss me. What a mouth ! And how proud 
 she is, the vixen ! By Jove ! she is a vixen ! Couldn t 
 have stood any other kind. Does me lots of good ; as 
 for that, egad ! I ll do her a lot before we re through ! 
 It s like spanking a queen with her sceptre to tell her 
 of her faults. I swear it is !" He broke off and 
 laughed appreciatively, a gay, boyish laugh. His eyes 
 were clear and bright as gems. There was a whole 
 some brownness over his face and throat. His curls 
 needed cutting. He had suffered as well as Barbara 
 during this eventful week, but in an entirely different 
 way. Her emotions had been conflicting, tearing, of 
 the kind that wears holes in the fabric of the spirit. 
 Dering s had consisted of an intense desire to be with 
 her, to return and let her bully him to her heart s con 
 tent, and, at the same time, of a virile, almost sullen 
 determination to remain where he was. But it is im 
 possible to be a genuine sportsman, in pursuit of big 
 game, and to allow entirely sentimental passions to 
 absorb you. Dering had finally yielded, without re 
 serve, to the woodland soothing which stole over him. 
 After each day s hard shooting he had been too tired 
 to do more than fling himself down on his bed of pine 
 boughs and sleep like an exhausted boy. 
 
72 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 When he reached Rosemary, one vigorous leap took 
 him from the wheel to the portico. She was not there 
 to meet him. He gave his shoulders another shake, 
 and began darting into different rooms in search of 
 her. At last his face softened, and he said, 
 
 " The dear ! She s waiting for me in our room." 
 
 He went up the stairs on tiptoe, three steps at a 
 time. At Barbara s door he paused. She was talking 
 to some one, probably Barneses. He waited a second 
 longer and then entered. 
 
 " Oh ! it s you, Jock ?" said Barbara, coming forward 
 with a cup of tea in her hand. " How nice and brown 
 you look ! This is Mrs. Bransby, Eunice Denison. 
 I ve told you about her often." 
 
 Dering had a flashing desire to grind, with disagree 
 able intensity, the slim hand which Mrs. Bransby held 
 out to him. His anger against Barbara came back 
 with a force which astonished him. It was like the 
 slap of a wave whose force and distance one has mis 
 calculated. He turned off, saying, curtly, " JS r o, thanks. 
 I don t want any tea. There s a parcel for you that 
 came by express, Barbara, and two letters. Do you 
 know where Tobit is ? I want a tub." 
 
 Tobit was rung for, and Barbara came back smiling, 
 somewhat selfishly, Eunice thought. " Can you be 
 a little cruel sometimes, Barbara?" she asked in her 
 pale voice. 
 
 Barbara tossed her head back on the frame of her 
 chair and let the firelight gild her throat. 
 
 " Oh, I don t know," she said. " Most of us can 
 and do, I suppose. But it s nonsense to call us like 
 cats. Are lions never cruel, may I ask ?" 
 
 "In a different way," said Eunice. "Cats know 
 how to produce a more elaborate suffering." 
 
BARBARA DERINO. 73 
 
 " You are mistaken if you think I like to make 
 people suffer," returned Barbara, a little coldly. 
 
 " Dear Barbara," said the other, " I did not say that 
 
 you liked to be cruel. It is only that that " 
 
 She paused, her face flushing. 
 
 " That what, dear?" asked Barbara, with one of her 
 swift changes to entire gentleness. 
 
 "It is this," went on Eunice, speaking rapidly and 
 looking down : " I feel that your husband has a grande 
 passion for you. It seems a senseless thing to say, 
 after just this glimpse of him. I never spoke so to 
 any one before. But but such feeling is is very 
 rare. All women don t win it. It it is a mistake to 
 think that men as men are necessarily very intense 
 in their feelings." Barbara knew, by the quick pulses 
 in the hand which she had taken in hers, how her 
 friend s heart was beating. Eunice glanced at her 
 shyly, almost timidly. 
 
 " He looked so disappointed when he saw me," she 
 
 said, in a low voice. " I I Do let me go away 
 
 now, Barbara. I can explain it perfectly to Godfrey, 
 and we can come to-morrow instead." 
 
 "No," said Barbara, her face hardening again. 
 " No ; I shall be very hurt if you go. We were having 
 the most delightful talk. But, of course, if you want 
 to " 
 
 " Oh, no ! no, truly !" exclaimed Eunice, hurriedly. 
 " Please don t think me impertinent. Of course, you 
 
 know best. Only We were talking of Sara in 
 
 Cleopatra, I think." 
 
 " Ah, yes ! that was it. Do you remember how she 
 says, Pure politique riest-ce pas ?" 
 
74 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 BARBARA and Godfrey Bransby were mutually re 
 pelled at first sight. It was a mental sensation ex 
 actly corresponding to the physical one which may 
 disturb the most excellent cat in the world at the sight 
 of the worthiest dog. 
 
 Bransby could not have explained himself clearly, 
 but the color of Barbara s hair struck him as being 
 too intense for good form, and her figure suggested a 
 pedestal so forcibly as to be rather theatric. He 
 thought of the different stage Galateas whom he had 
 seen, and was forced to the conclusion that Mrs. Ber 
 ing would fill the role more completely than any of the 
 others. He did not like the easy grace of her atti 
 tudes. She looked too strong for a woman. Her 
 powdering of faint yellow freckles was too realistic. 
 She struck him as an American autumn strikes some 
 artists, as too vivid, too daring, too brightly-colored. 
 Bransby was fond of saying that he looked upon 
 woman as the highest product of Christianity, and Bar 
 bara suggested Paganism in all its broader meanings, 
 just as her figure suggested that of a heathen goddess. 
 When he found in the course of the evening that she 
 could ride half-broken colts, train a dog thoroughly, 
 keep a shuttlecock up to a thousand, swim, run, and 
 jump like a boy, he could hardly keep his violent dis 
 sent from showing in his face. 
 
 " I have scarcely any doubt," he told Eunice, on his 
 way home, " that Mrs. Dering is the sort of woman 
 who smokes cigarettes. I trust that you will be very 
 
BARBARA D BRING. 75 
 
 guarded in your relations with her. She seems to ine 
 most unfeminine. That dagger-like arrangement that 
 she wore in her hair struck me as disagreeably bar 
 baric. Then she said several things that I considered 
 decidedly irreverent, not to say verging on the blas 
 phemous. That anecdote from Life, in which a child 
 alludes to the Deity and Santa Glaus in the same sen 
 tence, was, to me, intensely shocking. 1 also heard 
 her say something about Eossetti. I hope, Eunice, that 
 you will promise me that you will not let Mrs. Dering 
 lead you into reading such authors. They are un 
 wholesome and unnatural. These overstrained sensa 
 tions are not what men and women feel nowadays. 
 I am devoutly thankful, my dear, that you are a sen 
 sible, practical, self-contained woman. You make me 
 very happy indeed." 
 
 At this point he had taken her hand loosely in his 
 and brushed the corner of her mouth with his stiff 
 moustache. As he leaned back again in his side of the 
 carriage, he did not see the rather odd smile that 
 stirred his wife s lips. 
 
 The dinner had not been very exhilarating. Barbara 
 accentuated the bad impression she had made on 
 Bransby by talking a great deal. Dering, who had a 
 royal way of remaining entirely silent when he chose, 
 said not a word, while Bransby was politely non-com 
 mittal, and Eunice struggled shyly with a sense of 
 embarrassment, born of the knowledge that she and 
 her husband were the cause of Dering s ill-humor. 
 
 "How on earth did you come to strike up such 
 an intimacy with these people?" demanded Dering, 
 crossly, when the Bransbys had left. " The man s cut 
 out for a monk. I never saw a more bloodless, self- 
 satisfied rigidarian, to coin a word. You wonder how 
 
76 BARBARA DERINQ. 
 
 he ever permitted himself the indulgence of mar 
 riage I" 
 
 " He is detestable," said Barbara, " but she is lovely. 
 She makes me think of a lovely Ice maiden " 
 
 " Bah !" returned Dering, with gruffness ; " she isn t 
 cold. It s the man. He s a monstrosity." 
 
 " He probably thinks that we are monstrosities," said 
 Barbara, easily. 
 
 " Yes, he hates you cordially, my dear. I wonder he 
 lets his wife associate with you." 
 
 " Perhaps he won t, now that he has met me." 
 
 " Perhaps not. What a jolly awakening she must 
 have had after her marriage !" 
 
 " Marriage has rather that result, as a rule." 
 
 " Well, you ought to be a good judge," said Dering, 
 brutally, goaded to this by the insinuation of her 
 remark. 
 
 Barbara left the room. Opening the hall door, 
 she went out into the rich darkness. After a while 
 she could see objects dimly, and the sharp stars that 
 pierced through the film of night. Wilful was crop 
 ping grass near the tall acacia clumps. She whis 
 tled and he came to her, feeling for sugar with his 
 velvety lips. Then, her arms about his strong neck, 
 she let the tears gush as they would, while he rubbed 
 his head against her so ardently that she was pressed 
 rather roughly against the stem of one of the trees 
 behind her. A snuffing sound about her feet startled 
 her. Dering s Irish setter had found her and was 
 leaping up in the gloomy air. 
 
 " Good boy ! you ve found her," said Dering s voice, 
 not two yards away. " Down, now ; down, you brute \ 
 Did he frighten you, Barbara ? Darling ! I ve come to 
 tell you how sorry I am." 
 
BARBARA D BRING. 77 
 
 She began to sob despairingly, her arms still about 
 the neck of Wilful, who was too familiar with " Brick" 
 to have been startled by his sudden appearance. 
 
 "Oh, Barbara, Barbara," said Bering, agonized, 
 " what a devil I am sometimes ! I honestly believe I 
 am possessed. How I have hurt you! What can I 
 say? Everything seems so tame. Look! I kneel to 
 you, dearest ; I worship you ; I adore you ; you are my 
 queen, as always." 
 
 "You you I am sure you didn t mean it," said 
 Barbara, stammering. 
 
 " Oh, but I did, I did !" cried Dering, with terrible 
 honesty. " You will never know how it galls and stings 
 me sometimes, darling, to remember that you loved 
 some one before you loved me. It s like red-hot nippers 
 tearing me. That s all, Barbara, I swear it. When I m 
 cruel to you, try to remember that." 
 
 "Yes, it is dreadful. It is dreadful to me, too," 
 sobbed Barbara. Dering dragged away her hands, and 
 bent his face so near that she felt his quick breaths. 
 
 " Barbara, we are very cruel to each other some 
 times," he whispered ; " but au fond, we love each other 
 more than most, eh, dearest ? Look ! I am famished 
 for a kiss! Oh, Barberina, I have thought of your 
 lips all this past week ! What a fool, what a double- 
 dyed fool, I was to go away from you ! Will you kiss 
 me now, my blessed angel? I m a starved Jock." 
 
 " Oh !" sighed Barbara, lifting her arms from Wilful 8 
 neck, " if you love me, what does it all matter?" And 
 he took her to his heart. 
 
 " Now," he said, peremptorily, after a few moments, 
 " come into the house and let me make you comfort 
 able. What an evening we can have over our wood- 
 fire ! Oh, my dearie, what it is to be with you again !" 
 
 7* 
 
78 BARBARA D BRING. 
 
 He took her up to their room, and, after finding her 
 dressing-gown which he liked best, began to brush out 
 and plait her heavy hair. 
 
 " Sometimes, Jock, you treat me exactly like a big 
 doll," she said, with a smile, as she let her head give to 
 his eager brushings. 
 
 " A doll ! I never thought of such a thing. You are 
 the most delicious morsel of flesh and blood I ever 
 imagined." 
 
 " Oh, please don t speak to me as though I were an 
 ortolan !" said Barbara, rather pettishly. She felt 
 chilled, and that her mood was arrested all of a sudden. 
 Dering threw the brush on the table and stood before 
 the fire, grinning a little. 
 
 "You dear seraph!" he said. "I suppose you d 
 really appreciate the sort of husband that St. Cecilia 
 had. I can t help being a man s man. I wish to 
 Heaven I did have more of the feminine in me, but it 
 just isn t there. What are we going to do about it ?" 
 
 " If you would listen to me," began Barbara slowly, 
 her eyes on the fire. 
 
 " Oh, Barbara !" he exclaimed, throwing himself 
 against her knees and clasping the arms of her chair 
 in either hand, " don t be artificial ! I m not in the 
 mood to appreciate the sisterly, sweet hand-in-hand 
 affair. I warn you, frankly. You are the most beau 
 tiful of women, and not my sister, but my wife. Would 
 you really have me love you as your brother, Barbara ?" 
 
 "No! no, indeed!" she assured him. "But " 
 
 " But what ? but what ?" he repeated, eagerly. " Are 
 you going to criticise the laws of God ? Do you mean 
 to say, Yes, of course, Providence is right, but it 
 seems strange He didn t order things another way. / 
 should have made love less vehement? That sort of 
 
BARBARA DERING. 79 
 
 stuff always seemed to me such impertinent bosh, dear. 
 I love you as God meant men to lovo their wives, 
 intensely, wholly. You are not my sister; I am not 
 your brother." 
 
 "A perfect love is both spiritual and passionate," 
 said Barbara, timidly. "Men most men will not 
 understand that. I I don t deny that, Jock. I only 
 mean that if you were more gentle ! women love that 
 sort of love. They must cast out fear before they can 
 love perfectly." 
 
 " Are you afraid of me, then, Barbara ?" 
 
 " Not of you, of your moods sometimes." 
 
 Bering got to his feet and stood pulling his mous 
 tache soberly. 
 
 " Men don t understand women, do they ?" he asked, 
 finally. 
 
 "Perhaps we don t understand men any better," 
 admitted Barbara. 
 
 " It s all this accursed civilization," he grumbled on ; 
 " our race is getting anaemic. It isn t your fault ; you re 
 a fin-du-siede woman, and can t help yourself. I m a 
 savage and ought to be tamed." 
 
 " If you mean by fin-du-siede that I m a Laodicean 
 creature like the woman in < Notre Coeur, you are 
 very wrong. I seem to explain myself very badly. I 
 irritate you, and that makes me very awkward." 
 
 " Well, I don t seem to do anything but irritate you" 
 returned Dering. " You make me feel a colossal idiot. 
 It s my fault, of course." 
 
 " I told you I should disappoint you," said Barbara, 
 in a whisper. 
 
 " Oh !" he exclaimed, exasperated as usual after one 
 of their jolting discussions, "why do you always hark 
 back to that beaten old covert ? I am not disappointed ; 
 
80 BARBARA DURING.. 
 
 I am only trying to get at your point of view. It 
 seemed to me that I rather got on with you before our 
 marriage, and now I only seem to fuss you up." 
 
 Barbara was suddenly convinced that she was in the 
 wrong, nothing but the present moment seemed clear 
 to her. He was there, young, loving, bonny. She 
 had wounded him. She was his wife. He gave her 
 unstinted and impassioned devotion. Also Eunice s 
 words came back to her : " I feel that your husband has 
 a grande passion for you. . . . Such feeling is very rare. 
 All women don t win it." She looked up at him with 
 an exquisite glow of love in her large eyes and opened 
 her arms. Stooping a little, he lifted her upon his 
 breast. 
 
 " Is it all right, Barbara?" 
 
 " Yes, my own." 
 
 " You forgive me ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Fully, freely ?" 
 
 " Oh, my dearest !" she said, looking up at him. A 
 sort of touched quiver went over his face, and then h 
 bent it down against hers. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 IN spite of her suddenly affectionate mood the night 
 before, Dering was conscious, upon thinking matters 
 over, that Barbara after marriage, compared with Bar 
 bara during their engagement, rather reminded him of 
 Kosamond s famous purple jar. He could not explain 
 the apparent change in her nature and character, and 
 ,t never occurred to him that certain changes in himself 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 81 
 
 had anything to do with it. He felt aggrieved, misled, 
 baffled. Women seemed to him impossible creatures, 
 to whom the attraction of the moon consisted in the 
 fact that its other side remained a mystery. As for all 
 this talk of soul and communion of heart and spiritu 
 ality, it might do very well in a convent or monastery, 
 or even between a certain angelic description of min 
 ister and his female parishioners, but between two 
 young, vigorous, glowing beings, it was either a pose 
 or a failure. He had a sore, angry feeling that Barbara 
 looked down upon his love for her as something to be 
 put up with, since he was that singularly constituted 
 being, a man, and could not help himself. He wondered, 
 with a fierce contraction of his heart, whether, if they 
 had a child, she would not love it far more than she did 
 him, and his feeling of secret contempt for the dead 
 Valentine grew in proportion to what he considered 
 Barbara s unreasonable and difficult humors. " What 
 a precious molly-coddle he must have been if he sub 
 mitted to this sort of thing !" he reflected moodily. " I 
 don t believe he had any force or fire in him." It 
 seemed to him that his salamander was growing cool in 
 his hand, was turning to a bit of charcoal. His man 
 ner, however, did not give a him of the resentful bit 
 terness accumulating within, and Barbara thought that 
 she was acting up to his most exacting demand in thus 
 keeping from him the restless questionings and doubts 
 which filled her own mind. 
 
 Another form taken by his concealed irritation was 
 that of a steady dislike for the Bransbys. It was as 
 inevitable that he and Bransby should clash as that 
 there should be a sputter when ice and fire come in 
 contact. Mrs. Bransby, however, was not so distasteful 
 to him personally. His objection to Barbara s growing 
 
82 BARBARA DERIN&. 
 
 intimacy with her was that objection felt by so many 
 men to the confidences apt to be exchanged between 
 not entirely happy married women, and which so fre 
 quently include the husbands in the case. That Bar 
 bara should discuss him, directly or indirectly, with 
 any one roused in him a very frenzy of anger. Then, 
 too, he felt for Eunice that grand scorn which very 
 strong young things are apt to feel for those which are 
 paler and more fragile. He did not comprehend the 
 attitude of apparent agreement which she adopted 
 towards her husband. She seemed to him cowardly and 
 dull, and he wondered why Barbara liked to be with 
 her. Besides, the very fact that his wife should care so 
 much for another woman s society showed that he was 
 not sufficient in his position of husband. 
 
 Miss Fridiswig found him less like Yalentine day by 
 day, and at last wrote him down in her diary as " an 
 exceedingly rude young man, with an unregenerato 
 temper ;" and if he considered Barbara to be changed 
 by marriage, his aunt-in-law pronounced him to be 
 quite another person. He was shortly freed from such 
 comment, however, as about this time Miss Fridis left 
 Rosemary to make her home with her only sister. 
 
 One of the most curious transformations which had 
 taken place in him was the growing desire to remodel 
 Barbara into an entirely different woman. Traits that 
 had charmed him in her as a sweetheart seemed totally 
 out of place in a wife. He felt instinctively that Bransby 
 disapproved of her exuberant vitality, and while he 
 longed to thrash Bransby, he told himself that Barbara 
 was too untrammelled, both in her opinions and in her 
 mode of expressing them. In a word, he was over 
 whelmed by that subtle sense of responsibility in the 
 bride, which so often prevents modern bridegrooms 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 83 
 
 from being as thoroughly joyous as their position 
 might seem to warrant. 
 
 Like most of us, Dering possessed two distinct 
 natures, and as he had once said to Barbara during 
 their first days of acquaintance, if his cousin had 
 been Valentine he was certainly Orson. This bit 
 of self-accusation was true to some extent, and the 
 conviction regarding her lack of love for him which 
 from time to time forced itself upon him brought to 
 the surface all the irritability and harshness which was 
 generally dormant in his really sunny nature. He 
 was bewildered, nettled, disgusted, at this change in 
 himself, but the very fact of the self-control which he 
 exercised for the most part made his lapses, when they 
 did come, more vehement. 
 
 At one time he told himself that she did not love 
 him. At another time that she was incapable of loving 
 any one. Again, it was a vague, dreary jealousy of the 
 dead Yalentine, whose ghost seemed ever sliding in 
 between them. The very fact of the temporary idle 
 ness in which they were living served to whet his 
 temper and make him restless and nervous, for he was 
 a man of intense physical activity, given to all sorts 
 of athletic sports, such as polo-playing, racquets, ex 
 cursions into wild countries after big game, and the 
 monotony of Eosemary was beginning to pall upon 
 him, even in spite of Barbara s presence. He was 
 anxious to go to Melton for the winter, and feared that 
 this suggestion might not meet with her approval, 
 although she knew that he was, before anything, a 
 being of active out-door life. His entire lack of self- 
 analysis and anything like an appreciation of involved 
 imaginative temperaments was another element of dis 
 cord between them. 
 
84 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 As Eunice had said, his feeling for his wife was cer 
 tainly a " grande passion " and the doubt of her love for 
 him drove him at times to desperation. Once or twice 
 when alone in his own room or out on horseback hot, 
 scalding drops had been wrung from him by what he 
 considered her almost cold-hearted course towards him. 
 As for tenderness, he regarded it as the accompaniment 
 to weak and sluggish natures, and despised it accord 
 ingly. Barbara did not imagine what he suffered, and, 
 in her turn, doubted the quality of his love for her. She 
 sometimes thought that she had worn out his patience 
 by her unlucky habit of introspection, and made daily 
 resolutions as to reserve and caution in her talks with 
 him, which were, however, not always kept unbroken. 
 
 A man who has had very little experience of gentle 
 women buys very dearly his knowledge of his wife. 
 JDering was fond of saying that he was no carpet- 
 knight, and his lack of all effeminacy was very admira 
 ble, but there is a certain feminine quality without 
 which the character of no man is wholly lovable, and 
 the possession of which does not signify weakness but 
 strength. Dering was male to the core. His very re 
 ligion had a sort of fierceness in it. His love of life 
 included a fiery criticism of its shortcomings, even 
 coarseness to him seemed pardonable as a sort of exu 
 berant vitality. He loved all animals and yet was an 
 ardent sportsman, and could shoot his ailing dogs and 
 horses when occasion demanded. 
 
 He had more respect for a daring criminal than for 
 a weak saint. The warlike and revengeful God of the 
 Jews was more to his taste than the Messiah, although, 
 in accordance with a strange and contradictory con 
 ventionality, he was apparently the most orthodox of 
 Christians. 
 
BARBARA D BRING. 85 
 
 Fierce, bright, conquering women were his ideals. 
 A virtuous Cleopatra seemed to him the perfection of 
 womanhood. He saw nature actual and mental in 
 crude, brilliant colors, unmodified by any half-tones. 
 One phase of Barbara s character had captivated him, 
 and he thought he knew the entire woman. Marriage 
 developed different and more complicated aspects of dis 
 position, and he was baffled, indignant. Life for him 
 was divided into the well-defined and charming emo 
 tions, first, that of keen delight ; second, that of 
 practical enjoyment. That his kisses should fail to 
 thrill the woman he loved because his mood did not 
 harmonize with hers would have seemed to him a 
 diverting absurdity. That to be called "a tigress" 
 and roughly embraced when her whole being craved 
 gentleness and consideration, should stir in her profound 
 depths of opposition, he would have regarded as impos 
 sible. His nature was of so savage a vitality that he 
 preferred the cruelest exuberance of feeling to its 
 sweetest restraint. 
 
 Physical suffering, except in its forms of positive 
 anguish, did not appeal to him. The lassitude of lesser 
 ailments only galled him, and produced an assured be 
 lief that they were the result of self-indulgence and 
 could be dispelled by a brisk drive or walk. Eeligious 
 questioning found in him only a fierce intolerance. He 
 was quick and harsh in his judgments, especially of 
 women, but only in regard to faults of hypocrisy, false 
 ness, self-righteousness : with an unexpected and beau 
 tiful tenderness, the sins of frailty he always pardoned. 
 He was generous to excess, and his generosity was not 
 restricted to material matters. His sympathy went 
 out to the whole world. He longed to lead men to a 
 higher platform, to widen their views, their hopes, 
 
 8 
 
86 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 their ambitions. In some respects he was a singularly 
 reserved man. It was strange how little he spoke of 
 himself and his feelings, when his whole being was 
 sometimes concentrated for days in the efforts to dis 
 cover some vent for his powerful energies. He had 
 never been really unconditionally in love until he saw 
 Barbara. The two or three sentiments in which he 
 had before indulged were all backed by excellent 
 reasons, and coldly analyzed as they progressed until 
 they had finally ended in ennui. His code of ethics 
 had been that of most club-men, and formulated would 
 have run something in this way: "Have your fling as 
 a young fellow. Do everything that amuses you, so 
 long as you live up to the social idea of a gentleman 
 and don t wrong any virtuous woman." He added one 
 clause, however: "Be true to your wife after mar 
 riage." 
 
 Before his marriage with Barbara, Bering had been 
 positive of many things which now appeared far less 
 certain. He had often told himself that were he to 
 make a mistake and find himself bound to a cold, pru 
 dish, unloving woman, he would leave her without a 
 qualm and make a new life for himself in some other 
 part of the world. But in all his ideas of life and 
 marriage he had never accepted genuine, passionate 
 love as a factor, and now its vast glare had blotted out 
 all lesser twinklings, while its rays, concentrated in the 
 burning-glass of present feeling, shrivelled the flimsy 
 theories upon which they struck, as actual rays wither 
 bits of paper. 
 
 Not that he considered Barbara cold or prudish. She 
 had certainly been rather cold to him for some time, 
 but he felt sure that it was not a real characteristic of 
 her nature, and that in reality she was the glow- 
 
BARBARA DERING. 87 
 
 ing creature that he had thought her from the first. 
 It was this very conviction that frenzied him. In spite 
 of her care, her affectionate ways, her pretty moods of 
 half-childish coaxing and love-making, Dering felt that 
 he did not touch the central spring of her nature. 
 There was some way in which he failed. Some way in 
 which she tacitly criticised him, and, as he had once said 
 in a bitter mood, compared him to some secret standard 
 which he failed to reach. 
 
 The old abandon had gone from her voice and eyes. 
 He was sometimes conscious, with a withering at his 
 heart, that she drew away from his kisses and then re 
 turned them, all the more eagerly, to make up for the 
 involuntary motion. 
 
 She had at times moods of deep despondency which 
 jarred upon him inexpressibly. Again, she would wan 
 der off into the winter woods alone and be gone for 
 hours, with only her deerhound and the Angora kitten, 
 which often followed her on her long walks in spite 
 of ice and mud. On these occasions Dering accepted 
 with a dogged bitterness his position of unwanted hus 
 band, and never attempted to find her or to meet her 
 on her return. Painful scenes constantly took place 
 between them, in which the blame was often on both 
 sides. She was not of a yielding or submissive nature, 
 however, and the two strong wills tested each other in 
 fierce tussles, which very frequently failed to advance 
 the supremacy of either. In the intervals between 
 such encounters these singular beings often spent days 
 of gay companionship, during which they would both 
 fancy that the cruel scenes of the past could never be 
 renewed. 
 
88 BARBARA BERING. 
 
 XY. 
 
 GODFREY BRANSBY was one of those men who, when 
 they marry a woman, decide that she must find in her 
 husband the end and fulfilment of every desire. His 
 egotism was of the Oriental sort, which requires that 
 whatever charm the beloved may possess it must be 
 exercised only for the lover, the owner. Eunice had a 
 sweet contralto voice ; but since her marriage she had 
 only sung for Bransby, except on certain rare occasions 
 when he had allowed her to exercise her talent for the 
 benefit of the choir in his native parish. He did not 
 entirely approve of her singing her babies to sleep, 
 but so long as she chose hymns for lullabies made no 
 positive objection. On most points of domestic freedom 
 he was very rigid. He considered low-necked gowns 
 immoral, no matter how modestly they were cut, and 
 although Eunice had charming round arms and shoul 
 ders like rose-petals, her evening-dresses were always 
 made with the severity of a bride s, up almost to the 
 lobes of her small ears and close about the wrists. He 
 permitted no artificial curling of her hair. The trim 
 ming of her pretty oval nails was superintended con 
 scientiously, and she was made to cut them in a natural 
 curve, instead of the sharp points which were then 
 in vogue. Ear-rings were forbidden. Open-work silk 
 stockings pronounced indecent on account of the little 
 glimmer of flesh which showed through the fine meshes ; 
 also every very close-fitting style of corsage. 
 
 Mentally, his supervision was, if anything, more strict. 
 Eunice was requested not to read certain novels, be- 
 
BARBARA DERING. 89 
 
 ginning with "The Heart of Midlothian," "Adam 
 Bede," and "Jane Eyre," and ending with " La Morte" 
 and" Eobert Elsmere." Even some of Tennyson s 
 poems were tabooed, such as " Fatima," " Launcelot and 
 Guinevere," "Love and Duty." Browning was only 
 permitted in selections, while the only copy of Walt 
 Whitman which ever found its way into the house was 
 burned leaf by leaf, having been dismembered with the 
 tongs to prevent the contamination of direct contact. 
 The word " passion" and the state of mind which it ex 
 pressed he considered equally coarse and undesirable. 
 A wife, he had said, should be a delicate echo, and re 
 spond only when her husband had spoken. He con 
 sidered that a glacial demeanor was necessary to proper 
 respect in his attitude towards the woman who bore 
 his name. His modes of expressing his affection for 
 her were automatic and his words of endearment pre 
 cise and bloodless. 
 
 After being thrown with Bransby for a while, one felt 
 sure that had he been allowed an interview with Prov 
 idence he would have suggested certain modifications 
 in the method of existence, proposing in definite and 
 well-considered terms a new plan of creation in which 
 bodies would be made out of some non-sensitive material 
 and nature reduced to a calm propriety. Eunice was 
 made to understand frequently in many indirect ways 
 that Bransby had asked her to become his wife from 
 necessity rather than choice, and that, had the world 
 permitted such a relationship, he would greatly have 
 preferred their tie to be that of a fond brother and 
 sister. His children he seemed to regard with chill 
 philosophy as the outgrowth of a material and mis 
 taken system on the part of nature, and his nearest 
 approach to any paternal interest had been when, at 
 
 8* 
 
90 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 Winifred s birth, he had expressed his regret that the 
 child was not a boy. 
 
 In appearance he was small, slight, blond, with ex 
 quisitely modelled hands and feet. His hair was of a 
 straight, pale brown, his eyes the same color. He wore 
 a short, pointed beard,which was here and there streaked 
 with gray, and his lips were colorless, but well-shaped. 
 
 When he had first met Eunice Denison she had 
 been a girl of eighteen, shy, reserved, romantic, and 
 full of a pure and hidden fire. Bransby had seemed 
 to her the ideal of all that was princely and soul-satis 
 fying. As a lover, his somewhat metallic manner had 
 appeared only a refined self-control. Her own intense 
 emotion had filled his touch with a magnetism which it 
 never had, and when his lips touched hers in the first 
 kiss her virginal nature thrilled to its very centre by 
 the idea of self-surrender rather than by any actual 
 contact, did not stop to demand if the caress were 
 warm or cold. JSTow, after ten years of marriage, she 
 had learned to look upon her own former innocent ex 
 uberance of love as something unrefined, unwomanly, 
 undesirable, to conquer every natural, healthy im 
 pulse of aifection, to force into silence the cravings of 
 her keen and delicate nature. Her husband s kisses 
 were placed upon her cheek or forehead ; when he took 
 her hand, it was in a limp and almost deprecatory clasp. 
 He repelled all confidences of an emotional or intro 
 spective nature, and was annoyed if on his birthday or 
 at Christmas any especial souvenir was prepared for 
 him by Eunice. He considered the custom childish 
 and overstrained. It was absurd, he said, to expect a 
 rational creature, at a stated time, to be in a mood either 
 to receive or bestow certain gifts. Besides, it suggested 
 an insufficiency in their surroundings which was dis- 
 
BARBARA DERINO. 91 
 
 tasteful to him. If his wife desired anything she had 
 only to tell him of that desire. He could think of 
 nothing that she lacked. Jewels he detested, with the 
 exception of pearls, and Eunice had several magnificent 
 strings of the moony globules. With jewels out of the 
 question, nothing occurred to him that would make an 
 appropriate present. His children did not love him 
 in the least, and were very candid in their admission 
 of this fact to each other, but never confided it to 
 their mother, although she shared every other thought 
 of their inmost souls, because, as Win expressed it, 
 "Mammas are generally fond of papas, even when 
 they re rather horrid, and it might hurt her to know 
 we quite abominate him." Lois agreed that this was a 
 very wise and rational conclusion, and so their most 
 fervid dislike of their father was only expressed by the 
 demurest silence. 
 
 Bransby s views on religion were also very narrow and 
 severe. On Sunday his wife and daughters were re 
 quired to go to church twice, in all sorts of weather, 
 while pastimes of every kind and the reading of any 
 but religious books was forbidden. He believed in a 
 hell of actual flame, in predestination, and that all 
 persons who had once unworthily partaken of the Holy 
 Communion had eaten and drunk their own damnation, 
 and were without hope of future salvation. At least 
 these were some of the theories which Bransby be 
 lieved that he believed ; his whole inner man was such 
 a tangled web of artificialities and acquired opinions 
 that it was difficult to decide which was the original 
 creature and which the stuff of created personality. 
 
 As for his dislike of Barbara, it increased each time 
 that they were thrown together. There was some 
 thing in her keen presence which accentuated his 
 
92 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 own incapacity for feeling of any kind, and which 
 caused him to experience a sensation resembling that 
 of an ill-humored and gouty person who is forced to 
 watch the blithe movements of a happy child. In 
 addition to this her very existence was a contradiction 
 of all his theories about the submissive attitude which 
 was required of woman in the married relation. Bar 
 bara expressed her own views fully on all subjects, 
 often took the lead in conversation, and did not hesitate 
 to disagree with her husband openly and in the frankest 
 manner. She had her own ideas on the position of 
 wives, the education of children, the race question, the 
 future of women, and the attributes of the Diety. She 
 had said on one occasion that she considered women 
 in many respects the superiors of men, and to verify 
 her statement had quoted Goethe s words : 
 
 " The woman soul leads us upward and on." 
 
 She had said that she thought the clause " Serve and 
 obey" should be struck from the marriage service, 
 that it was a formula of slavery, not the proud dec 
 laration of a willing and equal comradeship. She had 
 even stated that she thought it wrong to require two 
 people to swear by the most solemn oaths to love each 
 other until death did them part, since love was con 
 trollable only in a negative sense, and could not be 
 compelled into being ; that if it once ceased to exist 
 there was no power which had ever been known to 
 resurrect it, whether by command or exhortation. 
 
 Bransby, when in her presence, felt himself dom 
 inated by a more vigorous individuality, and was un 
 pleasantly conscious that her clear eyes pierced through 
 the flimsy veil of self-important reserve with which 
 he had rendered mysterious his philosophy of domestic 
 
BARBARA DERING. 93 
 
 existence, much after the fashion in which sheets of 
 gauze are lowered between the audience and the ghost 
 in clever dramatic performances. 
 
 His aversion to her reached its height one morning 
 when, during Eunice s absence, he opened a note from 
 Barbara to her, marked by the word "Immediate," 
 strongly underscored. 
 
 "DEAREST," Barbara had written, "Can you come 
 to me? I need you desperately. I need your wise, 
 quiet judgment. I am very, very wretched, more so 
 than I should dare put into words. I seem to have 
 come to the end of the world and to be gazing into 
 gulfs of whirling blackness. Oh, you see how I exag 
 gerate even now when I do not wish to do so f My 
 heart feels like a ball of red-hot metal in my breast. 
 I long, I almost pray for tears, but they will not come. 
 We have grown so close during the last weeks that I 
 seem to feel your dear heart beating against mine. 
 I trust you. I believe in you. I honor you. I have 
 always dreamed of a perfect friendship with some 
 woman, and in you I have found all that I could ask. 
 I am so humble. You shall scold me as though I were 
 a very child, like dear Win or Lois. I will do what 
 you say, Eunice darling, only come and help me. I 
 know you will come. I know you will let nothing 
 keep you, and I pray that I may not have to wait long 
 for you. 
 
 Your BARBARA." 
 
94 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 WHEN Eunice returned from her ride Bransby met 
 her in the hall with Barbara s note in his hand. *She 
 unwound her long veil of gray gauze while he spoke 
 to her, wondering at the look of pale concentration on 
 his face. " Here is a note, Eunice, which was sent to 
 you by Mrs. Dering a few moments after you left. I. 
 could not, of course, have had any idea of the frenzied 
 and personal nature of its contents. I must say that 
 it adds to my unfavorable opinion of Mrs. Dering. It 
 is exaggerated, morbid, overstrained, I might even 
 say, indelicate. It is unpleasant to me to think of 
 your having with this woman an intimacy such as 
 she alludes to. It is also intensely disagreeable to me 
 to have her address you in violent terms of endearment 
 such as I have never permitted myself to use. In a 
 word, I hope that when you answer this unrestrained 
 and unfeminine effusion you will find some dignified 
 and lady-like method of expressing your disapproval 
 to the writer, and of telling her, at the same time, that 
 you will be unable to call on her to-day." 
 
 During this speech Eunice stood very quiet by one 
 of the broad hall-windows, her riding-crop bent across 
 her black skirt, the outline of her cheek traced airily 
 under a furze of goldish strands. Once or twice the 
 blood had streamed into her face even to her clear 
 temples. When her husband finished speaking, she 
 held out her hand before answering him, as though 
 to receive her note. 
 
 Bransby gave it to her in the envelope. "I will 
 
BARBARA DERING. 95 
 
 wait for you to read it," he said. You can then 
 judge for yourself whether I am justified in my opin 
 ion." 
 
 It seemed to him that she took rather long to master 
 its contents. " I presume, of course, that you agree 
 with me ?" he said finally. 
 
 There was a slight pause; Eunice felt her heart 
 beating quickly. She had never before thought it 
 worth while to oppose her opinion to that of her hus 
 band. She now said, speaking rather slowly, "2s"o, I 
 do not agree with you, Godfrey. I am sure you don t 
 understand Barbara. Then, too, you must remember 
 that this note was not meant for you to see. I am 
 very sorry that you should have chanced to read it." 
 
 Bransby could not believe that he had grasped her 
 exact meaning. " Do you intend to say that you en 
 dorse those extravagant, unrefined ravings which you 
 hold in your hand ?" he demanded finally. 
 
 " I think that Barbara has a passionate, emotional 
 nature, and that she has written to me under the press 
 ure of some great pain," answered Eunice. " There 
 is nothing in her words that strikes me as unre 
 fined." 
 
 "Does this mean that you intend opposing me in 
 the matter and continuing your friendship with Mrs. 
 Dering?" asked Bransby, coldly. 
 
 " I should be sorry to oppose you in anything, God 
 frey. I hope that you do not think me so utterly 
 lacking in character and principle as to be contaminated 
 by Barbara Dering, even if she were all that you 
 think her, and I hope that you will not absolutely 
 forbid my answering the cry of a fellow-creature 
 who is in such desperate straits." 
 
 " I am not a petty tyrant," said Bransby, stiffly. 
 
96 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 " If my wishes are not enough in such a case, I should 
 despise myself for resorting to commands." 
 
 " I am glad of that," answered Eunice, with a certain 
 shy firmness, " for I should have felt obliged to go in 
 any case. The promises of friendship seem as sacred 
 as oaths to me." 
 
 " Yes, as sacred as your marriage vows apparently," 
 said Bransby, crimsoning. " Do you mean to tell me 
 openly that you would disobey me in order to keep 
 some sentimental agreement made with this headstrong 
 woman ?" 
 
 "I promised to honor you when I promised to 
 obey," said Eunice, in a low voice. " Could I honor 
 you if, just in order to show your authority, you were 
 to try to make me cruel to some one of whom I am 
 very fond?" 
 
 " Upon my word," sneered Bransby, " I see the effect 
 of her untrammelled teachings upon you already. You 
 make an apt pupil, my dear Eunice. I had never 
 thought to hear my wife, one whom I thought the 
 quintessence of gentlewomanly refinement, treat me to 
 a display of the vulgar, modern ideas on the sacred 
 subject of matrimony." 
 
 Eunice lifted to his her clear blue eyes. "Don t 
 say such things to me, Godfrey. It is not just. I am 
 sure that a poor friend could only make a poor wife. 
 I would not be human if I could listen in coldness to 
 this prayer for help. I must go to her, Godfrey, and 
 at once ; I hope you won t make it hard for me." 
 
 " I shall leave you entirely to the dictates of your 
 own conscience," said Bransby, pompously, moving off 
 with measured steps. In reality, he was physically 
 dizzy with the sudden violent anger which had grasped 
 him, when he realized that the docile creature of ten 
 
BARBARA BERING. 97 
 
 years submission had turned suddenly and opposed 
 her will to his. He was too bewildered to think of 
 any immediate means of coercion, but his whole slug 
 gish obstinacy was hardening itself into a barrier to 
 be placed between Eunice and the accomplishment of 
 her desires. 
 
 Eunice, in the mean time, not waiting to change her 
 habit, had another horse saddled, and rode off at once 
 to Rosemary, where Martha Ellen met her at the door 
 and led her to Barbara s room. 
 
 The two women stood gazing at each other for a 
 moment, very pale, and then Eunice put out her arms 
 and drew Barbara to her, holding her fast and pressing 
 her head against her breast, as she pressed the heads 
 of her children when they were in trouble. That 
 sentence about Lois and Win had gone to her heart s 
 core. Barbara did not sob or utter any word; she 
 only clung fast to Eunice, and every now and then a 
 long-drawn shudder shook her whole body. 
 
 At last she said, without lifting her face, " I knew 
 you would come." 
 
 Eunice did not answer, but pressed her lips with a 
 sort of eagerness on the bent head. Then she led 
 Barbara to a sofa and made her lie down, kneeling 
 beside her still, with her arms about her neck. 
 
 " Oh, Barbara," she whispered after a while, " can t 
 you tell me what it is, dear? Your eyes hurt me ; they 
 are so full of pain." 
 
 " I am almost afraid to speak," said Barbara, in a 
 whisper ; " I don t seem able to think clearly. There 
 is only one thing which rings in my head, something 
 about good the final goal of ill. Then I want more 
 than anything to do what is noble and brave, what is 
 my duty. I don t want to consider myself. Of course 
 * g 9 
 
98 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 one can no more help thinking of one s self under the 
 stabs of such agony than one could help bleeding from 
 a sword-thrust." 
 
 "But what is it, dearest? Can t you tell me? It 
 would ease your poor heart. You know I would not 
 criticise, wouldn t quote texts or axioms to you." 
 
 " No, no, indeed ! you are the very soul of sympathy. 
 I could never have sent for you unless I had known 
 that. And I want to speak, only I can t seem to think 
 connectedly. And then, too, I don t want to say 
 more than is right, more than I should say. Oh, 
 Eunice, I want to say the truth, the truth, the truth ! 
 But how am I to know that I ought to say it ?" 
 
 " You can be sure of one thing, Barbara, dearest : I 
 shall not think hard thoughts of any one ; life is too 
 sorrowful for us all. I never judge, Barbara. When 
 people do things that seem wrong or mistaken to me, I 
 always say to myself, You cannot know what tempta 
 tion they had, what struggles they endured before 
 yielding. Nearly every life seems to me to be the 
 grave of some great renunciation." 
 
 " Ah, my dear, my dear ! you must have been very 
 unhappy yourself to have had such thoughts." 
 
 " Yes, I have had sorrows. Perhaps they would not 
 seem great to other people, but I have found them 
 sufficient. I think our trials are generally those that 
 touch our most sensitive points. You know some 
 people find a burn far harder to bear than a cut with a 
 knife. It would be foolish for one who did not think 
 burning intolerable to say of some one else who was 
 shrieking and writhing under such a wound, l How 
 cowardly! /have been burnt; /did not make such an 
 ado." 
 
 "Dearest Eunice," said Barbara, "we both find 
 
BARBARA DERI NO. 99 
 
 burning an anguish, and we have both been terribly 
 burnt. Isn t it true ?" 
 
 Eunice pressed her cheek to Barbara s, but said 
 nothing. After a moment Barbara went on, speaking 
 very slowly, 
 
 "You never knew my my the man I first mar 
 ried, did you ? "Well, I I loved him with my whole 
 being, mind, soul, body. Oh, how strange it seems 
 to be lying here in this room and saying such words 
 calmly !" 
 
 She felt Eunice s arms tighten about her and heard 
 her draw a deep, catching breath. " And and I 
 
 loved the man who is who is Oh, Eunice ! I 
 
 do love Jock!" 
 
 "My dear one, I know you do." 
 
 " I even thought I loved him more. He seemed 
 to me stronger, more powerful, more splendid. Some 
 wonderful vitality about him dazzled me. I was be 
 wildered. I had great struggles, but, in the end, he 
 made my the the other, seem pale, vague. Even 
 then I suffered horribly. I was tormented by dreadful 
 thoughts. I was like a mad woman. I was so cruel. 
 I thought only of myself. And I sent him away." 
 
 " My poor dear," whispered Eunice. " Wait a little 
 while. You are trembling so." 
 
 " No, darling : let me finish. I must say it all out 
 to you now. Where was I ? Ah ! I sent him away. 
 And then how lonely I was, how wretched for two 
 years ! I went over and over my^cruelty and selfishness, 
 until I seemed the most wayward, undisciplined, hopeless 
 creature on earth. I longed to atone for my cruelty, 
 and yet I was afraid. I felt that I loved him, and 
 yet I was afraid to call it love. And then, all of 
 a sudden, one day, he came back. I scarcely know 
 
100 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 how I felt at first. His old power over me returned, 
 but I was afraid. Something about him frightened 
 me. I felt that he could be very cruel. I had suf 
 fered so much. I shrank from more pain. But he 
 was lovely. So kind, so gentle, so full of care for 
 me. Oh, Eunice, I was a coward ! I was so sad, so 
 lonely ! This love came to me like a warm cloak to 
 one who is slowly freezing out in the dark. There was 
 no one to tell me that we can love our highest loves 
 but once that the truest strength in a man is always 
 gentle that the noblest men are womanly too, just 
 as the noblest women are manly. Because he mastered 
 me, dominated me, I thought he was greater than 
 than the one I first loved. And so I married him." 
 She paused, and Eunice shivered. Somehow this last 
 sentence fell as awfully on her ear as the deep sound 
 of the first clod that strikes a lowered coffin. 
 
 " I married him," went on Barbara, after a few 
 moments. "And then and then " She stam 
 mered and hid her face with her hands. Suddenly 
 she took them away. " Oh, Eunice," she whispered, 
 " how much easier it is to bear the loss of a great joy 
 than the presence of a galling burden ! Do all women 
 have to learn what real love is, I wonder, by finding out 
 its opposite? Heart-thirst is so much more terrible 
 than heart-hunger." 
 
 "Oh, my dear, yes, yes!" said Eunice, with a sort 
 of sob. 
 
 "Sometimes," Barbara hurried on, "sometimes it 
 seems as if I must go mad ; as if I could not bear it 
 at all, the terrible bewilderment of different feelings 
 tearing and tugging at each other. I find myself think 
 ing of Yal, longing for him. And then I come to my 
 self with a start of terror, I remember that I have for- 
 
BARBARA DERING. 101 
 
 felted my right to think of him. Do you understand 
 the full horror of that thought ? Do you ? Do you ? 
 If I had not loved him as a wife should love it would 
 be different ; but I did. I loved him perfectly in every 
 way. He seemed to know my thoughts before I spoke, 
 as I knew his. When we had been silent we used 
 nearly always to begin speaking of the same subject. 
 He was always gentle. I suppose that Jock would 
 have thought him very weak. I try to go to my Bible 
 for comfort, and I see such terrible things. This 
 morning I came upon what Christ said to the woman 
 who had had five husbands. There can never be but 
 one real holy marriage. I cannot think how I was so 
 foolish, so blind, as to think that after such a perfect 
 union as mine I could find another. But I did not 
 send for you to complain. What I want is to know 
 my duty and then to try to do it. It is not any social 
 law that will keep me to this bond which I have taken 
 upon myself. I would never care for any merely con 
 ventional restraint. What holds me is the fact of 
 Jock s love for me. I will never do anything to bring 
 myself peace at the price of a fellow-creature s misery. 
 Besides, I do love him, dearly, dearly. It is only the 
 awful suddenness of it. He can be so horribly cruel. 
 My soul cowers sometimes under his words like a dog 
 that has been often beaten. Sometimes he seems to 
 hate me, to be possessed of some evil spirit." 
 
 " Perhaps he feels instinctively that you do not love 
 him as you have loved another," said Eunice in a low 
 voice. "That would madden a passionate, imperious 
 nature. Perhaps he thinks you cold to him." . 
 
 "But I am only cold to him after some dreadful 
 scene. Then I cannot help it. How could one re 
 spond to passionate love just after passionate abuse? 
 
 9* 
 
102 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 I do try, but it is like the reflection of a torch in 
 ice." 
 
 "I know how hard how hard it is," said Eunice. 
 " Sometimes it seems as though one would welcome the 
 harsh, frigid embrace of the Jungfrau in contrast, 
 doesn t it ?" 
 
 " My poor Eunice ! Have you felt that, too ?" 
 
 "Marriage teaches one very varied emotions," said 
 Eunice, with that almost phlegmatic bitterness which 
 Barbara had noticed before. " I think it is the hardest 
 and the deepest lesson that life holds for us." 
 
 " And what do you think the lesson is ?" asked Bar 
 bara, eagerly. 
 
 " To be great-minded in spite of the littleness of 
 others, to conquer one s self, to develop one s higher 
 nature, to forgive always, to ask for forgiveness, to be 
 taught with briers and not to cry out, to learn more 
 and more how to love without judging, and to believe 
 that God is all love, and that, therefore, justice can 
 have no part in Him. But, Barbara, dear, dear Bar 
 bara, you must remember that all this has come to me 
 through years of dreary striving. Such words must 
 seem so chill, so unmeaning to you, in all the fiery 
 freshness of your pain. It seems almost as though one 
 were to oifer a bit of court-plaster to a poor creature 
 who was being sawn asunder. I know how you suffer, 
 poor child, poor child ! And there is not any real com 
 fort that anyone can give just at first. But the hottest 
 flames die into ashes if we have patience; and I think 
 we are given our one great opportunity when we are 
 called on to suffer as you are suffering now. And then, 
 oh, my child, he loves you ! Say that over and over to 
 yourself. After all he loves you with a great, ardent, 
 consuming love. He is not tepid, or cold, or self- 
 
BARBARA DERING. 103 
 
 righteous. He is a man in every fibre. I have seen 
 that in the few glimpses I have caught of him. He 
 has terrible, terrible faults ; but they are outside ; they 
 are excrescences which may be cut off. Some natures 
 are like bits of poor marble : the little thin dark vein 
 runs through and through. One may chip and chip 
 until the brittle stuff lies all about one, but still the 
 stain is there to the very core. I sometimes think that 
 with strong characters nearly all things are possible. 
 With too much material one can cut away, can modify ; 
 but with too little what can even God do but strain the 
 poor stuff to its greatest compass ; and then how thin, 
 how flimsy it looks after all! I think that a noble, 
 high-natured, unselfish woman married to a vigorous 
 man of generous impulses, can make almost anything 
 of him that she desires, no matter what his faults of 
 impulse and temper are, no matter how much of the 
 brute, the Pan, there may be kneaded in with those 
 energetic forces that make up most genuine men. It is 
 what you have so often said to me, The woman-soul 
 leads us upward and on ; and there is no woman-soul 
 that can lead a man so high, so far, as the soul of the 
 woman who has become his wife." 
 
 Barbara drew a deep breath and pressed her face 
 close to Eunice s breast. 
 
 " You do comfort me, you do comfort me," she mur 
 mured. " You put into words what my heart is strug 
 gling to define, and you make me feel how with me you 
 are, just a dear sister who has suffered too, and who is 
 trying to help me to the place of calm where she stands. 
 One feels that your God is a God of great, broad, shelter 
 ing wings, not a sort of Jewish Jove waiting to hurl 
 down wrath and retribution at the first offence. Some 
 times, Eunice, I think that if I were a great painter I 
 
104 BARBARA DERINQ. 
 
 should represent Christ carrying a little goat in his 
 arms. When I think of Him I cannot help feeling that 
 humanity is divine rather than that divinity is human. 
 Somehow the conventional idea of heaven horrified 
 me even as a child. I remember how I used to shock 
 grandmamma by saying that I would ask God to give 
 me a country place, and not make me live in the New 
 Jerusalem ! And this year, in reading one of Henly s 
 poems, I came upon the self-same thought. Then I had 
 another theory which comforted me. I used to ima 
 gine that if I tried with all my might to be good I 
 would live a new and higher life, but still a human life, 
 on every star in space before I reached the orthodox 
 heaven. I always had such a vigorous love of human 
 nature. It seemed to me that most religions were 
 striving to reduce matter, and even God, to what they 
 believed in, as original chaos. It used to madden me 
 when grandmamma tried to make me call myself a poor 
 worm. Somehow I felt that it was insulting the God 
 whose visible thought I was. And oh ! Val understood 
 me so perfectly, while Jock thinks me so wild and 
 unbridled in my views ! Somehow, he seems changed 
 in every way since our marriage. I don t seem to be 
 able to make him happy, even when I try the hardest. 
 Do you care for Plato, Eunice ? Sometimes he soothes 
 and lifts me up as no one else does. I read something 
 this morning that agrees so exactly with what you have 
 been saying to me. Wait a minute ; let me get the 
 book. Here it is. Listen. Isn t this wonderful ? 
 
 " Honor the soul. Truth is the beginning of all 
 good ; and the greatest of all evils is self-love ; and the 
 worst penalty of evil-doing is to grow into likeness with 
 the bad. For each man s soul changes, according to the 
 nature of his deeds, for better or for worse. " 
 
BARBARA DERINO. 105 
 
 " Ah, yes," said Eunice, her eyes bright and blue as 
 flame, " that is it ! The greatest of all evils is self- 
 love. Barbara, darling, I know you do not think I 
 have been preaching at you. I think you absolutely 
 unselfish at heart. Such selfish things as you have 
 done have been through ignorance, not through wilful- 
 ness. You have such a gentle, big, loving heart, it 
 cannot lead you wrong. I feel that. Indeed, I know 
 it. You will grow into a sort of dear Titan-ess of good 
 ness. Oh, Barbara, Barbara ! after all, to do what our 
 hand findeth to do with all our might, to love and help 
 others, to grow as perfect as we can through suffering, 
 that is the greatest of all. And then to find love and 
 sympathy when one has given up expecting them ! I, 
 too, have always dreamed of a friendship such as ours ; 
 I, too, have always felt that there could be a woman- 
 friendship equal to any that has ever been between 
 men. I am shy, I have the habit of reserve, I feel that 
 I express myself so coldly ; but I do love you, Barbara. 
 I will be true to you through everything. You can 
 trust me. I will never change." Tears were running 
 down her cheeks as she finished speaking, and Barbara s 
 face was also wet. They kissed each other solemnly, 
 and sat for a while with hands clasped, their cheeks 
 pressed close together. 
 
 " You will believe in me, then, Eunice ?" said Barbara, 
 presently ; " you will believe that I am going to try with 
 all my strength ? When I make blunders and fail in 
 what I try to do, you will forgive me ?" 
 
 " Dearest, we will forgive each other always !" cried 
 Eunice, touched by the sorrowful humility in her 
 friend s voice. 
 
 "I know how trying I must be," continued Bar 
 bara, " I have such aggravating faults. But, oh !" she 
 
106 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 broke off, and a smile rippled suddenly over her face 
 ; sometimes, when one is in a certain mood, and one s 
 husband becomes rather boisterously affectionate, it is 
 as if one were famished and longing for iced sherbet 
 and a broiled partridge were offered one instead !" 
 
 " Or a bit of stale bread," said Eunice, dryly. 
 
 " And yet, dear," went on Barbara, " we are not the 
 bloodless creatures that we are generally thought to be. 
 Did you ever notice how, when a woman is considered 
 very ardent, she is thought to be an exception to the 
 general rule ? Men are fond, of saying that we cannot 
 keep a secret ; and yet, when I think how well we have 
 hidden that fact for ages, until even scientists speak of 
 us as lacking in fire, I cannot help smiling at the popular 
 belief! We are trained to be hypocrites. We are 
 trained to regard all healthy, natural, vivid impulses as 
 unrefined, unfeminine, immodest. A girl likes even her 
 lover to fancy that she yields unwillingly to his kisses. 
 Oh, if I had a daughter, I would teach her that passion 
 in love, in religion, in friendship, in patriotism, is a 
 great, pure fire created by God, and not to be scorned 
 by man ! That a woman who errs through love is a 
 nobler creature than her sister who marries for con 
 venience ; that true modesty regards all natural im 
 pulses as clean ; and that it is only immodesty which 
 could turn away with a blush from the grand nakedness 
 of the Milo ! I love to think that Christ s first miracle 
 was at a marriage. You know I was speaking of Plato 
 just now. Did you ever think that Christ was the only 
 philosopher who honored the human body and soul 
 equally? Plato would cultivate the soul always at the 
 expense of the body ; the Epicureans the body at the 
 expense of the soul ; but Christ fitted the broken arc 
 together and declared it to be divine. When I think 
 
BARBARA DERING. 107 
 
 of the people who criticise love in all its aspects, it 
 seems to me something like this. There is a great red 
 rose growing in rich soil. One comes by and says, 
 What lovely form ! What exquisite perfume ! But 
 there is something in the color that shocks me ! It is 
 too violent! Too blood-like! Another says, The 
 color and form are beautiful, but what a pity that it 
 has to grow in that ugly black earth ! Then comes 
 a poet or a woman who really loves, and says, How 
 perfect in every way ! And how much we learn when 
 we think that out of the loving darkness of the dust 
 this flower has drawn such living beauty! " 
 
 " Oh, Barbara, Barbara, Barbara !" breathed Eunice. 
 Her face was glowing, her eyes of a violet darkness. 
 " How could you help making any man happy with 
 such ideas of love and life ? You seem to open win 
 dows in one s soul and let in great strains of music. I 
 never used to be ashamed of feeling. I was not natu 
 rally a hypocrite. But but " She broke off suddenly 
 
 and went over to the fireplace. Barbara did not follow 
 her, but sat quite still, her large eyes full of a tender 
 comprehension. 
 
 " Sometimes when when I was first married," con 
 tinued Eunice, her face still turned away, " I used to 
 stretch out my arms, when I lay awake at night with 
 Godfrey asleep beside me, and I used to think, * It is 
 like being crucified. This is my cross I am lying on. 
 When Win came I was afraid that I was going to wor 
 ship her. Oh, how I loved her! how I doted on her! 
 You will be happier when you have a child, Barbara." 
 
 "Do you think so?" said Barbara, dreamily. " I 
 have thought of that so often. But, then, if he were 
 to be harsh to it, or if it were to look at me with un 
 loving eyes ?" 
 
108 BARBARA D BRING. 
 
 "Yes, those doubts are natural," answered Eunice. 
 " Godfrey has a sister who seems terrible to me. Her 
 name is Lydia, and she believes in a hell of actual fire. 
 She thinks any great feeling is a sin, and sometimes 
 her eyes seem dreadful, so large and cruel ! Her hair 
 curls like snakes. She has a cruel, beautiful nose. Her 
 mouth is dreadful, too, so flat, so pale. I used to fear 
 that Win might look like her, might be like her, but 
 you see how different she is in every way. She is the 
 joy of my life. I shall pray for you to have a sweet 
 little girl, Barbara darling." 
 
 "I I am afraid," whispered Barbara, timidly. 
 "Not of the physical pain," she hastened to add, 
 noting the surprised look in Eunice s clear eyes ; " only 
 of the added sorrow that it might be. But, whatever 
 comes, I shall try to think of Jock before myself, and 
 to keep true to my own ideal. And in heaven in 
 some other world somewhere some time. You do 
 believe, do you not ?" She did not complete these in 
 coherent sentences, but stood gazing at Eunice through 
 thick-gathering tears, her hands clasped against her 
 breast in the ardent gesture peculiar to her. 
 
 " Dear heart, I do, I do !" said Eunice. " There are 
 some lines of Browning that always comfort me. I 
 will say them to you." And with her arm about Barbara 
 she repeated the grand words in her quiet voice, 
 
 "There shall never be one lost good! What was shall live as 
 
 before. 
 
 The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound. 
 What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good 
 
 more. 
 On the earth the broken arcs : in the heaven the perfect round." 
 
 " Ah, that rouses ! That is as stirring as a trumpet- 
 call to hope !" cried Barbara. " Dear, blessed Eunice, 
 
BARBARA D BRING. 109 
 
 I will remember those lines and your strong, comfort 
 ing words to me this afternoon whenever I am tempted 
 to be wretched and disheartened." 
 
 " Thank God I have been able to help you !" answered 
 Eunice, brokenly. " Eemember I shall be always the 
 same." 
 
 " And I," said Barbara. " God bless you and keep 
 you." 
 
 They kissed each other again, and then Eunice rode 
 home in the purpling twilight. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 BARBARA S child was born on a gray, chill day in 
 October, a year after their marriage. She had been 
 very ill. Her first unconscious cry of agony had sent 
 Bering dashing out into the still gloom of the frozen 
 night, his hands to his ears, his heart nearly suffocating 
 him. 
 
 His suffering during the next hours was only a con 
 tinuation of what he had been enduring for several 
 months. A savage, deep, unconquerable jealousy of 
 the unborn child had been growing and festering in 
 his heart ever since he knew of its coming. He pic 
 tured Barbara to himself lavishing upon it the passion 
 ate devotion which for a long while he felt that he had 
 failed to arouse in her. He tortured himself with all 
 sorts of improbable yet possible conjectures. He had 
 never admitted it to himself, and yet it was Yalentine 
 Pomfret s shadow that he felt between himself and 
 Barbara. What if this child were to develop mental 
 traits that would be an eternal reminder of Barbara s 
 
 10 
 
110 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 first marriage ? Could he help hating it ? He clinched 
 his teeth in his effort to force down a rising desire. He 
 had almost wished that it would die at its birth, at 
 least it would only mean another complication, another 
 barrier, another source of endless discussion. When 
 poor Barbara tried to speak to him of the future he 
 wounded her with his brusqueness. He would turn 
 the subject at once; sometimes with a jest that 
 shocked her, sometimes with a coldness that brought 
 stinging tears. He became silent, morbid, almost a 
 monomaniac on the subject. It was scarcely ever 
 out of his mind. When he woke in the night it 
 haunted him. It was his first thought in the morning ; 
 and yet he never alluded to it of his own accord. He 
 imagined every sort of future complication. If it 
 were a boy, it would grow up to disappoint them, to 
 make a fool of itself at college, to squander money, to 
 become a " sport" and a " noodle" and jeer at his ideas 
 of guiding humanity into higher places and mitigating 
 the world-suffering. As a daughter, he saw it vain, 
 frivolous, headstrong, pert, and pretty, always with 
 Valentine s gentle, irritating ways, the mere memory 
 of which scraped along his nerves like a fine comb 
 through tangled hair. 
 
 As he walked back and forth over the ice-stiff grass, 
 he became aware, with a great, engulfing amazement, 
 that he wished to pray, but doubted whether it would 
 do much good after all. His faith had never had the 
 supreme test before : he felt the great fabric give and 
 strain as rising passions tore at it with almost equal 
 force. Somehow until to-night he had felt that God 
 was with him personally, approvingly. Now he began 
 to question the system of the universe under that 
 vehement rebellion at the idea of losing the one treas- 
 
BARBARA DERI NO. HI 
 
 ure which more than any other emotion can shake the 
 human heart to its centre. 
 
 Only the day before he had spoken harsh, unloving 
 words to her. He had seen her great eyes slowly brim 
 with tears under his tone and manner, and they had 
 vexed him. There was no doubt of her suffering now. 
 Even as he thought, another of those wailing cries that 
 he so dreaded thrilled to him through the bitter air 
 and brought out a fine beading on his uncovered fore 
 head. He put his arms about a tree, near which he 
 stood, and grasped it as though it had been some living 
 thing which could save him from his own terror and 
 self-reproach. Her dog came snuffing about his feet. 
 He looked upward through the floating, inky foliage 
 of the tree whose trunk he clasped. Her face seemed 
 burnt on the night wherever he turned. The scene of 
 their first meeting came back to him as though it had 
 been yesterday. After all, was there another woman 
 like her on earth ? Women more faultless certainly, 
 more submissive, more willing to accept the popular 
 idea of life, with whom domestic existence would be 
 more tranquil, whose views on vital questions would be 
 less disturbing but one just like her? Never! Even 
 with her faults, would he wish her to change in any 
 essential quality ? 
 
 " Oh, my God ! my dear God !" he broke forth sud 
 denly. " Let her live ! Let her love me ! Let me 
 teach her to love me! Show me how to be what she 
 would like ! Help us to understand each other ! Help 
 her ! Help her ! Save her from this horrible torture !" 
 
 He could hear his teeth clacking together as he 
 stopped speaking. It struck him as being grimly droll, 
 and he gave a sort of mirthless laugh. A tide of 
 memory began to sweep over him as though he were 
 
112 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 drowning. He held her in his arms. He kissed her 
 wonderful mouth. She loved him. She pressed him 
 to her, and gazed up at him with the old love-look. 
 Then with a start he came to himself again. She was 
 lying in her pretty room up-stairs in mortal pain. 
 Perhaps she was dying. 
 
 " If you will let her live, I will be so good ! I will be 
 so good !" he heard himself stammering. It seemed to 
 him that hours had passed. Then he could stand it no 
 longer and went back to the house. He wandered into 
 every room which held a tender memory of her, and 
 at last threw himself on the divan in the music-room, 
 his face buried in the cushions which held the subtle 
 perfume of her hair. 
 
 It was Eunice Bransby who came and stooped over 
 him, putting her hand very gently on his shoulder. 
 
 " It s all right," she said, smiling, but very pale. 
 " You have a little daughter." 
 
 He stared at her so crazily out of a face white and 
 drawn almost past recognition, that she took his hand 
 in both hers before repeating, 
 
 " It s all right. Barbara is safe." 
 
 Bering struggled terribly for a moment, then dropped 
 his face again into the tumbled cushions and broke into 
 that harsh, agonized sobbing which comes to some men 
 only once or twice in a lifetime. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 BARBARA was not one of those women whose exuber 
 ance of maternal instinct leads them to caress every 
 baby of average comeliness and cleanliness whom they 
 
BARBARA D BRING. 113 
 
 may chance to meet. Her nature was maternal cer 
 tainly, but in the broadest sense of the word. She 
 yearned over all living things with that impartiality 
 of true motherliness which will nurse a wounded hawk 
 as tenderly as the broken-winged bird which it has 
 sought to kill. Her term of expectancy had not been 
 cheered with those ecstatic dreams which brighten the 
 waiting of most young mothers. At times she even 
 dreaded the coming of her child, and imagined that it 
 would be cold and uncongenial and given to criticise 
 her, as it grew older ; but she depended a great deal on 
 the maternal instinct which was supposed to arrive 
 with all children, and which she thought would bring 
 her a portion at least of the triumphant buoyancy 
 which women were said to feel on such occasions. 
 
 When the little warm, fragrant flannel bundle was 
 laid beside her, however, she only experienced a vague 
 sense of unreality, mingled with a faint revulsion at 
 what, in her weak state, seemed to her the generally 
 unnatural aspect of life at that moment. In her heart 
 she wished that they would take it away and not let 
 her see it until it got more attractive and human 
 looking, and then, as scalding tears slowly forced them 
 selves between her closed lids, wondered if she would 
 have felt more loving to it if Jock had been kinder to 
 her before its birth. 
 
 He was not allowed to see her for several hours 
 after Eunice had come to him with the news that he 
 had a daughter. When he entered the room he was 
 confronted by the great bed, which looked to him as 
 broad and white as a roof covered with new-fallen 
 snow. Barbara lay pale and quiet, her eyes wide, her 
 rich hair smoothed out on either side of her face. The 
 delicately-pointed ruffles of her thin night-gown only 
 h 10* 
 
114 BARBARA D BRING. 
 
 accentuated the clear whiteness of her face. Her lips 
 were parted and of a dry, deep crimson. She did not 
 smile when she saw him. Her eyes seemed looking 
 past him and not at him. He felt himself shuddering, 
 and glanced nervously about. They were alone. He 
 knelt beside her very cautiously, ventured to take one 
 of her pale hands and drew it to him. 
 
 " Forgive me, forgive me, Barbara, my poor, beauti 
 ful Barbara! How you have suffered ! and I, I too! I 
 have been in hell. But you will forgive me. You 
 always forgive me. We will conquer life yet, my 
 darling, my darling ! How I adore you ! You are my 
 saint now ! You have been martyred, and for me ! 
 You have borne all this for me ! But say you forgive 
 me. Let me hear you say it." 
 
 " I say it," answered Barbara, in a dull, slow voice. 
 
 " Oh, Barbara ! Do you mean it, when you say it 
 like that? 1 cannot think that you really mean it. 
 Do you, my own, my life s blood ?" 
 
 " I mean it," she repeated in the same voice. 
 
 Her eyes stared at him, but, alas, past him, over his 
 head. Dering gave a desperate, uncontrollable sob. 
 
 " Oh, God !" he whispered. " Don t you love me any 
 more, Barbara ? Is it over ? Have I killed your love ?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Barbara, in a school-girl tone, as 
 though she had the words by rote. Then she began to 
 chant them in a sort of sing-song, "Oh, no! Oh, no!" 
 
 Dering gazed at her for a moment and saw that she 
 was wandering. He left the room and went out into 
 the moist, windy dawn. The past year seemed to stand 
 clearly before him, each month numbered in order. 
 They had been married in October. In November 
 their disputes had begun. December had seen them 
 bitterly angered against each other. January was 
 
BARBARA DERING. 115 
 
 worse. February still more terrible. He broke away, 
 with an angry gesture, from his own reminiscences, 
 and walking briskly onward, his head down, began to 
 examine himself, his conduct, his attitude towards the 
 woman whom he had married. He had never forced 
 himself upon her, never insisted upon any caress 
 which she had not been in the mood to bestow. His 
 conscience was clear on that point. On the other hand, 
 he had given way to utter harshness against her, 
 he had laughed at what he had chosen to call her 
 " feminine idiosyncrasies." He had disregarded her 
 shy hints about gentleness and tenderness in married 
 love-making. He had, in a word, made himself in every 
 particular a splendid foil for a dead and consequently 
 idealized husband. He ground his teeth as this 
 thought gripped him, but then remembered that the 
 only child she had ever borne was his, and trembled in 
 the realization, his set features relaxing. The fact of 
 their failure to make one another happy baffled him. 
 Their mutual trust was entire. He knew that, no 
 matter what state of irritation might beset them, they 
 were proof against all ignoble jealousies and suspicions. 
 He knew her absolute purity too thoroughly ever to 
 let a doubt of her cross his mind, and he was convinced 
 that she yielded him a like confidence. If he was ever 
 jealous, it was of the ghost of a former love. He had 
 a desperate sense sometimes of struggling with phantom 
 shapes which eluded him, yet remained as real while 
 as intangible as the air he breathed. 
 
 Then all at once he was overwhelmed with a sense 
 of what she had suffered physically because of him. 
 The idea of that precious body racked with slow and 
 terrible torture seemed to cripple his own limbs. He 
 leaned against the rough rails of a snake-fence, and, 
 
116 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 pressing his forehead against his arms, gave a bitter 
 moan of bewildered unhappiness. 
 
 Life seemed very pointless and harsh to him just 
 then. He found it in him to pity the poor little scrap 
 of humanity which might have cost his idol her life. 
 In the natural order of things she would some day 
 have to suffer for another being the very anguish 
 which had given her life. 
 
 He told himself that the day of miracles had past, 
 and yet found that he hoped for some miracle which 
 would change the iron monotony of his pain ; and then 
 he was strongly tempted to give his strained nerves 
 their way and laugh aloud long, boisterously. How 
 absurd it all seemed ! He had thought that the world 
 was his oyster ! And he was not even able to conquer 
 his own wretchedness, much less that of others ! 
 
 Barbara was very ill for some time after that first 
 visit, but at last she was stronger, and one day sent 
 for him to come to her, as she lay wrapped in a deli 
 cate pink dressing-gown, which reflected up on her 
 pale face and gave her the semblance of an April 
 bloom. She held out her hands to him as he entered, 
 and he noticed that her rings were loose for her. 
 Something in this trivial fact touched him deeply. He 
 quickened his steps, and, throwing himself on his knees 
 beside her, gathered her to his breast. She lay with 
 great tears blotting her sight, one hand gently caress 
 ing his curls. Both felt that wondrous nearness which 
 only a past and mutual pain can bring. 
 
 " How strange ! how strange it all seems !" she 
 whispered finally, and when Dering lifted his head she 
 saw that his eyes, too, had been hot with tears. 
 
 " It is good to suffer," she said, smiling. " It brings 
 such peace." 
 
BARBARA DERI NO. H7 
 
 "I thought that you would never love me again," 
 returned Dering, with a sort of sob. 
 
 " Dear Jock ! We have both so much to forgive and 
 forget." 
 
 " Oh, no ! You mustn t say that, Barbara. You 
 have so much more to forgive than I have." 
 
 " Perhaps you mean it is harder for me, because I am 
 a woman." 
 
 " Yes, I think that is what I meant. My dearest ! 
 How lovely you look !" 
 
 " But so horridly pale, dear." 
 
 " I love you pale. I told you that once before, didn t 
 I?" 
 
 " Yes ; I thought you only said it to be nice." 
 
 " I m not much given to that sort of thing." 
 
 They both laughed, then Dering said, flushing and 
 looking rather conscious, 
 
 " And the the it, where is it, Barbara ?" 
 
 "Oh, it!" replied Barbara, and blushed too. Then 
 she assumed a serious look, and said, " I ll send for it, 
 her, I mean. But haven t you seen her, while I ve 
 been ill?" 
 
 " No. I didn t want to," said Dering, grimly. " Your 
 friend, Mrs. Bransby, thought I was an odious savage, 
 I know. But you were so ill, I should have hated it 
 if you had died, and so I refused to look at it. Do 
 you think me a monster, darling ?" 
 
 "No. I I love you for it," said Barbara, shyly. 
 " Only you couldn t have hated it really, you know. 
 It s a very dear baby. Now please don t laugh ! It is, 
 I assure you. Wait until you see it. Ah ! here it 
 she is, I mean. Now give it to me, Aunt Polly. There, 
 look at it, Jock. It isn t red at all." 
 
 "Why, that s a fact!" exclaimed Dering. "The 
 
118 BARBARA D BRING. 
 
 rogue ! How it scowls ! It s got a devil of a temper ; 
 hasn t it, Aunt Polly?" 
 
 "Hit s right fractious, marster," admitted Aunt 
 Polly, honestly. 
 
 " Why, it s downright pretty !" exclaimed Bering, 
 after a moment more of absorbed scrutiny. " It s got 
 eyebrows. I never heard of a baby with eyebrows. 
 And such a lot of hair, curly at the ends, too ! What 
 a pretty rascal ! I should like to hold it May I ?" 
 
 "Don t you think you might er twist it?" asked 
 Barbara, nervously. " I don t quite like to handle it 
 myself. You ve no idea how how india-rubbery it 
 is, Jock." 
 
 " But then it s a small you, Bab dearest." 
 
 " How funny ! You never ealled me Bab before !" 
 
 " No ; but it s a dear little name, isn t it ? What is 
 this minx to be called ?" 
 
 "Not Barbara! that is, if you don t mind. My 
 mother s name was Fairfax, Katherine Fairfax. 
 Would you mind Fairfax Eunice? I like our Virginia 
 way of giving girls family names, don t you ?" 
 
 "Hullo ! she s laughing. She likes it, too !" exclaimed 
 Bering. " What pitfalls of dimples ! She s a perfect 
 dear ! Does your name please you, Lady Fair ?" 
 
 He turned and clasped Barbara and the child with 
 sudden vehemence. 
 
 "You re all mine, both of you!" he said, with a 
 sort of exulting gayety. Then he turned Barbara s 
 face so that he could look at her eyes. " You feel that 
 you are more mine now than you have ever been 
 another s?" he asked, in the deep voice that with him 
 always meant great emotion. 
 
 " Yes," she said, solemnly. 
 
 He rested his lips upon her forehead in a long kiss, 
 
BARBARA DERING. H9 
 
 and they remained motionless with the sleeping child 
 between them, as though afraid of breaking some bliss 
 ful spell. Afterwards, when little Fair had been taken 
 away and they sat holding each other s hands and look 
 ing out into the pearly twilight, Bering drew a great 
 catching sigh and burst forth, 
 
 "How terrible I have been to you, my poor dear! 
 I m afraid I m an infernal savage. Love makes me 
 actually cruel sometimes." 
 
 " But then I have tried you dreadfully," said Barbara. 
 "Don t let us speak of those fearful times now. 
 They are over, over, over." 
 
 " Yes, forever," said Bering, positively. 
 
 " Unberufen /" Barbara could not help exclaiming, 
 and added three warning taps on the window-sill, 
 while they both laughed together. During those mo 
 ments of happy gayety Dering forgot the jealous 
 doubts which had poisoned the last few months for 
 him. It was as impossible to call up past suffering in 
 this intense present as it is to imagine one melody 
 while listening to the actual chords that compose 
 another. Then, too, as far as physical semblance went, 
 the child was, as he had said, a small Barbara, with no 
 suggestion of either himself or Valentine in its clear 
 face. His nature had undergone one of those quick 
 changes which transformed him, often without warning, 
 into a different being. He was all gentleness and sun 
 shine. Barbara could not help asking herself if she 
 had not imagined much of the past anguish. Could 
 the man who stroked her hair so tenderly, who closed 
 her lids with the gentlest kisses, who spoke to her 
 with such delicate love-phrases, could he ever really 
 have glared at her with furious eyes, pushed her from 
 him with harsh roughness ? 
 
120 BARBARA DERINQ. 
 
 The mere memory sent a cold trickle of revulsion 
 through the sweet warmth of her mood. She gave a 
 little shiver, and then, with a swift movement as 
 though appealing to him for protection from some 
 terrifying presence, clung to him and pressed her face 
 against his breast. He held her fast with broken words 
 of love and comfort, feeing in her sudden gesture only 
 the nervousness that comes after any intense strain of 
 mind or body, and realizing with a moved surprise that 
 she was dearer to him than she had ever been as sweet 
 heart or newly -married wife. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 SOME weeks later Barbara found herself walking 
 through the rolling meadows that separated Rosemary 
 from The Poplars. She was alone, except for the dogs, 
 as Dering had been called unexpectedly to New York, 
 and her mood was one of exultant freedom. Nothing 
 seemed to her more impossible than that the child 
 which she had left rosily sleeping was her flesh and 
 blood, actually a part of her being, spiritual and physi 
 cal, who would one day progress unto calling her 
 "Mother." She laughed as she ran along with her 
 hand on her deerhound s collar. 
 
 The day seemed a gray globe of whirling wind. 
 Overhead the sky was streaked with flying feathers of 
 cloud, driven in all directions by the opposite air-cur 
 rents. The broom fields swept against the rich violet 
 of the hills in overlapping billows of pale rose-yellow, 
 gray-white, of straw-color, of rich burnt-orange. Here 
 and there the faint-red curve of a path was beaten out 
 
BARBARA BERING. 121 
 
 along a slope, upon which the tawny growth rippled 
 in the sheets of wind. 
 
 Barbara had a love of the open fields equal to that 
 which she felt for the ocean. She would always cross 
 them in preference to keeping the road, scrambling 
 over fences and through patches of bramble and under 
 brush to attain her end, and finding her reward in the 
 friendly solitude which she loved, the whirr of startled 
 birds, the close darting of small creatures whose homes 
 were in the tussocks of wild grass and broom disturbed 
 by her venturous feet. It seemed to her that she pos 
 sessed her own soul more completely during these com- 
 panionless walks, and she was learning to look forward 
 to them as a means of developing a certain new growth 
 of mentality of which she had begun to be conscious 
 during the past months. Hers was a being which 
 responded generously to the teaching of sorrow, which 
 was never hardened by it, but lent itself to that power 
 ful moulding with the plastic readiness characteristic 
 of large natures. Even in her past waywardness and 
 egoism there had always been a distinct vein of humility 
 which made her willing to accuse herself of wrong 
 doing on the least occasion, and by which she had often 
 been led to misrepresent herself to others through the 
 excessive harshness of her self-criticism. It was in 
 this spirit that she now accepted the pain which had 
 come to her through her marriage with Dering. She 
 told herself that she had been exacting, inconsiderate, 
 almost wilfully trying, for in the first shock of disap 
 pointment she had given herself up to a sense of hope 
 lessness, which found its only relief in an attitude of 
 minute criticism, and made of their daily intercourse 
 a sort of magnify ing-glass to classify his detailed fail 
 ures of tact and responsiveness. She had married him 
 F 11 
 
122 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 with the idea of atoning to him for her former cruelty, 
 and she had ended by allowing herself to be over 
 whelmed at the lack of that very joy which she had 
 decided to be impossible of attainment by most people, 
 and certainly not twice to be received by any one. 
 
 As she walked rapidly along through the soft De 
 cember wind, she began thinking of her life as a novel 
 in three volumes. Her marriage with Valentine had 
 been the first, ending w T ith his death ; her meeting 
 with Dering and the first year of her life with him the 
 second, which had been closed by the birth of their 
 child ; while now she stood as it were in the first chapter 
 of the third, wondering what it would unfold ; and she 
 quickened her steps in a rush of sudden determination 
 which seemed to force onward her body as well as her 
 mind. 
 
 The mother-sense had begun to stir in Barbara with a 
 certain bird-like quality which lent itself to wide-wing 
 ing thoughts. She had not experienced any peculiar 
 ecstasy in the mere bodily beauty of her child, who 
 was very exquisite, but as the strange, quiet gray eyes 
 gazed up at her from her knee with that steadfast 
 seriousness of babyhood, she was thrilled by a solemn 
 and exalted sense of the spiritual individuality which 
 made this small creature different from all others and 
 invested her with that dignity of isolated consciousness 
 which we call life. During her hours of deep reflection 
 she was visited by those ineffable visions full of the 
 holiness of spiritual light, which come to us when pon 
 dering how we may work the good of others, and help 
 to supreme beauty some soul which has been knit to 
 ours through love. 
 
 She longed to speak of these new and vast yearnings 
 to some one who would comprehend that they were 
 
BARBARA DERING. 123 
 
 not merely the. outbursts of a young mother over her 
 first baby. She knew that Boring was not in touch 
 with her here. By some acute instinct developed 
 through repeated suffering of the same kind, she felt 
 that he would resent her mental absorption in another, 
 even though it were his own child, and was careful not 
 to make the baby the subject of discussion unless he 
 first alluded to her. This repression, which she had 
 practised conscientiously, made her doubly anxious to 
 see Eunice, who had been obliged to leave for Florida 
 the day after Fair s birth on account of the illness of 
 Bransby s sister. Indeed, her craving to be with this 
 wonderful friend amounted to keen mental hunger, 
 and by the time that the gray, vine-laced walls of The 
 Poplars gleamed through the purplish tracery of the 
 trees upon the oval lawn she found that she was almost 
 running, in her eagerness of anticipation. 
 
 As she walked towards the house over the bleached 
 grasses, she saw that the wide doors of iron-bound oak 
 were open, and that outlined against the ruddy square 
 of the hall fireplace a tall figure, heavy with crape, 
 was standing in an attitude of repellent erectness. 
 
 Barbara at once guessed this to be Mrs. Crosdill, the 
 sister of Bransby, who, as Eunice had written, would 
 probably return with her to Virginia. Although she 
 was not near enough to distinguish the stranger s fea 
 tures, a sense of antagonism possessed her and made her 
 hesitate for a moment. Before she could exactly realize 
 the emotion which had chilled her, however, Winifred 
 came darting across the lawn, her floss of dark-brown 
 curls spinning hatless in the wind, her clear, alert little 
 face one sparkle of delight. 
 
 "Oh, you dear! you dear! you dear!" she cried, 
 dancing about Barbara in a sort of frenzy. " Oh, I 
 
124 BARBARA D BRING. 
 
 do feel really religious bout your coming ! It makes 
 me b lieve in prayer, cause I did pray so hard you d 
 come! You can t think how horrid and and sort 
 of fungusy she makes things. The whole hall smells 
 of her dreadful crape. And she s worse than papa 
 bout Sunday, and has such a graveyardy way of 
 talking." 
 
 " Hush ! You must hush, Win !" said Barbara, giving 
 her a soft pinch of warning. "I suppose by she 
 you mean your aunt, and she s coming towards us." 
 
 " Oh, dem !" groaned Win. 
 
 Barbara was nearly startled into one of her ringing 
 laughs, but managed to repress it and assume a severe 
 air. 
 
 " My child ! What a horrid word ! Where did you 
 hear it ?" 
 
 " Why, it s what that Mantalini man says, Barbara, 
 dear. I thought everybody knew that. It isn t any 
 harm when you crook your finger for quotation-marks, 
 and I m going to say it to Aunt Lydia some day. I 
 am !" she ended, looking stubborn, as Barbara shook 
 her head. 
 
 Mrs. Crosdill here reached them, and, before speak 
 ing to Barbara said, in a cold voice of admonishment, 
 
 " Winifred, I am sure that your father would be dis 
 pleased to see you in this high wind without a hat. 
 Go and fetch Lois s if you can t find your own." 
 
 " Oh, mother wouldn t care !" responded Win, airily, 
 accentuating this word with a provoking inflection: 
 "and this is mother s dearest friend, Mrs. Dering. 
 Why don t you speak to her and tell her to come in ?" 
 
 A faint purplish flush streaked Mrs. Crosdill s cheeks. 
 Her mouth had a thin wideness and her eyes a round 
 brilliancy which struck Barbara as frog-like. They 
 
BARBARA DERING. 125 
 
 looked at each other and felt that mutual aversion 
 which Barbara and Bransby had also experienced at 
 first sight. Mrs. Crosdill said, formally, 
 
 " I am sorry, but neither my brother nor Eunice is at 
 home to-day. Will you come in ? You must be cold. 
 I should think it was too windy for walking." 
 
 " Why don t you tell her that mother said she d be 
 back in an hour?" said Win, vindictively. "She s 
 been gone most an hour now." 
 
 " Winifred," said her aunt, eying her vividly, " you 
 are very impertinent. I shall speak to your father." 
 
 But Winifred remained unmoved, and hopped along 
 on her slender, black-stockinged legs, feigning an elabo 
 rate lameness, with two old weather-beaten croquet- 
 mallets for crutches, and murmuring, coolly, 
 
 " I don t see why you will drag papa in, cause you 
 must see he don t bother bout us, one way or another." 
 
 Again Mrs. Crosdill flushed dimly, but said nothing 
 this time. When they were in the hall, she closed the 
 front doors and rang for tea, then sat down, and under 
 the cover of conventional conversation examined nar 
 rowly Barbara s personal appearance, while Winifred 
 flitted from window to window in a state of nervous 
 expectation. 
 
 " I can t see why mother takes so long to come back," 
 she cried, finally, rushing towards them in her usual im 
 petuous fashion and flinging her elbows into Barbara s 
 lap, while she grasped her chin with all ten little 
 fingers. " Do you think anything could have happened 
 to her ? She s riding Dervish, you know, and he does 
 cut up so." 
 
 " Oh, no, I m sure not, dear," said Barbara, stroking 
 the wild mop of curls. 
 
 " Your mother has not been gone more than half an 
 11* 
 
126 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 hour, Winifred," put in Mrs. Crosdill in her measured 
 voice, the mere sound of which seemed to put the 
 nervous child into a state of almost feverish irritation. 
 
 " Oh, deed I do think she has, Aunt Lydia," she said, 
 rebelliously. " I think it will be too bad if you let 
 Barbara go before she comes back." 
 
 " I shall be only too glad for Mrs. Bering to stay. 
 Really, the manners of these nineteenth-century chil 
 dren are lamentable," she added, turning to Barbara, 
 and speaking across Win s tousled head. 
 
 The latter flushed a bright rose, drew down her black 
 brows in a scowl, and shot a glance of condensed loath 
 ing at Mrs. Crosdill from her dilated gray eyes. Then, 
 after a moment spent in silent consideration, walked 
 away to the other side of the hall and seemed busy 
 with the objects on one of the large tables of carved oak, 
 which were covered with the latest French, English, 
 and American periodicals, several photographs in leather 
 frames, and books of etchings. 
 
 " You have been very ill, haven t you ?" said Barbara 
 at last, searching about for some topic of common 
 interest. 
 
 "Yes; I have been threatened with consumption for 
 two years. I had an attack of rheumatic bronchitis 
 soon after reaching Florida. The same thing Brown 
 ing died of, you know. My physician says that if they 
 had given him salicylate of soda he would be alive 
 now." 
 
 " How dreadful it seems to think of the life of a 
 great genius like that being dependent on a drug !" ex 
 claimed Barbara, and was at once conscious of an icy 
 stream of disapproval which poured into Mrs. Crosdill s 
 polished-looking brown eyes. 
 
 "I must say that I never thought of it in that 
 
BARBARA BERING. 127 
 
 light," she replied, stiffly. "It was the will of God 
 that Kobert Browning should die. If it had not been 
 so, some one would have been inspired to give him 
 salicylate of soda." 
 
 "I didn t know that doctors had usually to be in 
 spired before they could write a prescription," said 
 Barbara, angered at what she considered the decided 
 insolence of Mrs. CrosdilPs manner. 
 
 At this awkward point Winifred shot towards them 
 again, holding in both hands, high over her head, a 
 large photograph, her red mouth pursed malevolently, 
 her eyes two shining streaks of mischief behind their 
 bushy black lashes. 
 
 u Do you see this old gentleman, Barbara?" she 
 called out. " He s a bishop, and if Aunt Lydia was a 
 Roman Catholic she d hang him over her bed and pray 
 to him as they do to the Virgin Mary. Ain t his hair 
 curly ? I know he puts it up in papers every night ; 
 but, of course, Aunt Lydia wouldn t say so, even if she 
 thought it." 
 
 Barbara was aghast at the convulsion of anger which 
 distorted Mrs. Crosdill s face. It grew suffused with 
 blood, the veins in her prominent forehead swelled. 
 She made a fierce, hawk-like pounce and caught the 
 child by the arm, tearing from her the photograph, 
 which she placed on the chair from which she had 
 risen, then lifted her free hand as though to strike. 
 Barbara leaped to her feet determined to interfere, but 
 saw at once that Winifred was fully capable of pro 
 tecting herself. 
 
 " If you touch me," she said, in a low voice, " I ll 
 kill you." And there was something so dangerous in 
 the curious quiet of her tone, that Mrs. Crosdill re 
 leased her. 
 
128 BARBARA DERI NO. 
 
 " You wicked little creature," she exclaimed. " God 
 will punish you for your blasphemy if your weak and 
 self-indulgent mother does not !" 
 
 Winifred looked like a pale flame of fury. " If you 
 dare to say such things of my mother, I ll beg God, night 
 and morning, to punish you I" she said, between her 
 sharp little teeth. " If I am wicked, it is you that 
 make me wicked. I could most b lieve God was Hate 
 if I stayed long in the house with you." 
 
 " Winifred ! Winifred !" said Barbara, but in such a 
 gentle tone and with her arms so tenderly outstretched, 
 that after a second s quivering pause the child darted 
 to her, and, pressing her face against her breast, burst 
 into a wild passion of tears. 
 
 Just here Eunice entered. She seemed to compre 
 hend the situation at once, for she said to Barbara, in a 
 low voice, 
 
 " Bring her up to my room, dear." Then, turning 
 to Mrs. Crosdill, added, coldly, " I am very sorry, Lydia^ 
 if Win has been naughty to you again. She shall ask 
 your pardon later, if she has been." 
 
 " Oh, as for that, she is always insolence itself to 
 me," replied that lady, bitingly. 
 
 Eunice left the room without saying anything in re 
 sponse to this gracious speech, followed by Barbara, to 
 whom Win was yet clinging with the wiry tenacity of a 
 desperate kitten. 
 
 XX. 
 
 AFTER Win had been admonished and disposed of 
 the two friends, left alone, put their arms about each 
 other and remained with their cheeks pressed close for 
 
BARBARA DERINO. 129 
 
 several moments. Then Barbara said, putting Eunice 
 from her and regarding her with tender gravity, 
 
 " You look thinner, dearest. Has that dreadful 
 woman been wicked to you ?" 
 
 Eunice shivered a little, pushing back her hair, which 
 had been pressed down about her forehead by her 
 riding-hat, 
 
 " She is dreadful," she said finally, drawing a long 
 breath. " Sometimes, when I have been alone with 
 her and Godfrey for several weeks, I feel as though I 
 were losing my identity. They make me so unspeak 
 ably wretched. They are so narrow, their views of 
 
 life are so narrow " She broke off, and, catching 
 
 Barbara suddenly to her, kissed her eagerly on cheeks 
 and eyes. 
 
 " You are all the real life that I have !" she exclaimed. 
 " When I am with you I seem to feel, to vibrate. 
 Usually I only exist. I have been starved for you, 
 Barbara. Sometimes I have thought that I should die 
 if I did not see you, and I have suffered ! One can 
 go through so much in a few weeks. Such upheavals, 
 such mental earthquakes !" She began to walk up and 
 down, unbuttoning her habit nervously. Barbara fol 
 lowed her, and threw about her the delicate peignoir 
 of faint blue cashmere which she found on the sofa. 
 The white arms and neck had a frail look. Their 
 net-work of lilac veins was too apparent for beauty. 
 When she had thrown herself into an arm-chair, Bar 
 bara knelt down before her and drew off the small 
 riding-boots. 
 
 " If you ring for your maid, we can t talk," she had 
 exclaimed when Eunice protested, so the latter sub 
 mitted with a deep sigh of relief. " What cold little 
 feet!" said Barbara, taking one in both hands, and 
 
130 BARBARA DERINQ. 
 
 then holding it against her breast to warm it. " And 
 what feverish eyes! Eunice, darling, what have they 
 been doing to you ? Do tell me. You have that look 
 of having been through something written all over 
 your face. Has she have they has has your hus 
 band- " 
 
 "Hush! hush!" whispered Eunice, half starting up. 
 " Don t speak so loud, Barbara. He doesn t like you 
 as it is. If he heard you say such a thing he would 
 move heaven and earth to separate us." 
 
 " A woman-tamer," murmured Barbara, with a con 
 temptuous curl of her arched lips. " Yes, he does hate 
 me. I can feel it whenever I go near him. And she 
 does, too ! She strikes me as terrible. There is some 
 thing like iron about her, iron sheeted in ice. I can t 
 help believing that these overpious people are hypo 
 crites, Eunice. They are always discovering in others 
 the faults which they have taken such care to conceal 
 in themselves. She gives me a frozen feeling, that 
 Mrs. Crosdill. And then children have such instincts 
 about people. Look how Win detests her !" 
 
 "Yes, both the children dislike her," said Eunice, 
 in a tired voice. "She seems to frighten Lois, and 
 Win is always being disagreeable to her. You can t 
 think how I hate to make the child apologize to her, 
 Barbara, even when it is right. She does take such 
 delight in humiliating people. But you, my dear one ! 
 You have told me nothing of yourself and little Fair." 
 
 Barbara laughed : " There is nothing much to tell. 
 Fair is very pretty, and I don t yet feel like her mother. 
 I don t realize her. I suppose I shall after a while. I 
 am not a delirious mamma." 
 
 Eunice smiled and closed her eyes for a minute or 
 two. As Barbara watched her she became more and 
 
BARBARA DERI NO. 131 
 
 more struck by the other s pallor and great air of 
 weariness. Seating herself suddenly on the arm of the 
 chair, she drew her against her breast and held her 
 there. 
 
 " Ah, that is good ! that is good !" whispered the 
 poor woman. "You are so human, Barbara. Your 
 heart beats so strong and fast under my cheek I feel 
 as though I were coming to life in your arms like some 
 poor thing taken out of the snow. And yet I I 
 have been trying to get dead. I seemed to be coming 
 to life again there in Florida." She leaned her head 
 back on Barbara s shoulder with an abrupt movement 
 and lifted her blue eyes, which had that intense, flame- 
 like radiance that Barbara had noticed once or twice 
 before. " I am going to tell you something, Barbara. 
 I wonder what you will say to me. I have never 
 spoken of such things even to a journal until now. 
 But I am going to tell you everything." 
 
 " Yes, my sweetheart ; tell me all," answered Bar 
 bara, her arms tightening about the slight figure. 
 "You must know that I could only be loving and 
 tender to you no matter what you told me." 
 
 Eunice turned her head and kissed the shoulder 
 upon which it rested, then went on speaking, in a 
 quick, even tone : " I have been unhappy ever since I 
 
 was married " She broke off, and with a sort of 
 
 exultation exclaimed, " Oh, God ! how good it is to 
 have it out at last ! What relief! I felt as though my 
 heart would burst." Barbara went on stroking the 
 dark head with one powerful, fair hand, but said 
 nothing. " That soothes me. Don t stop, Barbara," 
 murmured Eunice; then she went on with what she 
 had been saying : " Yes, I have been very unhappy 
 for eleven years. It s a long time, Barbara." 
 
132 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 11 Yes, darling, I know." 
 
 " I have struggled with myself. I haven t let myself 
 be morbid. I have done my duty, at least what I 
 saw to be my duty. I have tried not to shirk any 
 thing. Do you remember what I said to you about 
 the lesson of marriage ? Well, I thought I had mas 
 tered that. Perhaps I felt too strong. God wanted to 
 test me. You see I thought I was dead mentally, 
 emotionally. That is where so many women fall into 
 error. They think the ocean has dried up, when it is 
 only the tide that has gone out. Well, there is nothing 
 remarkable or romantic in my little one sided story, 
 but I I saw this winter in Florida I met there a 
 man you see I felt so secure in my coldness, my 
 
 deadness " She stopped again, and drew away from 
 
 Barbara, covering her face with both hands. " I don t 
 know how to say it exactly," she continued, brokenly. 
 "There was nothing. He was only a gentle, under 
 standing, sympathetic friend to me ; but he made me 
 see no, he made me feel what life could be with 
 with a nature like his the light, the warmth, the 
 color, the touch of soul on soul ! There was nothing 
 morbid in what I felt. The terrible struggle was 
 about my attitude to Godfrey. My life with him 
 seemed such a corpse-like mockery. I thought if I 
 could only be free, could only have my spirit and 
 body to myself. Oh, Barbara, I could be so happy 
 only dreaming of an ideal, even if I never actually 
 possessed it ! But as it is, I don t even possess my own 
 personality!" She wrung her hands together with 
 such bitter intensity that one of her rings cut into the 
 flesh and a little drop of blood oozed out from beneath 
 the bright diamonds. 
 
 "I am the property of another," she went on, bit- 
 
BARBARA DERINO. 133 
 
 terly, " and of one who has not the excuse of intense 
 feeling in his tyranny. If I could feel that he loved 
 me, was jealous even ; but no, no ! it is not that. He 
 merely wishes to domineer, to compel, to master. I 
 cannot understand it. I cannot understand the man- 
 spirit, Barbara." 
 
 " What woman can, my own ?" said Barbara, with 
 bitterness. " It is only when a man has something of 
 the woman in him that he can understand us or we 
 comprehend him." 
 
 " And then, too, he my husband is weak ! weak ! 
 weak!" exclaimed Eunice. She made a wild gesture 
 with her arms as though breaking some restraint. 
 " Yes, I will say it. He is weak. He is even afraid 
 of ine in some things. I can t respect him ! I can t 
 respect him !" Her voice was a wail of pain. 
 
 "My darling! my darling!" said Barbara, "what 
 misery you have been through! How horribly you 
 must have suffered !" 
 
 "Ah, yes!" she cried; "and the worst of it is that 
 to them our suffering has always something ridiculous 
 in it. Not that Godfrey has ever seen me cry. No 
 one has ever seen me like this but you, Barbara. 
 Somehow I seem to have come to the end of my 
 strength. I am like a silly bird that streaks the ceiling 
 with its blood in trying to get out of the room where 
 it is captive. I don t seem to care for anything to-day 
 but my freedom, my freedom, my freedom ! I want to 
 be free, free again! I want to be a girl free 
 myself! I haven t been myself for eleven years!" 
 
 Barbara felt that her own face was scorched with 
 tears. She could not speak, and pressed her friei/d s 
 hand to her silent lips. Presently Eunice started to 
 her feet and began moving silently about the roTm, 
 
 12 
 
134 BARBARA D BRING. 
 
 her eyes wide and scintillating, her hands wrung ener 
 getically together. 
 
 " It makes me wild," she said, in an excited whisper. 
 "I think what I have missed, and I feel desperate. 
 It is the lack of patience that is at the bottom of 
 nearly all human misery. If I had been more patient, 
 not so romantic. I thought that Godfrey was the 
 most ideal of men. I took his silence for wisdom, his 
 narrowness for purity, his coldness for self-control. 
 He is not a man. He is a thing of snow and putty. 
 I could make a man love me !" 
 
 Barbara stared at her utterly astounded. 
 
 She had drawn her slight figure upward in an atti 
 tude of triumphant self-confidence, one round fragile 
 arm making an energetic line above her head, the 
 hand clinched, the finger-nails white in their convul 
 sive tension. Her nostrils were dilated, her lips half 
 smiling. She looked strangely young, and, at the same 
 time, there was an air of life-knowledge about her 
 which made her seem thoroughly the woman. 
 
 " Yes ! I could have made him love me, adore me ! 
 It is not only you splendid creatures who know how to 
 rouse feeling and lavish it in return. My life is a 
 waste of snow ; but it might have been diiferent ! it 
 might have been diiferent !" She paused, burying her 
 face in one of her flowing sleeves and overcome with 
 sudden weeping. 
 
 " Eunice," said Barbara, going over beside her, " you 
 helped me so much when I was desperate. Can t I 
 help you now ? I have suffered, too. It was you who 
 taught me how to bear it." 
 
 " Oh, you ! you !" cried Eunice. " What can you 
 really know of what I feel ? You have had love per 
 fect perfectly returned. It is we poor wretches who 
 
BARBARA DERING. 135 
 
 have had nothing to whom the future seems unbear 
 able. I am a woman, young, pretty ; yes, pretty. I 
 have an ardent heart, a deep need of tenderness, of 
 comprehension, of companionship. I believe in ideal 
 relations between men and women, the sanctity of the 
 marriage bond. I am not afraid of suffering, mental 
 or physical. I have tried all my life to serve God, 
 to do my duty, to exercise self-control, to create a 
 worthy character, and look at me! look at me as I 
 stand here ! I am thirty years old and I have never 
 been loved in my life !" 
 
 Barbara was very pale. 
 
 " I cannot say empty words to you," she whispered 
 at last. " I cannot tell you that there is compensation 
 for such a lack. There is none. But your mood will 
 pass. I have had many like it. It will pass. You 
 will see that there is no use kicking against the pricks. 
 You will come back to your steadfast self, to your 
 calm, beautiful mastery of life. You are so above it 
 all, Eunice, and and I would give my very life for 
 you, darling!" 
 
 Eunice came towards her holding out both hands. 
 She kissed her solemnly on the forehead. 
 
 " You are the greatest blessing my life has ever had," 
 she said, in a low voice. " I think it was because, in 
 spite of my barren existence, I believed in great friend 
 ship, in affinity of soul with soul, that God sent you to 
 me. Sometimes I have thought that we create God as 
 much as He creates us. If we strongly believe in Him, 
 He exists for us. If we turn from Him with convic 
 tion, He ceases to be. I never lost my faith in friend 
 ship, and now I have you." 
 
 " And you !" cried Barbara. " What are you to me ? 
 The very essence of compensation! The realization 
 
136 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 of my ideal of a woman s highest feeling for a woman ! 
 Ah, Eunice ! we are fond of clamoring about the higher 
 education of women, but it is the higher education of 
 men that is needed. We understand them for the 
 most part, and why ? Because we individualize, while 
 they generalize. We study one especial man, and so 
 learn to comprehend him and his needs. We say he 
 likes this or that, does thus and so, will need one 
 thing or be angered at another. Men say, Women 
 are all like this one! How one longs for a woman 
 Buddha sometimes ! It is that feeHng of the lack of 
 comprehension in men that has done so much towards 
 creating Mariolatry, I think. Sometimes it does chance 
 that a husband comprehends his wife as an individual 
 being, and then the marriage is genuinely a mar 
 riage." 
 
 "Ah, Barbara! Barbara!" moaned poor Eunice, 
 putting up her hands as though to ward off some 
 sharp blow. "Don t tell me of the Brownings or 
 Charles Kingsley and his wife! Sometimes I am 
 tempted to think that they only had a double lock on 
 their skeleton s closet, and heard the rattle of his 
 dancing all the same. Is there such a thing as a happy 
 marriage ? Do you think so, Barbara ? You say your 
 first marriage was perfect, but then it wasn t more 
 than a honeymoon ! It lasted such a little while ! 
 Perfect marriage means the survival of undisturbed 
 devotion through the daily friction of years. I cannot 
 believe in it. I cannot ! I cannot !" 
 
 Barbara made no reply, and presently Eunice asked, 
 abruptly, " Do you know any happy marriages among 
 your acquaintances, Barbara ?" 
 
 " I knew one," answered Barbara, sadly, " a young 
 minister. He was very happy in his marriage. He 
 
BARBARA DERING. 137 
 
 had been married six years when his wife died. That 
 was four years ago." 
 
 " And he has not married again ?" said Eunice, in 
 credulously. Barbara shook her head. 
 
 " What a wonderful man 1" exclaimed Eunice. 
 
 " Yes ; I told him so once." 
 
 " But he will in time, I suppose," said Eunice, with 
 chill bitterness. " How strange it seems that men and 
 women cannot be satisfied with one complete love, no 
 matter how short a while it lasts !" 
 
 Barbara covered her eyes with one hand, the other 
 was clasped tightly about Eunice s riding-cap, which 
 she had lifted from the floor. A sense of great pain 
 and humiliation was upon her. She felt that Eunice 
 had spoken without thinking, but from her heart. At 
 last she looked up. 
 
 " I failed there," she said, gently. " But our own 
 failings bring us so close to others. It seems to me 
 that in noble natures great mistakes are always the 
 stepping-stones to great virtues." 
 
 " Yes, yes," murmured Eunice ; but her eyes had an 
 absent-minded look. Presently she broke forth again : 
 
 " What I have felt from the first is so terrible. It 
 has taken all the poetry the kindred spirit out of life 
 for me. Sometimes when I have gone to the woods 
 and fields for consolation, the trees seemed to me no 
 more than the glaring canvas in a theatre, the sky like 
 a bit of cloth painted blue with holes punched in it to 
 mimic stars. I was loved with the deliberation of 
 a machine. Only the most vivid and intense love can 
 consecrate the bond of marriage. I was the bride of 
 a wooden puppet, whose love-words flowed forth like 
 sawdust, and who took occasion to explain to me, be 
 fore our honeymoon was over, that the love between 
 
 12* 
 
138 BARBARA DERI NO. 
 
 men and women was, on the whole, a concession to the 
 vulgarity of nature and a thing never to be alluded to 
 even indirectly. How I have loathed it ! I longed to 
 kill myself. I questioned God. My body seemed to 
 me a vile, unworthy thing. It was you, you, Barbara, 
 who taught me to see that high passion is a consecra 
 tion, that it is only lukewarm sensuality that dese 
 crates." She pushed her thick hair back from her 
 forehead and held it there for a moment or two, then 
 went on : 
 
 " I think that if I were to see Win married to one 
 of the average young men of to-day, of whom poor 
 Godfrey has such a horror, one who is proud of having 
 had his amours, his mistresses, his club-dinners ending 
 in drunkenness," she laughed bitterly, " if I were to 
 see that I should be as bad as a murderess, Barbara. 
 I should pray God to kill him. I should be capable 
 of killing him myself. I would rather see her dead 
 now, my precious baby, all my own, in her clean little 
 coffin, than the miserable wife of a creature who had 
 worn off the edge of all feeling in picking the locks 
 of pleasure. Who would tell his wife coarse anecdotes, 
 and get angry when she cried instead of laughing. 
 
 Who would God help me ! my brain seems in a 
 
 fever!" She sank suddenly upon the sofa, her lips 
 white. As Barbara came over beside her she turned 
 upon her a look of piteous appeal. " Life and love 
 and marriage should be so beautiful, Barbara," she said, 
 whispering. " Why is it all so desperately sad ?" 
 
 " It is because men and women do not understand 
 each other, I think," answered Barbara, " and will not 
 realize that God having made the world pronounced it 
 good. Instead of trying to put ourselves in sympathy 
 with Nature, we flatter ourselves that we can improve 
 
BARBARA DERING. 139 
 
 upon her. It seems to me that everything is too much 
 in extremes. Take Tolstoi and Swinburne, for ex 
 ample. One lauds even vice if it has a sensual beauty. 
 The other preaches that even the highest form of 
 passion between men and women is unnatural and 
 should be suppressed as much as possible. We cannot 
 seem to reconcile the two elements. If we could only 
 do that, it seems to me that life would be well worth 
 living." 
 
 " Ah, well," said Eunice, with hard deliberation, " I 
 don t think that life could ever seem very well worth 
 living to me again. You see I am married to a man 
 who let me know, before the first year of our marriage 
 had passed, that he considered the most stupid and 
 petty-minded girl above me, merely on account of her 
 maidenhood. It seemed to me, in that moment, that 
 I could be crucified, oh ! so willingly, if it could save 
 women from such torture." 
 
 Barbara s face grew suddenly radiant. "Eunice, 
 darling, let us live for them!" she exclaimed. "Let 
 us teach Win and Lois and Fair to live for them, 
 too ! Oh, if I could only write great poems and books 
 to help them ! But, at least, I can live my life, so that 
 those who come in contact with it will be helped and 
 comforted. Let me try to comfort you now, my dear, 
 dear heart. Rest on my great love for you. Think 
 how I honor and respect and comprehend you. As 
 long as we can be to each other what we are life 
 holds sweetness for us. Look how you have helped 
 me to conquer myself, to realize my duty ! I have 
 accepted my lot. I am content. I would not change 
 one circumstance in my fate even if I had the power. 
 It seems to me, dearest, that the most comforting 
 words ever said were, All things work together for 
 
140 BARBARA DERINQ. 
 
 good to them that love God. And more and more 1 
 believe that our love for God can only come to Him 
 acceptably through our love for each other. Do not 
 think that you have come to the end of your strength. 
 It is only that, for the moment, you are overstrained. 
 It has been too much for you, these lonely weeks 
 spent with two such alien natures. Really, darling, I 
 should be quite mad if I had had to nurse Mrs. Cros- 
 dill through an attack of rheumatic bronchitis. She s 
 terrible enough in comparative health, but ill ! The 
 strain must have been almost unbearable. But now 
 that you have come back to me all will get easier, 
 more natural ! We shall have such drives and walks 
 together! Such hours of beautiful companionship! 
 Cheer up, my blessing, and when you feel that your 
 life is objectless and dreary, think of your Barbara, 
 and how you have helped her and are helping her all 
 the time." 
 
 As Barbara went on speaking, Eunice s expression 
 grew very wistful and tender. Her blue eyes were 
 soft with tears. Then she framed Barbara s glowing, 
 beautiful face in her thin white hands, and said, in the 
 voice of one who makes a prayer of thanksgiving, 
 
 " My own, dear, great-hearted Barbara, I am so glad 
 when I think of how I loved you and believed in you 
 against all the world !" 
 
 XXI. 
 
 EUNICE was ten minutes late for dinner that even 
 ing, and when she came down-stairs Bransby and Mrs. 
 Crosdill were already seated at the table. Bransby 
 
BARBARA DERING. 141 
 
 was one of those men who are made profoundly in 
 dignant by unpunctuality at meals, and to-day this 
 feeling was accentuated by the knowledge that Bar 
 bara Dering was the probable cause of Eunice s tardi 
 ness. He looked at her with a disagreeable flattening 
 of the lips as she entered, while his sister continued to 
 push the morsels of food about in her plate with an air 
 of tacit approval of his unspoken words. 
 
 " I suppose it was Mrs. Dering whom I heard whis 
 tling down the lawn just now like an unmannerly 
 school-boy, although she knows perfectly well that we 
 dine at seven, and that I have a rooted objection to 
 your being late for meals ?" These sentences were 
 uttered in a crisp, grating tone that one would use to a 
 naughty child. 
 
 "It was not Barbara s fault that I was late," said 
 Eunice, quietly. " I did not feel well. I dressed 
 slowly." 
 
 Bransby s disagreeable expression increased. 
 
 " Another thing that I have noticed," he observed 
 in his measured voice, "is the air of suppressed, I 
 might say morbid, excitement which you have after 
 one of your seances with Mrs. Dering. And I might as 
 well tell you now that she has made exactly the same 
 impression upon Lydia that she made upon me the 
 first moment that I saw her." 
 
 " Exactly," observed Mrs. Crosdill, leaning back in 
 her chair and playing with an ostentatiously simple 
 ring of green enamel which she wore above her wed 
 ding-ring. 
 
 Eunice said nothing in reply to this, but poured 
 herself a glass of sherry. 
 
 " You agreed with me about her appearance, too, 
 did you not, Lydia ?" 
 
142 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 " I thought her an extremely sensual type of a cer 
 tain vulgar conception of good looks," replied Mrs. 
 Crosdill, briefly. "I detest that dyed-looking hair, 
 and her lips are almost as thick as a negro s j still, I 
 suppose she is undoubtedly what some people would 
 call handsome. You think her handsome, I believe, 
 Eunice ?" 
 
 Eunice, who was drawing patterns on the damask 
 table-cloth with the point of her knife, another thing 
 which always roused Bransby s disapproval, answered 
 rather slowly, 
 
 " To me Mrs. Dering is the most beautiful woman 
 it is possible to imagine," 
 
 Mrs. Crosdill gave an indescribable smile, and Bransby 
 exclaimed, rather explosively for him, 
 
 " I must really ask you not to express yourself with 
 such intense exaggeration, my dear Eunice. I should 
 be very much mortified for any of my friends to think 
 Mrs. Dering your ideal of beauty. It smacks of a 
 certain er I might say lack of refinement in your 
 nature, which I am sure is not there." 
 
 "Perhaps," said his wife, "our ideas of refinement 
 are different." 
 
 Bransby flushed and darted a glance at his sister, 
 who responded with a look of pitying sympathy. 
 
 " It pains me very much to think that our ideas on 
 any subject so important could possibly be opposed," 
 he said at last, with great stiffness. 
 
 Again Eunice made no reply. It seemed to her that 
 she was sitting between two human crabs, each of 
 whom would give her a nip as long as she remained 
 where she was. There was nothing for it but endur 
 ance, and she called up all her self-control to help her 
 through what she foresaw would be an almost unen- 
 
BARBARA DERING. 143 
 
 durable hour and a half. Bransby waited as though 
 for her answer, and finding that she remained silent, 
 observed, with increasing irritation, 
 
 " I have been intensely displeased to hear that Wini 
 fred has again been impertinent to her aunt. If this 
 is not stopped, I shall have to take steps in the matter 
 myself." 
 
 " Winifred apologized to you, did she not, Lydia ?" 
 said Eunice, coldly, lifting a pair of ice-blue eyes to 
 Mrs. CrosdilPs prominent brown ones. 
 
 " Yes ; but I cannot say that I approve of a system 
 which permits a child to be as insolent as she chooses 
 on the condition that she buys herself off from pun 
 ishment afterwards by an apology." 
 
 " Yes," put in Bransby, " Lydia is absolutely correct. 
 I do not think that you have any ideas of true disci 
 pline whatever, my dear Eunice. You are altogether 
 too tender-hearted." 
 
 Mrs. Crosdill again turned her green ring, and said, 
 deliberately, 
 
 " What Winifred needs is a good whipping now and 
 then, and afterwards to be shut into a darkened room." 
 
 " Yes, that seems to me a very good solution of the 
 problem," agreed Bransby, darting an oblique glance 
 at his wife. 
 
 But Eunice did not look at him. She fixed her eyes 
 again upon those of Mrs. Crosdill ; the dilated pupils 
 made them seem a dark violet. 
 
 " I wish no suggestions from any one about the 
 disciplining of my children," she said, in her clear, 
 exquisitely-modulated voice. " I hope you won t give 
 yourself useless trouble in making any more, Lydia." 
 
 " Certainly, if I am not to be allowed to interest 
 myself in my brother s children, I must accept the 
 
144 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 alternative, I suppose. You shall not be annoyed 
 further." 
 
 But Bransby was now in a tremor of suppressed 
 anger. 
 
 " You and I will discuss this matter later, Eunice," 
 he said, in a stifled tone. 
 
 Eunice made a quiet movement of assent. 
 
 After five minutes of silence Bransby broke out 
 again, 
 
 " The more I see of that woman the more I dislike 
 her. She must certainly have some mysterious power 
 over you, Eunice. Otherwise your feeling for her is 
 inexplicable." 
 
 " Hypnotism," suggested Mrs. Crosdill, softly. 
 
 " Upon my word," he exclaimed, " I believe you 
 have solved the problem! There has alwaj^s seemed 
 something unnatural about the whole matter to me. 
 You have really given me new light, my dear Lydia. 
 I am convinced that Mrs. Dering has some hypnotic 
 power over Eunice. How can one possibly account 
 for her infatuation in any other way ? She, a woman 
 of delicate breeding, shrinking refinement, almost super- 
 sensitive feelings, suddenly to form an intimate friend 
 ship, and against my wishes, too, for this showy, hoi- 
 denish, forward, exaggerated woman, who wears that 
 low-necked style of dress which is a disgrace to modern 
 civilization, and actually chastises her dogs with her 
 own hands !" 
 
 " Oh, Godfrey ! Come ! I cannot believe that ! You 
 must be mistaken about that !" cried his sister, almost 
 giving vent to a judicious shriek of horror. 
 
 Eunice s expression, which had first been one of con 
 trolled anger, subsided into an air of extreme boredom. 
 
 " I can t see why you should both continue to discuss 
 
BARBARA DERING. 145 
 
 a subject which seems so painful to you," she said, 
 finally, seeing that they seemed waiting for her to 
 speak, " I am assuredly not going to attempt a defence 
 of Barbara. That I love and respect and admire her 
 with all my heart is a quite sufficient reason to myself 
 for what you choose to think my misplaced friendship." 
 
 " I do not consider that at all a becoming way for 
 you to speak to me, Eunice," said her husband, color 
 ing darkly. "However, if you admire Mrs. Bering 
 so intensely, I can understand it, for she treats her 
 husband with unmitigated disrespect on the least 
 occasion." 
 
 " She looks like a very self-assertive person," put in 
 Mrs. Crosdill. " There is something very unfeminine 
 about her." 
 
 " At least she is not a hypocrite," returned Eunice, 
 always in the same even voice. " I am beginning to 
 think that most very vociferously conventional and 
 pious people are hypocrites. How astonished some of 
 them will be when, as Christ said, they see the publi 
 cans and harlots going into heaven before them !" 
 
 " Eunice !" cried Bransby. His face had the same 
 convulsed look that his sister s had worn during her fit 
 of anger with Winifred. He was silent a moment, 
 gripping the edge of the table with both hands. Mrs. 
 Crosdill had shrunk back in her chair, and was look 
 ing down into her black-crape lap as though faint with 
 wounded modesty. 
 
 " That I should live to hear my wife my wife use 
 such a word!" stammered Bransby at last. "It is 
 horrible !" 
 
 " Christ used it," said Eunice, mildly. 
 
 Mrs. Crosdill made a movement as though to rise. 
 " If there is going to be a blasphemous discussion I beg 
 o k 13 
 
146 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 that you will excuse me, Godfrey," she said, in a low 
 voice, addressing herself solely to her brother. 
 
 " I have said nothing blasphemous," returned Eunice, 
 speaking sternly for the first time, "and I shall be 
 very glad for you to leave the table if you intend treat 
 ing me with the rudeness that you have used to me 
 since I entered the room." 
 
 Mrs. Crosdill stared at her, too astonished to take 
 advantage of the permission that had been granted. 
 During the eleven years of Eunice s married life she 
 had never spoken with such decided authority on any 
 subject. Bransby, whose stinging irritation was in 
 creasing in proportion to his sense of powerlessness, 
 actually brought his doubled hand down on the table 
 with some force, and exclaimed, 
 
 " Let me tell you, then, that /consider it blasphemous 
 to compare yourself to Christ, or to choose such ex 
 pressions for repetition! Bo you mean to compare 
 yourself to Him ?" 
 
 "It is what we are told to do. He is our model. 
 We are supposed to imitate Him as closely as possible. 
 It is the only way in which we can tell how far we 
 have progressed in goodness. Everything is com 
 parative." 
 
 "Do you mean to excuse that that obscene word 
 which you used just now ?" 
 
 " I don t consider the word obscene, Godfrey. It is 
 a name for a certain class of women, just as gentle 
 woman or prude is for others. It seems to me rather 
 strained that before my husband and his married sister 
 I cannot talk frankly of any recognized fact." 
 
 Mrs. Crosdill, who had recovered herself, here put 
 in shrilly, 
 
 " I beg, at least, that you will remember that / ob- 
 
BARBARA D BRING. 147 
 
 ject strenuously to any such facts being discussed in 
 my presence. I am not one of the modern married 
 women who make the holy estate of matrimony an 
 excuse for all sorts of indecencies and immoral con 
 versations. I feel as polluted by low and vulgar ex 
 pressions as though I were still a maiden, and I only 
 hope that you will give me warning the next time you 
 intend to use such language." 
 
 Eunice merely gave her a cool glance, and said, 
 slowly, 
 
 " You are very trying, Lydia." 
 
 " I can say the same thing of you, most emphatically, 
 Eunice," retorted Mrs. Crosdill, angrily. u You show 
 no consideration for my feelings whatever. You have 
 certainly changed in many ways. I suppose it is this 
 intimacy with Mrs. Dering. You have always been 
 easily influenced." 
 
 "I think we had better not continue this painful 
 conversation," said Bransby with some hurry. " It is 
 not only intensely disagreeable in itself, but it prevents 
 digestion." 
 
 " I shall be only too glad to remain silent," asserted 
 his sister, curving her long neck. 
 
 The rest of the meal was passed without a word, 
 and as soon as it was over Eunice went up to her own 
 room. She had a lamp brought in, and drawing her 
 favorite chair to the fire, sat with her hands clasped 
 over a little volume of Wordsworth s poems, trying to 
 smooth her frayed nerves and to find a solution for her 
 saltless domestic life. She was just reading to herself, 
 in a sort of sobbing whisper, those exquisite lines from 
 the sonnet to a skylark, 
 
 " Type of the wise who soar, but never roam, 
 True to the kindred points of heaven and home," 
 
148 BARBARA D BRING. 
 
 when the door opened slowly and her husband entered 
 the room. 
 
 This bedroom of Eunice had something of her own 
 delicate personal charm. Its windows, curtained with 
 a semi-transparent silk of a purplish lilac, looked out 
 upon a haze of winter trees, accentuated here and 
 there by dark evergreens. The walls were panelled 
 with wood faintly tinted with the same rosy lavender. 
 Silver sconces held clusters of wax candles on either 
 side of the toilet-mirror, which was framed in silver 
 and ivory, while one of its many doors, half hidden by 
 its lilac draperies, consisted of a large pier-glass. The 
 bed was of carved white wood ; the chairs daintily 
 covered with flowered satiny stuffs. In the air was a 
 faint odor of heliotrope, and on the walls charming 
 water-colors, chiefly of spring and winter landscapes. 
 In this matter of arranging her own room Bransby 
 had given her entire freedom, and it was the one spot 
 in the great bare house which she really loved. She 
 started to her feet as he came in, her entire surprise at 
 this visit written in her widely-opened eyes and parted 
 lips. Something in her very astonishment irritated 
 him still more. 
 
 " This heavy perfume is stifling !" he exclaimed, 
 looking about him. "No wonder you look pale. I 
 cannot think that such an atmosphere is healthy." 
 
 Eunice drew herself together with a start. She be 
 came once more the quiet image which he had learned 
 to regard with suavity as the highly desirable result 
 of his conjugal teachings. 
 
 " Shall I open a window ?" she asked, in her soft voice. 
 
 " No, no ; of course not," he said, impatiently. " The 
 wind is blowing a hurricane j it will be bitter cold by 
 to-morrow." 
 
BARBARA DER1NO. 149 
 
 " How sad for the poor colored people !" Eunice could 
 not help exclaiming. "They suffer so terribly from 
 the cold, and they have that world-wide horror of the 
 poor-house. I was thinking only yesterday," growing 
 suddenly animated in her momentary self-forgetfulness, 
 " how nice it would be if we could build, as it were, a 
 little village of cabins, Godfrey, say each to consist of 
 one room, neatly furnished, and then to rent them out 
 at merely nominal sums, say a dollar a month, just to 
 keep the poor souls from feeling that they were living 
 entirely on charity. Do you think it would be prac 
 tical ?" 
 
 " I must say that I do not," replied Bransby. " Who 
 would provide their food?" 
 
 " We might easily make an arrangement for that." 
 
 " But why separate cottages ? Why not one large, 
 comfortable building ?" 
 
 " No ; it is just that that I wish to avoid. I don t 
 think anyone realizes how most people resent living in 
 herds. Why, I was talking with one of the old, old 
 slaves the other day, and she was telling me of how 
 she had been depressed merely by paying a visit to the 
 poor-house. Oh, honey, she said to me, it was drefful ! 
 All dem pore creeturs so mizzubul en den jes bleged 
 tuh be mixed up tugedder! Teared tuh me heaven 
 would n be all we hoped fuh ef we could n git out o 
 dee crowd. Just the feeling of self-respecting indi 
 viduality that it would give them to have their one 
 little room to themselves would be a blessing beyond 
 words to them. If I could do it I would pull down 
 every poor-house in the world and build little villages 
 in their stead. Besides, the mere name is an insult. 
 I " 
 
 " Excuse me for interrupting you, Eunice," here put 
 13* 
 
150 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 in Bransby, " but I came to speak on other very impor 
 tant matters with you. I will be happy to discuss this 
 one to-morrow." 
 
 "Certainly," she said, with a sensation of inward 
 shrivelling. 
 
 Bransby drew up another chair and sat down oppo 
 site her. His senses were not in the least roused by 
 the warm, glowing room, or by the loveliness of the 
 woman before him, whose fair throat emerged exquis 
 itely from its collar of silver-fox fur, and the scarlet of 
 whose lips was accentuated by the pressure of a slight 
 forefinger against them. The streak of sensuality 
 which exists in most cold natures, and which was not 
 absent from his, had never been touched in the slightest 
 degree by his wife. As they sat studying each other, 
 while apparently gazing into the fluttering blaze of 
 the wood-fire, a sense of antagonism began gathering 
 like a slow but powerful electric current in the heart 
 of husband and wife, he resenting the fact that after 
 years of colorless submission she had suddenly opposed 
 him, she recalling with cold scorn detail after detail 
 of his bloodless tyranny. 
 
 Her advantage in the interview which was about to 
 take place lay in her thorough knowledge of him and 
 his theories, while her real nature was as undreamed 
 by him as though it did not exist, and the ideas of life 
 which had been accumulating almost unconsciously 
 in her mind year by year she had never expressed to 
 him or to any other. 
 
 " I hope you will believe that my intention in what 
 I am going to say to you is wholly a generous one," he 
 began at last a little nervously. " I am sure that you 
 will admit that whatever things I have opposed you 
 in have been with an idea of your good." 
 
BARBARA DERING. 151 
 
 " I admit that you have thought them for my good, 
 Godfrey. I believe that you are a thoroughly con 
 scientious man." 
 
 " Indeed ?" asked Bransby, nettled. " I am glad that 
 you do me that justice. However, to come frankly to 
 the point, it is about this this intimacy of yours with 
 Mrs. Bering that I wish to speak to you." He paused 
 as if expecting her to make some reply, but she merely 
 said, after a moment or two, 
 
 " Go on. I am listening." 
 
 " You know my opinion of Mrs. Bering," then con 
 tinued Bransby ; " I consider her a coarse, unbridled 
 woman, who can only injure so delicate a nature as 
 yours by contact. It s the old story of the porcelain 
 jug and the iron pot floating down-stream together. 
 I notice after only one year of your intercourse with 
 her a great, a serious change in you. I do not think 
 you know how this knowledge has grieved me." 
 
 " In what way am I changed, Godfrey ?" 
 
 " Well, for one thing, your manner has grown more 
 assured, more self-assertive. You do not hesitate to 
 disagree with me before my sister and openly at the 
 table. You oppose your views to mine almost with 
 an air of boldness. In a word, you have lost some of 
 that subtle, exquisite aroma of true femininity which 
 is as fine and as easily brushed off as the down on a 
 moth s wing. I feel that you are growing away from 
 me and all my views of life, that we are getting 
 totally out of sympathy." 
 
 " And when were we ever in sympathy, Godfrey ?" 
 
 Bransby started and lifted his large, pale-brown 
 eyes to hers. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you think we were ever 
 in sympathy, you and I?" she went on before he 
 
152 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 could speak. "Have you ever looked out the exact 
 meaning of the word sympathy ? I have. It means, 
 among other things, an agreement of affections, likings, 
 tastes, temperament, pleasure, sufferings. Have we 
 ever had this agreement of feeling? Our affections 
 have never been for the same people, nor our likings 
 for the same objects. Surely, our tastes are as opposed 
 as the poles ! Tolstoi is your master, your ideal ; you 
 have often told me so. I adore music. I was even 
 gifted with a good voice. You forbade me to cultivate 
 this gift except in the most weary, commonplace di 
 rections. You told me that such music as that of 
 Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, Gounod, Wagner, was im 
 moral, evil, unduly exciting, and morbid. You scarcely 
 liked me to sing my children to sleep. The birds were 
 free to sing. God had given them voices, and they 
 had no one to silence them ; but I was your wife, you 
 were my husband, having authority. You silenced me. 
 You took away from me this supreme and holy pleas 
 ure. You never doubted that you were right, never 
 questioned that God had been mistaken in bestowing 
 on me the talent for music. As for our temperaments, 
 you do not even know mine. When a woman finds 
 that the man whom she has married is cold, phlegmatic, 
 un affection ate in his nature, do you suppose that she 
 is going to let him see that hers is warm, thirstily- 
 loving? Is it to be imagined that when her husband 
 tells his wife of a fortnight that passion is an outcome of 
 fallen human nature and is only acceded to in moments 
 when the lower self is uppermost, can you possibly 
 dream that after that she will not strive with every 
 nerve to hide from him the fact that she possesses one 
 spark of passionate feeling ? And yet you disciples 
 of Tolstoi do not hesitate, after carefully explaining 
 
BARBARA DERING. 153 
 
 how degrading is this fact of man s desire, to condemn 
 the women you have made your wives to submit to 
 every condition of marriage, and to bear your children 
 whom you do not love when they are born." 
 
 " Do not love my children !" echoed Bransby, catch 
 ing at the one assertion in this outpour of long pent-up 
 feeling which he could undertake to refute on the spur 
 of the moment. " I not care for my children ! You 
 must be beside yourself. When have I refused my 
 children any pleasure, any advantage ? What is the 
 matter with you to-night, Eunice ? Are you mad ?" 
 
 She was of a brilliant pallor. Her eyes seemed 
 black ; but she spoke in the same rapid, intensely quiet 
 tone, 
 
 " No, Godfrey, I am not mad. I think I am quite 
 sane for the first time in my life. I seem to see every 
 thing so clearly. As for your not refusing your chil 
 dren any pleasure or advantage, the essence of love is 
 more subtle than that. We might be willing to bestow 
 every material benefit on some heathen whom we had 
 never seen, but could we, at the same time, honestly 
 say that we felt a personal love for him ? I was so 
 young when I married you, Godfrey. My ideals of 
 life were so keen and fresh. I was prepared to accept 
 life unquestioningly as you interpreted it to me. And 
 now now, after eleven years of marriage to you, I 
 feel that I have never given you one spontaneous emo 
 tion, that I have never received one whole-hearted 
 moment of affection from you. In the Kreutzer 
 Sonata yes, I have read it, I have taken that step 
 of my own free will I feel that I am a free, indi 
 vidual being. I alone am responsible for my own soul ; 
 not you or any other human being. I say, then, that 
 I have read the Kreutzer Sonata, and that I am think- 
 
154 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 ing of the passage where Posdencheff says that Charcot 
 would have declared his wife hysterical. You probably 
 think that I am hysterical, and yet in Tolstoi s book 
 the man says that they were living immorally. Surely, 
 there is no such cause in our case ! You are the cold 
 est of husbands, I the most frigid of wives ! Tolstoi 
 would not admit that I might be suffering from starva 
 tion for love, would he? He thinks that he is wiser 
 than nature, more far-seeing than God." She paused, 
 a sudden crimson staining her white cheeks, one hand 
 at her breast. "Ah!" she cried, "he has much to 
 answer for, that Tolstoi of yours. In his Kreutzer 
 Sonata he has given married people a hideous weapon 
 with which to wound each other. The cold woman 
 can always cry to her husband, You are a sensual 
 monster! Eead what Tolstoi says about you! The 
 cold husband can say to his wife, Passion is a deg 
 radation. I will give you the Kreutzer Sonata and 
 you can see for yourself. And then, after trying to 
 turn the world topsy-turvy with his harsh, impossible 
 theories, look how inconsistent he is. Look at his im 
 mense family! his wife and children dragged, willy- 
 iiilly, into a barren poverty ! his last contradiction of 
 his own teachings! for I read in to-day s paper that ho 
 had presented a manifesto to the Russian government 
 declaring that unless it guaranteed to feed the people 
 until next harvest, and faithfully performed the pledge, 
 there would be a revolution, in which he himself would 
 take part. And this from the man who teaches that 
 on no pretext must we resist evil ! But it is on a par 
 with his other declarations. Four years ago Matthew 
 Arnold said, in an article in the c Fortnightly, Count 
 Leo Tolstoi is about sixty years old, and tells us that 
 he shall write novels no more! And then see! He 
 
BARBARA DERING. 155 
 
 gives to the world his Kreutzer Sonata. He desires 
 that men should abstain from all alcoholic drinks, and 
 yet the Christ that he worships made wine for the 
 marriage guests after they were well drunken ! He 
 declares that marriage is a deviation from the doctrine 
 of Christ, a sin ! And yet it was at a marriage that 
 Christ performed this miracle of making the new 
 wine! He condoned by His presence a fact which, 
 according to Tolstoi, he regarded as a crime ! It is 
 monstrous! It is hideous! It is abominable !" Bransby 
 was staring at her, his eyes fixed, his face contorted. 
 He even trembled slightly. 
 
 "Is this all? Have you said what you meant to 
 say ?" he stammered, finally. 
 
 But Eunice had begun to walk about the room, eagerly, 
 restlessly, like some graceful, prairie-creature that has 
 been caught and caged, her long gown making a mys 
 terious sound over the rich carpet. 
 
 " Ah, no ! All ? It is not half! Do you think that 
 I can utter in twenty minutes the unspoken thoughts 
 of eleven years ? I do not mean to reproach you. 
 God forbid ! You are very kind to me. You give me 
 every luxury. It is not your fault that I have failed 
 to rouse any response in you, that your nature is a 
 cold one. What I wish is a certain liberty. I must 
 think and read and feel for myself. I must select my 
 own friends. I can understand perfectly that Barbara 
 Dering should be uncongenial to you. She is the refu 
 tation of every belief that you cherish. She is like a 
 splendid living passion-flower, and you wish only lilies 
 sculptured in marble. She dares to feel, and to declare 
 feeling a noble thing. Her husband adores her, honors 
 her, comprehends her. She is more sacred to him 
 because of her wifehood than she could ever have been 
 
156 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 as a girl. That she has grave faults you would find 
 her the first to acknowledge ; but she is trying, day by 
 day, to conquer them. We strengthen each other. I 
 have helped her through terrible hours. She has been 
 my good angel in many a dark moment. But she 
 worships nature and man as God has made them, not 
 as Tolstoi would have them ; and, unlike me, she has 
 had full, wholesome, comprehending love I" 
 
 "Yes," cried Bransby, viciously, "from two hus 
 bands 1" 
 
 Eunice s face, which had been of a tender, glowing 
 rose-color, grew suddenly as hard and chill as porcelain. 
 
 " Certainly," she said, quietly. " If you choose to 
 look at it in that way. I am not at liberty to discuss 
 her private affairs. Indeed, I am not trying to defend 
 her or her ideas. What I want to say is this : a crisis 
 has come in my life. I have begun, as I said, to see 
 and feel for myself. I intend to educate my children 
 according to my own views, not those of your sister, 
 and I want to ask that you will not oppose me. I 
 also wish to be quite frank and honest with you, and 
 to tell you that I cannot, on any consideration, give up 
 my friendship for Barbara. Of course, I will not ask 
 her to this house if it is disagreeable to you, but I 
 intend to write to her and to receive her letters. 
 Another thing is this. I cannot submit to your sister s 
 insolence. You must speak to her, or I will take the 
 children and leave for some watering-place. I might 
 go back to Florida. Yes, I will say it. I wish to say 
 everything to-night, to have done with it. It has been 
 hard enough to me to speak at all ; but I think that 
 your sister has a bad heart, Godfrey. I think she is a 
 hypocrite. Thank God, you have never been that !" 
 
 " You flatter me," said Bransby, hoarsely. He had 
 
BARBARA DERING. 157 
 
 been forced to run the gauntlet of such unusual sensa 
 tions during the last half-hour that he felt mentally as 
 well as physically breathless, and was throbbing with 
 a curious kind of numb resentment which he scarcely 
 realized at the moment. One fact of which he was 
 convinced was that of Eunice s sudden rebellion. He 
 was as startled as a man who, pacing the deck of a 
 well-ordered ship on a summer night, is bewildered by 
 the sudden flare of vividly-colored signals. He had 
 come to read his wife a lecture on unconsidered friend 
 ship for eccentric and daring characters, and she had 
 suddenly broken the silence of eleven years by a flood 
 of vehemently expressed, original opinions opposed in 
 every particular to his own austere ethics. 
 
 In the meantime she had sunk into a chair near the 
 table and hidden her face upon her folded arms. Her 
 loosened hair made a soft dusk over her bent shoulders. 
 She felt that she had spoken, that she had been born 
 again as it were of water and of the spirit. She 
 would go to sleep a different Eunice Bransby from the 
 one who had waked in the carved white bed only that 
 morning. She was more her own, less her husband s, 
 than she had ever been. Happiness she had given 
 up trying to clutch, as a child releases a dead winged 
 thing which it has held until it has grown cold. But 
 the higher visions of life lay beyond her. To make 
 herself one with the great purposes of existence, to 
 become a cheerful co-worker with nature, to accept 
 mystery as a tender boon, suffering as a dear friend, 
 death as a holy interpreter, to turn the flames of her 
 own anguish upon the darkness of others and show 
 them how to live and love more worthily by its keen 
 light, that was left to her ; that joy remained, serene, 
 inviolate, untarnished. 
 
 14 
 
158 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 Bransby, watching her, thought that she was only 
 exhausted by her intense outburst. After pondering 
 for some moments, he said, with great magnanimity, 
 " Well, good-night, my dear. You are overwrought and 
 tired now. After a quiet night s rest we can discuss all 
 this more satisfactorily. Do not annoy yourself when 
 you awake to-morrow in a calm mood. I quite under 
 stand that you have been in a superexcited and un 
 natural state this evening, I ought not to have come 
 to you when I saw that you were not feeling well." 
 
 " Thank you. Good-night," said Eunice, mechanically, 
 holding up her pale cheek side wise to receive his un- 
 flexible kiss. When he had gone she flung herself 
 down on her knees, and, wringing her hands together, 
 moaned out, 
 
 "Oh, my God! Thou who art Love, Thou who 
 madest men and women and decreed marriage, have 
 mercy on me ! have mercy on me !" 
 
 XXII. 
 
 BRANSBY had never before been called upon to face 
 such a problem as that which now presented itself. 
 After a night and day spent in uncomfortable con 
 sideration of the matter from every aspect, he was 
 forced to admit that the time had come when his wife 
 could no longer be coerced by a disapproving word or 
 glance, and that she was fully determined to carry out 
 her intention of thinking and acting for herself. As 
 for Barbara, her influence in all this was very apparent. 
 That it was an unconscious influence Bransby did not 
 know, and certainly could not have been expected to 
 
BARBARA BERING. 159 
 
 imagine. He regarded her as one of those alluded 
 to by St. Paul, " who creep into houses and lead captive 
 silly women," and his feeling of animosity to her was 
 not decreased by his realization of the justice of many 
 of his wife s personal remarks. Altogether, Barbara 
 stirred in him sentiments of a nature akin to those 
 which the heirs of a blind person would probably feel 
 towards a physician who had restored him to sight 
 when his former state of darkness would have better 
 suited their interests. To the weak no sensation is so 
 delightful as that of power, whether worthy or un 
 worthy. A vague suspicion of his own lack in certain 
 virile qualities had been lulled, for Bransby, through 
 all his married life, by the unquestioning sway which 
 Eunice had allowed him to exercise over her. It 
 pleased him to see this bright young creature become 
 staid, meek, reserved, at his behest, to hide the beauty 
 of her arms and throat from others because he desired 
 it, to lock up her favorite music and refrain from 
 singing all but sacred songs because he found this 
 course preferable. He had restricted her reading, dic 
 tated her occupations, overlooked her correspondence 
 and even selected her hours for exercise. He had 
 occasioned her much suffering during the illness of 
 her children, because, as a devout Tolstoian, he did not 
 believe in doctors, and would never send for one, until 
 the last moment. In all this petty indulgence of an 
 egoistic authority he had found that curious delight 
 which some children find in pretending that their 
 image in the glass is a real person, although they know 
 perfectly well that there is nothing substantial behind 
 the frame. It was in his character as reflected in 
 Eunice s submission that Bransby found compensation 
 for the emptiness which existed in its actual counter- 
 
160 BARBARA DERINQ. 
 
 part. There was a tinge of the bully in his compo 
 sition, if so masculine a word can be used in so shadowy 
 a connection, and now that his victim, his " fag," as * 
 it were, had turned and faced him, the idea of at 
 tempting to reconquer his old position never occurred 
 to him. His chief thought was how to acquiesce with 
 the greatest show of firmness and dignity, how to 
 agree to his wife s requests, without seeming to have 
 been forced into an agreement ; in a word, how to 
 assume the attitude of one who bestows a benefit, 
 rather than of one who accedes to a demand. Above 
 all, he was almost feverishly anxious that his sister 
 should not know what had taken place. 
 
 To Eunice, however, the hours of waiting were 
 almost intolerable. She knew him thoroughly in most 
 respects, but this situation was so unlike any in which 
 they had ever been placed before, that she could not 
 depend on her past knowledge of his character to 
 decide upon the position which he would now take. 
 She even thought that he might make a desperate 
 resistance and come to some extreme resolve, such as a 
 sudden sale of The Poplars, for instance, or a threat 
 to intercept Barbara s letters. Many wild conjectures 
 passed through her mind during the night and day 
 that followed his visit to her room. She was, there 
 fore, entirely unprepared for his calm and amiabla 
 manner the next evening, when, following her into the 
 library after dinner, he placed himself, with sedate 
 deliberation, between the arms of a fragrant leather 
 chair. He looked at her, smiled, softly tapped his 
 finger-tips together. 
 
 " Well, my dear, have you quite recovered from your 
 nervous attack of last night?" he asked, suavely. 
 " You still look pale, I am sorry to see, but those blue 
 
BARBARA D BRING. 161 
 
 shadows under your eyes have gone. It is not so 
 damp to-day. That is always better for your neu 
 ralgia." 
 
 " Oh, yes, the weather is much softer. The roses 
 have opened on several bushes to-day. This knot I 
 have on, I cut it near the door." 
 
 " Those pale flowers always suit you admirably," 
 replied Bransby. "You have no gown I like better 
 than that deep green velvet, and the little Venetian 
 ruff suits the contour of your face." 
 
 " Yes, it is very pretty, and so warm. But my 
 velvet is getting shabby, I m afraid. Do you want me 
 to get another green one, or would you rather have 
 a different color?" 
 
 This appeal to his taste and authority fell soothingly 
 upon Bransby s disturbed self-confidence. He replied 
 graciously that he could think of nothing more charm 
 ing than an exact reproduction of her present costume, 
 adding, in a by-the-way tone, 
 
 "Er those matters we were speaking of. I wish 
 to explain to you that you have indeed mistaken me, 
 if you think I want you to educate our daughters ac 
 cording to my sister s ideas. That I consider many of 
 her ideas excellent I must admit, but I also think that 
 the mother is the only proper guide for her children." 
 
 " I am very, very glad that you agree with me," 
 said Eunice, in a low voice. Her heart was beating 
 fast, but her delicate face and figure wore their usual 
 composure. 
 
 "And er I have also decided, after long and 
 serious thought, that I do not wish to interfere with 
 your friendship for Mrs. Bering, that is er in reason. 
 I am willing to admit that her unfeminine views and 
 decided manner of expressing herself may have preju- 
 l 14* 
 
162 BARBARA DERI NO. 
 
 diced me against her. Indeed, she must have some 
 good qualities to have won your affection, my dear." 
 And here he bent upon her a benign smile. Eunice was 
 too amazed at the completeness and ease of her victory 
 to speak for some moments, not allowing for this par 
 rot-like quality of succumbing at once to firm handling. 
 
 " It is very good of you to admit so much, Godfrey," 
 she said, finally. " I hope that you will know Barbara 
 for yourself some day. But, until then, I don t want 
 to have her here against your wishes. Apart from 
 annoying you, it would be very unfair to her " 
 
 " Oh, I can trust to you to keep things within bounds," 
 said-Bransby, blandly. " Besides, she does not like me 
 any better than I like her, I fancy. She generally 
 goes straight to your room when she comes. There is 
 one little matter, however, in which I hope you will 
 oblige me. I heard Winifred attempting to whistle the 
 other day, and when I reproved her she said, Mrs. 
 Dering does it. Now, I may be old-fashioned, but I 
 do most earnestly object to a woman s whistling. I 
 hope you will make Winifred understand this." 
 
 "Yes, yes, indeed, Godfrey!" exclaimed Eunice 
 with a touch of eagerness. She held out her pretty 
 hand crusted with darkly -glow ing jewels. " You may 
 depend on me not to teach them anything of which 
 you actually disapprove ; only in matters of a more 
 personal nature I feel that I alone must judge for them. 
 There are some things that a father can never under 
 stand " 
 
 " Oh, certainly, certainly," assented Bransby, also 
 with an approach to eagerness. " I understand that 
 entirely." 
 
 His relief at having accomplished what he wished, 
 and actually having her treat him as though he had 
 
BARBARA DERING. 163 
 
 conferred a favor upon her, so pleased him that he not 
 only took her extended hand in both his own, but 
 ended by placing his moustache carefully upon its 
 satiny back before releasing it. 
 
 "As to some of the other things to which you 
 alluded," he went on, in the same easy tone, "I cannot 
 help thinking that you were overstrained, my dear. I 
 know how delicate your nervous system is, how it re 
 sponds to the slightest friction, and I can also under 
 stand how, at times, Lydia should annoy you, although 
 with the best intentions, for I do not think her in the 
 least hypocritical. But, as I was saying, forgive me, 
 my dear, if I tell you that I do not think you are 
 capable of judging, I have always guarded you as 
 carefully as a florist some rare orchid. You do not 
 dream of the brutish natures of most men. My ex 
 treme consideration may have seemed to you coldness, 
 but I am persuaded that had you been married to an 
 ordinary man, you would have died of horror within a 
 year. These matters, however, are not for tenderly- 
 cherished women like yourself to discuss. You cannot, 
 in the nature of events, know anything about them. 
 Brutality, sensuality, what are they but names to 
 you ? Only I beg that before you condemn me as cold 
 and unfeeling, you will also try to realize that self-con 
 trol, consideration, restraint, are the highest proofs of 
 respectful devotion which any man can show to any 
 woman." 
 
 " You are very kind, very, very kind to me, God 
 frey," said Eunice, with that increase of adjectives 
 which so often denotes lack of spontaneousness. 
 Bransby was deeply content. He felt that his chaste 
 bit of oratory had accomplished even more than he 
 had hoped. 
 
164 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 In this second interview Eunice s tact had served 
 her as good a purpose as her firmness during the first, 
 and if she had dragged her husband protesting from 
 his perch of self-esteem, she had certainly succeeded in 
 stroking to a dandy-like gloss his ruffled plumage. 
 
 Before going to bed Bransby also had a conversation 
 with Mrs. Crosdill regarding her general attitude to 
 wards Eunice and the children. 
 
 " You know, my dear Lydia, how sympathetic your 
 views are to me, but Eunice is a very high-strung 
 woman. We must make allowances. Allowance 
 should be made for natures not naturally religious and 
 well balanced like our own. You remember what the 
 apostle says, To the weak became I as weak that I 
 might obtain the weak. " 
 
 " Yes; but he never said that to the blasphemous he 
 became blasphemous, or to the headstrong headstrong," 
 retorts his sister, sharply. 
 
 " He said that he became all things to all men," ven 
 tured Bransby, somewhat timidly. 
 
 Mrs. Crosdill frowned over the elaborate altar-cloth 
 which she was embroidering in gold bullion, on a crim 
 son-velvet ground. Her next sentences were punctu 
 ated by sharp jerks at the needle, which seemed to 
 relieve her feelings in somewhat the same manner that 
 a series of silent oaths might have done. 
 
 " My dear Godfrey, I have always been convinced 
 that the verse which you quote was improperly trans 
 lated in the first instance, or more likely taken down 
 incorrectly by St. Paul s amanuensis. You will re 
 member that he often dictated his epistles. Bishop 
 Cammersell told me only last month that such mis 
 takes must frequently have occurred." 
 
 w Of course. I am sure of it," Bransby hastened to 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 165 
 
 admit. " But, at least, we know some things which 
 are beyond dispute. * And if meat cause my brother 
 to offend. There can be no discussion about that, I 
 suppose. That is what I wish to call your attention 
 to, in regard to Eunice. She is a devoted mother." 
 
 " Say rather a foolishly indulgent one, my dear God 
 frey. I have never known a child who gave way to 
 such paroxysms of rage and insolence as Winifred." 
 
 Bransby drew the corners of his mouth together 
 with a reflective thumb and forefinger, shaking his 
 head slightly. 
 
 " I am much distressed by Winifred s treatment of 
 you, Lydia ; but, indeed, my dear, I think you will only 
 make it worse by interfering." 
 
 " I am sorry that you consider my sisterly interest 
 interference, Godfrey," replied Mrs. Crosdill, turning 
 inward her thin lips and puncturing the heavy velvet 
 with a force which had in it a hint of viciousness. 
 
 Poor Bransby was beginning to feel helpless. He 
 now said, almost pleadingly, 
 
 " Don t say that, Lydia ; you hurt me very much." 
 
 " My dear Godfrey," returned his sister, rising and 
 beginning to sort and put away her silks and bul 
 lion, "the wholesome truth frequently hurts, in fact, 
 nearly always, but I shall certainly try to meet your 
 wishes in this respect, as in every other. However, I 
 can think of nothing that would please me so much as 
 for you to have a long, quiet talk with Bishop Cam- 
 mersell about the position of a man in his household, 
 and the education of children. You would find him 
 delightful, so learned and cultivated, a prominent re 
 ligious author, and a man of wide experience. He is 
 not dictatorial. I cannot imagine a more gentle, win 
 ning, Christ-like person ah ty. He has nine daughters 
 
166 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 of his own, and has passed through burning ordeals. 
 The death of his devoted wife was a blow which I fear 
 has shattered his constitution. I cannot tell you what 
 he was to me when Dabney died. Such patience! 
 Such wonderful power of uplifting consolation ! And 
 then so practical in his advice, so wise in his views 
 of life and resignation ! I feel that it would be difficult 
 for one who lived daily in his atmosphere of calm 
 holiness to refrain from idolizing such a character. I 
 received a letter from him which was forwarded from 
 Florida only to-day, and which is full of that godly 
 spirit pervading his whole life. If you would care to 
 read it " She paused, and took up a little morocco- 
 box which always sat beside her near her work-basket. 
 It contained her Bible, prayer-books, religious poems 
 culled from newspapers, the last tracts, and to-day the 
 letter of Bishop Cammersell, who was bishop of a dis 
 tant State in which Mrs. Crosdill had lived during the 
 years of her marriage. 
 
 " I should be delighted," Bransby assured her, stretch 
 ing out his hand for the letter, which was written on 
 large sheets of ruled paper. The handwriting was 
 squarely round, and here and there tremulous. 
 
 " MY DEAR FRIEND AND SISTER," so ran the bishop s 
 epistle, " I have long been meaning to write and tell 
 you of my earnest approval of your noble and unselfish 
 work among the unenlightened children of Florida. 
 Surely this cup of cold water will bring you ample 
 reward, both in the future life and now also, in the 
 gratitude and love of these little ones who must have 
 already learned to look up to you with loving gratitude. 
 Ah, how the heart aches when we are forced to ponder 
 upon the souls of thousands of children, as willing and 
 
BARBARA DERINO. 167 
 
 ready to drink in salvation as these which you are 
 leading to our blessed Master, and which are yearly 
 claimed by darkness, yes, lost forever because we do 
 not lay enough stress upon that solemn command to 
 preach the Gospel to every creature ! I cannot tell 
 you, my dear friend and fellow-worker in the great 
 vineyard, how gratified and encouraged I am by the 
 success of your brave mission among these poor in 
 fants, nor how earnestly I pray, night and morning, 
 that God may bless and prosper your efforts. That 
 you may see how sadly even our most civilized towns 
 are in need of like missions, however, I will relate to 
 you a most sorrowful case which took place under my 
 own eyes. It was that of a young girl, a sempstress, 
 who had long worked for my family, who had indeed 
 just finished the mourning of my poor children for 
 their sainted, beloved mother. Forgive this uncertain 
 chirography. I cannot yet allude to my dear, dead 
 saint without terrible agitation. However, to return 
 to the story of poor Lucy Andrews. She had been 
 coughing all winter (indeed, I had often remarked how 
 ill she looked to Nelly, who used to make her beef-tea 
 with her own hands during her last illness), so that it 
 was scarcely a surprise to me when I finally heard 
 that she was dying. Well, I went to see the poor girl. 
 She had been a faithful, hard-working creature, had 
 sent her two brothers to school with her earnings, and 
 had housed an unfortunate but repentant Magdalen for 
 over a year, and reclaimed her, by loving persistency, 
 from the ways of sin. She also gave in many small 
 ways, of which others had told me, for she was very 
 shy and retiring and would never have spoken to me 
 of such matters on her own account. When I began 
 to question her about her religious beliefs, however, I 
 
168 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 found, to my consternation and grief, that this poor 
 creature had never been able to believe in the divinity 
 of Christ, except, as she said to me, that He was nearer 
 God than any one who had ever lived. All night 
 I remained with her in prayer, but, struggle as she 
 might, she could not seem to accept this vital fact. 
 Oh, my friend! God grant that you may never be 
 called upon to witness such a scene! She would cling 
 to my hand and sob piteously and moan aloud, Oh, 
 bishop ! bishop ! make me believe it ! I cannot ! I can 
 not! I love Him! I have always tried to do as He 
 said, but I cannot believe that He was God, in the 
 way you tell me I must believe. Oh, bishop ! do you 
 think that my soul will be lost if I can t believe it? 
 Do you think I will never see mother and my dear 
 Jack again ? (The poor girl was here alluding to her 
 betrothed, a young fellow named John Newin.) My 
 friend, what could I say? I knew that except 
 through Christ there was no salvation. The words, 
 1 Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be 
 saved, kept rising before me. I repeated them to her 
 again and again. It was useless. She expired with 
 wild cries, shrieking that she loved Him, but could not 
 believe in Him. 
 
 " Think, then, my sister, of what you may be doing 
 for the young souls who gather about you every Sab 
 bath ; you might even read them this account of poor 
 Lucy, if you think it would serve to impress upon 
 them the lesson of Christian faith. My daughters and 
 myself join in sincere thanks for the delicious bananas 
 which came exquisitely packed in the gray Southern 
 moss. How beautiful is its Indian name, the cur 
 tains of death ! and how sombre are those actual cur 
 tains when through them we do not see the light of 
 
BARBARA DERING. 169 
 
 Christ shining gloriously, as it must always shine for 
 true believers ! 
 
 " Your faithful friend and brother, 
 
 "LIONEL CAMMERSELL." 
 
 " A very striking, noble letter," said Bransby, folding 
 it and returning it reverently to its long envelope. 
 " That last figure about the curtains of death was 
 most powerful. He seems to be a man of imagination 
 as well as of deep religious quality, and his praise 
 must be very gratifying to you, Lydia. It is indeed a 
 good work that you have been doing." 
 
 "I try to give my widow s mite," Mrs. Crosdill said, 
 deprecatingly. " It is all I have. Ah, Godfrey, how 
 I should like to do for Winifred what I have been 
 doing for those little strangers ! I have not yet ques 
 tioned her on her religious belief, but from her way of 
 speaking I fear she is in outer darkness, to a great ex 
 tent. She has no idea of reverence whatever. The 
 other day I found her teaching her pug-dog how to sit 
 up on a volume of Taylor s sermons. But about the 
 bishop, if you cared to see him ! He passes by here 
 soon, on his way to Ashleigh, where you know he has 
 a winter home, the climate of his own State being 
 very trying. Suppose you were to ask him to stop for 
 a day or two ? I think that you would find his effect 
 upon Eunice truly marvellous " 
 
 " Er if you would let me show her his letter," said 
 Bransby, somewhat hesitatingly, "it could not help 
 striking her " 
 
 " Oh, his command of English is conceded to be won- 
 derful, by every one who hears him preach. His illus 
 tration and simile are really extraordinary. He might 
 even be persuaded to give us a sermon, if he stayed 
 H 15 
 
170 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 over Sunday. Of course I shall only be too delighted 
 for you to show his letter to Eunice. It may throw a 
 more favorable light upon my own character." 
 
 Here she turned her lips inward again and stiffened 
 the muscles of her throat in a gesture of scornful in 
 difference. 
 
 " My dear Lydia, I am sure that Eunice has a very 
 high idea of your admirable qualities !" exclaimed 
 Bransby, nervously. " But of course such a letter 
 could but increase your most ardent admirer s good 
 opinion of you. I will take it to her now." 
 
 " Well, I pray that it may bring forth good fruit, 
 Godfrey," she returned, brushing her cold cheek along 
 his in that contact which to them represented a kiss. 
 " And now good-night, as I shall have gone when you 
 come back. Pray slip the bishop s letter under my 
 door, when Eunice has read it." 
 
 " Yes ; good-night," said Bransby. " I hope very 
 much that he can come. His letter is certainly most 
 powerful and attractive. I will let you know at break 
 fast to-morrow about inviting him. It depends only 
 upon Eunice s health, I assure you." 
 
 " Good-night," repeated Mrs. Crosdill briefly, taking 
 no notice of his last remark, except by a slight move 
 ment of one corner of her mouth. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 EUNICE was very amiable about the bishop s letter, 
 commended his sympathy with Mrs. Crosdill, said how 
 sad was the fate of Lucy Andrews, and admitted that 
 the figure about the Indian moss was calculated to im- 
 
BARBARA DERING. 171 
 
 press a congregation very deeply. She agreed at once 
 to send the desired invitation, and in response to it 
 Bishop Cammersell appeared promptly at The Poplars. 
 When he entered the house his fair skin was faintly 
 rosed, by his drive in an open trap, through the sting 
 ing air, and his large, violet, benign eyes looked out 
 from eyelashes frosted with cold moisture. He was 
 very tall and of a fragile build, and had white, curling 
 hair, which grew rather long and fell about his face in 
 gently ecclesiastical ringlets. His large, rather bone- 
 lessly-modelled nose overdrooped a full mouth with 
 deeply-pointed upper lip, the other melting into the 
 curve of a slightly retreating chin. He had those 
 long, white, easily-moving hands which the world 
 somehow associates with distinguished bishops, and 
 his finely-modulated voice had a way of falling softly 
 at the end of his sentences. Mrs. Crosdill had asked 
 to go to the station to meet him, and was now assist 
 ing him to remove his heavy great-coat and to shake 
 the snow from his hat. Winifred, in her best frock, 
 with a sheer, white pinafore over it, backed slowly 
 down the long hall, silently comparing the real bishop 
 to his black-and-white likeness. 
 
 It struck Eunice that she had never seen her sister- 
 in-law so animated. There was a bright purplish spot 
 of color under her prominent eyes, and her gestures 
 seemed suddenly to have grown more natural and 
 vivacious. 
 
 Lois, a pretty, olive-eyed dumpling, sat solemnly in 
 a carved chair by the chimney-corner, with her plump 
 legs straight in front of her, and a Maltese kitten 
 grasped firmly by the throat. 
 
 " How charming this great, round hall is, with its 
 big fireplace and tapestry curtains !" said the bishop, 
 
172 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 genially. " How very kind of you to ask me here, 
 Mrs. Bransby! Our greatest pleasures always come 
 unexpectedly. Don t you find it so ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, indeed ! How wonderfully true I" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Crosdill. 
 
 Eunice found the bishop s talk much more natural 
 and attractive than his letter-writing. Watching his 
 face when Mrs. Crosdill addressed him, she decided 
 that her sister-in-law sometimes bored him with her 
 enthusiastic acquiescence in his least remark. 
 
 The bishop, in the mean while, was charmed with 
 Eunice s frail loveliness and the blossom-like beauty of 
 her two children. Bransby also seemed to him very 
 agreeable. Altogether it was one of those sudden and 
 congenial intervals in a petted prelate s existence. 
 
 " Well, my child," he said, addressing Winifred as 
 she ventured to approach, clasping a small, tulle- 
 arrayed doll in one brown little hand, " is that your 
 favorite daughter, and are you bringing her up in the 
 way in which she should go ?" 
 
 " I don t know," said Winifred. " She s very ill, 
 she s broke her leg." And she turned her child s volu 
 minous skirts over her head, displaying a pink calico 
 nudity and two china legs in painted black boots, one 
 of which had been broken at the stout ankle. Mrs. 
 Crosdill suppressed a cry of shocked modesty. 
 
 "Winifred! Winifred!" she exclaimed, in a harsh 
 whisper. But the bishop taking the doll into his own 
 hands, composed her ruffled skirts, and said that the 
 best thing in the world for a broken leg was to have 
 the severed foot restored to it by a strong glue. 
 
 "Yes; but you see it s lost," replied Winifred, 
 gloomily. 
 
 " Then make one of sealing-wax," said the bishop, 
 
BARBARA DERING. 173 
 
 cheerily. "I ve often done that for my little girls. 
 Bring me a bit of black sealing-wax and I will heal 
 your daughter at once." 
 
 " Oh, dear bishop ! How charming of you !" ex 
 claimed Mrs. Crosdill. " Winifred, my dear, if you 
 will run up to my room, you will find a stick of black 
 sealing-wax on my writing-table." 
 
 Winifred scampered up the shallow, oak stair-way, 
 which opened inviting arms just opposite the hall fire 
 place, and soon returned with the sealing-wax. Then 
 the others gathered around while the bishop carefully 
 modelled an impossible foot and adjusted it to the 
 broken ankle. Only Eunice remained quietly in her 
 low chair near the fire, her eyes upon its mellow core, 
 her hands twisting a little glass screen framed in silver. 
 She felt wearily apart from all this orthodox gayety. 
 Bishop Cammersell had ordained the clergyman who 
 had united her to Bransby. She was thinking with 
 great bitterness of her married life. It seemed more 
 a farce than usual to her just then. She felt herself 
 smiling. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Bransby, said the bishop, rising and 
 coming over beside her, " a penny for your thoughts, 
 as my daughters say to me. You were evidently re 
 calling some agreeable reminiscence." 
 
 Eunice decided in a flash that the bishop was un 
 comprehending, but answered simply, 
 
 " I am very glad that you could come, bishop, but 
 perhaps the drive in an open carriage was too cold for 
 you?" 
 
 " Oh, no. I like plenty of fresh air ; and Mrs. Cros 
 dill almost smothered me in fur robes. How very 
 lovely this country is I What an ideal home you have 
 here!" 
 
 15* 
 
174 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 " We are very fond of it," said Eunice. " My hus 
 band bought it from the Nelsons and remodelled it in 
 the colonial style. The staircase is taken bodily from 
 an old English house of the time of Charles II." 
 
 " And beautiful it is, too !" exclaimed the bishop, 
 putting on his glasses to observe the carving more 
 minutely. Then he started up with an exclamation. 
 "But whose photograph is that? Surely but no 
 and yet what a likeness ! I used to know a young girl 
 so like that, Barbara Cabell, but " 
 
 Eunice s face grew vivid in a heart-beat. 
 
 " It is Barbara Cabell !" she exclaimed. " Only she 
 is married. Her name is Bering now, Barbara Bering. 
 Bid you really know her as a young girl, bishop ? and 
 did you think her as lovely then as she is now ?" 
 
 " She was thinner," said the bishop, reflectively, 
 " and she wore her hair brushed straight back from 
 her forehead. She is more beautiful in this picture 
 than I remember her." 
 
 Eunice could not help flashing a glance at Mrs. 
 Crosdill, whose face wore a look of sudden disapproba 
 tion. 
 
 "You have not mentioned that this is her second 
 marriage," she observed, tartly. 
 
 The bishop started visibly. 
 
 " You see the bishop and I agree on the subject of 
 second marriages, Eunice. There is something savage 
 and unchristian in them, at least to our thinking." 
 
 " I cannot realize that Barbara Cabell has been twice 
 married," said the bishop, slowly. " What a brilliant 
 creature she was, to be sure ! As vivid and untamed as 
 a hawk, but wonderfully intelligent ! I liked the child. 
 Others found much fault with her I know, but some 
 how my heart always yearned over her." 
 
BARBARA DERING. 175 
 
 Eunice was absorbing these remarks with a full and 
 quiet sense of the sting which they must hold for her 
 husband and sister-in-law. 
 
 "I think you would like Barbara far better than 
 ever, bishop," she said, naturally. "She has grown 
 spiritually and mentally almost beyond my power to 
 describe." 
 
 " Indeed !" exclaimed the bishop, with an air of un 
 feigned delight. 
 
 " I might as well tell you, dear bishop," here put in 
 Mrs. Crosdill, feverishly, "that my brother and I do 
 not agree with my sister-in-law in this opinion. I, for 
 example, find that Mrs. Bering is very unfeminine in 
 many ways, and more like a hawk than ever." 
 
 " I will ask Barbara to dinner, and the bishop shall 
 judge for himself," said Eunice, whereupon Mrs. Cros 
 dill flushed darkly, but made no further remarks. 
 
 XXIY. 
 
 BARBARA and Bering (the latter had just returned 
 from New York) accepted the invitation to dinner, and 
 Barbara had a lustrous, gem-like beauty in her straight 
 gown of white with its bands of darkest sable. 
 
 Bering paid her so many compliments on the way 
 over, that when they arrived the usual clear pallor of 
 her face was overlaid with a warm flush. The nape 
 of her firm throat shone whitely under little tendrils 
 of dark-red hair. Other tendrils escaped and floated 
 back over the band of pearls, which lost itself under 
 her heavy coils. There was a knot of Parma violets 
 at her breast. 
 
176 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 The good bishop, who was as capital a judge of 
 beauty as most of his brothers, was enchanted. 
 
 " My dear child !" he exclaimed, enfolding her strong, 
 rose-tipped hand in both his own pale ones. " How 
 glad I am to see you looking so well and happy! 
 Your charming friend, Mrs. Bransby, tells me, too, 
 that you have improved as much in soul as in body 
 during all these years. Ah, how well I remember 
 your dear mother! You have her eyes, the same 
 clear, honest, beautiful eyes. I am, indeed, overjoyed 
 to see you again, my child, and under such happy cir 
 cumstances !" 
 
 " Dear bishop," returned Barbara, in her rich, cordial 
 voice, " it is very nice of you to take such an interest 
 in me !" 
 
 She pressed his hand gratefully, and felt herself 
 more drawn to this simple, kindly, blue-eyed priest 
 than to most others of his cloth. Bering, from a dis 
 tant corner, eyed him critically. 
 
 "Oh, Lord! it s another of those spoilt bishops!" 
 he had exclaimed, crossly, when Barbara showed him 
 Eunice s invitation. " For Heaven s sake, Bab darling, 
 say you ve got a finger-ache or something ! Let s stay 
 at home. By Jove ! there s no bigger bore than this 
 thing of bishopolatry." 
 
 But she had persuaded him to come, drawing in 
 gloomiest colors a picture of Mrs. Crosdill, and appeal 
 ing to his Christian charity to lighten poor Eunice s 
 burden, if only for one evening. 
 
 She and Eunice soon fell into close conversation, 
 while Mrs. Crosdill, a little apart, worked with aggres 
 sive concentration at her conspicuously ecclesiastical 
 embroidery, and the men grouped themselves before 
 the roaring hickory fire. Dering, with his legs firmly 
 
BARBARA DERINO. 177 
 
 planted, one hand pulling at his short moustache, 
 the other thrust deep into his trousers-pocket, the 
 bishop sunk into a huge leather chair, his delicate 
 hands dangling tassel-like from either of its arms, 
 Bransby standing in an attitude of hereditary com 
 posure, with one hand thrust under the tails of his 
 rigidly smart evening coat. 
 
 "Now about our missions, bishop," burst forth 
 Dering, suddenly. " Bransby tells me you are inter 
 ested in missions. I was talking to a friend the other 
 day, a friend who s in the Senate and up in such 
 things, and he tells me that nearly all the troubles in 
 China and the Hawaiian Islands have been occasioned 
 by our missionaries. They make a row and incite the 
 natives to rebel, and then they murder some authority 
 or other, and the government sends down a gunboat 
 and bombards the island. I must say that I agree with 
 Lawrence Oliphant in thinking that one thing s awfully 
 needed nowadays, and that s a missionary to the 
 missionaries. " 
 
 The bishop hastened to answer. 
 
 " My dear sir !" he exclaimed, " if the world had 
 listened to such tales where would our religion be 
 now ? The government always exaggerates at the ex 
 pense of the Church. But then I am an enthusiast on 
 the subject of missionary work, I may express myself 
 too warmly." 
 
 "I can t help thinking that missions, being the 
 truest sort of charity, should begin at home," said 
 Dering. " But then, of course, I don t know anything 
 really. Only I can t help rather sympathizing with 
 H. H. in her feeling about the Indians. It seems to 
 me that, after the shabby way in which we have 
 treated them, we owe them all our missionaries at 
 m 
 
178 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 least. I have spent some time in the West, and the 
 
 way in which those poor devils I beg your pardon, 
 
 sir ! but really the way those poor chaps were cheated 
 by the government agents was infernal! I do beg 
 your pardon ! It always makes my blood boil so to 
 think of it that I don t seem to be able to choose my 
 words." 
 
 " Indeed, you are most excusable. I can quite com 
 prehend your feelings," said the bishop, pleasantly, 
 " but I cannot help thinking that your generous en 
 thusiasm is somewhat wasted on those savage out 
 casts." 
 
 " In my opinion," said Bransby, slowly, " the Indian 
 is a low, treacherous, unredeemable being, who should 
 be exterminated as soon as possible." 
 
 " Ah, no, my friend, I cannot say that I endorse that 
 view of the subject," objected the bishop. " They are 
 certainly discouraging subjects for regeneration, but 
 some noble work is being done among them. How 
 ever, I understand very well Mr. Dering s feeling 
 about the need of missions nearer home. You will re 
 member, my dear Mrs. Crosdill, that letter I wrote you 
 about poor Lucy Andrews. Surely, that was a case 
 for earnest missionary work." 
 
 "Ah, yes, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Crosdill. "That 
 was terrible, terrible! I woke with a start only last 
 night, haunted by your graphic description of that 
 poor girl s cries. What a tragedy ! A noble soul like 
 that lost forever from the mere lack of proper spiritual 
 training !" 
 
 " What was this sad story, bishop ?" asked Barbara, 
 coming suddenly forward, her lips parted in that eager 
 forgetfulness of self which to some people made her 
 face so irresistible. At her request, the bishop repeated 
 
BARBARA DERING. 179 
 
 the sorrowful end of Lucy Andrews. As he went on 
 a look of suppressed excitement gathered in Barbara s 
 wide eyes, and when he had finished speaking she ex 
 claimed, 
 
 " But surely, bishop, you didn t let the poor girl die 
 in the belief that she was going to everlasting torment ?" 
 
 The bishop, sharply astonished, paused a moment 
 before replying. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Dering," he then said, "the idea 
 cannot be more painful to you than it was to me ; but 
 what alternative was there? Soothing equivocations 
 are not to be spoken in the room of death." 
 
 "Is it possible," said Barbara, a sort of horror well 
 ing into her face, as she spoke, " is it possible that 
 you really believe she went to hell, such a good, 
 dear, loving soul as you describe her to have been ! 
 just because something in her mind could not accept 
 the letter of the law?" 
 
 " And pray, my dear Mrs. Dering, what would you 
 have done in my place, had you been a bishop?" he 
 demanded loudly, whereat a faint titter was heard to 
 come from behind Mrs. Crosdill s embroidery-frame, 
 and Bransby shifted his position a little uneasily. 
 
 "I should have told her that God is love!" cried 
 Barbara, her face glowing. " I should have said to 
 her, Poor child, whether you can believe these details 
 or not, do you think that God will be less merciful to 
 you than men ? It is with the heart that man believeth 
 unto righteousness. With the heart that we love/ 
 And * love is the fulfilling of the law. If she loved the 
 Saviour, she believed in Him in the deepest sense of 
 the word. I heard a sermon once by a Lutheran 
 preacher, and he said such a good thing about that. 
 When you say that you believe in a man, he said, 
 
180 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 in Emerson, for instance, do you mean to say that 
 you believe that his mother was a Miss So-and-so, or 
 his father a lawyer in a particular town at the time 
 of his birth, or that he was born on a certain day of a 
 certain year? No! You mean that you believe in 
 his teachings, his philosophy, his theory of life, in a 
 word, you believe in a man, not in the details of his 
 birth ; and if you believe in the words of Christ and 
 try to do His will and love His beautiful personality, 
 you believe in Him, far more worthily than any ortho 
 dox Christian who accepts every historical detail re 
 lating to His appearance among men and yet hardens 
 his heart to his fellows ! " 
 
 As Barbara spoke her face got paler and paler until 
 it shone with a sort of white radiance from within. 
 The bishop, who, although undeniably rather vain and 
 overpetted, had a kind heart and a very clear sense of 
 justice, had come to the conclusion, during Barbara s 
 little speech, that her fervor was prompted by real 
 enthusiasm, not by a perverse desire to oppose her un 
 conventional ideas to his orthodox teachings. He said, 
 with gentleness, after a slight pause, 
 
 " Well, my dear, you must remember that I am an 
 Episcopal bishop. Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, 
 and thou shalt be saved, that is what I am ordained 
 to preach at all costs, even though my soul is torn with 
 pain in so preaching." 
 
 Barbara came nearer, and finally seated herself on a 
 low chair near the bishop s, so that her attitude had in 
 it something childlike and winning. 
 
 " But, dear bishop," she said, when he had stopped 
 speaking, " if to love God with one s whole being and 
 one s neighbor as one s self are the foundation-stones on 
 which rest all the law and the prophets, surely, surely, 
 
BARBARA DERING. 181 
 
 this poor Lucy, who told you over and over how she 
 loved the Saviour, and who had loved a poor sinning 
 outcast as herself, surely, because she could not be 
 lieve in the orthodox sense of the word, you do not 
 think her soul lost forever?" 
 
 " My child," returned the bishop, " I appreciate the 
 loving-kindness of your own heart which prompts 
 you to plead so eloquently for this poor girl. But 
 God s ways are past finding out. She died in unbelief. 
 The Church has but one opinion for those who die in 
 that manner." 
 
 " God is love," said Barbara ; " love forgives, forever 
 and ever." 
 
 " And yet, my dear, there is an unpardonable sin." 
 
 "Ah, yes!" exclaimed Barbara, starting to her feet. 
 " I have always thought that the unpardonable sin 
 was the belief that there was any sin which God s love 
 would not pardon." 
 
 "My child! my child!" said the bishop, warningly, 
 "take care that your mercy-loving and enthusiastic 
 nature does not carry you into great error. Works 
 without faith cannot avail, rather they have the 
 nature of sin, as it is said in the thirteenth article of 
 our religion, because of the very fact that they are 
 done without true piety, that is, without belief in the 
 divinity of our Lord." 
 
 "But surely right is right and wrong is wrong, 
 bishop, no matter who does either. If a man who had 
 been a thief all his life were to restore a jewel that he 
 had stolen, that one act would remain righteous, even 
 though he were to go on stealing jewels the next day. 
 And although a man were an orthodox believer and 
 the most rigid of Christians, as far as faith went, and 
 yet were to kill his brother, the crime would remain 
 
 16 
 
182 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 a crime. Would it not? There are so many things 
 which hurt me in our religion, things which seem 
 to me so wrong, which I cannot admire or respect. 
 Now, for instance, in our little church here in this 
 neighborhood there are some tables on which the 
 commandments are written, and every child or poor, 
 ignorant person can spell out for themselves every 
 Sunday the terrible words, for I the Lord Thy God 
 am a jealous God, and visit the sins of the fathers 
 upon the children, unto the third and fourth genera 
 tion. Yet who would ever think of setting up the 
 tables inscribed with God s own contradiction of those 
 words ? that eighteenth chapter of Ezekiel which so 
 few seem to know. I would give such a set of tables, 
 oh, so willingly ! and yet I am sure that I should not 
 be permitted to do it. Wait till I get Eunice s Bible 
 and show you the verses which I would select." She 
 brought the book and read eagerly, " Yet say ye, Why ? 
 doth not the son bear the iniquity of the father? 
 When the son hath done that which is lawful and 
 right, and hath kept all my statutes, and hath done 
 them, he shall surely live. The soul that sinneth, it 
 shall die. The son shall not bear the iniquity of the 
 father, neither shall the father bear the iniquity of the 
 son : the righteousness of the righteous shall be upon 
 him, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be upon 
 him. But if the wicked will turn from all his sins 
 that he hath committed, and keep all my statutes, and 
 do that which is lawful and right, he shall surely live, 
 he shall not die. All his transgressions that he hath 
 committed, they shall not be mentioned unto him : in 
 his righteousness that he hath done he shall live. 
 Have I any pleasure at all that the wicked should 
 die? saith the Lord God: and not that he should 
 
BARBARA DERINO. 183 
 
 return from his ways, and live ? Ah, dear bishop !" she 
 ended, clasping her hands over the arm of his chair, 
 and turning an eager face up to his, which was very 
 puzzled and solemn, " do let me give a set of tables 
 with those words on it to some church in your diocese. 
 I have so longed to do it. Please, please say yes !" 
 
 The bishop looked as he felt, decidedly upset and un 
 comfortable. 
 
 " We shall see ! We shall see !" he murmured, letting 
 his eyes rove about, as though for some object which 
 would suggest a simile that might tide him over this 
 direct and embarrassing appeal. " Such a question 
 could not be decided at once. It s a very serious 
 matter, more so than you think, my dear. Such 
 tables would offend many people, and be sure to wound 
 the consciences of the weak brethren. But I shall re 
 flect upon it, my dear. I shall certainly reflect upon 
 it." 
 
 Here Uncle Amos, appearing between the heavy 
 tapestry portieres which filled the great arch between 
 the first and middle halls, said, pompously, 
 
 " Dinner s purnounced, Miss Eunice." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 DURING dinner, Barbara, having seen that the feathers 
 of the worthy bishop s soul were somewhat disturbed 
 by her eagerness, brought all her tact to the task of 
 soothing them again. She won him to relate his most 
 impressive anecdotes, appealed to him on literary mat 
 ters, and delighted him by her description of a clever 
 little niece of Martha Ellen s, who was only six years 
 
184 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 old, and who could repeat, by heart and with fluency, 
 the second chapter of St. Matthew. Eunice could not 
 decide whether the bishop was conscious of the effect 
 which his evident pleasure in Barbara s bright talk 
 was producing upon Mrs. Crosdill. That lady bridled, 
 smiled now and then to herself with demure bitter 
 ness, and tapped her chest with a show of absent-mind 
 edness which clearly denoted her inward irritation. 
 
 Bransby and Bering were discussing the race ques 
 tion, so Eunice was at liberty to observe quietly all 
 that passed, while she arranged a saucer of jelly for 
 Win, who had been allowed to come down to dessert, 
 and who was delightfully prim and self-important in 
 a short-waisted white muslin frock tied with a pink 
 ribbon and wearing a little mob-cap on her dark curls. 
 Having scraped up the last spoonful of the wine-sauce, 
 which was served with the jelly, she said to her 
 mother, in a discreet whisper, 
 
 " Mother dear, I feel funny in my knees, but it s 
 very cheerful." 
 
 Eunice smiled and nodded over the orange which 
 she was peeling. 
 
 Presently Win whispered again, 
 
 " I think Aunt Lydia s crosser n usually cause the 
 bishop s preachin his whole sermon to Barbara." 
 
 Eunice could not help smiling again, but touched 
 her lips to her finger in a pantomime of the worn saw 
 about children s being seen and not heard. As the 
 conversation grew more animated, however, Winifred 
 urged, 
 
 " I just must tell you this, mother : I do think the 
 bishop s a little unpolite bout takin the best things. 
 He always took the best piece of celery, and now he s 
 tooken the biggest banana. Do you think God will 
 
BARBARA DERING. 185 
 
 punish me for thinking His bishop a little teeny weeny- 
 bit greedy ?" 
 
 " Hush, Win," said Eunice, gravely, though she had 
 more desire than ever to smile. " You are getting 
 saucy. You must try to get over that way you have 
 of criticising older people. It s very improper in a 
 little girl." 
 
 "But, mother dear, isn t the truth as truly true 
 when a little girl thinks it bout a bishop as when a 
 bishop thinks it bout a little girl ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but it is the bishop s duty to tell little girls 
 their faults, while it would only be disrespectful if little 
 girls told bishops what they thought were their faults." 
 
 " Well, is it disrespectful if I can t help liking Bar 
 bara s husban better, and he ain t a bishop ?" 
 
 " No ; that s no harm. But hush, dear, you re talk 
 ing too much." 
 
 Win began to eat her orange section by section, 
 plunging her little crimped teeth into the clear yellow 
 fibres, and curling her red lips away from contact with 
 the stinging juice. As she ate each division she placed 
 the seed, with the dainty deliberation peculiar to her, 
 along the edge of her plate. The bishop, happening 
 to glance up, watched this operation with the sympa 
 thetic smile of a somewhat sentimental father. 
 
 " Was it not a sweet thought of our Heavenly 
 Father to make such delicious fruit for us all to enjoy, 
 my child ?" he asked, at last. 
 
 Win gazed frankly at him over her last bit of orange. 
 
 " But He made poison-berries an things, too," she re 
 plied, abruptly. " Why do you reckon He did, sir?" 
 
 " They are not poisonous to the birds of the air, who 
 live upon them, my dear." 
 
 " Well, parsley kills parrots," said Win. " Cause we 
 16* 
 
186 BARBARA DERI NO. 
 
 had a parrot, and it ate it, and then it died in a hurry. 
 But of course I know * He doeth all things well, sir," 
 she hastened to add, fearing she was being disrespect 
 ful, and noting, besides, with a child s quick intuition, 
 the cloud of annoyance that was gathering on the 
 bishop s brows and the anger brewing in the eyes of 
 her aunt. 
 
 When Barbara and Bering were once more in their 
 snug brougham on the way home, he suddenly caught 
 her to him and laced her arms close about his throat. 
 
 " There ! For Heaven s sake let me feel the contact 
 of something warm, reviving, human ! I ve been talk 
 ing abstractions with that lump of frozen dough, 
 Bransby, until my marrow feels about to congeal! 
 Your lips, Barbara, before I turn into marble, like the 
 chap in the * Arabian Nights. " 
 
 Outside, the fields were smooth with snow and the 
 sky like the inside of an onyx globe, set with sharp, 
 many-colored diamonds. It was very cold, and the 
 window-panes were soon frosted with their breath. 
 
 Dering laughed, and wrote Barbara s name with his 
 finger upon the blurred glass. 
 
 " There ! that s typical. I always see the world 
 through that medium!" And again he kissed her. 
 
 " But how terrible for poor Eunice to be shut up in 
 that country house all winter with Bransby and his 
 sister !" said Barbara, after a while. " She is a goddess 
 of patience. I couldn t stand it." 
 
 " You !" Dering laughed at the idea. " I can fancy 
 you giving that would-be Mrs. Bishop a piece of your 
 mind. What a terror she is ! Worse than the man. 
 But I like Eunice much better than I ever did." 
 
 Barbara was delighted, and put her left hand upon 
 his, in which her right was already clasped. 
 
BARBARA DERING. 187 
 
 " How glad I am !" she exclaimed. " She is a wonder, 
 but so quiet that most people don t understand her and 
 are apt to think her weak. She has always liked 
 you." 
 
 Dering could not help grinning a little as he an 
 swered, 
 
 " She has a great variety of tastes. She must have 
 a genius for adapting herself to different characters, if 
 she likes me and Bransby at the same time." 
 
 " Oh, Jock ! You must see, you must feel " began 
 
 Barbara, and then stopped, afraid of being disloyal to 
 her friend. " Eunice was so very, very young when 
 she was married," she added, hastily. 
 
 "Poor soul!" exclaimed Dering. Then taking Bar 
 bara s face between his hands, he rested his lips upon 
 hers in a long, complete kiss of quiet intensity. 
 "There!" he said, as he lifted his head. "Just to 
 think that she has never been kissed like that in all 
 her eleven years of marriage! What a shame! And 
 such an adorable mouth as she has, too !" 
 
 Barbara smiled back into his half-mischievous eyes, 
 then, with a contented sigh, settled herself comfortably 
 against his side and rested her head upon his breast. 
 He had never seemed to her so charming, so much a 
 man, as thus contrasted with the pale and emotionless 
 Bransby. The movement of the firm muscles in his 
 arm, as he searched for his match-box to light a cigar 
 ette, pleased her woman s pride in strength. She could 
 not understand at all how Eunice, even as a very young 
 girl, could have fancied Bransby, with his dapper, in 
 capable little figure, his smooth pale hair, his neat 
 beard, cut exactly in a point, his great light-brown eyes, 
 and thin, colorless lips. She thought of his tiny hands 
 and feet with a sensation of physical revulsion. Even 
 
188 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 that fierce cruelty which is so often an excrescence of 
 strength was more acceptable to her than the frigid, 
 sexless calm of Bransby s conjugal manner. She re 
 called Mommsen s saying, that " there is no genius 
 without passion," and agreed with it vehemently. At 
 least Dering, with all his faults, was powerful, respon 
 sive, full of varied fire, and never roused in her that 
 sense of mental nausea which she felt convinced must 
 have sometimes overpowered Eunice, in the presence 
 of Bransby s tepid platitudes about heaven, life, and 
 duty, all three of which he could only know as quota 
 tions from highly orthodox and conventional volumes. 
 He himself reminded her of a paragraph from a re 
 ligious novel. This last fancy made her laugh out and 
 press her head with a childishly affectionate gesture 
 against Bering s shoulder, kissing the stuff of his coat 
 as she did so. 
 
 "Darling!" he said, charmed. "But why did you 
 laugh ? What were you thinking of?" 
 
 She told him, and they were merry at Bransby s 
 pious expense for some moments. The glare from the 
 moonlit snow glimmering in at the carriage windows 
 lighted up their faces with a pale glow, and they could 
 see each other s white teeth flashing gayly. A sense 
 of youth and vigor stirred them both. They grasped 
 each other s hands so eagerly that it was almost pain 
 ful, and gazed at the windows, from which they brushed 
 the moisture now and then, with that excitement in de 
 tail which possesses two children who are traversing a 
 strange country. 
 
 "How dim and blue the hills are! and how they 
 melt into the sky!" said Barbara. "I feel so strong 
 and gay just as though I could take your hand and 
 run over that bright snow for hours, without feeling 
 
BARBARA DERING. 189 
 
 tired. Brr! What an odious dinner it was! How 
 dreadful most ecclesiastical anecdotes are ! don t you 
 think so ?" 
 
 " Yes ; the bishop was much better than his stories," 
 admitted Dering, slowly, hindered from responding 
 wholly to her gayety by that sudden feeling of religious 
 conventionality which sometimes overwhelmed him. 
 He allowed himself a certain license now and then in 
 speaking of the clergy, but resented it in others, even 
 in Barbara. It was the same feeling that makes 
 mothers ready to punish their children themselves, 
 while they get angry with any one else who attempts 
 to do so. 
 
 Barbara was too happy and gay to-night, however, 
 to notice the negative tone in his voice, and went on, 
 eagerly, 
 
 "How beautiful it is! How I love these rolling 
 fields all swathed in snow ! They are like the breasts 
 of Titanesses, with a red streak here and there that 
 looks like blood." 
 
 " Oh ! oh !" cried Dering, in a shocked tone. " What 
 would Bransby say if he could hear you ? What an 
 immodest simile ! How lacking in all womanly refine 
 ment !" 
 
 And again they laughed gayly. 
 
 " I ll tell you what," said Dering, after a moment or 
 two, "Mrs. Crosdill is setting that hideous widow s 
 cap of hers for the blue-eyed bishop. She ll marry 
 him, too I" 
 
 " Oh, Jock ! do you think so ? I fancy she bores 
 him. And then with their horror of second mar 
 riages " 
 
 " Horror of fiddlesticks !" retorted Dering. " They ll 
 put it on a high moral and religious platform. You 
 
190 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 see if they don t ! She will marry him to be a mother 
 to his nine daughters did he say?" 
 
 " And he ?" asked Barbara. " What will he marry 
 her for?" 
 
 "Oh, I dare say he ll suddenly becomes convinced 
 of the positive command in that verse a bishop must 
 be the husband of one wife. You know there are 
 people who take it that way." 
 
 " How glad I am that you are not a bishop !" Barbara 
 exclaimed, frivolously. " I couldn t help feeling as if it 
 were a sort of religious ceremony whenever you kissed 
 me." 
 
 Their moods were mutually sympathetic to-night. 
 To Dering she seemed perfection, in her simple white 
 gown with the little furze of red-gold strands outlining 
 her fine head. The violets at her breast gave forth a 
 languid perfume, and the high collar of fur on her 
 cloak accentuated the smooth clearness of her face. 
 Her voice, rich and low, thrilled him as though he 
 had heard it for the first time. He was more thor 
 oughly in love with her than he had ever been and 
 ventured to kiss her throat with something of a lover s 
 timidity. 
 
 She felt nearer to him than she had for a long time. 
 That air of husbandly assurance which she resented 
 had entirely disappeared. They went to the music- 
 room, on reaching home, and Dering lay on the rug 
 before the fire and smoked, while she played softly 
 the different odds and ends that he loved best. After 
 a while she stopped, and coming over beside him, 
 said, 
 
 "A penny, Jocko! I can almost hear your thoughts." 
 
 " I was thinking," said Dering, slowly, " what hard 
 
 luck it is that every one isn t as happy as I am. And 
 
BARBARA DERING. 191 
 
 then I was trying to realize that there were people to 
 night who, in addition to mental suffering, were cold 
 and hungry. It seems hideous." 
 
 " It is hideous," said Barbara. " Sometimes I wonder 
 so about it all. I would be so willing to give all I had 
 to the poor, if I really thought that it would be anything 
 but a penny dropped in mid-ocean. How I should love 
 to see you a great philanthropist, darling ! I have so 
 often thought that a great work lay before you in that 
 line." 
 
 "How strange!" exclaimed Dering, lifting himself 
 upon his elbow and looking at her curiously. " Gad, 
 you are a witch you wonder !" 
 
 "Is that what you have been thinking of?" asked 
 Barbara, tenderly. Then she looked at him with her 
 deep, loving eyes, and, resting one hand on his thick 
 hair, said, in a low voice, 
 
 " If you could think out some plans for lessening 
 poverty and vice, I would be willing to give up every 
 thing and help you in your work. I mean even if you 
 wished to live with the working-classes as Felix Holt 
 did. Only" she paused, and then went on seriously 
 " I don t believe in equality any more than I would love 
 a world that is one vast level. There must be valleys 
 and mountains in human nature, as well as in land 
 scapes. People are happier for looking up. What I 
 long for is, that every one should have the blessing of 
 happy work and ample earning. But that idea of 
 living in droves is horrible to me. It would make of 
 life one vast American hotel. I don t think any one 
 who had a touch of the artist in them could ever have 
 imagined such a system. The very monotony of it 
 would pall on one. I really think I d rather be a jolly 
 tramp, with a certain amount of exciting doubt as to 
 
192 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 how I should get my dinner and where I should sleep 
 that night." 
 
 Dering smiled, and, taking her hand from his 
 hair, pressed its palm against his lips a little ab 
 sently. 
 
 " The destruction of the poor is their poverty, " he 
 said, at last. " Of that I am convinced. But how to 
 help it, how to help it !" He was silent again and sat 
 gazing into the flameless fire. 
 
 " Do you think of making it a life-work, dearest ?" 
 she asked, after some moments. " How happy that 
 would make me !" Her face lighted up. " Oh, Jock, 
 how bappy we should be if you thought of that !" she 
 cried again. " I would be with you in everything, 
 even in the most quixotic things that you might do. 
 If you were to give away all our money, you would 
 never hear me murmur." 
 
 Dering looked at her with a rare moisture in his eyes. 
 " Oh, Barbara," he said, " if that poor devil Lydgate in 
 Middlemarch had had a wife like you ! It seems to 
 me that you are the only entirely comprehending 
 woman I ever knew. I am sure you are the only 
 woman who never has any petty jealousies." 
 
 " I could not care for any one unless I had absolute 
 faith in them," she said, proudly. " Women who weep 
 or make scenes, because their husbands unexpectedly 
 spend a night away from home are beyond my compre 
 hension. Either I believe in my husband or I do not. 
 If I believe in him, surely there is no need of watching 
 him and making his life a burden, by requiring from, 
 him an account of every moment he has spent away 
 from me. If I don t believe in him, what difference 
 does anything else make ?" 
 
 " You dear, big-hearted, big-minded, big-souled dar- 
 
BARBARA DERING. 193 
 
 ling !" exclaimed Bering. He knelt up and put both 
 arms about her. 
 
 " You have forgiven me entirely, haven t you, dear 
 est ?" he whispered. 
 
 "Oh, my dear! how can you ask?" She kissed his 
 eyes and forehead and stroked lovingly his boyish 
 curls. 
 
 Suddenly they discovered that they were hungry, and 
 Dering suggested that they should go to the store-room 
 and see if there were anything to eat. These midnight 
 raids on the larder they found delightful, and often 
 chattered over an impromptu feast of this sort until 
 nearly one o clock. Barbara now lighted one of the 
 tall silver candlesticks that stood on the piano, and 
 they went through the dining-room and opened the 
 door into the little arched way which led to the store 
 room. As soon as they passed out, a gust of wind 
 whipped the candle-flame down to a blue fleck, and the 
 dogs began to bark angrily. Barbara held her skirts 
 nervously about her, while Dering tried to fit the key 
 into the lock. She dreaded that sudden, panting rush 
 of the dogs, which always made her heart jump so 
 foolishly. At last they got the store-room door open, 
 before the dogs reached them, and were at once en 
 veloped in that peculiar musty odor of cheese, apples, 
 jam, bread, potatoes, meal, cold meat, which pervades 
 all store-rooms. Then Barbara held the candle while 
 Dering scrambled upon a flour-barrel and investigated 
 the top shelf. He found a huge rosy pear, handed it 
 down to her, and at once she thrust her teeth deep 
 into the juicy flesh, with a little cry of pleasure, dancing 
 about with her mouth full, like a merry school-girl. 
 
 Dering, from his perch on the flour-barrel, gravely 
 admonished her. 
 
 i n 17 
 
194 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 " You, * a wife and a mother, as the novels put it, 
 to be capering about like a madcap! What would 
 your last admirer, the bishop, say? Cease, cease, I 
 beseech you, madam, this unseemly conduct, and have 
 the grace to leave me as much of that pear as Eve left 
 Adam of the apple." 
 
 " Here, you can have all the rest !" cried Barbara, 
 holding up the closely-nibbled core. 
 
 But Bering was occupied in tearing away great 
 crackling bites from a crisp, wine-sap apple, and did not 
 notice this generous offer. 
 
 They found a round, crimson cheese, some cold 
 turkey, a bunch of celery, a jug of hard cider, and a 
 great loaf of brown bread, and with this booty returned 
 to the dining-room, where, chattering like two affec 
 tionate magpies, they spread some napkins over the 
 green cloth, arranged plates, and placed knives, spoons, 
 and forks, Barbara rushing into the greenhouse at the 
 last moment, and bringing in an azalea-bush in full 
 flower, " to make things pretty," as she said. 
 
 As she ate, with that dainty carefulness that Dering 
 loved, he watched her, more enchanted than ever. The 
 little gurgling noise which the cider made in flowing 
 down her throat, and which might have irritated him 
 in an unloving mood, seemed to him the most charming 
 thing in the world. The dewy-red of her lips, her 
 pretty way of lading her slice of bread with little 
 morsels of the gold-colored cheese, then nibbling it 
 fastidiously with the points of her small teeth, all 
 this seemed to him as individual, and therefore as 
 delightful, as her hair, her eyes, her voice, her way of 
 speaking. He could not realize that he had ever been 
 angry with her, and she looked so thoroughly the girl, 
 as she sat with her hair hanging loose about her shoul- 
 
BARBARA DER1NG. 195 
 
 ders, that he found it hard to believe that their child 
 lay sleeping up-stairs, only the hall s length from their 
 own bedroom. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 THE unpleasant emotion which had risen in Bering 
 on learning that Barbara was to have a child, and 
 which he called by various names, but never by its 
 true one, jealousy, had been latent for several weeks. 
 Barbara, in her position of mother, seemed to him as 
 tonishingly reasonable. He had expected her to merge 
 her individuality into that of the little Fairfax, to be 
 nervous about the baby s health, on all occasions, 
 absent-minded and preoccupied when with him, a con- 
 stant inmate of the nursery, in constant need of tete-d- 
 tetes with the family doctor, in a word, the devoted 
 mother, entirely at the expense of the companionable 
 wife. 
 
 As none of these changes took place, ho returned 
 very soon to his normal state of mind, and even took a 
 strange, humorous sort of pleasure in the child, its 
 queer little spasms of expression ; its faint and mys 
 terious sneezings, which sounded like the noise made 
 by rose-leaves popped on the back of one s hand ; its 
 long yawns almost dislocating its tiny jaws ; its vague 
 and momentary opening of round black-blue eyes. 
 All these he found exquisitely droll ; and when, one day, 
 he saw in its small, downy face a certain movement of 
 the brows, which was a direct inheritance from Bar 
 bara, he could not contain a shout of amusement, 
 which terrified Fair into vigorous howlings. 
 
 About ten days after the Bransbys dinner, however, 
 
196 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 the baby was taken suddenly ill, and Poppleton, the 
 neighborhood doctor, had to be sent for, at midnight. 
 As such things happen, the weather was very bitter, 
 roads and meadows iron-bound, with a black frost. 
 Bering detested cold, and was not over-amiable about 
 getting into his clothes and going out to one of the 
 cabins, to rouse Tobit and send him for the doctor, this 
 being necessary, as none of the servants, except Martha 
 Ellen and Aunt Polly, slept in the house, and they were 
 both busy over Fair. 
 
 An hour later Poppleton was at Eosemary. Bering 
 had come down-stairs to get some whiskey, and was 
 standing in his dressing-gown over an open register 
 when the doctor entered. He was a huge man, of 
 about forty-eight, with a smooth, dark-red face, on 
 which no hair had ever grown, small dark-blue eyes 
 set between thick folds of fat, like the seeds of some 
 fruit in its pulp, and over which he wore gold-rimmed 
 spectacles seemingly imbedded in a crease at the base 
 of his nose. This feature was of indefinite outline, 
 speckled with violet pores and inclining to the left. 
 He had a handsome mouth, about which were deep, 
 stationary dimples, large jaws, mottled with a vinous 
 purple, and surmounting his high, oval forehead a 
 dark-brown, much-curled wig. When he laughed, 
 which was often, he disclosed splendid yellow-white 
 overlapping teeth. He wore a faded plum-colored 
 coat, which was spotted orange, here and there, by 
 spilt physic and red clay. His ponderous calves were 
 strapped into russet gaiters, and between his shoulders 
 he carried a great, leather-covered medicine-chest. His 
 hands, handsome and glazed with fatness, had broad, 
 bitten nails, over which the pink flesh curled back. His 
 custom was to address each patient in the voice of some 
 
BARBARA BERING. 197 
 
 other, and he now began, in a high, quavering treble, 
 which Dering instantly recognized as that of an old 
 man in the neighborhood who had turned Methodist 
 preacher in his sixty-fourth year. 
 
 " So the little heiress of Eosemary has the croup ?" he 
 trilled forth, with perfect mimicry. " May the Lord 
 see fit to aid my poor efforts ! For tis not in my 
 physic-box alone to succor her. Alas ! if such " 
 
 " Do shut up, doctor, and come along," said Dering, 
 curtly. As a rule he was " great friends" with Popple- 
 ton, who amused him vastly, but to-night, in addition 
 to his real anxiety about the child, he felt that he had 
 caught cold and was not in a responsive mood. 
 
 The doctor, who understood and liked him thor 
 oughly, smiled good-naturedly, and began to mount the 
 stairs, planting each great creaking foot softly with 
 the air of an elephant attempting to walk on tiptoe. 
 Dering followed, determined, as soon as the baby had 
 been dosed, to ask for something to stop his cold. He 
 gave a violent sneeze, just as they reached the nursery 
 door, and resolved angrily that Tobit should be lodged 
 in the house to-morrow, in case of future emergencies. 
 As they entered the room they saw Fair striking out 
 with her small fists, in her effort to breathe. Barbara 
 was walking her up and down, a fixed expression on her 
 pale face. A sudden throe of mother-love had seized 
 her. She felt that if the little creature on her breast 
 were to die, it would be like tearing a piece of her 
 heart away with forceps. Martha Ellen followed her, 
 with cooing sounds of comfort, her great eyes bright 
 with tears. Mammy Polly at the fire was warming 
 another blanket, the scorched smell of which filled the 
 room. 
 
 Somehow Dering felt aggrieved that, although he 
 17* 
 
198 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 had taken a bad cold, no one spared him a thought, hut 
 seemed utterly absorbed in the croupy morsel which Bar 
 bara held with such an expression of dread on her face. 
 
 " Well, well, well, well, well !" murmured the doctor, 
 unconsciously falling into the tone of Mammy Polly, 
 who was now swathing Fair in the smoking blanket. 
 " Let me see ! let me see ! Now, honey, you cheer up 
 right away I" he added, addressing Barbara suddenly. 
 " Here, give her to me ; we ll have everything all right 
 in a minute or two. She ll be jes ez spry ez a black- 
 snake with a new hoop-skirt, as old Tom Jinx says." 
 And here he adopted the voice and accent of another 
 patient. 
 
 Bering sat grumpily resigned close to the fire, with 
 one of the baby s blankets drawn closely about him and 
 over his ears. The shrieks of poor little Fair, the 
 doctor s cheery jokes, the skurrying back and forth of 
 Aunt Polly and Martha Ellen, all gave more and more 
 on his irritated nerves. Finally, when boiling water 
 was poured into a bucket filled with lumps of lime, and 
 the room dim with puffs of the penetrating steam, ho 
 could stand it no longer, and said that as he could be 
 of no use he would go to his room, and the doctor 
 must come after him if he was needed, or if he, Popple- 
 ton, wanted anything. He built a huge fire, wrapped 
 himself in more rugs, and filling a tumbler with hot 
 water and whiskey, established himself in an arm-chair 
 with a volume of Greek history. 
 
 He was deep in the education of the young Spartans, 
 and wondering if Spartan babies ever had croup, when 
 Poppleton entered simultaneously with his knock ? 
 wiping his pendulous chin and the back of his huge 
 neck with a flowered handkerchief. He nodded cheer 
 ily at Dering, and called out in the tones of yet another 
 
BARBARA BERING. 199 
 
 patient, a young fellow with a voice as ill-proportioned 
 to his size as that of a grasshopper, and who thought 
 himself a second Booth, 
 
 " Tis well, tis very well! All works as I would 
 have it ! So ! Ha ! ha !" then, noticing Bering s unen- 
 couraging expression, dropped into his natural manner 
 and said, easily, 
 
 " Little heiress getting along first-rate ! I see you re 
 having a toddy this bitter night. Thermometer only 
 two above zero. I tell you twas cold riding here!" 
 The doctor s air was a masterpiece of unconsciousness, 
 but Dering poured him out four fingers of whiskey, 
 which he drank at once with the mildness of a kitten 
 lapping milk. 
 
 " I say, doctor/ burst forth Bering, abruptly, " what 
 the devil s good for a cold? I ve caught an infernal 
 one to-night going out after some one to send for you." 
 
 " Quinine, quinine, quinine !" chanted the doctor. 
 
 " But it makes my head buzz so," objected Dering, 
 crossly. " Do show some originality in your prescrip 
 tions ! I ve taken enough quinine for colds this winter 
 to stuff a pin-cushion, and I never found it did me any 
 good. For Heaven s sake try again." 
 
 "Ten drops of camphor, then. Can you take cam 
 phor ?" said the doctor, who was too fond of him to 
 mind his surface humors. 
 
 " I ll take anything," said Dering, with gloomy reck 
 lessness. 
 
 "Oh, ho! don t I wish I d had those fellers that 
 granted that charter for prize fighting in Virginia in 
 your frame of mind !" returned Poppleton. " Wouldn t 
 I have fixed em up with ten drops of vitriol and 
 prussic acid apiece !" 
 
 "Yes, I know. It s a disgrace to the State. But 
 
200 BARBARA DERINQ. 
 
 our joint opinions on that subject aren t going to help 
 my cold, are they ?" 
 
 The doctor grinned, while dropping ten drops of cam 
 phor on a lump of sugar, and Dering proceeded to 
 suck it with that solemnity which pervades for us our 
 personal ailings. Poppleton could not help laughing 
 at his serious face. 
 
 "I ll tell you what," said Dering, unmoved, "if you 
 had the colds I have you wouldn t see much humor in 
 them." 
 
 Before the doctor could reply Barneses appeared at 
 the door and beckoned him away. 
 
 Fair recovered from this attack, but was feverish 
 and ailing for two weeks, during which time Dering 
 saw scarcely anything of Barbara. His cold had 
 proved rather severe, and he was in bed for a day or 
 two, but Barbara could not spare enough time from 
 Fair to read to him, and he lay in lonely discomfort, 
 that aggrieved feeling which had come over him in the 
 nursery growing ever stronger. They were both ill, 
 he told himself, and while the child had two competent 
 attendants, Barbara could not even tear herself away 
 from it long enough to do more than irritate him by 
 opening and shutting the door within such a short 
 space of time. It was evident for which she felt more 
 sympathy, more anxiety. Her very coldness at first 
 was all the more reason that she should now become 
 excessive in her fondness. All romance was over and 
 done with ! He went on lashing himself into a sort 
 of frenzy. He would hear of nothing now but croup, 
 colic, teething, nurses, physics, change of climate! 
 He flung himself angrily about, and finally lay still 
 and stared at his reflection in a glass which stood at 
 the foot of his bed. 
 
BARBARA D BRING. 201 
 
 His sallow face and the dark circles about his eyes 
 filled him with a spasm of self-pity. 
 
 " By Jove ! she can see me look as ill as that and 
 keep away from me as she does ! What a fool I was 
 to build air-castles and actually fancy them granite! 
 I suppose those cynical old chaps are right when they 
 say that women are meant for mothers before every 
 thing else ! What a come down !" 
 
 He laughed, and the savage expression of his face in 
 the glass struck him as perfectly appropriate to the 
 present state of affairs. 
 
 One afternoon, ten days later, he and Barbara went 
 for a ride. Wilful, Barbara s horse, of which she was 
 so fond, was a lean, compact chestnut, with a delicate 
 crest, splendid shoulders, long, elastic pasterns, and 
 quarters that could lift him even over a snake-fence 
 when not too exaggerated in height. His greatest 
 beauty was his head, tipped by slender ears, clear-cut 
 as though shaped with a pair of fine scissors. His 
 wide front, splashed with a large white star, gave him 
 a gracious air, and his eyes were overarched by full 
 brows, on which was a darker pencilling. He carried 
 his tail like a triumphant gold plume, and his mane 
 shone like ravellings of silk. He was excitable but 
 entirely kind, and knew Barbara as her dogs knew 
 her. Bering s mount was as different as possible. A 
 powerful half-bred bay, with a short barrel, head 
 tapering too abruptly to a small-nostrilled muzzle, pas 
 terns short but clean, and broad, well-shaped hoofs. 
 Dering rode him with a bit and bridoon, while Wilful 8 
 bridle was a single-reined snaffle, very light, yet with a 
 thin bar capable of hurting, and he also had on a nose 
 band, as he pulled a good deal when his blood was up. 
 Dering, still pale and fretful from his cold, fumed about 
 
202 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 stirrups and saddle, while Barbara s mulatto groom 
 swung her up on Wilful, and Barneses fed him with 
 sugar to keep him quiet. 
 
 Dering was in a sore, sullen state of mind, and, 
 moreover, had determined that he would have it out 
 with Barbara, during this ride and put her love for him 
 to the test. Her gayety and delight in Wilful and his 
 antics jarred on his nerves more every instant, espe 
 cially as Wilful s whirlings and playful rearings and 
 backings stung him now and then with anxiety for 
 Barbara. It seemed to him, in his sulky mood, that 
 she was reckless and inconsiderate, laughing aloud as 
 Wilful swung her about in the saddle, and letting the 
 reins give to their full length under the impatient 
 movements of his neck. 
 
 As they began to canter down the long lawn, he 
 gave way to his vexation, and cried, rather crossly, 
 
 "If you can t make that beggar move decently 
 ahead let s pull up to a walk!" Wilful, in fact, was 
 cantering sidewise as deliberately as though he had 
 been a gamesome crab, and Barbara, convulsed with 
 merriment, was giving him his way. She saw that 
 Dering was in a dangerous vein, and answered, good- 
 naturedly, 
 
 "Yes, I know it s awfully provoking, but I never 
 can make him walk when he first starts." 
 
 Dering grew more and more provoked, but was 
 silent, not wishing to give way to his anger, before 
 finding out the true state of her affections. 
 
 It was one of those perfect days which come so often 
 in a Virginia winter. The air had that mingled 
 warmth and freshness of early spring; there were bits 
 of young green here and there ; the fields undulated in 
 a soft wind, and overhead was a curve of blue, across 
 
BARBARA DERING. 203 
 
 which frail clouds were swept as by a gigantic broom. 
 The roads, spongy and yet not actually muddy from a 
 light fall of snow, which was now thawing, were in 
 excellent condition for galloping. Wilful struck out 
 into his graceful swinging stride, his neck, which was 
 like iron cased first in india-rubber and then in satin, 
 eagerly arched, his nostrils distended. Close to his 
 flank the big bay, Standby, lumbered steadily. Some 
 how Barbara s evident delight in her horse fretted 
 Bering. He was in a mood to resent any form of en 
 joyment in another. Her very exuberance of physical 
 strength and radiance accentuated his own dragged- 
 down condition and sensation of inertness. 
 
 " Er I m not feeling very fit," he began, when they 
 had settled into a trot along an uneven bit of road. 
 " I need some toning up, I fancy, and then, too, I m 
 getting pretty sick of doing nothing. It s an awfully 
 lazy life that we ve been leading." 
 
 " Yes, I wish that you had some steady occupation, 
 Jock," answered Barbara, brightly. " I don t think 
 that any one can be really happy without it." 
 
 " Well, there s a splendid chance for change of scene 
 open to us," said Bering, with an air of such intense 
 unconsciousness that she at once decided he was about 
 to propose some extraordinary scheme. " I ve had an 
 invitation from Leland, you know that fellow who s 
 so interested in social questions, we were college 
 chums. Well, he s going West on a sort of shooting 
 and investigation tour combined, private car and all 
 that. He wants us to come, you and me. Mrs. 
 Leland s a charming little woman, crazy to know 
 you. In fact, they re both awfully keen about your 
 coming." 
 
 She looked at him earnestly. 
 
204 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 "But Fair!" she asked, finally. "We couldn t drag 
 a baby of that age along with us ?" 
 
 "I should fancy not!" exclaimed Bering. "I 
 certainly don t propose making nuisances of our 
 selves !" 
 
 Barbara thought that the invitation might have been 
 given for a later date, and asked when they were ex 
 pected to be ready. 
 
 " In ten days. They start from Washington on a 
 Wednesday." 
 
 She was silent for some moments, trying to compre 
 hend whether really he wished her to leave the child 
 so soon after its severe illness. 
 
 " Well," he broke out, impatiently, " shall I write 
 and accept, or do you think it would be better if you 
 were to do it ?" 
 
 " Do you mean, Jock, that you wish me to leave Fair 
 while she is so delicate?" 
 
 " Delicate ? Fiddlesticks ! You young mammas are 
 like Chicken Little when the leaf fell on her back ; 
 she thought the sky was falling, and you go to pieces 
 over a simple attack of croup! I don t suppose there 
 ever was a baby who didn t pull through attacks of 
 croup more or less sharp. Julius Caesar, Oliver Crom 
 well, Napoleon Bonaparte, they all had it I d stake 
 my life !" 
 
 " Fair didn t have a simple attack of croup, Jock. 
 She had diphtheritic sore-throat, and is liable to other 
 attacks like it, until the cold weather is over." 
 
 " Oh, I might have known you d make the worst of 
 it all, just to avoid leaving her for a week or two ! I 
 must say you re about as hoodooed by your first-born 
 as any one I ever saw." 
 
 Barbara flushed, then after a second said, quietly, " I 
 
BARBARA DERING. 205 
 
 think it s very natural that I should not want to leave 
 her as weak as she is now." 
 
 " There s Mrs. Bransby ! She knows any amount more 
 about babies than you do. Leave the brat with her!" 
 
 Barbara flushed still more, then grew pale. 
 
 " I shouldn t be satisfied to leave her with any one. 
 If she were to be very ill and I away enjoying myself, 
 I should never get over it." 
 
 " I suppose not. But I may be as ill as I like, and 
 you don t ever see it, so long as that kid is ailing I" 
 
 Barbara gripped the edge of her saddle with her 
 right hand in her effort for self-control. " I thought 
 you had only a bad cold," she then said. " Do you feel 
 really ill? Have you kept anything from me?" Her 
 eyes had grown suddenly anxious. This touched him, 
 and for the moment his tone was softer. 
 
 " Oh, there s nothing serious," he assured her. " I m 
 run down and seedy, that s all. But I feel the need 
 of a change. Do ask Mrs. Bransby to look after the 
 child, there s a darling, and come along with me!" 
 He leaned over and put an impulsive arm about her 
 waist, and the horses, used to such manoeuvres, nipped 
 at each other with a friendly pretence of enmity. 
 
 She looked puzzled and worried, then turned her 
 dark eyes on him appealingly, and said, " Jocko, you 
 know how much I d like to go with you, but indeed, 
 indeed I feel that I cannot leave Fair just now." 
 
 He withdrew his arm with angry roughness and 
 touched Standby into a brisk trot. Wilful cantered 
 airily a half-length ahead, and some bits of mud were 
 thrown against Dering s shoulders. 
 
 " 1 wish you d have the ordinary politeness not to 
 spatter me all over with mud from that confounded 
 brute s heels !" he called out. 
 
 18 
 
206 BARBARA BERING. 
 
 Barbara brought Wilful down into a trot also, but 
 did not say anything. She felt sure that if her hus 
 band kept up that tone with her the discussion would 
 end in a quarrel. 
 
 Presently he began again : 
 
 " So you refuse, then, do you, to go with me, though 
 I tell you I m feeling wretchedly and need your com 
 panionship! How I have heard you excoriate that 
 trait in other women !" he laughed. " Well, it s the old 
 thing of a fellow-feeling making us wondrous kind, I 
 suppose! That s it! Eh?" 
 
 Barbara s lip trembled, but there were no tears in 
 her eyes. She had long since learned to repress this 
 sign of emotion, finding that in moods like this it only 
 goaded Dering to further harshness. 
 
 " I don t see how you can put it that way, Jock," 
 she said, at length, in a low voice, speaking all the 
 more gently that she felt her own temper rising. " I 
 despise the lack of fire which makes women slight 
 their husbands for their children as much as ever ; but 
 duty is duty. When I see that a thing is right I must 
 do it, or at least I must try to do it. Don t you know 
 that I would leave Fair in a minute in a second to 
 come to you if you were seriously ill .?" 
 
 Dering was silent, and continued to smile as though 
 over mysterious and enlightening thoughts. 
 
 "Speak, Jock! You know that!" cried Barbara, 
 growing impatient. " At least you must acknowledge 
 that I ve always been truthful. You must believe 
 what I say." 
 
 " Well," replied Dering, slowly, " I confess it s rather 
 hard to take in what you say to me with such opposite 
 facts staring me in the face." 
 
 "What facts?" said Barbara. "My child our 
 
BARBARA DERING. 207 
 
 child has been seriously, even dangerously, ill. I don t 
 want to leave her and go West for an indefinite length 
 of time. Are those the facts you mean? Is there 
 anything in that but what is womanly, natural, 
 wifely?" 
 
 " Womanly and natural, I admit," he sneered, " but 
 er hardly what you could call wifely." 
 
 " Would you really have me leave Fair ?" 
 
 " With your friend Eunice ? Assuredly." 
 
 " And if she were to be very, very ill ?" 
 
 " She would be in far better hands than those of an 
 enthusiastic and ignorant young mother, who would 
 probably keel over in a dead faint at the first bad 
 symptom." 
 
 " You are unjust !" flashed Barbara. 
 
 " My dear Bab, calling me names won t alter facts." 
 
 " How can you love me, as you say you do, and yet 
 speak to me like this ?" 
 
 " Our ideas of love probably differ as much as our 
 ideas of duty, my dear girl." 
 
 " I cannot understand you !" she exclaimed. " I can 
 not take in that you are really angry because I won t 
 leave a poor, helpless, ill little baby to the care of 
 others, when it is my simple duty to stay with her. 
 But you re not my Jock this afternoon. You re in one 
 of your black moods. I am sure you ll see things 
 differently to-morrow." 
 
 "Are you?" he answered, briefly, with a scowl and a 
 grin together. " Then it ll be a devilish good thing if 
 you get that notion out of your head, as you re laying 
 up a lively disappointment for yourself." 
 
 " I wish you wouldn t use such expressions to me, 
 Jock." 
 
 "What damned nonsense!" he retorted, roughly. 
 
208 BARBARA BERING. 
 
 " You re not over-squeamish yourself when your blood s 
 up ! Come now, be honest about it ! You know I 
 caught you swearing the other day, or, if not swearing, 
 using jolly strong expletives. Did you or did you not 
 say, Plague take the cussed thing ! when you couldn t 
 get your stirrup tight ? Eh ? Answer me that, my 
 Lady Highty-Tighty I" 
 
 Barbara almost broke into a laugh, but her anger 
 conquered, and she merely curled a disdainful lip in 
 reply. 
 
 " Because I ll tell you what," he fumed on. " * Plague 
 take it is about as abominable an expression as could 
 be used, when you come down to it. The plague is a 
 filthy disease, and when you say those words you are 
 calling it down on the object of your wrath !" 
 
 " Do you think that the plague could materially in 
 jure a stirrup-leather?" asked Barbara, gravely. " Be 
 cause, if so, I will ask in my prayers to-night to be 
 forgiven." 
 
 " We ll let that go," said Dering, who was now of a 
 curious steely pallor. " But at least you ll admit that 
 1 cussed is, to say the least, a vulgar, unlady-like word ; 
 or perhaps you won t admit it ?" 
 
 " Oh !" cried Barbara, with an air of disgusted weari 
 ness, "I ll admit anything, if you ll only let me take 
 the rest of my ride in peace." 
 
 "There s another charming trait you ve developed 
 this afternoon !" he retorted. " You are willing, then, 
 to admit an untruth for the sake of your personal 
 comfort! Jove! I am glad to know that! That ll 
 save me a world of bother in future discussions." 
 
 " I m glad to know that I ve helped you to a clearer 
 knowledge of my character," she replied, recklessly 
 giving way to the temptation of sarcastic retorts. 
 
BARBARA BERING. 209 
 
 Glancing at him, she was overcome with that sense of 
 his ugliness, which during his fits of temper, seemed to 
 her to blot out every vestige of good looks, from face 
 and figure. His whole presence revolted her. She 
 shivered and settled herself more firmly in the saddle. 
 " If he will only content himself with sulking and let 
 me alone," she thought, wearily. " He does make me 
 so wicked ! My tongue stings like an adder, after he 
 has goaded me beyond a certain length of time. Oh, 
 if he will only let me alone ! It is so horrible ! When 
 he is like this I don t love him. I long to get away 
 from him. What have I done to rouse this mood in 
 him? Let me think." She went over everything 
 that had passed between them for a month, but with 
 out arriving at any solution of his present frame of 
 mind. 
 
 " Of course you know what the world will say ?" he 
 began, so abruptly that she started and changed color. 
 
 " What ?" she asked, with some vagueness. 
 
 " Why, they ll say I m tired of you and in love with 
 Mrs. Leland." 
 
 " Oh, Jock, how vulgar !" breathed Barbara, her eyes 
 full of disgust rather than anger. " Don t you know 
 that if I could think such things of you I should stop 
 loving you ?" 
 
 "I really don t know what you d do under given 
 circumstances, my dear. You ve turned out, in nearly 
 everything, the exact opposite of what you seemed 
 before marriage, cold, prudent, selfish, conventional, 
 a baby-worshipper, a shrew, a " 
 
 " I won t listen to such words !" cried Barbara, her 
 eyes in a flame. 
 
 " And pray, my dear, how will you prevent my ex 
 pressing my sincere opinions ? You cannot strike me 
 o 18* 
 
210 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 with dumbness, because what I say puts you in a rage, 
 can you? I repeat it. You ve turned out a shrew 
 and a scold and I " 
 
 But Wilful had sprung two lengths ahead, under a 
 sudden touch of her heel, and was sending back the 
 sticky soil in showers. 
 
 " Oh, that s your game, is it ? You vixen !" ground 
 out Dering. He slashed the bay savagely with hia 
 cutting whip, and for a moment the two galloped 
 abreast. He laughed exultantly. 
 
 " Did you really think you could ride away from mo 
 in that style, you mad thing!" he chuckled. " I ll tell 
 you, then, there s something in the way one rides as 
 well as in one s mount, and you ll find that a poor way 
 of trying to escape me. You saucy vixen, you !" 
 
 "Ah, Wilful, off with you, sweetheart!" cried Bar 
 bara. 
 
 Dering gave a gasp of mingled rage and astonish 
 ment, for, gathering his strong legs under him, the 
 great chestnut swept past and on down the slanting 
 road, like a streak of fire. As they flew, Barbara turned 
 her white face, and, lifting her whip, waved it mock 
 ingly. All the brute was up in Dering. He desired 
 only to overtake, to conquer, to crush. He saw, in the 
 graceful figure ahead of him, not the woman loved 
 through happy hours, but an insolent and defiant force 
 which must be mastered and compelled into the direc 
 tion which he desired it to take. The bay s sleek hide 
 was streaked with weals from his whip, and it pounded 
 on with all the speed in its power. Wilful, however, 
 fleet and light as a deer, steadily increased the distance 
 between them until, with an oath, Dering pulled up, 
 seeing that pursuit was useless. Then Barbara soothed 
 Wilful into a walk and waited until Dering came up 
 
BARBARA DERING. 211 
 
 with her. He was too breathless between rage and the 
 pace at which he had been going to speak for some 
 time. 
 
 Finally he said, with shut teeth, 
 
 " You ll be sorry for this." 
 
 " Oh, Jock," she returned, wearily, " don t threaten. 
 You know that I am not afraid of anything in the 
 world, and that nothing could make me afraid." 
 
 " Upon my soul," he exclaimed, " there s something 
 monstrous about you ! You re not like a woman. You 
 are like some curious mythological creature. Have 
 you got any heart or blood in you? Heaven help 
 your child ! I tremble when I think it s mine, too. It 
 will probably live to curse me and bring disgrace upon 
 my name !" 
 
 "You are beside yourself," said Barbara, quietly. 
 " I forgive you, because I am sure that you don t know 
 what you are saying, but I tell you again that I will 
 not listen. If you go on, I shall ride off again." 
 
 " You will, will you ? You fury !" he cried, making 
 a lunge at her rein ; but she was a perfect horsewoman. 
 Easily avoiding him, she again gave Wilful his head, 
 and, delighted at this game of racing in short heats, he 
 was off and away with a purring snort of pleasure. 
 
 When Barbara again allowed Dering to come up 
 with her, they were both silent for some moments. At 
 last she said, in a low voice, 
 
 " Jock, don t let us quarrel any more. I am sorry if 
 I have said anything to provoke you, and I know you 
 did not mean the things you said to me just now. 
 Married life is so dreadful if such bitter words are 
 spoken. Somehow one can never quite get over them. 
 They are like ink-spots on a white gown. Either the 
 stain is never completely done away with, or some- 
 
212 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 thing has to be used which injures the stuff. Either 
 one forgives without forgetting, or forgets because one 
 ceases to care." 
 
 She looked at him earnestly, pleadingly, her heart 
 beating fast, her hand stretched out. For a moment 
 the truth of these words changed Bering s mood. Then 
 his face congealed into its former hardness and he 
 answered in a cold voice, 
 
 " Perhaps you think I don t see your woman s trick 
 of shifting your ground. It was a very clever move, 
 but I am not to be hoodwinked that way. You must 
 have had pretty soft fools to manage before you met 
 me." 
 
 Barbara s face hardened also, and she pressed her 
 lips together in order to keep back a stinging reply. 
 
 " I m not the type of husband, let me tell you once 
 for all," continued Dering, " who thrives on hen-peck 
 ing. Now that I see you care more for that helpless 
 bundle at home than you do for me, I shall retire 
 gracefully. You needn t fear that I will annoy you 
 further. I shall, of course, accept the Lelands invita 
 tion and go West with them. I can t tell when I ll be 
 back. I ll send you my address from Washington." 
 
 He paused as if waiting for her to answer, and she 
 said in a voice as cold as his own, 
 
 " Yery well. I hope that you will have a pleasant 
 trip." 
 
 " Thank you," he replied. 
 
 They passed the rest of the ride in silence. 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 213 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 THE only thought which presented itself clearly to 
 her, in this disturbed seething of her mind, was that 
 she must get away from the house from every one 
 to that deep loneliness of nature which had always 
 seemed to her, in wild moments, like a tranquil hand 
 upon her heart. 
 
 She did not ring for Rameses, but took off her habit 
 with nervous haste and drew on her short walking- 
 skirt and mountain-boots. As she stole swiftly and 
 noiselessly along the winding corridors she felt, as she 
 had so often done in a bad dream, as if she were being 
 drawn backward ; as if some hand might catch and 
 detain her ; as if Dering were about to step before her 
 from some dark closet or turning. At last, however, 
 she was out in the large air of the winter day. Already 
 the sun was trailing after him the languid shadows of 
 his westering course. The ploughed fields showed a 
 soft feathering of young oats, and great clods, smooth 
 from the ploughshare, crumbled like nuggets of burnt 
 gold in the level glare. Clouds, delicate, transparent, 
 rosy-white, meshed the dim azure of the sky. Here 
 and there came a bleak glimmer of snow from some 
 violet shadow. The soft trill-like drip of thawing 
 snow upon dead leaves made a sweet whisper through 
 out the winter wood. Above, the heavens were hung 
 between the mist of branches like a great blue cobweb. 
 She heard some fox-hounds, far up the mountain-side, 
 swell their deep plaintive notes, and turning into a 
 little path that zigzagged upward among the under- 
 
214 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 brush, quickened her steps in the direction of their 
 baying. 
 
 A chill fragrance from the damp junipers soon en 
 veloped her, and the patches of snow grew thicker 
 and broader. She saw upon this white carpet the 
 marks of bird s feet, the print of little hoofs. It 
 seemed to her, in the exhilaration of climbing, that 
 some baby faun might have scampered away into the 
 distant mist of soft, gray, leafless stems. The acorri 
 which he had been nibbling lay there beside the hoof- 
 prints. Morsels of yet unmelted snow clung here and 
 there to the dark cedar boughs like drowsy white 
 birds. Even the moist red clay had a clean perfume of 
 its own, and a hare, warily stealing towards a baited 
 trap, paused, quivered up on its haunches, and display 
 ing its sleek breast and fine-veined ears, fixed on her its 
 liquid eyes. Then all at once, terrified, alert, drummed 
 quickly with its strong hind feet, and whirling, leaped 
 away into the tangled weeds. 
 
 Her heart began to beat quickly now and her breath 
 came fast. She was on the steepest flank of the moun 
 tain, and the narrow path which she followed wound 
 far above her head. But the keenness of her mental 
 suffering seemed a force which impelled her body on 
 ward. As long as she forced her supple muscles into 
 energy the tumult in her soul seemed quieted. She 
 grew so warm that, as she walked, she drew off her 
 jacket and threw it across her shoulder. The heated 
 blood throbbed stinging through her veins, and the ex 
 ultation of sheer physical life grew upon her with each 
 powerful movement. Presently the quick panting 
 ceased. She closed her lips and breathed easily ; took 
 off her white beret and ran her fingers through her 
 damp hair. The air made a cool streak across her 
 
BARBARA DERING. 215 
 
 forehead. It was like the kiss of some invisible but 
 friendly presence. Already that efficient calm of 
 mountain solitude was upon her. Already the valley, 
 with its troubled life, seemed vague, distant, remote, 
 apart ; its purplish mist, like the vapors which arise 
 from weird, untranquil dreams ; the harsh note of a 
 distant locomotive, like the cry of some unfortunate, 
 half lapped in the incomplete unconsciousness which 
 begets such visions. She thought of those melodious 
 words which ever sing themselves to a silent music of 
 the mind, 
 
 " Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, 
 For love is of the valley, come thou down." 
 
 " No, no !" she said, aloud. " True love is of the 
 heights." And then started with that strange self- 
 consciousness which overpowers one, at the sound of 
 one s own voice falling upon solitude. She paused and 
 leaned for a moment against a tree to rest. Her collie, 
 who had rushed ahead, came up and gazed at her, 
 panting. The crisp white of a snow-streak near by 
 suggested thirst, and he dashed his sharp muzzle along 
 its crust and gobbled a mouthful or two, then looked 
 eagerly up at Barbara again, who gave her girlish 
 laugh, and stooping gathered a handful, which she ate 
 daintily. Her blood, changed by the vigorous exercise 
 of the last half-hour, was ready to receive new im 
 pressions. This plentiful silence pressed against her, 
 charged with myriad suggestions. The soft hand was 
 upon her heart. 
 
 In Barbara there was much of that bounteous Pagan 
 spirit which first stirred the world to belief in the 
 soul permeating all things. To her each leaf, each 
 
216 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 transient cloud, each shadow traced in varying light, 
 each fluctuating splendor of the day had its individu 
 ality, its message, its conscious being, as of what we 
 call spirit. To her the friendly silence was, at the 
 same time, comprehending. There seemed to rise a 
 courage and consolation to her from the strong, bitter 
 smell of the damp earth. The wind, seizing her 
 roughly by hair and garments, was more sympathetic 
 than the alien presence of another human being. The 
 forward leap of a swollen mountain stream beat sharp 
 and true upon a like chord in her heart, its rush, its 
 turbidness, its savagery, she had felt them all. When 
 a bird alighted near her, unafraid, even ventured to 
 peck at the branch of scarlet berries which she had 
 broken off, from the mere child-wish to have its beauty 
 with her on her lonely walk, she was faint with pleasure 
 at its sweet confiding, and feared to breathe, lest she 
 should frighten it from her. If, by some magic, she 
 could have thrown herself into its being, how quickly 
 she would have mastered its loves, its dreads, its pleas 
 ures ! How, as a girl, this desire to be one with the 
 all-spirit had possessed her ! She had longed to be a 
 thousand different women, to pass through a thousand 
 experiences, happy and sorrowful, to exhaust, by a 
 series of brilliant existences, every world in space, to 
 feel all, see all, know all, possess all, laughter, wretch 
 edness, despair, glory, failure, victory, beauty. She 
 had tried to imagine how the growing flowers felt, 
 the trees, the humming-birds swinging in the crape- 
 myrtle bells. How huge everything must have looked 
 to them ! How intensely they must have felt ! She 
 would have liked to suck the very essence of life, in a 
 few hours of vivid frenzy. As a bird, she would have 
 flown until her wings failed and she had dropped swift 
 
BARBARA DERINO. 217 
 
 and straight into the sea below, or dashed her head 
 against the great glass of some glaring light-house. 
 
 This old mood caught and shook her to the soul. A 
 blind despair of longing for her dead maidenhood over- 
 rushed her. She put both arms about the huge bole 
 of the tulip-tree against which she leant and pressed 
 her lips to its rough bark. In her heart were some 
 such thoughts as these : " Dear tree ! If I were only a 
 Dryad, and, folded in your fragrant rind, could listen to 
 the stealthy pulsing of the sap through your great 
 boughs, and grow glad with the spring which will 
 make you green again ; if, resting so, a part of you as 
 your young leaves will be, I could feel with you the 
 thrill of the midnight storm, the clutching feet of 
 frightened birds, the palpitations of close-scrambling 
 squirrels ; in the morning the clash of your ice-coated 
 branches, glittering golden through the fresh sunlight. 
 At sunset to be warmed gloriously and drowned in sheets 
 of flame-color. To rest, to sleep, to live in you and 
 with you, and then, freeing myself in certain hours of 
 liberty, to range the voiceless woods, unafraid of snow 
 or storm, secure in delicate emotions, incapable of 
 disturbance !" 
 
 All this, wildly and chaotically massed, surged 
 through her, as she clung to the great tree, her tears 
 first warming and then chilling her flushed face. While 
 she paused there, however, a gray flag of cloud had 
 been unrolled above. There was a shiver of wind 
 throughout the forest. A drop fell upon her out 
 stretched hand, another, yet another. But suddenly 
 the wind veered and tore an oval space in the steaming 
 air above, a rift of blue sky shone serenely as a gem, 
 widened into placid magnificence, possessed the upper 
 day. That strong, eager life-joy welled ever higher in 
 K 19 
 
218 BARBARA BERING. 
 
 Barbara. Her red lips were parted. Her eyes were 
 eager as Robin s, who leaped and circled in front of her 
 like her keen mood made visible. 
 
 Now the baying of the hounds rang out again, first 
 near at hand, then growing fainter and fainter in the 
 distance. She reached a primitive fence, made of a rail 
 or two stuffed with underbrush, and in a bound was 
 over, Robin close at her heels. The trees were grow 
 ing thinner, and dwindled finally into plantations of 
 sassafras, with here and there the glossy green plume 
 of a scrub pine. All at once she found herself in a 
 steep open field, covered with rustling yellow broom, 
 which came into exquisite contrast with the floating 
 clouds beyond. Above, on the comb of the hill, was a 
 bristling of purple sassafras-bushes against the white- 
 blue sky, their stems hidden by the rich broom-straw, 
 which grew above her shoulders. The dim red path 
 wound up and up, and all about was that dry, seething 
 sound, followed by a soft rattle in the limbs of tho 
 stunted pear-tree springing from a pile of stones. 
 Here and there velvety scarlet pyramids of sumac- 
 berries burnt on their blue-gray stems. The far valley 
 was like a pale-lilac cloth spread smoothly. It seemed 
 to melt away at last and to become absorbed in space. 
 Above, the small, round, overlapping clouds were like 
 the shells on a broad beach, and they were suggested 
 again by the little ovals of snow clustering in tho 
 shadows of the hill-side. A golden robin on a sassafras- 
 tree, near her foot, turned its head sideways and peered 
 up at her, half its brilliant speck of eye hidden by the 
 bluish lower lid. A pregnant and spacious silence 
 floated on every side. Barbara drew a long breath, 
 and sinking on her knees stretched out her young, vig 
 orous arms, as though yearning over the sorrowful 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 219 
 
 world which lay spread out beneath her. In those 
 throbbing moments she realized why Christ had with 
 drawn upon mountains to pray. The noble outlines 
 of the dumb, majestic peaks about her were themselves 
 like petrified prayers. Here upon this great crest a 
 purer air came winnowing in, a holier light seemed to 
 diffuse itself from the near heavens. Here there was 
 only the soothing acquiescence of nature, the boun 
 teous and unobtrusive peace which hallows the dwell 
 ings of humble creatures, whose lives are passed in 
 such loneliness, and who are content to know the dis 
 tant valley only as a great chess-board with squares 
 of amethyst and carnelian glimmering mysteriously 
 through a lawny haze. She seemed to have left her 
 anger, her rebellion, her despairing grief all there 
 under the roof of Eosemary, which she saw with its 
 clustering out-houses glittering like a handful of pearl- 
 colored pebbles among its smoke-like trees, far below 
 her. Her heart contracted, as she thought of returning 
 to it. Unfastening her heavy hair, she plunged her 
 fingers into its masses and let the wind streak coolly 
 through it. There was only the golden robin, the 
 sheer air, the rustling broom-field, her dog, to witness 
 this unconventionality. She laughed to feel the strong 
 gusts combing out her loose locks behind her like a 
 gleaming pennon. She felt enveloped by a sweet 
 friendliness of things animate and inanimate, and as 
 though she had grown backward, reaching again her 
 blithe girlhood. Even Valentine was like some quiet 
 hero, of whom she had read in a jewelled book of 
 fairy-land, Dering and her child part of an uneasy 
 dream. She was sixteen, as she lay there among the 
 feathery stalks of broom, her hands clasped beneath 
 her head, her hair blowing loose about her. It seemed 
 
220 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 to her that she was on the prow of a great ship which 
 was plunging onward through billows of golden 
 air. 
 
 Then presently she got to her feet, twisted up her 
 hair, and, calling to Eobin, began to climb again, for 
 the summit of the mountain was not yet reached. 
 The path now broadened into a road which, skirting 
 the edge of a thick wood, brought her finally to 
 another fence. Beyond this lay a cornfield, from 
 which the meadows below looked of a soft gray rose 
 color. Still farther hung a curtain of bluish mist, and 
 against this mellow background the stripped corn 
 stalks lifted their tufts of faded orange leaves. The 
 furrows were still striped with snow. Through this 
 meadow Barbara and Robin went running until they 
 came to a sharp declivity, down which the road 
 plunged boldly, to rise again on a hill-side, steeper than 
 any yet, its top outlined by another fence and the gray 
 puffs of leafless apple-boughs. When they had climbed 
 this, however, Barbara, leaning breathless against the 
 lichened rails, looked down into an unfamiliar valley, 
 and saw, like a wall of lapis-lazuli austerely carved 
 against the soft pale air, the vague and spiritual beauty 
 of the Blue Eidge. 
 
 A man was ploughing on the hill-crest opposite. 
 The horses moved in patient silhouettes, urged on by 
 his wailing cries. Something glistened on the fence 
 not far from her. She looked at it more closely, and 
 saw that it was a^ead black-snake trailed limply over 
 the top rail. Some negro had put it there as a sure 
 charm for the long-needed rain. Barbara smiled sadly 
 and shook her head, as she thought of poor monkeys 
 crucified by the Hill tribes of India for the same pur 
 pose as that which had prompted this Yirginian 
 
BARBARA D BRING. 221 
 
 darky to kill a snake and hang it on the fence which 
 bore its name. 
 
 But now the sky began to pulse with a faint rose 
 hue, the call of nestward birds trembled overhead, 
 there was that faint, unmistakable stirring through 
 wood and field which is nature s preparation for the 
 calm of night. Barbara wished to see the sun set 
 from the broom-grown hill which overlooked her own 
 well-loved valley. Something in the unfamiliarity of 
 this vast beauty made her sorrowful. She turned and 
 trudged quickly over the slippery snow-clogged roads, 
 until she was once more in the field of broom, with 
 only the great, undulating plains between her and the 
 open sea. She called Eobin, and with her arm about 
 him waited for that puissant change which makes the 
 magic of the sky. Above spread a lustrous sheet of 
 beryl-colored air, seen through a filigree of clouds, 
 gray, diaphanous, tinged at their edges with a warm 
 gold. Underneath, a deep-blue mystery of vapor was 
 piled from east to west, as though in imitation of the 
 mountains from which she had just turned away. In 
 this a beamy opening sent forth suddenly shafts of 
 light and revealed what seemed to be an endless waste 
 of molten brass, its tunnelled waves breaking in fiery 
 spume even above the edge of the sombre wall. 
 
 The space of tremulous pale green above died into a 
 dim saffron. Little by little the molten brass changed 
 into lead. The glowing door was shut. Upon the 
 level sadness of the far east the full moon balanced 
 like a plaque of silver. A star gleamed here and there 
 with vacillations of green, of red, of orange. Now a 
 white steam rolled upward with the calm moon on its 
 breast. Again came the sensation of being on the 
 prow of a great ship. The ship was the world. It 
 
 19* 
 
222 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 seemed sailing steadfastly through those volumes of 
 cool mist. The darkness began to gather with its un 
 dulations of gloom, of unfamiliar sound, of penetrating 
 odors. The eerie trilling of an owl fell through the 
 thickening air, and once more the baying of the hounds 
 came faintly from the valley. Suddenly the terror of 
 vast and spacious darkness clutched at Barbara s heart. 
 She started to her feet and gazed about her. The 
 trees no longer seemed friendly, but their dark tracery 
 against the sky was a wizard-writing full of evil. 
 Those surges of wan vapor seemed in her wild thought 
 like a condensation of ghosts, and the owl s cry shiv 
 ered along her overstrained nerves in a sinister warn 
 ing. Holding Eobin convulsively by the collar, sho 
 started down the steep path. 
 
 "Ah, my God!" she said aloud, after a while, pant 
 ing for breath, " I am so lonely ! I have tried so 
 hard ! He will be harsh and stern to me, when I come 
 in. I have only my child. Show me my duty to her. 
 I cannot leave her, even if it makes him angry with 
 me forever. Let me teach her to be a wiser, calmer, 
 happier woman than I have ever been." 
 
 The moon bloomed suddenly into full splendor, and 
 the fine tracery of the cedar tassels was thrown upon 
 the snow. That convulsive spasm of dread released 
 her, and a strong sense of the beneficence of nature 
 distilled itself again through her whole being. She 
 walked rapidly, but calmly, trying not to think, but to 
 absorb strength for the coming struggle. Once she 
 stopped. It was to lift the rough wooden door of a 
 hare-trap and let scamper the frightened creature 
 within, but she left in its place one of those loose coins 
 which she always carried with her on all her rambles. 
 Somehow the thought of the hare which she had 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 223 
 
 restored to liberty cheered all her mood. She had 
 learned to regard freedom as so infinite a compensa 
 tion for most ills, that, to her, even the bondage of a 
 hare seemed not without consequence in the general 
 scheme of existence. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 DURING the next two or three days Fair seemed to 
 be so much better that Barbara was very puzzled as 
 to what course to take in regard to the matter of going 
 West with the Lelands. She felt that Bering would 
 have a right to be angry with her, if, from a vague 
 anxiety, she allowed him to set off alone when Eunice 
 would so gladly take charge of Fair. 
 
 The next night, while lying awake, in the vain 
 endeavor to decide upon what to do, a sudden thought 
 took possession of her, and, jumping out of bed, she 
 threw on her dressing-gown, lighted a candle, and 
 wrote the following letter to Bishop Cammersell : 
 
 "Mr DEAR BISHOP, You told me so often during 
 your visit to Eunice, last month, that you wished me 
 to come to you in any trouble, that I am writing to 
 you now for counsel. Indeed, dear bishop, I am so 
 bewildered and unhappy that I cannot see clearly and 
 am utterly confused about my real duty. My little 
 girl has been seriously ill with diphtheritic sore-throat, 
 and the doctor tells me that she is liable to other 
 attacks all during the winter. 
 
 " Now, my husband is very anxious for me to go 
 West with him on a pleasure-party arranged by some 
 
224 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 friends, and, of course, I wish to do this if possible, 
 especially as several things have occurred which may 
 make it a serious question, and involve much unhappi- 
 ness for us both, in the future, if I am forced to refuse 
 him. But I cannot bear to leave Fairfax, even in the 
 charge of Eunice, because I feel that if anything 
 should happen to her I could never get over it. Be 
 sides, I suppose that a mother always feels that she 
 can do for her child what no one else in the world can. 
 If, however, you tell me that this is merely a mother s 
 over-anxiousness, and that the sensible and right thing 
 is to go with my husband, I will do as you say. I 
 feel that I am incapable of judging impartially in this 
 matter and that Eunice, being herself a very nervous 
 mother, could not help me. It is for this that I turn 
 to you, dear bishop, for you have had children your 
 self, and must often have felt as harassed as I feel now. 
 I wish only to be shown my duty. When I see it I 
 will do it, no matter what it costs me. Thanking you 
 beforehand, dear bishop, for what I know will be your 
 wise and helpful answer, 
 
 " I remain always, 
 
 " Yours most sincerely, 
 
 " BARBARA DERING." 
 
 For seven days Barbara examined eagerly each post 
 that came to Rosemary in search of Bishop Cammer- 
 sell s reply, but in vain. On the eighth morning she 
 rode Wilful over to The Poplars and asked Eunice 
 what she thought of his silence. They decided that he 
 could not have received the letter, and Barbara was 
 forced to rely on her own judgment. As Fair was 
 again feverish on Monday, she told Bering finally that 
 she could not go, and on Tuesday he knocked at her 
 
BARBARA BERING. 225 
 
 bedroom door and gave her a cool touch on her cheek 
 for good-by. She ran after him. 
 
 " Oh, Jock ! don t let us part like this ! We can 
 never tell what may happen ! Won t you say you un 
 derstand how I feel, that you know I would go with 
 you if I could ?" 
 
 " I don t perceive any shackles about you, now that I 
 examine you attentively," said Bering. " You aren t 
 rooted to the ground, as they say in books, are you?" 
 He laughed and lighted a cigar. Still the woman in 
 Barbara whispered foreboding and she clung to his 
 arm. 
 
 "Oh, won t you give me a loving kiss, dear?" she 
 pleaded, her eyes wet. " Dear, you must know how I 
 love you. If anything happened to me, you would 
 suffer so." 
 
 " Her majesty myself to the last, eh ?" he said. 
 
 Stung to the quick she loosed his arm, and Dering, 
 blowing her a mocking kiss from his finger-tips, ran 
 down-stairs. 
 
 As days went by and still nothing was heard from 
 Bishop Cammersell, Eunice, who happened to be in 
 Ashleigh, called on the bishop. He was just going 
 out, but took off his hat and cloak and carried her 
 back to his study, where a fire of sea-coal shimmered 
 in an open grate. One of his nine daughters, a slim, 
 fashionably-dressed young woman, with a great deal 
 of flaxen hair and her father s silky blue eyes, came in 
 and brought Eunice a cup of tea, then, with a few 
 pretty words of excuse, left them alone. 
 
 " Bishop," said Eunice, with her usual quiet frank 
 ness, going at once to the point, " I want to ask you 
 about a letter that Barbara Dering wrote you two 
 weeks ago. It was a very important letter, and she 
 P 
 
226 BARBARA BERING. 
 
 looked for your answer with a great deal of anxiety. 
 Did you ever receive it ?" 
 
 The bishop stroked his mildly-retreating chin, and 
 giving his gentle smile, answered, in an explanatory 
 tone, 
 
 " Well, you see, my dear child, it is a very delicate 
 and even a dangerous matter to answer such letters. 
 I do not believe in interfering between husband and 
 wife, my child. They have accepted each other for 
 better for worse. Such questions are always very 
 painful and embarrassing." 
 
 Eunice sat looking at him calmly with her steadfast 
 eyes, but her color deepened. " Then you did receive 
 the letter?" was all that she said, when the bishop 
 stopped speaking. He looked confused and rather un 
 comfortable, but again smiled benevolently. 
 
 " Yes, my dear, I did receive your friend s letter, but 
 I did not think it wise to answer it. A wife should 
 decide such questions for herself. Mr. Bering would 
 have every right to be angry with me if I had meddled 
 in his private affairs." 
 
 Eunice was silent, smoothing and buttoning her 
 little gray suede glove. The bishop continued with re 
 stored suavity, being accustomed to take silence for 
 consent, 
 
 " You see, my dear child, it is on these impulsive and 
 excitable natures that the discipline of marriage has 
 the most beneficial influence. Your friend will be a 
 much better, wiser, more resigned and Christian woman 
 for being left to settle such questions for herself, with 
 the aid of earnest prayer ; and pardon me for wounding 
 you, my dear child, but I have been intending to speak 
 to you on this subject ever since my visit to you in the 
 early autumn. I am sure, from careful observation, 
 
BARBARA DERING. 227 
 
 my dear, that you indulge and subordinate yourself too 
 much to your friend. True, she is very winning and 
 delightful, but strangely erring and misguided in many 
 ways. Besides, you have your own gifts to cultivate. 
 Many people have told me of your very lovely voice. 
 We should not neglect the talents that a Gracious 
 Father has seen fit to bestow upon us, my dear. How 
 sweet it would be if you could train and lead a fine 
 choir in that pretty Gothic church which every one ad 
 mires ! The music which they now have is painful 
 even to my uncultivated ears. Why not consecrate 
 your beautiful voice to its loving Creator and rejoice 
 the hearts of the congregation ? Let your friend rely 
 more upon her own strength, your duty is to your 
 self, your husband, your children, and your own gifts. 
 Do not spend so much of your precious time with her. 
 Remember that we must each work out our salvation 
 with fear and trembling." He paused, his placid lips 
 wreathed by his most engaging smile, his tremulous 
 blue eyes fixed yearningly upon her. But Eunice, her 
 face pale and chill, rose to her feet and stood looking 
 at him, without making any movement to meet his out 
 stretched hands. Then she said, slowly, deliberately, 
 
 " Bishop, I have only one question to ask you. Do 
 you think that if our Lord had been upon earth, and 
 received such a letter as Barbara wrote you, he would 
 have left it unanswered ?" 
 
 The bishop s rosy cheeks grew rosier, and he 
 smoothed his chin after his manner when slightly puz 
 zled or embarrassed. 
 
 " Er such a letter would scarcely be addressed to 
 our Lord, my dear," he replied, finally. 
 
 "Such prayers are often addressed to Him," said 
 Eunice, coldly. " And we are taught that no prayer 
 
228 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 remains unanswered, whether as we would have it or 
 otherwise. No matter if your answer had been harsh 
 and uncomprehending, it would have been better than 
 none. You are a Father of our Church, bishop. Do 
 you think in your inmost heart that you have treated 
 Barbara Dering as a father would treat a cherished 
 daughter? as Christ would have treated her? The 
 reasons that you have given me would be cold-hearted 
 in a layman, how much more in a high-priest of God ! 
 I must bid you good-by, bishop. I dare not say to 
 you what is in my heart." With a quick movement 
 she left the room, and a few moments later found her 
 self walking rapidly down the broad village street, 
 without knowing in what direction. Eunice s nature 
 was naturally orthodox and easily guided, but the dia 
 logue in which she had just taken part caused in her a 
 strong reaction. She recalled the words which speak 
 of there being One only Mediator between God and 
 man, the man Christ Jesus, and regretted, in her sudden 
 revulsion of ideas, that it was considered necessary to 
 approach Him through the medium of bishops, priests, 
 and deacons. How much sweeter it was to speak to 
 Him directly, looking up into the deep blue of the sky ! 
 How much more solemn sounded the still, small voice 
 now whispering in her heart than the unctuous tones 
 of Bishop Cammersell ! How much easier it was to ap 
 proach Him in spirit, than bodily through the conven 
 tional means of weekly church-going ! She walked on 
 faster and faster, until at last arrested by the bright 
 face of a little girl, who was leaning against a gate 
 arranging her school-books more satisfactorily under 
 her arm. 
 
 " Who lives here, dear ?" asked Eunice, more for want 
 of something to say than from any real desire to know. 
 
BARBARA DERINO. 229 
 
 "Oh, don t you know?" exclaimed the child, start 
 ing away from the gate and looking frightened. "I 
 thought ev ybody in Ashleigh knew that! It s the 
 black-eyed minister s house !" 
 
 This mysterious announcement only made Eunice 
 laugh gently. The child looked up at her, also 
 smiling. 
 
 " And who is the black-eyed minister ?" 
 
 " Oh, he s a good man, they say, but dreadful cross 
 an hard. He thinks God s always mad with ev ybody. 
 An his church is so bare an cold all the old ladies get 
 rheumatism, but they go, cause when folks do love the 
 black-eyed minister they love him real hard. But 
 mother n me we love Bishop Cammersell I He s jes 
 like the Lord Jesus in the picture, an his smile is jes 
 lovely ! An when he says, l Suffer the little children 
 to come unto me, after Sunday-school, all the gyrls 
 cry. An one day he said that about a cup of cold 
 water in the name of the Lord when I took him a 
 gourdful from our spring, an I couldn t help cryin 
 myself. Ev ybody s jes wild bout him. An oh, he s 
 got such beautiful white curls, an his daughters do 
 dress so stylish ! Mother says they get their clothes 
 from New York. An he s always preachin bout 
 heaven ; but the black-eyed minister he preaches most 
 bout hell." She stopped, out of breath, her chubby 
 face glowing, the red tape which fastened her slate- 
 pencil to her slate wrapped so tightly about her fore 
 finger that the flesh between its cross-work was of a 
 yellow-white. 
 
 A sudden idea took possession of Eunice. Kissing 
 her informant, much to that small creature s surprise, 
 she opened the gate and went up the narrow brick 
 walk to the black-eyed minister s house. 
 
 20 
 
230 BARBARA BERING. 
 
 It was a large stuccoed building with a square porch 
 supported on four brick piles. Over one end of this 
 porch a bare honeysuckle-vine swayed about in the 
 winter air. Two green tubs, on either side of the 
 wooden steps, held stunted cactus plants. She could 
 see behind the shining window-panes dark-red curtains 
 parted as primly as the hair in an old-fashioned por 
 trait. There was no door-bell or knocker, so opening 
 the green Venetian blinds which protected the front 
 door, she rapped against its panels with the handle of 
 her umbrella. A round-faced colored girl in a checked 
 blue cotton gown and a big white cap answered the 
 knock, and said her master was at home. 
 
 Eunice sat down on a horse-hair sofa in the sitting- 
 room and looked about her. The whitewashed walls 
 bore the marks of the brush, and there were family 
 photographs in oval, mahogany frames hung at regu 
 lar distances over the mantel-piece. Three chairs, also 
 covered with black horse-hair, were ranged against the 
 walls. There was a marble-topped table, on which 
 rested a handsome old edition of " Pilgrim s Progress," 
 a large Bible bound in calf, and a calendar set in ebony. 
 A rectangular bronze clock ticked hoarsely in the 
 centre of the mantel-shelf, and on either side of it 
 was a tall bronze candlestick from which rose a tallow 
 candle. 
 
 The room was very cold and Eunice did not unfasten 
 her jacket, but sat with her hands in her muff, trying 
 to imagine the black-eyed minister s outward appear 
 ance by studying the photographs in the mahogany 
 frames. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened, and an immense man ap 
 peared on the threshold, fixing on her his sunken, but 
 piercing eyes. On his gaunt frame hung a suit of 
 
BARBARA DERING. 231 
 
 rusty black, his dark hair, short and straggling, showed 
 a gray thread here and there. His clean-shaven face 
 was crossed by haggard lines. His lips were but a 
 firm line above his massive chin. The contrast of his 
 appearance to that of Bishop Cammersell was as 
 striking as though a pennon of black crape were to be 
 set floating from an iron stanchion against a rosy apple- 
 tree. He coughed before speaking, and then said, 
 
 " My servant did not mention your name, madam." 
 
 " I am Eunice Bransby, Mrs. Godfrey Bransby," said 
 Eunice, a little nervously. " I do not even know your 
 name, sir. I have a friend who is in great need of 
 advice, and I was told that a minister lived here. I 
 hope that you won t think I took a liberty." 
 
 He made no direct answer to this appeal, but said, in 
 his bell-like voice, 
 
 "My name is George Macfarlane, and I am an 
 Episcopal minister. Tell me to what denomination 
 you belong, madam." 
 
 " I am an Episcopalian," replied Eunice, shyly, be 
 ginning to understand why people preferred dapper 
 Bishop Cammersell to this iron-visaged priest. His 
 face relaxed somewhat, and he said, 
 
 " Come to my study. We can speak more privately 
 there, and I will have a fire lighted." 
 
 Eunice followed him over the worn oilcloth of the 
 narrow hall, and opening a door to the left he showed 
 her into his study, then called the negro girl, who 
 lighted two or three shavings of pine-wood under a 
 lump of coal and left them to their fate, without the 
 aid of a blower. 
 
 The contrast between the bishop s study and that of 
 Mr. Macfarlane was as complete as that of their per 
 sonalities. The former room, thickly curtained and 
 
232 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 carpeted, had walls hung in embossed leather, a luxuri 
 ous carved writing-table, lounging-chairs deeply cush 
 ioned, sofas, footstools, bookcases lined with every 
 volume that could edify or instruct an Episcopal prel 
 ate s mind. Here there were several stiff-backed 
 wooden seats, an uncushioned arm-chair covered with 
 carpeting, dark-green shades on rollers, an old oak 
 table, and a pine bookcase not more than half filled 
 with volumes, whose dingy covers showed that they 
 had been long in their owner s possessions. Over the 
 mantel-piece hung a map of the Holy Land, and rest 
 ing against the wall, just beneath it 7 was a crayon 
 drawing of an old lady, who looked like Mr. Macfar- 
 lane, in a widow s dress and cap. 
 
 Eunice could not help smiling, as she glanced up at 
 it, but, seeing that he regarded her gravely, reassumed 
 a serious expression. 
 
 " Now, madam," he said, placing one of the wooden 
 chairs for her and taking another himself. " If you 
 will tell me your friend s trouble I will try to advise 
 her ; but first I should like to know why she did not 
 come herself. Is she ill ?" 
 
 " She does not know that I intended seeing any one 
 for her to-day," answered Eunice ; " but she wrote 
 to to another minister, who never answered her 
 letter." 
 
 " Bid he receive it ?" said Mr. Macfarlane. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And was it a letter asking for advice ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "A respectful letter?" 
 
 "It was a noble, simple, touching letter, sir," said 
 Eunice, earnestly. " I read it before my friend posted 
 it. In it she asked as humbly aa a child to be shown 
 
BARBARA BERING. 233 
 
 her duty. She said that when she knew what it was 
 she would do it, no matter at what cost to herself." 
 "And you are sure that it was received?" 
 " Perfectly sure. I went myself to see the person 
 to whom it was written, and the only reasons he gave 
 for not answering it were that it was a very delicate 
 and dangerous matter to interfere between husband 
 and wife, and that, had he done so, my friend s hus 
 band would had just cause to be angry with him. He 
 also said that wives ought to know how to decide such 
 questions for themselves." 
 
 Mr. Macfarlane s face grew sterner and sterner, but 
 when she finished speaking, all that he said was, 
 " And now tell me the cause of your friend s trouble." 
 Eunice told him in as few words as possible, and 
 when she finished he looked at her with eyes softened 
 by a great kindliness. 
 
 "You may tell your friend for me," he then said, 
 " that I am glad in these days of careless motherhood 
 to hear of a young woman who, in spite of such pain 
 ful obstacles, sees her duty so clearly and performs it 
 so bravely. It would indeed be better for a mother 
 to have a millstone hanged about her neck and to be 
 drowned in the depths of the sea than to offend a 
 little one whom God has given into her keeping, body 
 and soul. If your friend is in further perplexity of 
 any sort, I hope that she will come to me. At least I 
 will give her my honest counsel, without thinking of 
 the unpleasant consequences which it may bring upon 
 myself. As for you, madam, your love for your friend 
 is very beautiful, and the feeling which exists between 
 you is a holy and blessed thing which you cannot prize 
 too highly or thank God for too earnestly. I hope 
 that this chance meeting may grow in a fuller acquaint- 
 
 20* 
 
234 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 ance, madam, and I assure you again of my hearty 
 approval of your friend s conduct." 
 
 Eunice thanked him again and again, and when they 
 parted at the door he took her hands in his and said, 
 with deep gentleness, 
 
 "I may have seemed cold to you, my child. My 
 manner has always been a source of regret to me ; but 
 you have my blessing. I thank God that I have been 
 of service to you." 
 
 Eunice looked up into the dark eyes with a sensation 
 of tears behind her own. As she went down the rickety 
 wooden steps she had lost all sense of his hardness, and 
 could readily believe that "when folks did love the 
 black-eyed minister they loved him real hard." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 THREE weeks passed before Barbara got a letter from 
 Bering, although she had written to him very regularly. 
 His words were saltless, largely scrawled, and touched 
 only on practical matters. Barbara refolded the cold, 
 thick sheets and put them back into their envelope 
 with a dry sensation at heart and eyes. She had not 
 yet reached what Carlyle calls " the centre of indiffer 
 ence," although she was beginning to feel that its arid 
 calm, as of the central point in a cyclone, might be a 
 safe retreat from the turbulences of her present life. 
 
 After a few moments spent quietly at one of the 
 open windows, she ordered Wilful and started upon a 
 long ride. 
 
 It was now the middle of April, the air mild as a 
 fairy s breath, the pear trees one flutter of white bios- 
 
BARBARA BERING. 235 
 
 som, the peach-trees frailly rosy, the young leaf-buds 
 on the maples and poplars making a dim green dust 
 between her and the distant horizon. Yellow crocus- 
 tips were just breaking the black garden-mould here 
 and there, and violets crowded damp and pungent under 
 their matted leaves. On the greening hill-sides the 
 sheep moved lazily, their dull-pink wool, tinted by the 
 red soil, melting into the general harmony about them. 
 The incessant bleating of the lambs was punctuated by 
 the sharp " tink-tink" which came from the bell 
 wether s neck. A hundred different bird-notes thrilled 
 the fluctuant air. The singers whirred their gay wings 
 close to Barbara s cheek, swung head down as though 
 tipsy with sunshine among the honeyed white of the 
 pear-trees, alighted in Wilful s haughty way and were 
 off again before he could send a purring breath of in 
 quiry through his dilated nostrils. Butterflies clear as 
 amber and smoother than satin tilted past on the placid 
 breeze. The spongy soil gave forth a delightful per 
 fume, as of the quintessence of spring. The noise of 
 distant brooks came tremulously to the ear. Under 
 foot was a dark tangle of periwinkle in which, here 
 and there, a pale blue flower-star glimmered or a toad 
 stool perked its fat, white stem, on which sat the 
 round umbrella-like top, as daintily browned as a well- 
 made meringue. In this part cf the lawn white pines 
 grew thickly, and the earth was dank and rich. Wild 
 vines covered the tree-stems and rioted along the 
 ground, in friendly interlacings with the glistening peri 
 winkle trails. Wild strawberries were here in bloom, 
 and here in the scraggy branches of lopped cedars 
 which had died from age, one could see the soft round 
 of nests and the glint of faintly-colored eggs. 
 
 When Wilful had jumped the octagon, moss-crusted 
 
236 BARBARA DERINQ. 
 
 rails of the old fence which girdled the grounds, they 
 broke at once, from the twilight of thick evergreens, 
 into the full splendor of the day. There was a wash 
 of lucent gold from east to west. A veil of transparent 
 yet throbbing glory seemed lowered between Barbara s 
 eyes and the wide valley about her. Beyond was the 
 pale-green shimmer of young oats, undulations of deep- 
 red soil breaking the tender monotony, tufty woods, 
 their shadows softened by a vapory azure, thin crests 
 of tall stone-pines glowing dark and bright as splendid 
 emeralds. The red-bud trees made globes of dusky 
 color far away, symmetrical and fragile-looking as 
 though they had been dandelion-balls dyed crimson. 
 The sky was a hood of harebell-tinted silk trimmed 
 lace-like with pale clouds. 
 
 Barbara rode on and on, breathing deep of the gen 
 erous air, and feeling with a healthful pleasure the 
 elastic movements of her horse. She was in perfect 
 accord with the fertile beauty of the day and season, 
 and her own glowing loveliness struck no note of 
 contrast, but was rather an accentuation of the vivid 
 wonders about her. She came finally to a branching 
 road which ran southward through a belt of timber 
 towards what was called "the flat woods." And 
 while she hesitated, Wilful, as though deciding for her, 
 wheeled suddenly and began to gallop along this level 
 way. At first she frowned and tried to turn him, but, 
 with a sudden change of mood, urged him on ; and 
 so they galloped, for a long while, through the spring 
 forest, which was softly green overhead and fragrant 
 with the breath of wild azaleas. At length the railway 
 was crossed, and they were well on their way to the 
 different country which lay beyond the flat woods. 
 Between Barbara s brows was the little crease which, 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 237 
 
 with her, always meant determination. After they 
 had gone about eight miles she drew up, beside a 
 broad willow-edged stream and let Wilful pick his way 
 carefully down the bank and thrust his muzzle deep 
 into the lazy water. As he drank, a little flotilla of 
 white geese sailed gently up across the silver reflec 
 tions of the willows, out-dazzling the radiant clouds 
 above. Their deep-orange bills seemed almost like 
 flames darting from their sleek heads, and on this fiery 
 yellow the small nostrils looked like specks of jet. A 
 bird shook the willow-branch near her with its swift 
 alighting and began its cheery call. As a child, Bar 
 bara had fancied that it said, " We greet you ! We 
 greet you! We greet you! Now! Now! Now! 
 Now !" 
 
 She looked up in time to see its glistening breast and 
 delicate claws before it flew oif glittering like a bit of 
 spun glass in the fresh glare, then Wilful, having sighed 
 deeply, in token that he was content and ready to start, 
 they went on along the now level roads. 
 
 A half-hour more of trotting and cantering, varied 
 by a steady walk now and then, brought them to a 
 huge old gate of wrought-iron, swung between granite 
 posts, on the balls of which clung falcons with their 
 wings spread. A tumble-down stone wall, held from 
 utter dilapidation in many places by the strong bands 
 of the Virginia-creeper, ran from this gate to right 
 and left until hidden by hedges of mock-orange. Bar 
 bara opened the heavy gate with her riding-crop as 
 though accustomed to its eccentricities, for she was 
 careful to hold the handle of her whip against it until 
 Wilful was well through, when it clanged to again, as 
 though with a spring. 
 
 The road was no longer red, but of a gray-white, 
 
238 BARBARA BERING. 
 
 and wound along between gently-curving fields, downy 
 with young grass and sometimes dignified by ah im 
 mense oak, on whose gnarled branches the tender 
 leaves had an inappropriate and frivolous look, some 
 times varied by the tall streak of a Lombardy poplar 
 like a Titanic exclamation point against the blond sky. 
 A long avenue of Norway spruces made a dark tunnel 
 through the brilliant wall of the day, and under these 
 Barbara guided Wilful. These trees were very old and 
 grew in fantastic shapes. One was like a vast lyre, 
 another was twisted into a huge S, another resembled 
 the zigzag of the conventional thunderbolts grasped 
 by Zeus in a child s mythology. Their young cones, 
 oozing with sap, hung brightly green among the 
 sombre tassels. Wilful s hoofs struck noiselessly upon 
 the matting of brown tags, or crunched upon the dry 
 resin-tipped cones of last year s growth. A warm, 
 thrilling odor enfolded her, and, through the openings 
 in the dark boughs, little slits of sunlit grass beyond, 
 shone with a jewelled brightness. 
 
 At the end of this avenue there was a gate, which 
 opened upon a field of wheat, and in the centre of this 
 field a white oblong gleamed through a railing of 
 iron. 
 
 When Barbara reached the gate she slipped down, 
 tied Wilful to one of its posts, and, passing through, 
 closed it as gently as though she were entering the 
 room of a sleeping child. With her habit gathered 
 under one arm and her eyes bent gravely on the 
 narrow path, she walked on towards the white stone. 
 A young larch-tree grew near the iron railing, and as 
 she reached it she saw that some one was standing on 
 the other side, for a white gown showed through the 
 fringe of foliage. This figure was slight and small, 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 239 
 
 and leaned with one cheek against the hand which 
 grasped the rusty iron above its head. The other 
 hand held a basket of white and blue violets. Be 
 yond was a foam of young pear-trees, the grass of 
 the enclosure was freaked with their blown petals. 
 
 "Kitty?" said Barbara, whispering, and with a cer 
 tain questioning inflection as though doubtful of her 
 welcome. 
 
 The girl turned with a violent start, her face pale, 
 her eyes wide. They looked at each other a moment 
 in silence. Then Barbara made an impetuous move 
 ment and caught the other to her breast, kissing her, 
 at the same time, on the cheeks, hair, and forehead. 
 
 " Forgive me, Kitty," she said, at last. " You used 
 to love me." 
 
 " I have never stopped loving you," murmured the 
 girl, faintly. She was trembling, and her basket of 
 violets lay overturned at her feet. "But why 
 why " She broke off and stood devouring Bar 
 bara s face with her large eyes, which, although of 
 a soft blue, were strangely like Bering s. 
 
 " Why have you come here ?" she went on, abruptly. 
 <; Are you happy ?" 
 
 " No, dear," said Barbara, quietly. " But I thought 
 you were in Normandy still at school, Kitty. I 
 thought no one was here but the old servants." 
 
 " No. I came last week. Aunt Miriam is with me." 
 Then she added, timidly, " I will go away, Barbara, 
 and and come back afterwards, if you wish." 
 
 " Thank you, dear Kitty," answered Barbara, in the 
 same still voice. " That will be very sweet of you." 
 
 " And the violets, I should love you to have them," 
 suggested Kitty, shyly. But Barbara shook her 
 head, 
 
240 BARBARA D BRING. 
 
 " No, dear, that is your own offering. Those lovely 
 pear-blossoms are all that I could wish. But thank 
 you, darling, thank you, darling Kitty." 
 
 The girl threw herself upon Barbara s breast with a 
 sudden movement. 
 
 " Oh, Barbara," she cried, " you love him best I 
 You love him best ! I have known it always. I was 
 only a little thing, but I knew you couldn t love 
 another time as you loved him. Tell me it s true, 
 Barbara ! Tell me ! tell me 1" 
 
 " It s true, sweetheart," said Barbara, her lips white. 
 
 "Oh, thank God!" cried the girl "Thank God! 
 But how sad! I am very cruel. You must be so 
 miserable, Barbara." 
 
 "Not always," answered Barbara, gently. "There 
 are different ways of loving, dear child." 
 
 "And you love this one a different way?" asked 
 Kitty, a tinge of jealousy sharpening her voice. 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " You do love him, then ! Is he good to you ?" 
 
 " He loves me as he has never loved any one else." 
 
 " As you loved Yal?" 
 
 " No ; men don t love like that." 
 
 " Yal loved you like that. More than that !" cried 
 the girl, with sudden fierceness. "He would never 
 have married again. I ve heard him say so." 
 
 Barbara was silent, her lips still pale. 
 
 " Oh, forgive me !" cried Kitty, with a gush of tears. 
 " I have never judged you, Barbara. I I know how 
 much he was like Yal. I shall always love you. I 
 shall never say anything to hurt you again." 
 
 Barbara tried to smile in sign of forgiveness, but 
 her parted lips only trembled, and two large tears ran 
 slowly from her lowered eyelids. Kitty kissed them 
 
BARBARA BERING. 241 
 
 away, with passionate murmurs of self-reproach, and 
 whispered, 
 
 "I ll leave you now, darling. Stay as long as you 
 wish. I ll keep every one away." 
 
 Barbara nodded, and, after one more straining em 
 brace, Kitty turned and ran swiftly along the winding 
 path which led to the avenue of spruce-trees. 
 
 When she was out of sight Barbara gathered an 
 armful of the white pear-bloom, and entering the en 
 closure, went and kneeled beside the white stone. 
 She had taken off her riding-hat, and the April sun 
 shine lighted her hair. After a little while she bent 
 down and kissed the grass which covered Valentine s 
 grave. Then, turning, pressed her lips to the carved 
 letters of his name. She left them there so long that 
 the cold marble grew warm beneath her touch. With 
 one hand she smoothed the long grass as though it had 
 been the coverlet of her child. An irrepressible anguish 
 mingled with a solemn joy rose through her veins until 
 her submerged heart felt as though it must suffocate. 
 
 " My darling ! my darling ! my darling !" she said over 
 and over. " My own ! my very own ! My first love ! my 
 kind love ! my best love !" Her tears now fell so fast that 
 her cheeks were wet, as though bathed in rain. There 
 was no sobbing, only the continual gush, as though 
 from the very fountain of her soul. It seemed to her 
 that she knelt there, in that ecstasy of exquisite pain 
 and tenderness, for a long while. Then, as though re 
 membering a forgotten duty, she began to lay the pear- 
 blossoms very gently upon the mound beside which 
 she knelt, almost as though she feared to waken some 
 one. Afterwards she put her arm about the stone, and 
 leaning her cheek against it, was motionless again. She 
 felt no need of explaining anything, even to her own 
 L 21 
 
242 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 heart. She had made a sorrowful mistake, but it was 
 only sorrowful, not wilful, and she felt that her " kind 
 love" would understand, as he had always done. The 
 love that she gave him, so passionately ethereal in its 
 lastingness, immortalized him until he seemed to her 
 a very presence, as real as the sunlight about her, 
 although as intangible. She had needed the terrible 
 experience of her second marriage to learn the lesson 
 of real love, that love which is the result of perfect 
 companionship, of mutual reverence, of soul-accord as 
 fine and perfect as that of two instruments keyed to 
 the same pitch, which is as indescribable as perfume, as 
 ineffable as the music heard in dreams; to which passion 
 bears the relation of his sceptre to a king, its color to a 
 flame ; which is neither entirely tenderness nor entirely 
 fire, but that royal blending of the two which means 
 completeness ; a feeling in which nature becomes divine 
 and divinity natural ; which gives wings to the heart, 
 and hallows, by its supreme instinct, every subtlest 
 detail of human life. This love, unknowing, she had 
 given to Valentine, still gave it to him, chastened and 
 intensified by the anguish she had suffered since his 
 death. But she had also learned to put aside all long 
 ing for supreme happiness in her present life. To be 
 supremely strong for the happiness of others was now 
 her heart s desire. In spite of all the pessimism and 
 scepticism of the age, there was in her a wholesome 
 fervor of belief in the final working together of all 
 things for good, an unconquerable voice which spoke 
 lowly in the silence of her soul, and which said God 
 is in me and I in Him. She had determined to put 
 from her all regrets which might weaken her power 
 for good in the world about her. Her love for Valen 
 tine must pass from an unutterable sorrow to a mighty 
 
BARBARA DERING. 243 
 
 consolation, an upholding proof of the possibility of 
 idealness in human love. That she was capable of an 
 emotion so pure, so entirely apart from the material, 
 gave her a sense of worthiness at once refreshing and 
 soothing. She honored her nature, which was at the 
 same time so loyal, so courageous, and so wise, for she 
 knew that these quiet hours beside the grave of her 
 first love separated her life into two parts. For the 
 last time she yielded herself to these sorrowful, sweet 
 memories. For the last time she gave up her sou! to 
 him. When she turned from that quiet place it would 
 be to take up her life as it was and to bear it unflinch 
 ingly until the end. 
 
 She knew that in a different way, as she had said to 
 Kitty, she loved Dering, and as she sat there with her 
 cheek against the stone, she was filled with a profound 
 determination to make him happy, to help him to de 
 velop what was highest in his nature, to win him 
 utterly by her unfailing sympathy and patience. 
 
 The air was cooling. A level glimmer drowsed over 
 the green reaches about her. Once more she pressed 
 her lips to the cold marble, clasping it about with her 
 warm arms, as though it had been a living thing and 
 could respond to her passion of renunciation, of fare 
 well, of forgetfulness. Her thick hair, so easy to un 
 coil, fell down upon its austere whiteness, the hair 
 that he had loved! For the first time she sobbed 
 heart-brokenly. 
 
244 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 IT was not until the first week of May that Barbara 
 received from Dering any definite account of his plans. 
 She then learned, to her intense surprise, that he had 
 sailed for Japan with another friend whom he had 
 met in San Francisco, and that the Lelands had already 
 returned to Washington. 
 
 A sword-pang went through Barbara s heart. Was 
 she then to lose even the compensation of his love? 
 Must she bear her life without the mere comfort of 
 feeling that she bore it for one who loved her, no 
 matter how harshly? She was bewildered, and sat 
 looking at the letter in her hand and saying, " God 
 help me! God help me!" in a dulled voice. There 
 was no higher human power to whom she felt like 
 turning for advice. At the thought of Bishop Cam- 
 mersell her strong lip curled. Mr. McFarlane was a 
 high-minded but conventional parson, whose ideas of 
 marriage were probably comprised in St. Paul s pithy 
 saying, " Wives, submit yourselves unto your own hus 
 bands, as unto the Lord." Several hundred years divided 
 her from the people who lived about her, from their 
 creeds and customs. Still, she felt that she must make 
 every effort to keep her husband from drifting wilfully 
 or unconsciously into a life of hard isolation. She 
 went and knelt down by Fair, who was brandishing 
 her pretty legs and tugging at the toes of her gayly- 
 colored socks, making little clucking sounds of replete 
 pleasure the while. 
 
 "Poor baby! what have you got to suffer?" she 
 said, bitterly. 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 245 
 
 Fair gave a gurgling laugh for reply, and showed 
 her pink gums with a supreme lack of vanity. Her 
 great eyes, feathered with long lashes, glared brilliantly 
 up into Barbara s face. 
 
 " My eyebrows, my hair, my forehead, his eyes and 
 mouth," she murmured on. " What is in store for 
 you? Will you suffer most or make others suffer? 
 As you re a woman-child, poor mite, I suppose it is you 
 who ll have the sharpest pangs." 
 
 " A-glee ! A-glee ! A-glee !" was Fair s response, blot 
 ting out her mother s nose and mouth with a down-soft 
 palm. Barbara kissed it as it clutched at her lips, then 
 taking it in her own, played with the fingers, so like 
 pale honeysuckle-buds. 
 
 " Oh, you pretty one !" she went on, presently, tears 
 in her wistful eyes. " Perhaps by another cradle, at 
 this very minute, another mother, as unhappy as I am, 
 is wondering over the future of the atom who is to 
 darken all your life. Poor babykin ! Poor, pretty 
 babykin ! I feel half guilty when I look at you. But 
 oh ! if I have learned any wisdom through my own 
 pain, I will try to save you from such tortures, if you 
 will be saved !" She smiled sadly, sceptically, leaning 
 her head against the railing of the white crib. Fair 
 plunged her released fingers into the heavy coils of 
 hair and jerked them with fierce delight. 
 
 " Oh, you cruel little thing !" cried Barbara, starting 
 up, tears of pain succeeding the tears of tenderness. 
 " Are you beginning to hurt me already ?" 
 
 " A-glee ! A-glee !" bubbled Fair, imperturbably, once 
 more attacking the loose toes of her socks, and taking 
 no further notice of her mother. 
 
 Barbara went over to the window and stood looking 
 out at the lawn, which was dusted with buttercups. 
 
 21* 
 
246 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 11 How idiotic of me to be hurt by that little crea 
 ture ! And yet I am hurt. I must be more stoical, I 
 will be. I cannot live in this way. Now, I will be 
 practical and go for a long ride. Eamie dear, order 
 Wilful ; and, if you would like to, you shall go with 
 me. You can ride the brown mare." 
 
 Rameses, who was a fervent horsewoman, was in an 
 ecstasy of delight. When they started off, she galloped 
 behind her mistress until Barbara turned, with a smile, 
 and beckoned her to her side. 
 
 " Now, Ramie dear," she said, " I m a girl again, and 
 so are you, and we are going to talk like sisters. Isn t 
 it a perfect day? Look at those clouds over there with 
 that curious round hole in them. The sunlight streams 
 through like the spokes of a wheel, doesn t it ? Why, 
 how strange ! how lovely I There s a little rainbow on 
 one side. Look !" 
 
 " Dat s what de colored folks calls a sun-dawg," an 
 swered Barneses. 
 
 " And what does it mean ?" said Barbara. 
 
 " Hit means bad weather." 
 
 " I never saw it before, did you ?" 
 
 " Oh, yease m ; an hit always mean bad weather, 
 dat sun-dawg mean bad weather, he so beeg." 
 
 11 Well, here s a good piece of road. Let s gallop," 
 broke in Barbara, with a sigh. 
 
 When they pulled up again, she said, abruptly, 
 
 "Eamie, are you glad or sorry that slavery s 
 over?" 
 
 "Why, Miss Barb ra?" 
 
 " Because I m glad. Those dreadful stories you tell 
 me! I couldn t have borne it. It would have made 
 me so miserable. And yet, when the slaves were happy, 
 they were very happy, weren t they ?" 
 
BARBARA DERING. 247 
 
 " Some wuz in heaven an some in hell. Dat wuz de 
 wust of hit," said Eameses, slowly. 
 
 "But you? said Barbara. 
 
 " Me ? Lor ! Ole miss jes rottened me wid goodness. 
 But shuh ! talk bout slav ry, Miss Barb ra, I se been a 
 slave an I se seen slaves an I knows, an dis slav ry uv 
 marriage is de wussest slav ry in life ! Ef I could git 
 free onct, I d ruw, ef anybordy call de name man. " 
 
 Barbara laughed outright. Then she held out her 
 hand affectionately, and Martha Ellen placed in it her 
 slim brown fingers. 
 
 " Are you so unhappy, dear ?" said Barbara, gently. 
 
 " Gawd, He knows I se mizzabul," answered the other, 
 her great eyes brimming over. " I se ben so true an 
 kine tuh Tobit, Miss Barb ra. But shuh ! mens ain got 
 de sense dey bawn wid, nohow. Dat critter Tobit run 
 arter, she jes ez black an bony ez a griddle !" Here 
 Martha Ellen s unfailing sense of humor made her show 
 her pretty teeth. 
 
 " He isn t worth your little finger," cried Barbara, 
 hotly. " How can you bear it, Eamie ?" 
 
 " Wommens has tuh bear things, somehow, Miss Bar 
 b ra," said the other, concisely. " Bat s how I bears hit." 
 
 Barbara was silent for a long while. When she 
 looked about her again she saw that a great cap of 
 clouds was settling over the fields. 
 
 "Hit s dat ole sun-dawg," said Eameses. 
 
 "And my saddle s turning," replied Barbara. She 
 slipped down and began to investigate, while Martha 
 Ellen held Wilful s bridle. " Good heavens ! the girth s 
 broken. What a bore !" 
 
 "An dat s a bad storm comin up," said the other, 
 ominously. " You git up on my hawse, Miss Barb ra, 
 an I ll walk an lead Wilfur." 
 
248 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 As they were standing there a rattling of wheels 
 came nearer, and Barbara saw that it was Bransby 
 driving alone in the children s buckboard. He stopped 
 to ask if he could help them. 
 
 "I don t know," said Barbara, rather vaguely. 
 " There s going to be a storm, I think, and my horse is 
 afraid of lightning. I wouldn t mind that, though, but 
 the girth is broken, and I haven t a surcingle." 
 
 " I tell you what, Miss Barb ra," ventured Barneses. 
 " Ef Mr. Bransby 11 take you up, I ll lead de hawses 
 tuh Susan Flemin s, over in dat field dere, an you kin 
 sen* Tobit fur em when de stawm s over." 
 
 " Yes, do let me drive you home, Mrs. Bering," said 
 Bransby, with an attempt at cordiality. 
 
 The clouds were now black and veined with such 
 vivid lightning that Barbara consented, and got into 
 the buckboard. Bransby had no carriage-rugs with 
 him, and Barbara s short, scant habit displayed fully 
 her arched feet in their russet leather riding-boots. 
 
 She smiled a little wickedly as she braced them com 
 fortably against the dash-board, remembering how 
 very long poor Eunice was compelled to wear her 
 habit-skirts, and thinking of the wide, old-fashioned 
 trousers which she strapped under her walking-boots. 
 Even this was a concession over which Bransby had 
 winced. As they drove, he so prim and erect, with his 
 neat little hands manipulating whip and reins as 
 daintily as though he had been knitting, the spirit of 
 mischief rose in Barbara, until presently she actually 
 crossed one knee over the other with an air of serene 
 unconsciousness. She saw Bransby s lips tighten and 
 his brows begin to pleat. 
 
 "How fortunate that you came along when you 
 did !" she then said, in her sweetest voice. " And what 
 
BARBARA DER1NG. 249 
 
 a " She cast about in her mind for Bering s most 
 
 sporting expressions. " What a rattling good * gee 
 you ve got there !" she ended, glibly. 
 
 " Yes, it s an excellent animal," replied Bransby, 
 austerely. 
 
 " Bather light of bone, isn t she ?" asked Barbara, 
 with a knowing air. 
 
 " Of course she is not perfect," said Bransby. 
 
 " Jolly good quarters, though !" she went on, calmly. 
 " Fine barrel ! Have you named her yet ?" 
 
 "No ; we are discussing the matter now." 
 
 " Good gracious !" said Barbara, with elaborate inno 
 cence. " Discussing it ! Why, there s only one name 
 possible for her !" 
 
 "Indeed? And that?" inquired Bransby, stiffly. 
 
 " Ballet-girl, of course !" 
 
 " Ballet-girl ? But why, if I may ask ?" 
 
 " Why, on account of those long stockings. It s the 
 only name really, and so original." 
 
 " Er entirely original," admitted Bransby, with 
 tartness. " But er er I prefer short names for a 
 horse." 
 
 " Why, call her * Socks, then," suggested Barbara. 
 "That s short enough, isn t it?" 
 
 " I think I shall let Eunice name her," he replied. 
 
 Barbara, who had been searching for her handker 
 chief during this conversation, discovered an old ciga 
 rette-case of Bering s in one of the pockets of her 
 covert-coat. Her eyes gleamed, but she drew it forth 
 demurely and began examining its contents with an 
 air of intense interest. 
 
 " Pshaw !" she exclaimed, at last, in a tone of disgust. 
 " They re all broken ! What a shame !" 
 
 Bransby could not restrain himself any longer. 
 
250 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 " Excuse me, Mrs. Bering," he said, in a withheld 
 sort of tone, " but as your friend s husband, as a Vir 
 ginian, I I must really advise you not to smoke on 
 the public road." 
 
 Barbara, who would as soon have thought of such a 
 thing as of laying Fair on hot coals to secure her im 
 mortality, looked up with guileless eyes and said, 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 " I do not think your neighbors would understand it. 
 You would be very harshly judged." 
 
 "Ob, I am that now," she returned, easily. "Hav 
 ing one s neighbors misjudge one is like breaking a 
 pair of boots. Just at first it pinches a little, but 
 that s soon over. However, I won t vex you by 
 smoking." 
 
 "lam extremely indebted to you," said Bransby. 
 
 Barbara took in his whole attitude of controlled 
 disgust from the corner of her eyes, and was as 
 malevolently delighted as a child who has played 
 some naughty prank on an unloved elder. Her fertile 
 mind began to devise new schemes for teasing him. A 
 sudden inspiration made her whistle softly. This ac 
 complishment she possessed in a rare degree, and an 
 impassioned aria from " Faust" now fell flutily from 
 her pursed lips. She broke off suddenly, wishing to 
 vary his torture as much as possible, and exclaimed, 
 
 "Patti is to be in Washington next week, and 
 Faust is the first opera in which she sings. Couldn t 
 we make up a party and go to hear her? Eunice 
 would enjoy it so heartily." 
 
 " I er that is we never go to the opera," said the 
 uncomfortable Bransby. 
 
 "Not go to the opera!" And again she turned to 
 him with that maddening " But why?" 
 
BARBARA DER1NO. 251 
 
 " I disapprove of emotional music." 
 
 " You disapprove of Gounod s music ?" 
 
 " Yes, and of Faust particularly. It is an immoral 
 story, and the music is in a high degree immoral." 
 
 " Oh, you are a disciple of Tolstoi !" 
 
 " I agree with him in his views regarding such 
 music, assuredly." 
 
 " But what is there in the music of l Faust that 
 strikes you as immoral?" 
 
 "It is too intense, too er er unnatural. The 
 men and women of to-day do not indulge in such over 
 strained emotions." 
 
 " But they must, if this music rouses such terribly 
 dangerous sensations in them." 
 
 She saw his face turn a dull red in the gathering 
 twilight. 
 
 " It is useless for us to discuss such matters, Mrs. 
 Bering. Our views are entirely opposed." 
 
 "Indeed they are!" breathed Barbara, fervently. 
 Then she began again, 
 
 " So you believe that virtue consists in an absence of 
 emotion." 
 
 " I did not say that," replied Bransby, uneasily. 
 
 "No, but you implied it. Now I, for my part, 
 think that the more we feel the greater we are, and I 
 have some very good authorities to back me up in this 
 opinion. Gibbon, Mommsen, and Euskin all agree that 
 genius cannot exist without passion. Life is glorious, 
 and those who feel most live most intensely. To me 
 poor Gretchen s story is one of the tenderest and most 
 touching ever written." 
 
 " Indeed?" said Bransby, with thinned lips. 
 
 " I see that it disgusts you. If one of your daugh 
 ters happened to share the fate of poor Olivia Prim- 
 
252 BARBARA D BRING. 
 
 rose, you would not act as the old vicar did, would 
 you?" 
 
 " Mrs. Bering, such allusions are intolerable !" 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I was simply stating an imag 
 inary case. But it is really a pity for me to make you 
 dislike me more than you do already, because Eunice is 
 so dear to me." 
 
 " Dislike you ?" stammered Bransby. 
 
 "Yes, hate me almost. I really think you have 
 indulged in an l intense emotion there, Mr. Bransby, 
 and I have been fanning it into a still more fervid 
 glow, during the last half-hour. What a pity ! I love 
 Eunice more than any woman in the world, and her 
 husband dislikes me in proportion." 
 
 " I I scarcely know you," murmured the wretched 
 Bransby. 
 
 "No; it is instinctive," said Barbara, philosophi 
 cally. " But perhaps" she lifted her eyes to his face 
 " perhaps we might detest each other less, if we knew 
 each other better." 
 
 {< So you confess that you do not like me, either !" 
 exclaimed Bransby, catching at this straw. 
 
 " Why, you must have known that all along," said 
 Barbara, with calmness. "Whatever my faults may 
 be, I am not a hypocrite." 
 
 " You think me a hypocrite, I dare say," returned 
 Bransby. 
 
 " No ; I think you narrow, and but what is the use ? 
 I shall only make you hate me more." 
 
 " But I wish to know. Please oblige me by finishing 
 your sentence," said Bransby, with an actual touch of 
 eagerness. "What is it that you think me, besides 
 narrow ?" 
 
 " Well, cold-blooded," said Barbara ; " but you 
 
BARBARA BERING. 253 
 
 admire cold-bloodedness, so why should you be 
 vexed?" 
 
 There was, in fact, no logical reason why Bransby 
 should feel the intense indignation which overwhelmed 
 him at these words. He did not speak, for some 
 moments. Black clouds now draped three parts of the 
 sky, and only a faint crocus-colored light quivered 
 along the north-east. A wild flag of wind was shaken 
 through the air, and a low noise of thunder rolled 
 heavily overhead. Some birds streamed twittering 
 from a tree close by, 
 
 " What a storm it is going to be !" exclaimed Bar 
 bara, looking about her. " I don t think we can reach 
 Eosemary in time. The Poplars is nearer." 
 
 A blare of thunder shook the darkening air. Again 
 the birds shrieked and circled, and the mare began to 
 snort nervously and twitch her ears. 
 
 " Is she lightning-shy ?" asked Barbara. 
 
 " I don t know," answered Bransby, who was rather 
 pale. " I have only had her a week. But pray don t 
 be alarmed." 
 
 " Oh, don t bother," she said, cheerfully. " I was 
 never afraid of horses, or lightning, either. Besides, 
 one wouldn t get much of a fall from this trap." 
 
 Bransby gave her an admiring glance, in spite of 
 himself. Her attitude was one of such calm ease and 
 self-confidence, as she sat leaning back, one foot braced 
 in front of her, her arms lightly folded. She was not 
 pale. On the contrary, her color had deepened richly 
 in the strong wind. Her serene eyes were bent upon 
 the ever-narrowing band of yellow glare before them. 
 She looked as composed as a young goddess who had 
 ordered a big thunder-storm for her amusement and 
 was watching its progress from some safe shelter. 
 
254 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 " I m afraid you will be thoroughly drenched," he 
 said, at last. " I ve no rugs with me, and I felt a drop 
 on my cheek just then." 
 
 " That s nothing," she rejoined, gayly. " I m neither 
 rheumatic nor consumptive, or, as my old mammy used 
 to put it, I m not made of salt or sugar, and won t 
 melt. I rather like a good sousing once in a while. 
 Look out !" 
 
 A flash of lightning shimmered across the northern 
 sky, and the mare reared and plunged frantically for a 
 second or two. Barbara clinched her hands, in her 
 effort to resist the impulse to take the reins from 
 Bransby s incapable-looking little fingers, but he man 
 aged somehow to pull things together, and they went 
 on again. 
 
 " If we can only make the first gate, before it gets 
 quite dark we ll be all right," she said, in her cheery 
 voice, which was such a contrast to his agitated, 
 wrinkled little face. 
 
 " Ah, yes, yes, so we will ! That is the gate now, 
 isn t it ? And open, too ?" 
 
 The darkness had closed down as suddenly as a 
 black cloth thrown over a cage. They could not see 
 an inch in front of them, until a flicker of lightning 
 showed the gateway and its tall posts. The gate was 
 open. 
 
 " I suppose you know the way better than I do," 
 she ventured to suggest as he drove through, scraping 
 the off- wheel as he did so, " but I m going to remind 
 you that, about twenty yards from here, there s a 
 rather bad ditch, so keep well to the right. Hullo, 
 though ! where are you going ? Aren t you driving 
 up a bank ? I m sure you are. This isn t the road." 
 Another flare of lightning showed her the scared ob- 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 255 
 
 long of Bransby s face and his hands tugging unskil 
 fully at the bewildered mare s mouth. They were 
 half-way up a steep bank to the right. Again they 
 drove on a little way in some order, but Barbara had 
 now gathered herself together alert, ready to spring, 
 when the final fiasco came, as she felt it must. True 
 to the courtesy of the craft, she had not once laid her 
 hands on Bransby s fingers. Another flash of rose- 
 white glare, another wild plunging to right and left. 
 Again the lightning. She saw the mare s glistening 
 back, for an instant, as she reared desperately, then 
 found herself, all of a sudden, sprawled out upon the 
 warm, palpitating body of the fallen brute. She got 
 at once to her feet, felt for the horse s head, and, grasp 
 ing the bit, shouted to Bransby. He answered franti 
 cally, 
 
 " Yes. I m not hurt. I m coming. Are you safe, 
 Mrs. Dering? Thank God! Where s the mare ? She s 
 run away, I suppose." 
 
 " No, she hasn t," Barbara called back. " Don t come 
 any nearer yet, she might strike you in scrambling 
 up. So, my pet! So, my beauty! There you 
 are !" 
 
 She patted and soothed the mare, who was once 
 more on her legs trembling and snorting with fright. 
 The rain now fell in torrents, and the thunder was 
 dying away towards the south-east. 
 
 " Thank you a thousand, thousand times, Mrs. Der 
 ing !" gasped forth Bransby, limping up. " How very 
 brave of you to stand by the mare ! Are you sure 
 you re all right? I ve hurt my knee somehow. 
 Nothing of any consequence, but it s rather hard for 
 me to walk. Ugh !" he ended, with a wheezing sound, 
 squeezed from him by pain. The hissing darkness 
 
256 BARBARA DERINQ. 
 
 surrounded them for miles, and they could only guess 
 their whereabouts by the now infrequent glimpses of 
 the lightning. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 BARBARA could not help laughing at their absolute 
 helplessness. The rippling, human, healthy sound rang 
 out through the streaming night, and at once Bransby 
 felt his nerves steadied and his heart cheered in spite 
 of himself. He was conscious, with a strange little 
 pang, that his ideal woman would be sadly out of place 
 in this situation, and that Eunice s trailing skirt and 
 long trousers would be absolute disadvantages where 
 the scorned russet boots and short habit were now 
 shown to be so sensible. 
 
 " If your knee is hurt, Mr. Bransby," she said, 
 when she had conquered her desire for mirth, " why 
 don t you get into the trap ? I can guess the way 
 pretty well, and I ll lead the mare, until we re in the 
 road." 
 
 " Impossible !" whistled Bransby, who was now 
 clinching his under lip with his teeth. " I could not 
 think of allowing you to do such a thing." 
 
 " But if you faint, it will be ten times harder for me," 
 said Barbara, practically ; " and I can tell by your 
 voice that you are suffering a great deal. Do let me 
 help you into the wagon." 
 
 " No, no !" moaned Bransby. They went on slowly 
 for a few yards. 
 
 " Mr. Bransby !" called Barbara, suddenly. 
 
 " Yes," he whispered back, in faint tones. 
 
 There was now a watery glimmer as of coming moon- 
 
BARBARA D BRING. 257 
 
 light. Objects could be seen in blurry masses. She 
 ventured to leave the mare s head and run to Bransby. 
 
 " What is it ? Are you worse ? ? she asked. 
 
 " I do not know. I feel very giddy," he replied. 
 
 " How is your knee hurt ?" she then demanded. " Is 
 it sprained or cut ? 
 
 " Cut, I think." 
 
 " Good heavens, man ! you may be bleeding to 
 death ! It may be an artery !" 
 
 Her voice was anxious for the first time, and, kneel 
 ing down, she peremptorily rolled up his trouser and 
 felt his knee. A jet of soft, warm fluid at once shot 
 through her fingers, splashing her cheek and breast. 
 She said nothing to Bransby, but, taking off one of 
 her elastic garters and feeling for the silver skewer 
 which fastened her braids in place, began deftly to ar 
 range a tourniquet above the knee-cap. Bransby was by 
 this time so faint that he leaned heavily against the back 
 of the buck-board without offering any remonstrance. 
 
 "I must hurt you a little, Mr. Bransby," she said 
 presently, as her strong hands continued to twist the 
 improvised ligature, " and when I have this as tight as 
 I can make it, you must help me by trying to hold 
 it in place, and then get into the cart. I m afraid 
 you ve hurt yourself very badly." 
 
 " Yes," said Bransby, in a queer, far-away voice, and 
 then all at once he doubled up in a heap, against her 
 shoulder. For the first time, Barbara felt desperate. 
 The mare was only standing still, from sheer bewilder 
 ment, and might tear off at any moment, dashing the 
 buck-board to pieces and scaring poor Eunice terribly- 
 Then she would be left alone, for an indefinite length 
 of time, in this glimmering darkness, with her arch 
 enemy swooning on her shoulder, and only her twisted 
 r 22* 
 
258 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 garter between him and death. Again she felt an 
 almost ungovernable laughter welling within her, but 
 shut her lips firmly and refused to give way to the in 
 appropriate desire. Then she thought of hallooing for 
 help, but was afraid to do this on account of the mare. 
 
 " She she stands very well," murmured Bransby, 
 coming partially to his senses. " Where am I ? What s 
 the matter ?" 
 
 "Lie still! Lie still!" said Barbara, irritably. 
 " You ve cut an artery, I m afraid, and it s all I can do 
 to keep this tourniquet tight enough. Please lie still. 
 I m very strong ; I don t feel your weight at all." 
 
 Bransby was too faint and dazed to resist, and let his 
 head drop back upon one of the broad shoulders which 
 he had so often sneered at as " unfeminine." Barbara 
 was suddenly aware of a crisp, curt sound, and knew 
 that the mare was cropping the wet clover. 
 
 " Thank God !" she could not help exclaiming. 
 
 " For what ?" said poor Bransby. 
 
 " Why, the mare is grazing. I couldn t leave you, 
 and I was afraid that she would bolt and frighten 
 Eunice. How do you feel now ?" 
 
 "Dizzy," said Bransby, trying to lift his head. 
 " Yery dizzy," he gulped, letting it fall back again. 
 
 "Do you happen to have a flask of brandy about 
 you ?" asked Barbara. 
 
 " I I have not touched a drop of liquor, for fifteen 
 years. I would not touch it now, though I were 
 dying." 
 
 " The devil you wouldn t !" said Barbara, with stern 
 unconsciousness of her strong language. " If I had 
 some brandy here, we should soon see whether you d 
 take it or not." 
 
 She gave him a slight shake in her vexation. 
 
BARBARA DERING. 259 
 
 "Mrs. Bering! Mrs. Bering!" murmured poor 
 Bransby, " you you you have saved my life. I thank 
 you. But but such expressions ! Eunice, you are 
 her friend. It it is terrible to hear a woman use 
 
 such such " His head dropped and he fainted 
 
 again. Then Barbara gave way and laughed heartily, 
 though somewhat drearily. 
 
 " To think of my using such masculine language to 
 such a lady-like little man !" she said, at last. " Why, 
 I actually said the devil to him ! I doubt if he ever 
 speaks to me again !" And a rhyme that she had once 
 read, in some magazine, began to run in her head : 
 
 "And I own I fairly revel 
 In the way that you say devil, 
 Jeannie Welsh Carlyle." 
 
 All at once she saw a small, blurred gleam moving 
 uncertainly in the murky distance, then another and 
 another. Her heart gave a relieved jump. She knew 
 that these will o-wispish lights were the lanterns of 
 those whom Eunice had sent out to look for Bransby. 
 When the men had lifted him into the buck-board and 
 she sat beside him still grasping the tourniquet, she 
 realized for the first time, with a horrified shiver, that 
 he might have died out there against her shoulder. 
 
 It was not until the doctor had come and gone and 
 Bransby was safe in bed that she dared laugh again. 
 And this she did, until Eunice declared her hysterical 
 and brought her a foaming milk-punch which she had 
 shaken with her own hands. 
 
 The next day Barbara had one of her severe head 
 aches, and her head was found to have been badly 
 bruised, in spite of her thick hair. Eunice insisted on 
 keeping her with her, for a week at least, and Fair was 
 
260 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 sent for and comfortably established in a sunny room 
 next to the children s nursery. The week lengthened 
 into a fortnight and the fortnight into a month and 
 still Barbara remained. 
 
 It was the last of May, before Bransby, whose wound 
 had been followed by a fever, was allowed to come 
 down and lie upon a sofa in the library, although he 
 had moved, from room to room, up-stairs. Barbara, 
 who was sitting there when he was brought in, offered 
 to read to him. Bransby accepted this offer before Mrs. 
 Crosdill s dark figure unsheathed itself from the long 
 white muslin curtains at one of the windows. 
 
 " / have been looking forward to the pleasure of 
 reading to you. Godfrey, for many weeks," she said. 
 
 Bransby looked appealingly from one woman to the 
 other, and Barbara said at once, with her ready good 
 humor, 
 
 "Why, of course, Mrs. Crosdill. I should never 
 have offered had I known that you were in the room. 
 But can t I find a book for you? What shall it be? 
 a novel?" 
 
 " Yes ; a novel, please," murmured Bransby. 
 
 " A standard romance, Mrs. Dering," added his sister. 
 
 "Well," announced Barbara, from her perch on the 
 step-ladder. " Here is a beautiful edition of Thackeray. 
 It makes one long to read him. Eeally, I can t see 
 what more you could ask than Henry Esmond illus 
 trated by George du Maurier." 
 
 " Yes ; let it be Henry Esmond. I haven t read that 
 since I was a boy." 
 
 " Ah, yes," echoed Mrs. Crosdill, " that is the book 
 in which that lovely scene occurs where those verses 
 from the Psalms are quoted. Pray let me have that, 
 Mrs. Dering. And how charmingly it is illustrated! 
 
BARBARA DERINO. 261 
 
 This young girl coming down-stairs, she is like that 
 portrait of Marianne Bransby by Keynolds, is she 
 
 not, Godfrey ? And here is a My dear Godfrey !" 
 
 she exclaimed, closing the heavy volume with a clack, 
 "is it possible that Thackeray wrote of such such 
 indecencies !" 
 
 "What indecencies? What indecencies, Lydia?" 
 asked Bransby, nervously. 
 
 "Why, there is, in this book," she dropped it sud 
 denly on a table near by as though contaminated, 
 " there is, in that book an illustration, actually an illus 
 tration, I am almost ashamed to utter the words, 
 but a drawing of a man kissing a woman s foot." 
 The last word was spoken in an almost inaudible whis 
 per. " And people have Thackeray s works in their 
 household library! free to their children ! Why, Wini 
 fred may have looked at that very picture your inno 
 cent child, Godfrey!" 
 
 "What picture?" demanded Winifred, appearing 
 suddenly as though by magic, with a large silver mug 
 of milk clasped to her soiled pinafore, and a large slice 
 of brown-bread and honey in the other hand ! " That 
 be-yeutiful picture where Mr. Esmond kisses Miss 
 Beatrix s foot ? Of course I ve seen it, an it s lovely. 
 An don t you say horrid things about it, Aunt Lydia, 
 because you jes dote on bishops, an people used to 
 kiss their feet." 
 
 Barbara, who had been sitting on the top of the 
 step-ladder, during this scene, her brows lifted and 
 her hands clasped about her knees, nodded sly encour 
 agement to Winifred, during that young lady s fiery 
 speech. 
 
 "An an ," continued Win, waxing bolder and 
 bolder, " it ain t horrid at all, cause I ve seen Barbara s 
 
262 BARBARA BERING. 
 
 husban kiss her foot, and it looked so pretty that I ve 
 played it with Mr. and Mrs. Bridegroom, in my doll s 
 house, so there!" 
 
 Barbara was in convulsions of silent mirth, Bransby 
 staring helplessly, and Mrs. Crosdill literally stupefied 
 with conflicting emotions. Then she said, in a low 
 venomous voice, to her brother, 
 
 " This comes from allowing your wife to choose her 
 own companions against your wishes !" After which 
 gracious speech she left the room. 
 
 " Father," said Winifred, her voice tremulous with 
 passion, " I think Aunt Lydia s a wicked woman to say 
 such things at Barbara. An after Barbara saved your 
 life, too ! An I b leeve it s all because you couldn t 
 make anybody kiss her higious ole feet. An " 
 
 " Hush !" cried Bransby, with such explosive force 
 that Win s red mouth shut like a trap, and she turned 
 and walked solemnly back into the dining-room, to 
 finish her lunch. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Bransby," said Barbara, demurely, " shall 
 I read * Henry Esmond to you, or is its immorality 
 really too great?" 
 
 " My sister has er very strong feelings about such 
 things," he answered, nervously. 
 
 " Does she really think it wrong for Esmond to have 
 kissed Beatrix s foot ?" 
 
 " Er er I fancy it is more a question of er of 
 refinement." 
 
 " But a pretty foot is considered a sign of refinement, 
 is it not? Surely such an act is only a chivalrous 
 homage. What possible immorality could there have 
 been in Esmond s touching his lips to Beatrix s in 
 step?" 
 
 "I er these things are, of course, a matter of 
 
BARBARA DERING. 263 
 
 taste. I myself do not see any exact immorality in it, 
 but er " 
 
 " Oh, well ! I suppose it depends upon the foot and 
 the man," said Barbara, laughing. " Beatrix had a 
 pretty foot and Esmond a gallant nature. I can t im 
 agine Calvin s kissing his sweetheart s foot, for exam 
 ple, or Coriolanus, or Jack Cade, or Orson, or or 
 Bishop Cammersell, for that matter!" 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Dering !" 
 
 " Why do you exclaim so ?" asked Barbara, malevo 
 lently. " Is there anything in the Thirty-nine Articles 
 against a bishop s kissing his sweetheart s foot ?" 
 
 " ISTo, no ; of course not ! Only these things have a 
 shocking sound to an orthodox Christian s ears. I am 
 sure you mean no harm, but I fear that you are very, 
 very unorthodox." 
 
 " I am," said Barbara, briefly. 
 
 " I have even heard that you are an infidel." 
 
 " No ; that I deny," she said, with sudden sternness. 
 
 " Then, would you mind telling me your exact 
 views ?" he said, with a kind of anxiety. 
 
 : Yes," she answered, " I should, for three reasons : 
 first, because I have no fixed, rigid form of belief; sec 
 ondly, because my views would be sure to clash with 
 yours, and I do not like religious discussions ; and, 
 thirdly, because I am answerable to God alone for my 
 thoughts and beliefs." 
 
 "I hope that I have not made you angry," said 
 Bransby. 
 
 He was conscious of a curious change in his feelings 
 towards her ever since the night when her presence of 
 mind had saved his life. Merely feminine attributes 
 had not been so solely valuable to him since that time. 
 While he continued to require them in his wife, he had 
 
264 BARBARA D BRING. 
 
 come to the conclusion that, in his neighbor s wife, he 
 did not altogether disapprove of the lack of them, in 
 moderation. His feeling of gratitude had also dulled 
 the edge of his dislike for her. She had even a curious 
 charm for him which was something like that exercised 
 by the wreathings of brightly-colored serpents behind 
 protecting sheets of glass. Her unconventionalities, and 
 what, to him, were her irreverences, almost her blas 
 phemies, acted like a tonic on his torpid vitality, now 
 made feebler and more languid than ever, by the low 
 fever through which he had just passed. He was like 
 the friend of St. Augustine, who, having allowed him 
 self to look upon the forbidden sight of the circus, con 
 tinued to gaze at it, with more and more absorbing in 
 terest, until finally its fascination overcame him and 
 he could not coerce his unwilling eyes into submission. 
 Bransby, while disapproving of Barbara s ideas and 
 ethics, as strongly as ever, had become unwillingly en 
 thralled by her keen personal charm, although this was 
 a fact which he did not admit to himself. He took 
 occasion for stating calmly, in his very long prayers, 
 that he was forcing himself to take an interest in Bar 
 bara on his wife s account, since she, Eunice, persisted 
 in having her for a friend. 
 
 It was his plain duty, he explained to Providence, to 
 try to soften Mrs. Bering s wild views of life, since she 
 was the chosen and intimate companion of the woman 
 he had promised to cherish. He ended by asking Prov 
 idence to bless his poor endeavors and to enable him to 
 conquer his dislike for the object of his prayers. 
 
 He was somewhat astonished, in the present instance, 
 to find how anxiously he waited to hear that he had 
 not made her angry, and how relieved he was when 
 she assured him that he had not done so. At the same 
 
BARBARA DERING. 265 
 
 time he was aware, with a fantastic incongruity, that 
 he had ceased objecting to the faint dusting of freckles 
 which made her pale skin bloomy. When this change 
 had taken place, he could not precisely remember, and 
 it was certainly not in answer to prayer. He made a 
 sudden restless movement, and she stopped her favorite 
 trick of gazing out of window and came towards 
 him. 
 
 "You look uncomfortable. I will beat up your 
 pillows for you," she said, kindly. 
 
 As she bent over him Bransby caught the sea-like 
 perfume of her hair, and glancing up, saw that there 
 were little flecks of gold in the brown of her grave 
 eyes. He caught his breath suddenly. 
 
 " Are you in pain ?" she asked, arranging the last 
 pillow. " Shall I call Eunice to loosen the bandages ?" 
 
 "No, no!" he said, hastily. "I would be very 
 grateful if you would read to me. Anything you 
 choose. Take a book at random." 
 
 He closed his eyes listlessly, but could still see, as 
 though they had been open, the wreath of her bright 
 hair, the soft flow of her silkish, gray-blue gown, and 
 the stir of a dark rose-bud which she had fastened at 
 her breast. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 BARBARA was also beginning to think that she had 
 done Bransby injustice. Seen through the magnifying- 
 glass of every-day contact, certain virtues became ap 
 parent and certain faults assumed that interesting 
 quality which characterizes most unpleasant things, 
 thus closely scrutinized under a powerful lens. Bar- 
 M 23 
 
266 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 bara wondered at the consistency with which he pur 
 sued his uncomfortable principles. As soon as he was 
 able, he left the reclining-chair, which he had been 
 obliged to use while an invalid, and remained for hours 
 sitting bolt upright in the most uncomfortable atti 
 tude. For recreation he was reading Kenan s " Life of 
 Christ," on which he had a lock put, that he might 
 turn the key in it when he wished to lay aside his 
 book, thus assuring himself that none of the feminine 
 portion of his household should be contaminated, by 
 even a glance between such infidel pages. He acknowl 
 edged once to Barbara that the work caused him much 
 more pain than pleasure, but that he felt it to be his 
 duty to master all Atheistic arguments that he might 
 arm himself with suitable and logical replies. 
 
 As for Barbara, she had grown quite at her ease 
 with him, even ventured to tease him, and, at times, 
 to make sly fun of his ruling theories, when Mrs. Cros- 
 dill was not by. He would smile stiffly and anxiously, 
 under her quizzing, with that nervous compression of 
 the lips that seems to imply a fear of their splitting 
 at the corners. But when his sister happened to be 
 present, a comical look of appeal would creep over his 
 pale and artificial little face, and his eyes would flit 
 nervously from her to Barbara and then back, after a 
 fashion that only aggravated his tormentor s demure 
 malevolence. 
 
 Mrs. Crosdill s dislike, on the other hand, increased 
 as her brother s lessened, until she distinctly hated 
 their guest, and wrote long letters of piously-worded 
 innuendo to Bishop Cammersell as the only means of 
 relieving her surcharged spirit. 
 
 Without hinting such a thing to Eunice, Barbara 
 had determined, in her heart, to reform and revitalize 
 
BARBARA DERING. 267 
 
 Bransby, as much as possible, even if, to accomplish 
 this end, she had to use a series of shocks on her sub 
 ject s nerves as startling and quite as wholesome as 
 those given by an electric battery. For instance, she 
 sent for her banjo, on which she thrummed passably, 
 and began to sing old negro and Scotch and Irish mel 
 odies and love-songs to the entranced children, tuning 
 the instrument to such a low pitch, in order to suit her 
 low voice, that the slack strings scarcely gave forth 
 more than a drowsy humming. This method had to 
 be resorted to, because Barbara s knowledge of her 
 banjo was limited, and she had not more than four or 
 five sets of chords at her command. What there was 
 of her voice, however, had a certain delicious quality. 
 
 At first Bransby contented himself with not inter 
 fering. One evening, however, as she was sitting at 
 sunset on the steps of the old stone porch at the back 
 of the house, singing to Lois and Win, while they ate 
 their supper of bread and milk, he came up and for 
 mally asked her if she knew a certain version of " Abide 
 with me," which he particularly admired. Fortunately, 
 although her repertoire did not include many hymns, 
 she did happen to know the very one that he wished to 
 hear, and sang it to him as soon as she could settle 
 upon the accompaniment. 
 
 Lois and Win, who were seated opposite each other 
 at a very small white, wooden table, waited decorously 
 enough until she was through ; but as soon as she 
 stopped banged loudly with both mugs and spoons and 
 demanded " Nelly Grey" and " Widow Machree." Bar 
 bara compromised by giving them " Eobin Adair." 
 
 " But how can you ask me to sing," she broke off 
 suddenly, " when there s such a voice as Eunice s in 
 the house? What a revelation she would make of 
 
268 BARBARA DERINQ 
 
 Eobin! It s too bad she never sings now! It s a 
 shame not to have a piano here ! Do send for one, Mr. 
 Bransby ! do ! and make Eunice sing you * Robin 
 Adair. " 
 
 He moved and gave his uneasy smile. " You forget 
 I am really sincere in my doubts about music." 
 
 " Oh, ho 1" said Barbara to herself. " His doubts ! 
 He used to be quite, quite sure, when I first met him 
 that music was an invention of the Evil One." To him 
 she said, laughing, 
 
 " Oh, don t be so consistent ! The only good in 
 making up one s mind is in watching the pleasure one s 
 friends get out of pulling it to pieces. It s exactly the 
 principle on which Lois and Win make gardens. Isn t 
 it, dears ? Why, there wouldn t be an atom of fun in 
 raking a bed quite smooth to-day and sowing pounds 
 and pounds of seed in it, unless you meant to hoe it all 
 up to-morrow. Would there, now? Ah, do get a 
 piano ! A house without a piano is like a letter with 
 out a stamp, or a dolly without a squeak. Isn t it, 
 Lolo?" 
 
 " Thert ny ith," said Lois, rounding her solemn eyes 
 upon her father, and scrubbing even the tip of her pink 
 tongue on her napkin in order to perform the duty of 
 wiping her button-hole mouth, with absolute conscien 
 tiousness. Win did not say anything. In fact, she 
 was rather frightened at Barbara s boldness. 
 
 The next day, as Bransby was standing by one of 
 the drawing-room windows, looking out over the spring 
 lawn, his sister came up and remained silently near 
 him. They were both watching a little procession 
 which was making its way over the grass to the great 
 elms near the centre of the lawn. Barbara, tall and 
 gay, in a soft, pale pink muslin gown, led the way, her 
 
BARBARA DERING. 269 
 
 baby over her shoulder, its head, in its little white sun- 
 bonnet, making a daisy-like nodding. After her, trotted 
 Win and Lois, also with white sun-bonnets, and, last of 
 all, came Eunice, rather pale, under her parasol of lilac 
 silk. They saw Barbara toss her banjo and book upon 
 the grass, then throw herself down like a child and roll 
 about, shaking convulsive chuckles from Fair, whom 
 she held high overhead in both hands. Eunice settling 
 herself near by, smiled at the ecstatic little creature 
 and gave it the round ivory handle of her parasol to 
 clutch. 
 
 " What very extraordinary antics Mrs. Bering per 
 mits herself!" said Mrs. Crosdill, suddenly, in her thin, 
 curdled tones. Bransby started and changed color. 
 
 " I did not know that any one was in the room," he 
 said, with some nervousness. 
 
 " I am very sorry if I startled you, Godfrey. But 
 do look ! I beg of you to look ! Even with your 
 changed views you must confess that it s rather shock 
 ing to see a baby given a banjo for a plaything !" 
 
 "My changed views, Lydia? What do you mean? 
 Yes! yes! I see the banjo. I must confess that I 
 should not like Eunice to own one, but we must not 
 make Procrustean beds of our views." 
 
 Mrs. Crosdill looked at him sharply, never having 
 heard of Procrustes, and inclined to suspect that this 
 strange term applied to beds was some of Barbara s 
 unorthodox and dangerous teaching. 
 
 " Touch pitch and one knows what follows," she said, 
 tartly. 
 
 " How do you mean touch pitch, Lydia ? Whom 
 do you refer to ? Touch pitch ! It is not a very nice 
 expression. Not at all the sort of expression which 
 you generally use." 
 
 23* 
 
270 BARBARA DERING. \ 
 
 This was not calculated to soothe Mrs. Crosdill. 
 
 "My dear Godfrey, excuse me if I say that you 
 know very well to what I allude. Did 1 not actually 
 hear that woman trying to persuade you, you, to admit 
 a piano into this house ? And did you, or did you not, 
 listen patiently? After all these years spent on dis 
 ciplining Eunice in the matter, too! I shall not be 
 surprised to hear that you allow secular music to be 
 played and sung under your roof on Sunday, next 
 thing! And do you think that } r ou are doing your 
 duty, in letting your innocent children partake in the 
 gambols of that hoyden ? Do you think her negro- 
 minstrel songs are calculated to improve them mentally, 
 or to aid you in your system of education for them ? 
 You seem to have grown blind, in the twinkling of an 
 eye, as poor St. Paul did. I only hope that God, in His 
 mercy, will see fit to lighten your darkness. Why, the 
 very color of the woman s hair is enough to warn you 
 against her ! Such violence ! Such boldness ! Who 
 ever heard of a genteel, refined Christian woman with 
 crimson, yes, crimson hair ?" 
 
 Bransby was intensely vexed, all the more so that 
 he felt his sister s reproach to be in some measure 
 merited. 
 
 " Excuse me, Lydia, if I call your attention to the 
 fact that you are being as unreasonable, in holding Mrs. 
 Dering to account for her hair, as you would be in 
 blaming an Indian for the color of his skin." 
 
 " * Skin P Such a disagreeable word, skin ! " mur 
 mured his sister in parenthesis. 
 
 " I must say," he continued, " I must say that you 
 show a personal feeling against Mrs. Dering which is 
 quite apart from what you might naturally feel against 
 her mistaken theories and ideas." 
 
BARBARA DERING. 271 
 
 In reply to this daring speech she drew herself quite 
 an inch taller and left the room. After hesitating, for 
 a second, Bransby went to join the group on the sunny 
 lawn. 
 
 He found Barbara trying to prize a katydid from 
 Fair s tense fingers without doing violence to the large- 
 eyed insect. Fair was too deeply interested in baffling 
 her mother s humane attempt to think of protesting in 
 any other way until poor katy was finally rescued, upon 
 which she set up a loud roar, shaping her small mouth 
 to the exact likeness of a tragic-mask and blotting her 
 eyes from sight. 
 
 "Here, Fair, don t cwy, don t cwy !" urged Lois, unable 
 to endure the sight of such anguish. " Here s a cwicket, 
 a bootiful, bwown cwicket." And as Fair stopped 
 short, in the midst of a howl and stared inquiringly 
 through great tear-blobs, Lois extended her pink fist, 
 against which a young grasshopper was bracing his 
 hinge-like legs in a desperate effort to escape. 
 
 It took all of Barbara s witch-like knowledge of 
 child-nature to convince Lois that she was not a cruel 
 mamma and, at the same time, to rouse her pity for the 
 grasshopper which Fair was so anxious to dismember ; 
 but peace reigned at last, and Lois grew absorbed in 
 watching a pretty Alderney heifer that was lying in 
 the shade of a horse-chestnut. 
 
 Presently she said, in a lowered voice, 
 
 "Barbara, what ith the doing?" 
 
 "Euminating, my dear," answered Bransby, who 
 had become anxious of late to appear more interested 
 in his children. 
 
 " Woominating ?" said Lois, her small brow per 
 plexed. " Woominating ? She lookth ath if the were 
 eating herthelf." Whereat Bransby, rather discon- 
 
272 BARBARA D BRING. 
 
 certed, joined a faint note of laughter to the merry peal 
 that came from Barbara and Eunice. 
 
 After a while the children began to beg to go to the 
 corn-house, and Eunice offered to take Fair to her room 
 with her, as she said that the glare was beginning to 
 give her a headache. Bransby decided to join the ex 
 pedition, and the four set off along a pretty path which 
 led through a field of clover. 
 
 The corn-house was a weather-grayed, square struc 
 ture, standing on locust posts near the ice-pond, and 
 through the open slats could be seen the ivory-colored 
 ears of maize slanting nearly against the roof of one 
 side. 
 
 " They look like giants teeth grinning at us," ob 
 served Win, who printed blood-curdling fairy-stories in 
 pencil on the margins of old magazines, much to Mrs. 
 CrosdhTs disgust. 
 
 " Oh, don t, Win ! How horrid !" protested Lois, sid 
 ling closer to Barbara. 
 
 Bransby here undertook to give Win a lesson in 
 literary composition. 
 
 " That isn t what we call a good simile, Winifred, 
 my dear," he said, speaking very distinctly, " because 
 there is nothing that could represent the mouths of the 
 giants. It is quite impossible that the side of a building 
 should remind you of the mouth of a giant." 
 
 Win skipped along cheerful and unimpressed. 
 
 " I wasn t talkin bout mouths ; I was talkin bout 
 teeth. They do look like teeth, don t they, Barbara ?" 
 
 " But people never have but two rows of teeth," ob 
 jected her father, "and, on every ear of corn, there 
 are at least ten. You see you are still exaggerating, 
 my daughter." 
 
 Well, that s the fun of it," exclaimed Win. " Be- 
 
BARBARA DERINO. 273 
 
 sides, Uncle Hezekiah Johnson s got three rows, cause 
 I made him open his mouth an let me see, an it was 
 true !" 
 
 " Ith thplendid to play dentitht with em," added 
 Lois, gravely. 
 
 " To play dentist ?" repeated Bransby. 
 
 " Yeth ; we dig holeth in the gwainth and then fill 
 em with the thilver off of bottleth." 
 
 This almost incomprehensible sentence Barbara had 
 to translate to him, whereat he gave way to a puzzled 
 smile and dropped the subject. 
 
 Inside of the corn-house was a dusty, sweet-smelling 
 gloom, pierced here and there by rays from the bril 
 liant day without. The largo room was divided off at 
 one end, and in the smaller apartment some sitting hens 
 clucked warningly as they entered. The children fell 
 at once into a game of romps, scrambling up the steep 
 and uncertain bank of corn and laughing as they 
 slid back upon the floor with each effort. At first 
 Barbara joined in their fun, but finally grew so warm 
 that she climbed up a ladder which had been placed 
 against one wall and seated herself, with her book in 
 her lap, on a sort of ledge which allowed her feet to 
 rest upon the top of the mound of corn. Bransby fol 
 lowed her and sat down beside her. She had taken off 
 her large straw hat and was fanning herself with it. 
 At each vigorous gust, the tendril-like curls above her 
 forehead lifted themselves on end and gave forth a rich 
 sparkle. 
 
 Her cheeks reddened and paled under her quick 
 heart-beats, and her laughing lips were a little parted. 
 Bransby could feel how wan and meagre he must look, 
 beside this glowing condensation of life and health. 
 He thought, without reserve, that in her girlish pink 
 
274 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 gown, and with the noble curve of her head bare, she 
 was the most beautiful human being that he had ever 
 seen. That magnetism which, for some time past, he 
 had begun to feel, drew him now so powerfully that, 
 without being conscious of it, he moved a little closer 
 to her, along the dusty ledge. 
 
 " Isn t it nice here ?" she asked, gayly, roused by his 
 movements. " I dote on a genuine old Virginian corn- 
 house, don t you ?" 
 
 Bransby gazed at her almost solemnly, and said, in 
 measured tones, 
 
 " It may seem strange to you, but I do not think 
 that I was ever in one before, not even as a child." 
 
 "Poor, poor you! * returned Barbara, shaking her 
 head. " Didn t you think it was right to enter a corn- 
 house ?" she then added, with some mischief. Bransby 
 flushed. 
 
 " I am convinced that you do not credit me with a 
 single natural impulse, Mrs. Dering," he said, stiffly. 
 
 " Not that exactly ; but I do think that you cry to 
 most of them as the cockney s wife in Lear did to 
 the eels when she put them i the paste alive. She 
 rapp d em o the coxcomb with a stick and cry d, 
 1 Down, wantons, down ! " But Bransby did not 
 smile. 
 
 " I consider," he remarked, " that we are put into 
 this world to curb our natural inclinations." 
 
 " And I," returned Barbara, " that we are meant to 
 develop them, in the right direction." 
 
 " Of course I recognize, Mrs. Dering, that our phi 
 losophies diifer widely ; I am a very orthodox man, 
 while you pardon me but indeed I think that you 
 will not deny that you are quite the opposite." 
 
 " Quite," assented Barbara. 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 275 
 
 " Now this pardon me again but I cannot consider 
 this exactly feminine." 
 
 " Of course you mean according to your views of 
 what is feminine, Mr. Bransby." 
 
 " Of course ; but my views are the generally ac 
 cepted views." 
 
 " Oh, no !" Barbara could not help exclaiming. " I 
 don t think that you can quite say that." 
 
 " I should have said, perhaps, that they are the gen 
 erally accepted views among a certain class of people. 
 I really think, Mrs. Bering, that you are your own 
 worst enemy." 
 
 He looked at her anxiously and somewhat depre- 
 catingly, but she was not in the least vexed. She rolled 
 up the flimsy hat and made a little cushion of it to 
 lean her head back upon. 
 
 "I suppose you mean that my views and habits 
 shock some people." 
 
 " "Well er yes," he admitted, nervously. 
 
 " But suppose that they don t shock the people for 
 whose opinions I really care ?" 
 
 " Ah, but sometimes I fear they do ! Now, Bishop 
 Cammersell, for instance " 
 
 " What would you think of me," here interrupted 
 Barbara, " if I told you that I really do not care for 
 Bishop Cammersell s good opinion ?" 
 
 " I could not believe that, Mrs. Dering !" 
 
 " Nevertheless, it is quite true. I think that Bishop 
 Cammersell is timid and conventional and altogether 
 incapable of owning a sturdy original conviction." 
 
 " You pain me very much," said Bransby, in a low 
 ered voice. 
 
 " I am sorry," she replied, " but I should not care for 
 you to grow to like me better, on a false basis." 
 
276 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 " Yes ; your complete honesty is a trait that I always 
 admire," he put in, almost eagerly. 
 
 " And as for always curbing our natural inclinations, 
 I cannot think that God endowed us with longings and 
 emotions only that we should make of life one weary 
 war against them." 
 
 Bransby fixed his eyes upon her kindling face, and 
 gave himself up to the fascination of her rich voice. 
 
 "I would rather live one year fully, freely, richly, 
 and then die, than spend a long, tedious existence of 
 suppressed vitality. Why, it is the great sermon of 
 nature, preached from morning until night, through all 
 living things, whether trees or birds or human beings 
 themselves, that through feeling, and through feeling 
 alone, we reach the highest spirituality. It is only im 
 passioned natures that are capable of martyrdom. If 
 our Lord had not had the very fire of enthusiasm in 
 His soul, He could not have given His life for others 
 upon the cross. It is the pallid, emotionless lives that 
 bring forth nothing. Without motion, great results 
 can never be accomplished, and sensation is the move 
 ment of the soul. The ground must be broken before 
 it can bring forth, mental apathy of all sorts must 
 be disturbed before human beings can produce high 
 results, whether physical or spiritual." 
 
 Bransby continued to gaze at her intently, his eyes 
 gathering a still, absent expression. 
 
 She went on : 
 
 "I think that, in keeping our impulses always 
 crushed and unexpressed, we act like some mothers, 
 who refuse to let their darling boys go to school, and 
 BO instil into them a certain milk of missishness which 
 all the events of after-life can never quite absorb. I 
 think that in being afraid of our passions and emo- 
 
BARBARA DERING. 277 
 
 tions, instead of grasping them firmly and kneading 
 them into the right consistency, we are doing our 
 selves a great wrong, and, so to speak, hiding under 
 napkins such talents as we have." 
 
 Bransby said nothing, and she went on : 
 " For instance, I was thinking about Eunice s beau 
 tiful voice to-day, and lamenting to myself over your 
 dislike of music, and by one of those queer coinci 
 dences which so often happen to me, I picked up this 
 little copy of Plato s Eepublic, and it opened at the 
 pages where Socrates talks with Glaucon about the in 
 fluence of music. I couldn t help contrasting it with 
 the teaching of the Kreutzer Sonata which you so 
 much admire. As I have the book, if you don t mind, 
 I ll read you the bit I m talking of. Here it is : 
 
 " When a man surrenders himself to music and flute-playing, 
 and suffers his soul to be flooded through the funnel of his ears 
 with those sweet and soft, plaintive harmonies of which we just 
 spoke, and spends his whole life in warbling and delighting him 
 self with song, such a man, at the outset, tempers whatever por 
 tion of the spirited element he possesses, and makes it useful 
 instead of brittle and useless : if, however, he relaxes not his de 
 votion, but yields to the enchantment, he then begins to liquefy 
 and waste away, till the spirit is melted out of him and the sinews 
 of his soul are extirpated, and he is made a feeble wielder of the 
 lance. 
 
 " There ! Do you see the vital difference between 
 the two philosophies? One, Tolstoi s, teaches total 
 abstinence, renunciation even of the good in a thing 
 which may become evil, under certain circumstances, 
 the other, that even out of evil good may be expected." 
 
 " Yes, I can see how you look at it," said Bransby, 
 dreamily. 
 
278 BARBARA DERINO. 
 
 " And it is the same thing about the idea of love. 
 The sun is fire, and so is a flame kindled from unclean 
 matter, but the flame consumes, while the sun illumines 
 and brings forth all beauty on the earth, which the 
 wise restraint of nature has placed just near enough to 
 the great orb for us to feel its thrilling moderation 
 without being scorched by its excess!" 
 
 Her heart, burning with thoughts of Eunice s 
 starved life, urged her vehemently forward. 
 
 " When Tolstoi condemns all passionate love between 
 men and women as sensual, surely he does not know 
 in what real love consists. High love, no matter how 
 fiery, never descends into sensuality. It is the great 
 sun blazing in the soul-heaven and kindling into life 
 all exquisite emotions !" 
 
 She stopped, breathless, her eyes glowing, her whole 
 face radiant. All at once she felt that Bransby had 
 his arms about her, that his mouth was just about to 
 touch her own. 
 
 With one swift movement of her strong body she 
 flung him from her so violently that, losing his balance, 
 he fell sidewise upon the heap of corn, and slid noisily 
 and ungracefully to the floor beneath, heralded by the 
 delighted shouts and caperings of the two children, 
 who had rushed in from the other room, on hearing 
 something fall. Barbara, one blaze of furious indigna 
 tion, stood to her full height on the ledge above, and, 
 looking down, saw that Eunice was pausing in the 
 open door-way, outlined by the film of her white gown 
 through which the sun was shining. 
 
 She returned Barbara s gaze steadfastly, and a 
 curious, pale smile broke the grave shadow of her 
 face. It was a smile that expressed, at the same time, 
 immeasurable disgust and a certain deep relief. For 
 
BARBARA DERING. 279 
 
 she felt that now it would be in her power to demand, 
 with reason, those alterations in her life which she had 
 so long desired. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 BARBARA had been at Eosemary for two weeks, and 
 the warm fragrance of June now held the spacious 
 mountain air. As yet she had received no further mes 
 sage from Bering, and a feeling of great depression 
 and loneliness had been gathering in her heart. 
 
 She sat at the open window of her room to-night 
 and wrote in the pages of her journal, now listlessly, 
 now with a sudden vehemence. All during her life, 
 although at long intervals, Barbara, like most imagina 
 tive women, had been given to expressing her moods 
 in verse, and it was in verse that she was writing now. 
 At last she laid aside her pen, and, taking her face be 
 tween her hands, looked down upon the page before 
 her, and moved her head slowly from side to side with 
 an air of sorrowful negation. Large tears followed, 
 falling slowly and with a distinct, soft sound upon the 
 open book. 
 
 The lines were irregular in metre and had a wistful 
 cadence, like the broken murmur of leaves in a night- 
 wind. 
 
 " Dost thou despair, my soul ? 
 
 Looking through Sorrow s glass upon the world, 
 
 Sayest thou all promises are unfulfilled?" 
 
 Within, within the voice speaks clear and high, 
 
 And melancholy sweet : 
 
 " Wouldst thou helieve in perfect human love ? 
 
 Love in that wise ; so comes the promise true. 
 
280 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 Hast thou of friendship a divine ideal ? 
 
 Encloak with such vast generosity 
 
 Some life-chilled fellow-creature, and believe. 
 
 Doth gratitude evade thee? Ah, poor soul, 
 
 Be grateful that such sorrow thou canst feel, 
 
 Because the world lacks friendship, love, ideals, 
 
 And hath no overflow of gratitude, 
 
 To waste on what it cannot touch or see. 
 
 To loving eyes, the invisible, O soul, 
 
 Holds more of beauty and of very God 
 
 Than to eyes scientific starry space entire ! 
 
 The very blindness of aspiring hearts 
 
 More surely draws the unsure, faltering feet 
 
 Towards holy surge of harmonies divine, 
 
 That, in wide circles, hem the distant Throne 
 
 Whereon, forever veiled, sits voiceless Mystery. 
 
 Strive, therefore, in thyself, O mournful soul, 
 
 To realize in all thine own ideals, 
 
 So shalt thou know the capability 
 
 That throbs unborn in life ; 
 
 So shalt thou find all promises fulfilled, 
 
 And no more doubt humanity divine." 
 
 Presently she got up and went out into the warm, 
 purplish dusk of the night. A rich breeze moved in 
 delicate undulations, heavy with the scent of sun- 
 warmed strawberries, of damask roses, of the intangi 
 ble perfume of a fringe-tree, which, in the star-pierced 
 gloom, quivered softly, like a sylvan ghost. 
 
 Low over the sad outline of the hills, the evening 
 star thrilled through the mystic fabric of the night, 
 like the point of a lance of fire. Small white flowers 
 gleamed through the twilight at her feet. From the 
 shadows, on either side, crimson blossoms burned, with 
 a subdued and smouldering splendor. The thicket was 
 full of birds, the air of wings. In the grass was the 
 stir of a subtle and thronging life. 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 281 
 
 Barbara walked slowly, her hands behind her head, 
 her eyes upon the scintillating points of the stars, 
 which shone fitfully through the frail and tremulous 
 foliage of the old acacia-trees. What dreams had 
 come to her under their airy branches ! What hopes, 
 what yearnings, what aspirations ! She drew a deep, 
 unhappy breath, and tried to realize that after all the 
 stars were but as the sands of a golden desert reaching 
 into infinity, not, as she used to imagine, worlds where 
 on lived creatures like herself, to whom, perhaps, came 
 dreamings such as those which haunted her on summer 
 nights of cloud and shine and gently-pausing winds. 
 
 " It cannot be that I am only thirty and that life is 
 over for me," she said, in a low voice, speaking up into 
 the serene vault of air above her. " I cannot think 
 that it is all over." Again tears gathered in her eyes 
 and blotted out the stars. She wandered on and on, 
 and came at last to the low gate, over which a white 
 eglantine festooned itself against the far landscape 
 that resembled, in the wan light, a painting by Puvis 
 de Chavannes. 
 
 There was the same bland reach of luminous, pale 
 sky, the same simple masses of great woods enveloped 
 in a tinted haze, the same ample sweep of faint-hued 
 fields. One could fancy austere and lovely figures, in 
 robes of mellow, faded blues and pinks and saffrons, 
 reaping the white clover, with scythes of light. A 
 mocking-bird was filling the leaf-stirred silence with 
 its delicious clamor. 
 
 It is on such nights as this that loneliness seems pe 
 culiarly dread and unnatural. The whole being cries 
 out for some comprehending soul with which to share 
 such sumptuous loveliness. Barbara lifted her arms 
 and extended them towards the dim horizon-line in 
 
 24* 
 
282 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 that gesture of yearning with which she expressed 
 certain moods. The empty summer air filled her em 
 brace and beat softly against her breast. It seemed to 
 her that no one in all the world could be so lonely, so 
 forsaken, as herself, and then, as she thought that her 
 heart must break for very desolation, she felt herself 
 clasped close, her head bent back, and the pressure of 
 eager lips upon her own. 
 
 "Barbara! Barbara! Barbara!" said Bering, re 
 leasing her and kneeling to put his arms again around 
 her. " Will you forgive me, beautiful, good, splendid 
 Barbara ? And will you be a little sorry for me ? Oh, 
 my wife, my life, how I have missed you! How I 
 have hungered and thirsted for you ! for your unfail 
 ing sympathy, your gentle advice, all your noble 
 self, from head to foot, mind, soul, and body ! If you 
 could only know, if I could only get words to tell 
 you, I think that you would forgive me, would com 
 fort me, would take me back, my one love !" 
 
 Barbara could not speak. She trembled and put her 
 hands upon his thick curls, as he knelt there in the 
 starlight, at her feet. At last she felt that he was 
 waiting for her answer, and managed to stammer, 
 brokenly, 
 
 " I do, I do, dearest ; but I thought I was afraid 
 oh, Jock, I was afraid that you did not care that you 
 would never care any more !" 
 
 She felt his arms tighten convulsively, and he hid his 
 face in the folds of her gown some moments before he 
 spoke again. Then he said, whispering, 
 
 " Darling, I don t think that you ll know your old 
 Jock. He s a very new person in a great many ways." 
 
 " Not in too many ways, I hope, dear," she said, with 
 her kindly-beautiful smile. Then, stooping, she kissed 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 283 
 
 his hair. " A very thin Jock, I m sorry to see," she 
 added, pityingly. "Dearest, tell me, have you been 
 ill ?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing much, nothing serious. I had a slow 
 fever in Japan. Ah, Barbara ! one can do a lot of 
 thinking during a slow fever." 
 
 He got to his feet and put his arm about her. To 
 gether they leaned and looked out at the meditative 
 beauty of the great meadows. They did not say any 
 thing more, for a long while. Then Dering spoke, still 
 in that low, controlled tone, as though afraid of waking 
 some sleeping danger: 
 
 " We must begin all over again, darling, if you will 
 bear with me and forgive me. I think that I have con 
 quered that ugly self of mine. I dare not say that I 
 have, but indeed, indeed, I think I have. And you will 
 help me to struggle with it, in case it ever should come 
 back." 
 
 " And you," said Barbara, her voice thick with tears, 
 " you will be patient with my faults, you will help me, 
 you will forgive me, too." 
 
 "Yes, yes, my darling. I know that you are too 
 great, too wise, too absolutely free from vanity to want 
 me to tell you that you have no faults, but, oh ! Bar 
 bara, compared to mine they are such little, little 
 faults, I feel that if " 
 
 She turned and closed his lips with a shy kiss. 
 
 " You shall not abuse my husband to me," she whis 
 pered. 
 
 Pierced to the heart with her beauty and sweetness, 
 he held her against him for some moments in silence. 
 
 " And I have many plans for work in the world out 
 side, dearest," he said, after a while. " I want to knock 
 out some evil before I am stowed away under the sod. 
 
284 BARBARA DERING. 
 
 You will be glad to hear this, and about women espe 
 cially, about factory-girls. I want to build club-houses 
 for them in the large towns, where they can find rest 
 and recreation." 
 
 " Oh, Jock ! you warm my very soul !" she cried. 
 " How life has changed for me in the last ten minutes ! 
 I thought that I was to be alone, all the rest of my 
 life." 
 
 " And how it has changed for me !" he echoed. " I 
 knew how generous you were. I felt that you would 
 forgive at last, but indeed, indeed, darling, I never 
 hoped that you would take me to your heart at once 
 like this. And are you well, my own ? and the child ? 
 Barbara, what a fiend I was ! You are an angel to 
 forgive me so soon ! And the Bransbys, how are 
 they ? And that dear Mrs. Crosdill " 
 
 Barbara began to laugh and shake back her hair. 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Crosdill was married last Thursday, to 
 Bishop Cammersell, my dear. I have been thinking 
 ever since how you would gloat over that ! She says 
 that it is to be a mother to his nine children, but I 
 fancy that the gentle bishop will find that he has a 
 wife as well !" 
 
 "Well, yes, rather," said Dering, with his drawl. 
 "How the mischief could he put up with her? By 
 gad ! that does beat me." 
 
 " It s like those classic earwigs spoken of so long ago 
 in the pages of Punch. Don t you remember? A 
 little girl is watching them crawl along a bench, and 
 after asking her aunt what they are, she says, Ugh ! 
 how can such horrid things associate with each other? " 
 
 Dering laughed, and then asked how Bransby and 
 Eunice liked the marriage. 
 
 "Oh, he, of course, is ecstatic," rejoined Barbara. 
 
BARBARA DERINQ. 285 
 
 with that expressive curl of her lip. " As for Eunice, 
 it is rather a relief to her, as it will prevent those long 
 visitations which she used to dread so. Dearest Jocko, 
 you will like Eunice more than ever, I am sure. We 
 are closer than ever, and she is growing broader-minded 
 and more splendid in every way, each day that she 
 lives." 
 
 " What lots of good you have done her, my sweet 
 heart !" said Bering, eagerly. " I think every life that 
 touches yours is made better and higher." 
 
 With hands clasped and cheeks together they 
 watched the dull rose-hued edge of the rising moon 
 peer above the violet band of the horizon. In their 
 hearts was that deep stillness which comes with hope 
 that has outlived despair. 
 
 THE END. 
 
RY 
 
 - " " I2mo. 
 
 SSSL 
 
 AUTHOR OP "ALONE," "TRUE AS STEEL," ETC 
 
 " The plot is excellently handled, and the author has given us a 
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 Virginians. Not a few of the lesser characters are admirably touched 
 in, and its several solid qualities give Miss Harland s story a place 
 apart from the numberless machines of tedium which nowadays are 
 labelled novels." London Saturday Review. 
 
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 jealousy and death in by-gone days, this sad, yet winning tale of 
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 gleams of history, laid in a picturesque day and picturesque as its time. 
 In its pages one steps into the fragrant air of a dead century. 
 
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 of costume and customs, furnishings, appointments, conventionalities 
 of hospitality, social ceremonials ; vivid aquarelles of rose-sweet days 
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 and tender hearts will throb with the sad but never broken troth of 
 Evelyn Byrd and Charles Francis Mordaunt, Lord Peterborough, 
 lovers faithful unto death." Cincinnati Commercial Gazette. 
 
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 M12003 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY