yWJWrVsMy^ 
 
 
 
 ' 


 
 I2f PRESS. 
 
 21 2Cc 
 
 By the Author of thig Volume 
 
 ENTITLED 
 
 TASHLENE.
 
 YICTOIEE. 
 
 ttood. 
 
 \ 
 
 He that ruleth his spirit, is greater than he that taketh a city. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 Carle ton ^ Publisher^ 413 Broadway, 
 
 M DCCC LXIV.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, In the year 1864, by 
 
 GEO. W. CARLETON, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
 B. CRAIOHEAP, 
 Printer, Stertoijrper, and Klectrotypsr. 
 
 Carton Lnnitimg, 
 81, 83, and 6S Ctntn Strut.
 
 Al/6 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 THE PARTING, 7 
 
 LES DELICES, 11 
 
 PARIS, . i ' . . . 17 
 
 LOVE, . . . . . . . .. . . 22 
 
 DYING, 27 
 
 A LOVE LETTER, 34 
 
 THE REFUSAL, 39 
 
 VlCTOIRE ON THE OcEAN, . . . 47 
 
 MRS. SKINHER AND A FEW OF HER BOARDERS, .... 51 
 BOARDING-HOUSE LlFE, ........61 
 
 ORSINO, 65 
 
 IMPROPRIETIES, 70 
 
 A LITERARY WOMAN, . . . .*. . . . 79 
 
 ADVERSITY, 94 
 
 THE COMING BACK, . 104 
 
 GETTING WELL, 115 
 
 ANOTHER BOARDING-HOUSE, 122 
 
 VlCTOIRE GOES TO WORK. TRIES HARD TO BE SENSIBLE, . . 133 
 
 MORNA'S STORY, 139 
 
 MORNA, HOPE, AND VlCTOIRE LEAVE THE " COMFORTABLE 
 
 HOME," 152 
 
 OUR NEW NEIGHBOR, MRS. PEACOCK, 161 
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON PEACOCK IN A FIRE, ..... 174 
 
 HENRI ROCHELLE, 188
 
 iv Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 HENRI ROCHELLE'S IDEAL WOMAN, ...... 201 
 
 BEL EDEN, 217 
 
 A MARRIAGE BEFORE THE LAST CHAPTER, 233 
 
 A NEW LIFE JUST BEGUN, 244 
 
 LIFE, 259 
 
 " THINGS WHAT HAPPENS ARE STRANGER NOR ALL THE NOVELS." 
 
 Mrs. Peacock, 277 
 
 AMBROSE MONCRIEFFE, 290 
 
 SOCIETY, 307 
 
 TEMPTATION, 325 
 
 "FREE LOVE," . 344 
 
 HOPE, "... 351 
 
 JEALOUSY AND CONQUEST, ........ 364 
 
 A WEDDING IN THE LAST CHAPTER, 378
 
 VIOTOIBE. 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 IT was a fearful night. I shall never forget it. Without, we 
 heard the tramp of horses, the muffled sound of marching 
 troops, the boom of cannon, the groan of the affrighted and 
 maddened populace. Within, love still reigned, but accom 
 panied by woe and desolation of heart.- " Marie ! my own 
 Marie !" exclaimed my father, " God knows what this costs 
 me ; yet I must leave you ; the people are frantic ; they must 
 have a commander. If I die, be brave as the Spartan women 
 who rejoiced to see husband or son brought back upon his 
 shield when he died for liberty. Only promise me one thing. 
 If I perish, take our children to Les Delices. In Languedoc, 
 where we were so happy, educate them for their country and 
 for God." " I promise," said my mother ; " but you must not 
 die, you shall not die ; I cannot live without you !" " You 
 speak from the heart of love," said my father, with a quiver 
 ing voice ; "yet I know that you would not have me sit here, 
 and not stretch out my hand, nor lift up my voice to save my 
 country." " No !" said my mother. " Go, go ! my beloved." 
 As she spoke, the convulsions which shook her frame told how 
 great was the sacrifice. My father arose to depart. " Oh, 
 Marie ! my Marie ! my precious wife, the joy, the very life 
 of my life, can it be that I shall never see thee more !" he 
 exclaimed, turning back once again and bowing over my 
 mother. " Frederick," he said, turning to my brother ; " my 
 boy, be a blessing to your mother ; be brave, be noble, be 
 true !" " Victoire !" he added, taking me into his arms, 
 holding me close to his breast, " child of my heart, be like 
 your mother !" 
 
 He said no more. The strong form bowed and shook.
 
 8 Victoire. 
 
 Tears, which in such a moment betrayed no weakness, 
 bedewed the faces of his wife and* children. Then followed 
 silence, dread as that in which we watch a pair of beloved 
 eyes close in death. At last he murmured : " It is past I 
 The bitterest drop is tasted ; adieu I my idols ; pensez d moi t 
 adieu /" He lifted his plumed hat and was gone. 
 
 As the door closed, my mother made no sound. The time 
 for tears had passed. Drawing both of her children to her 
 heart, she hastened to a window, and there, amid deepening 
 darkness, looked down upon that most dire of all sights, a 
 people revelling in blood. The great clocks of the city 
 struck the last hour of night ; still she stood in the same spot, 
 her forehead pressed against the cold window-pane, with her 
 children strained to her heart. The day dawned, and she had 
 not stirred, although we, but half conscious of the woe which 
 hung over us, in our childish weariness had fallen asleep. 
 
 The morning awoke without a smile. No gleam of sun 
 shine shot athwart the sullen sky ; through the leaden light 
 we looked down upon a scene full of horror. The mob had 
 spent the night in storming and entering the houses of the 
 nobility. Many mansions were half demolished ; their costly 
 furniture, broken and defaced, lay piled upon the side-walks. 
 The pavements were torn up and formed into barricades. 
 Dead bodies, gory, ghastly, masses of human flesh, were 
 lying thick amid the ruins. Women, with dishevelled hair, 
 wringing their hands, shrieking and moaning piteously, wan 
 dered back and forth amid the dead ; now bending over a 
 wounded man, now holding up a livid corpse, seeking vainly 
 perchance to recognise a beloved face. And still we heard 
 the roar of cannon, the shout of officers, the fierce cries of 
 the mob, mingled with the groans of the dying. 
 
 The conflict was between the nobility and the people. The 
 soldiers were fighting for their king, the people for a phantom 
 which they called liberty. But a little before noon we heard 
 in universal acclaim, the shout " Vive la Republique !" The 
 moment our mother heard this cry, she relinquished her hold 
 upon us, and turned from the window for the first time. 
 " Your father's fate is decided," she said. " I must go and see 
 if he yet lives Frederick, be a brave boy, and take care of 
 your sister." "I will be brave," I cried. "Yes," she 
 answered, " I might have known that you do not fear, you 
 are your father's own child," and kissing us both, she went 
 from the room. In a few moments we saw her slight form 
 threading its way through the mass of rude and frantic beings
 
 The Parting. 9 
 
 below ; we saw her join the mourners who were looking for 
 their dead. With tears in our young eyes, we watched her, till 
 in the vast crowd she was lost to our sight. 
 
 " O, dear !" said Frederick, " what shall we do if dear papa 
 is dead ?" " Do ! we shall kill the wicked men who took his 
 life," I answered, my little heart almost bursting with rage 
 and grief. " That we could not do, Victoire, and if we could, 
 it would be wicked, and it would not bring our dear papa 
 back.'' " No, but I would like to hurt those cruel men just 
 as bad as they hurt him," I answered. tf It would.be wrong, 
 Victoire. Don't you remember mamma read last night about 
 Christ, how He asked His Father to forgive the Jews even 
 when they were piercing him ?" " But I can't ! I can't ask 
 God to forgive these wicked soldiers if they hurt only me, 
 I will ; but if they hurt papa, or mamma, or you, Frederick," 
 I can't ;" and, at the thought, I burst into tears. We sank 
 into silence. The terrible thought had taken possession of 
 us, that we should never see either father or mother more. 
 At last, overcome with grief and weariness, we fell asleep in 
 the window seat, locked in each other's arms. 
 
 We were awakened by the heavy tramp of feet in the halls 
 below. "Dear papa, you have come," I murmured, half 
 aroused from a dream, in which I had been clasped in his 
 arms, and had heard his dear voice again call me his " brave 
 little Victoire." Just then the door opened, and our mother 
 entered. We hastened to meet her, but drew back aghast 
 as we saw the change which had come over her since morn 
 ing. Her garments were soiled and torn ; the veil which she 
 had worn was rent from her head ; her hair fell in dishevelled 
 masses below her waist ; her face was like that of death ; her 
 eyes tearless ancl full of woe. Four soldiers followed her, 
 bearing a body, which we instantly recognised as that of our 
 father. They laid it upon the table, and without a word 
 withdrew, shutting us in with our dead. Our mother's 
 anguish found no relief in tears. She staunched the blood 
 which flowed from his wounds, she lifted the mass of auburn 
 curls from the chill brow ; she clasped the stiff hands, she 
 covered the white face with kisses, but save an occasional 
 groan breathed no sound. Frederick, too, hung over the body, 
 moaning piteously ; but I stood apart and shrieked in pas 
 sionate, terrified grief. Two ideas possessed my soul. My 
 noble father, the idol of my childish heart, my ideal of all 
 beauty and perfection, a few hours before so full of generous 
 life, of living love, was cold and dead ; he could never speak,
 
 io Victoire. 
 
 never gmile upon me more. Mingled with this was a throb 
 bing hate, a tierce desire for revenge toward his murderers. 
 
 When in Paris first sounded the cry of liberty, which pene 
 trated into the very heart of the nation, drawing together the 
 untaught and ardent lovers of their country from every pro 
 vince of France, my paternal grandfather, then in the prime 
 of strength, left his inheritance of vineyards in the vales of 
 lianguedoc, and, hastening to the capital, joined the cause of 
 the people. He was a\rue enthusiast for liberty. He hated 
 the corrupt government which had entailed such a fearful 
 curse upon his native land ; but, unwilling that the unfortu 
 nate Louis, the radiant Antoinette, with their innocent chil 
 dren, should be sacrificed for the crimes of their ancestors,- 
 did all in his power to avert their gloomy fate. This brought 
 upon him the hatred of the Jacobins ; and when Robespierre 
 came into possession of unlimited power, a speedy flight was 
 all that saved him from lying down under the guillotine amid 
 the thousand victims sacrificed to the new republic. He took 
 refuge with his wife and child in America; and here our 
 father, an only child, educated in the principles of a true 
 democracy, grew up to manhood, a warm admirer of the 
 institutions of his adopted country. 
 
 Shortly x after his marriage to an American girl, he was 
 called to France to take possession of the small remnant left 
 of the once large inheritance of his fathers. It was when 
 Napoleon's star was on the wane, before the government was 
 again established, that he arrived in his native country. Not 
 withstanding his aifection for America, he loved the land of 
 his ancestors ; and the hope that he should yet see it a health 
 ful republic induced him to take up his residence in France. 
 He foresaw and awaited the approaching crisis. And when, 
 at last, the long smothered fires of the revolution burst forth 
 anew in 1830, Henri Vernoid, as his father before him, be 
 came a champion for the people. He possessed the tragic 
 energy, the enthusiasm, the chivalrous love of freedom which 
 characterizes peculiarly the sons of southern France. The 
 unison of a logical and disciplined intellect with these charac 
 teristics, eminently fitted him for a commander, and enabled 
 him not only to lead, but to quell, the fury of the turbulent 
 masses. He never used his eloquence to incite them to deeds 
 of blood, but to prompt them to deliberate and temperate 
 action. On the day in which he fell, his presence stilled the 
 wild tumult of the people wherever he went. Amid this 
 labor of love, he received a bayonet wound which caused his
 
 Les Delices. 1 1 
 
 instant death. He was buried with martial honors. Hun 
 dreds of soldiers who, the morning before, would gladly 
 have pierced him to the heart, now that the power was in 
 the hands of the people, followed reverently to the grave the 
 pec-pie's friend. But what was the vast concourse, the lines 
 of soldiery, the martial music, the solemn charge, to the 
 widow and her children ? Proofs only of their utter desola 
 tion. 
 
 In Pere la Chaise, that peerless necropolis, where beauty 
 and valor, where honor and dishonor, the lofty and lowly, 
 find like repose, we buried our dead. 
 
 LES DELICES. 
 
 A month had scarcely passed after our father's death before 
 we found ourselves at Les Delices. If you cross the ocean, 
 you can find it standing aniid ripening vineyards in a delicious 
 valley near where the arrowy Rhone flows into the southern 
 sea. The Cevennes tower above it ; some resting their cheeks 
 of snow upon the farthest sky ; others rising softly below, 
 crowned with furs and girdled with vines. The Rhone, rush 
 ing from rocky fastnesses, pours its waters with mad impetu 
 osity into the lap of this tranquil valley. On its banks, far 
 as the eye can reach, you may see magnificent chateaux, pic 
 turesque cottages, and blossoming vineyards. The river is 
 instinct with life. White-winged boats are for ever flitting 
 by, while the boatman's song and the boatman's call make 
 the music of its night and of its day. 
 
 Les Delices, half chateau, half cottage, with a single red 
 turret, an overhanging roof and verandah, stands at the base 
 of a mountain upon an eminence sloping down to the Rhone. 
 Above it, upon the mountain side, the firs of Languedoc 
 extend their great arms of shade. A cascade, leaping from 
 a lofty gorge breaking upon the rock-ledges at its side, falls 
 a rapid stream, watering the vineyard below. Manifold vines 
 fasten to the low verandah, and, striving upward, cling with 
 their delicate festoons and blossoms around the ruddy neck 
 of the turret. Bountiful trees shade the lawn down to the 
 river's brink ; fountains play with a dreamy lull amid their 
 shadows ; quaint seats, arbors girdled with flowers, calm-faced 
 statues, rest under their far-spreading boughs, perfect ideals 
 of beauty and repose. At the /entrance of the green arcade
 
 12 Victoire. 
 
 leading to the house, a marble Ceres, garland-crowned, her 
 white arms over-flowing with pallid fruits, offers welcome to 
 all who enter the precinct of Les Delices. 
 
 In this perfect abode, in spite of our own grief and the 
 woe-smitten face of our mother, we began to grow happy. 
 Ours was the elastic heart of childhood, in which the sunshine 
 of to-day absorbs the grief of yesterday. Only children, we 
 were unconscious of the desolation which the sight of Les 
 Delices brought to our mother's heart. Our father had 
 adorned it with especial reference to her love for the beauti 
 ful. Here she spent the first years of her wedded life, which 
 passed an unbroken dream of happiness. She left it, a proud 
 and happy woman, with every earthly wish gratified in her 
 noble husband and infant children. Now she had come back 
 a widowed mother, a broken-hearted mourner, reminded at 
 every step of the idolized dead. She taught us to believe 
 that he was not far away, that he still loved and watched 
 over his children, till gradually the horror connected with his 
 violent death wore away, and our father became to us a spi 
 ritual friend unseen, smiling upon our childish sports, and 
 kissing our little brows amid our sweet night visions. Our 
 mother gave us all the vintage time in which to recruit our 
 health and spirits. Hand in hand, Frederick and I wandered 
 through the vineyards, assisting the merry peasants to gather 
 their delicious harvest. When the day was closing we would 
 go to the village green, not far away, to watch their evening 
 dance. There was no feasting nor drunkenness. Aged peo 
 ple and children in neat attire sat under the trees, while 
 youths and maidens in holiday dress danced and saug upon 
 the sward, blithe as birds in their native air. 
 
 But these glad days rapidly fled. The vintage was gathered. 
 Fierce winds swept through the valley. The voice of music 
 and of dancing was heard only by cottage hearths. And 
 Frederick and I sat busy with our books, by our mother's 
 side, in our beautiful but lonely home. She was fully compe 
 tent to superintend our education. To her quick and reten 
 tive mind, study had ever been a pastime. She loved know 
 ledge for itself, for the vast world of thought which it opened 
 to her intellectual vision. And her daily life was a contradic 
 tion of the false assertion that the highest intellectual deve 
 lopment unfits woman for domestic duty ; for no art had she 
 mastered so perfectly as the beautiful one which enabled her, 
 at all times, to make a happy home. Our mother gave us a 
 portion of every day to wander about at our will. In these
 
 Les Delices. 13 
 
 hours I forgot all the trouble I had had with my studies, for 
 got all my naughty tempers, forgot everything in the exube 
 rant joy which seemed to overflow in every heart-throb. We 
 wandered through the vineyards and forests; climbed the 
 rock sides after the pale flowers which grew in their mossy 
 clefts. But our favorite retreat was a small grove of firs, 
 which from one side of Les Delices stretched down to the 
 Rhone. Here upon rude seats we would sit and gaze upon 
 the river far up and down the valley ; upon the mountains 
 which soared above us, till their silvery summits seemed to 
 melt away in the soft heavens. 
 
 To this retreat Frederick would bring a book, occasionally 
 fe'eding his eyes upon the glory'around him. To me books 
 were a mockery. Beneath a tranquil sky, in the fragrant air, 
 the insatiable demand of my nature for harmony was grati 
 fied. I was a child, and could not analyse my satisfaction. 
 I did not know that in nature I beheld embodied the half- 
 defined yet all-pervading idea of the Beautiful which haunted 
 my childish brain. The many changes of the sky, the tints 
 upon the clouds, the outline of every mountain, the hue of 
 every flower, the light and shadow upon the foliage every 
 phase of the sublime picture which nature each day presented 
 to my childish eyes, was as familiar to me as my mother's 
 face. Within our home were a few rare works of art. The 
 portraits of my father and mother, and the exquisite statue 
 of a young girl, kneeling, clasping a wayside cross, her pure 
 face uplifted to heaven, were my especial delight. Indeed, I 
 never wearied in gazing upon them, and they grew upon my 
 soul until they became a part of its being. 
 
 Amid the joy which I felt in studying them was born the 
 desire to produce something which should be their kin. 
 Could I not give a tangible form to the vague images of 
 beauty which were for ever shifting before my mental vision ? 
 Many, many times I asked this question, until, one day, in 
 the excitement of feeling, I resolved to try. I endeavored 
 to draw the outline of the scene before my window, and, to 
 my delight, succeeded beyond my hopes. I carried the rude 
 sketch to my own little room, there to complete it at my 
 leisure. And when, at last, it was finished, to my childish 
 eyes it was the fac-simile of the mountains, the river, the val 
 ley, which lay outside our door. A new delight was now 
 open to rne, all the more keenly enjoyed because enjoyed in 
 secret. For I had resolved to say nothing of my new art 
 until I had produced something which should command the
 
 14 Victoire. 
 
 unbounded admiration of my mother and brother. Child 
 though I was, I made everything bow to my new object. I 
 performed my allotted tasks with great alacrity, in order to 
 gain time for the beloved employment. At such an hour of 
 every day, with throbbing heart and winged feet, I flew to 
 my little sanctuary, and there, with leaden pencil upon broken 
 cards, vainly attempted to portray the gorgeous skies, the 
 purple landscape, the airy palaces, and the lovely faces 
 which brightened my sleeping and waking visions. Sketch 
 after sketch was added to my treasures. Each day, as I took 
 them from their hiding-place, holding them before my eyes in 
 every possible light and shade, I was intoxicated with delight. 
 They were not so much the objects of my admiration as of 
 my affection. I loved them all. Each was connected with 
 some cherished thought, each the palpable form which I had 
 given to the beautiful ghost of the ideal. 
 
 Spring came with redundant and ecstatic life ; summer, in 
 voluptuous glory ; and each season brought a joy to my 
 life which it had never brought before. I had become a 
 deeper student of nature. With the eye of an artist I watched 
 the sun in scarlet, white, and violet flame, ascend above the 
 dusky arch of the mountains watched the cloud-armies mar 
 shal their hosts upon the blue plains of ether. When they 
 rushed together at the zenith, and, from the blackness of 
 darkness, sent their forked lightnings into the heart of the 
 valley; when their thunders, leaping from the parapets of 
 heaven, shook the foundations of the defiant hills, my whole 
 nature expanded, the storm carnival seemed to make me 
 great. After my mother had given me her good-night kiss, 
 and ma bonne, bonne Nanette had tucked me securely in my 
 crib, telling me that if I dared to open my eyes again, the 
 fairies would drag me up the mountain and shut me in a cave, 
 where I could cry for ever and never be heard, I only waited 
 fon the last click of her wooden shoes to break my cerements 
 and escape to the window, to find the twilight and the night 
 to watch the moonlight sheen flowing over mountain and 
 valley the myriad stars shimmering up from the dark face 
 of the river, or glittering in a million points of fire on the 
 white crests of the mountains. 
 
 There was no picture to me so beautiful as my mother's 
 face, as I saw it every day before me in its chastened loveli 
 ness. I was never weary of gazing upon the white brow, 
 shaded with waves of brown hair ; upon the hazel eyes, in 
 which shone so serene a light; upon the mouth, in whose
 
 Les Delices. 15 
 
 exquisite curves trembled so sweet a smile. " When I can 
 draw the perfect outline of her face, then she shall know my 
 secret," I said to myself, while vainly attempting to convey 
 it to paper. 
 
 " Why do you look at me so earnestly, my child ?" she in 
 quired one day, as she lifted her eyes from a book which she 
 was reading in the open air. I was lying at a little distance 
 from her, under a tree, gazing intently into her face. " For 
 nothing much, mamma," I answered, embarrassed to have 
 my scrutiny observed. " There was a purpose in your look. 
 Come here, Victoire." I reluctantly obeyed, vainly endea 
 voring to hide from sight the pencil and cards which I held 
 in my hands. The anticipated exultation which was to attend 
 the denouement of my secret I did not realize. I began to 
 tremble at the thought of exposing my rude attempts to my 
 mother's cultivated eye. " This little heart is throbbing with 
 some hope which it dare not breathe, even to its best friend," 
 she said, as she drew me tenderly to her. 
 
 I could never withstand the sweetness of my mother's man 
 ner. Every doubt died at the first sound of her melodious 
 voice. " Let me go ! Let me go ! mamma, only a minute," 
 I exclaimed, bursting from her embrace. I ran for my trea 
 sures, and in a moment returned to pour them all into her lap. 
 I could not interpret every emotion which passed over her 
 face, as she gazed at them one by one ; but at last was cer 
 tain that I read pleasure, unmistakable pleasure, in her eye. 
 Yet she only said : " Do you like to draw, Victoire ?" "Oh, 
 yes, mamma ; you must know that I do !" " I am glad that 
 you are fond of it. I will give you lessons every day, if you 
 please." " Will you, dearest mamma ?" I exclaimed ; " Will 
 you teach me; and may Frederick learn too? Oh, how hap 
 py we shallbe?" And with these words upon my lips, I 
 bounded away in search of my brother. 
 
 I sang aloud for joy, as I ran on toward the little grove 
 of firs where of late I had left him to spend many of his 
 afternoons alone. I discovered him under one of the trees, 
 and without waiting to reach his side, in my enthusiasm, 
 exclaimed : " Frederick ! I have learned to draw ! Mamma 
 says that I shall take lessons every day. Who knows but 
 that I can learn to paint pictures as beautiful as those which 
 hang in the parlor ? Who knows but that I may go to Italy 
 some day, and paint pictures which will live for ever !" Here 
 I had reached my climax, and was obliged to stop. Frede 
 rick looked amazed at my sudden appearance and strange
 
 16 Victoire. 
 
 proclamation, but answered presently: "Have you learned 
 to draw, Victoire ? I am glad. And if you live, and have 
 resolved to be, I am sure that you will become, a great 
 painter." There was nothing in his words, but something in 
 his tone, which made me look in his face to see how he felt. 
 He looked pale and sad. And a pang of remorse shot 
 through my heart when I remembered that I had spoken 
 only of myself, while my noble and gentle brother, also, had 
 hopes and aspirations dear to his soul as were mine to me. 
 
 " Frederick, what are you going to be when you get to be 
 a man ?" I suddenly asked. " I cannot tell," he said ; " life 
 does not flow as proudly through my veins as yours ; but if 
 I am never great, I hope that I may be good." " You will 
 be both," I said, as I looked into his eyes and threw my arms 
 around his neck. Heavy masses of chestnut curls clustered 
 around the pure, high brow. A crimson flush played upon 
 his cheek. His eyes, of limpid grey, grew luminous with an 
 unuttered thought. 
 
 " Frederick," again I asked, " what would you like to be ?" 
 " Like to be !" he murmured, as if to himself; " I would like 
 to be an orator. One to startle, to move, to sway human 
 masses by the pathos of my voice and the poetry and gran 
 deur of my thought. Then I would wake all who heard me 
 to a love of truth, to a worship of the beautiful, to enthusi 
 asm for virtue, a devotion to duty, an undying faith in their 
 own immortality." Pie had forgotten himself, forgotten all, 
 save the grand idea which absorbed him. His eyes seemed 
 to emit a divine fire ; his slight frame expanded, his whole 
 being was inspii-ed. I could hardly believe it to be Frede 
 rick, my quiet, my gentle brother. But, as he concluded, the 
 glow faded from his cheek ; his eyes assumed their wonted . 
 soft expression. " You will think me very vain, Victoire ; 
 but ypu asked me what I would like to be." " And what 
 you will be, Frederick," I said, again folding my ai'ms around 
 his neck and covering his face with kisses. " I know that 
 you will be both great and good." 
 
 From that hour, for his sake, I became interested in 
 Demosthenes and Cicero, in Homer and Virgil ; while he 
 was only too ready to appreciate and to commend the crude 
 sketches of my pencil. Our hours of recreation . were too 
 short in which to discuss our hopes and plans for the future. 
 The days glided happily away till Frederick reached his 
 eighteenth and I my fifteenth birthday. 
 
 " I am weak in delaying to speak to you upon an import- 
 
 I
 
 Paris. 1 7 
 
 
 
 ant subject," said our mother, one day in early autumn. 
 " We have spent so many happy days in this valley, I dread 
 the thought of leaving it; yet it is necessary that we. go." 
 Frederick and I started in astonishment. Both answered in 
 a breath : " Why must we leave it ? why go from our beau 
 tiful home ?" " Because it is for your highest good. Frede 
 rick needs the discipline of the Academy. He needs to come 
 in contact with the actual world. And you, Victoire, need 
 the instructions of a master in your art." " O mamma !" I 
 exclaimed, " I shall be so happy ! Can we go ?" " Yes, you 
 shall go, my child,'' she said, smiling at the sudden change 
 which had come over me. Both exclaimed : " But when 
 shall we go ?" " As soon as possible. Before winter comes 
 we must be housed in Paris." Now came the busy days of 
 preparation. Upon Frederick's brain and mine dawned such 
 visions of promise we almost wondered to see tears gather in 
 our mother's eyes whenever our departure was mentioned. 
 But when the last day at Les Delices came; when all my 
 treasures had been taken from their sacred nooks; when, 
 instead of cherished paintings and beloved furniture, I saw 
 bare walls and desolated rooms ; when I bade good bye to 
 the cloud-crowned mountains ; to the Rhone, to the garden, 
 the grove of firs where so many sunny dreams had been 
 born so intense was my girlish grief I would gladly have 
 sacrificed my visions of Parisian life to have lived over again 
 the days of my just departed childhood. 
 
 PAKIS. 
 
 In the very heart of its tumultuous life, in the Rue St. 
 Honore, towered the gloomy dwelling which we now called 
 home. To us, who had basked so long in the soft airs of 
 vine-clad Languedoc, it seemed a very prison. The dingy 
 walls, the narrow windows, presented a gloomy contrast to 
 the bright, frescoed rooms of the home which we had left. 
 The windows of the parlor opened into a tiny court paved 
 with rude mosaics. In its centre stood a mouldy fountain 
 whose basin was fringed /with a narrow border of myrtle and 
 violets. But my eye had so long been accustomed to the broad, 
 tree-shaded, river-zoned lawn of Delices, with its statues, its 
 fountains, its aromatic flowers, its sun-lighted nooks, I could 
 see no beauty in this meagre little court. But how soon 
 
 2
 
 i8 Victoire. 
 
 every gloomy impression vanished ; how soon beauty blos 
 somed around us ; how soon the old rooms grew full of a 
 soft light, filled with an infinite grace beneath the touch of 
 our mother's hand and the illuminations of our mother's 
 smile. Beloved paintings looked upon us again. My snowy 
 statuette the young girl clasping the wayside cross once 
 more greeted me when I came. The crimson curtains, which 
 used to attemper the scintillations from the crystal armors of 
 the hills, now lent a rosy flush to the sombVe walls. A warm 
 carpet glowed beneath our feet. Bright fires danced in the 
 newly-polished grate. There was warmth, and beauty, and 
 cheer ; there was love in our home. 
 
 Almost immediately after our arrival in Paris, Frederick 
 entered the Academy, and I the studio of Monsieur Savone, 
 an eminent artist. He was a grand old man, with a soul full 
 of enthusiasm for all that is beautiful and good. His life had 
 been consecrated to art. He had studied the beautiful in 
 every form, both in foreign lands and in his own. My pas 
 sion for painting won a place for me in his heart. He knew 
 every fine picture in Paris, and resolved that my young eyes 
 should feast upon the glorious productions of the masters. 
 With delight I revert to those enchanted days when, with 
 throbbing heart and trembling steps, I wandered with my 
 master through the galleries of the Tuileries and of the Lou 
 vre. There I gazed upon the miraculous conceptions of 
 sculptor and painter. There I beheld the embodiment of my 
 own most glorious imaginings. Yet the divine forms and 
 faces filled me with pain. They filled me with an insatiate 
 longing, with an undying purpose to produce forms of beauty 
 which, like them, would be immortal. This thought possessed 
 me wholly, nerving me to ceaseless foil by day, filling all my 
 dreams at night. 
 
 Thus the winter passed, and I had no eyes to see that our 
 mother was often silent, and sometimes sad. Spring came, 
 aud I had ceased to pine for the green vales, for the purple 
 vines, for the mountains, the river, the sunshine of Langue- 
 doc. In the tumult, the pride, the glory of the world's metro 
 polis, I found that which seemed to feed my restless, ambi 
 tious spirit. I had ceased to despise the little court, with 
 its dingy mosaics and mouldy fountain. It seemed pleasant 
 now. 
 
 As the twilights lengthened almost every evening, Frede 
 rick and I wandered to the Champs Elysees. 
 
 There we sat one evening in June. We had wandered to
 
 Paris. 19 
 
 L'Arc de Triomphe d'Etoile. Both were weary, and one 
 was sad. It was Frederick. He sat with his head resting 
 upon his hand, and at last sighed so heavily I started with 
 fear. " Why are you so sorrowful, Frederick ?" I said, taking 
 both his hands in mine. " My sorrow is yours, Victoire ; 
 have you noticed our mother of late ?" "Not particularly ; 
 why ?" " Have you not seen how pale she has grown ? how 
 her strength has failed ? Victoire, she will not stay with us 
 long." " Frederick, it cannot be ! You are ill yourself, and 
 imagine this." Passionately as I loved my mother, her very 
 existence did not seem so completely a part of mine as it did 
 that of Frederick. He not only knew, but felt every change 
 which passed over that beloved face. His exquisite organiza 
 tion was so keenly alive to the most subtle influences of joy 
 and of sorrow, it was not strange that he had noticed a 
 change which had escaped my observation. His words smote 
 my soul. I had not thought it possible that my mother could 
 die. To me she seemed already immortal. Her life had en 
 tered into all my plans. In my dreams she had gone with 
 me to foreign lands, had dwelt with me in a home filled with 
 luxury and beauty. I had won laurels, and she had placed them 
 upon my brow. Her soft hand had held me in the narrow 
 way; her heavenly eyes, ever uplifted to the sky, had reminded 
 me always of the abode of the blessed. And now the thought 
 that she might die, might die soon, how terrible ! " Frede 
 rick," I said, " let us go ;" and, without a word, we arose to 
 retrace our steps. It was a sibylline night. Mystery shone 
 in the eyes of the stars ; the very air seemed prescient of sor 
 row. The young moon, like a stranded wreck, lay on the 
 western shore of the sky ; while above it Venus waved her 
 flaming torch. The trees stood motionless ; every leaf and 
 spray, perfectly defined, laid its dark tracery on the ground ; 
 the lapse of fountains and the slumbrous hum of insects filled 
 the air with subdued monotones. The spell which rested 
 upon the world did not suit my mood. Blackness of dark 
 ness would ha-ve pleased me better than the placid beauty, 
 the brooding calmness of this night. 
 
 As we drew near our dwelling, we saw a person in white 
 standing in one of the long windows which look out upon 
 the court. It was our mother awaiting our return. In a 
 moment we were in her arms. " The evening has been long, 
 my dear ones," she said, folding us closely to her heart. 
 " You'must be weary ; sit down and rest." She sat down in 
 the open window, and we took a low sezft upon either side,
 
 2O Victoire. 
 
 as had been our wont from earliest childhood. In silence we 
 looked out upon the petit court. The old fountain was show 
 ering its diamonds into the heart of the pansies, the mosaics 
 glistened in the wan light, while a single tree, with its garni 
 ture of young leaves, threw a deep shadow over all. Amid 
 the calm, my heart throbbed wildly ; but I stifled its throes, 
 while I looked steadily into my mother's face. Its attenuated 
 outline, its transparent whiteness, the fearfully dazzling eye, 
 the shortened breath why had I not thought of these 
 before ? Alas ! I found the answer in the selfishness of my 
 own self-contained nature. Our mother, too, seemed to strug 
 gle to be calm. She clasped Frederick's hand and mine toge 
 ther, and pressed both to her heart. At last she spoke, and 
 her words came quick, as if impatient for utterance. " This 
 air stifles me. It consumes me. I cannot live in Paris. I 
 cannot forget the past. In these streets I see only a maddened 
 people, hear only the tramp of troops, the clash of swords, 
 the roar of cannon, the shrieks of the wounded and dying. 
 Again I lift the gory locks from the brow of my beloved ; I 
 bear him in his blood to my bereft home and orphaned chil 
 dren. Amid these scenes I live ; do you wonder that my 
 heart is broken ! that I am dying ? I cannot live in Paris !" 
 Slie soon regained her composure ; and still holding our 
 hands in hers, she opened to us her heart. "I have long 
 dreaded this hour," she said; "for I felt that you were un 
 prepared for it. I fear that it has never entered your mind 
 that the time is near when you will be motherless. Your 
 father's death gave me a shock from which 1 have never 
 recovered. I staunched the bleeding, but the wound has never 
 healed. I felt that I must live for your sake, and for years 
 the power of will has seemed sufficient to sustain life. At Les 
 Delices everything reminded me of the happiest hours of my 
 life. Here all reminds me of its own woe ! I feared the 
 consequences of coming to Paris, and the result has been 
 worse than my fears. I came for your sakes, and I am glad 
 that I came, for you have received great profit from your 
 advantages. I feel that it is my destiny to die in Paris, and 
 to lie down by your father's side. I have almost reached the 
 verge of the grave. Only for you I mourn. I would love to 
 walk with you through life, yet I am grateful that I have 
 lived long enough to see your characters formed, to see you 
 almost ready to step forth into the world, full of courage and 
 hope, believing and trusting in God as your father." Thus 
 bhe spoke amid our* bursting sobs.
 
 Paris. 21 
 
 In the morning she wore her usually sweet exterior, and 
 greeted us with her wonted smile. I entreated permission to 
 remain with her, and so did Frederick. " No," she said ; 
 " No ; I do not need you. I would have you improve your 
 time until I do." With heavy hearts we went to our differ 
 ent scenes of study. For the first time in my life, Art yielded 
 me no satisfaction. There were pictured faces around me 
 upon which I had never gazed before without feeling a thrill 
 of delight in every nerve, but on that day they had no power 
 to charm. One thought possessed me. My mother must die. 
 I tried to banish it, tried to hope, but in vain. There was 
 something in her looks, in her tones something in my own 
 soul which whispered : " Your mother will die." 
 
 The banquet of summer ended. The garlands upon her 
 crown withered. Autumn pierced the heart of nature, and it 
 bled. She hung a veil of ensanguined mist over the face of 
 the sun ; she changed the sapphire heavens to amber ; she 
 filled the air with slumbrous melody ; filled the universe with 
 a dreamy glory, beautiful yet sorrowful to behold. Then our 
 mother died. Yet to her came not death, but transition. 
 Most tranquil, most placid was her passage. God gave Hia 
 beloved sleep. For months I could not arouse myself to 
 the slightest action. "*I have no mother," was the thought 
 which possessed me. Then every omission, the little acts of 
 love which I had left unperformed, the thousand tender words 
 of love which I might have spoken, arose like fiends to fill 
 me with torment. I thought that my ambition was dead. / 
 never again could be "so deeply interested in life as I had 
 been in the past. I did not know how hard it is to still the 
 bounding joy of a young and buoyant heart. In tides of 
 anguish life will roll in upon the soul ; but anon it flows back 
 again into the deep, broad channels of joy. It was thus with 
 me. As months rolled away, my anguish lost its poignancy. 
 I thought less of my own loss, more of my mother's gain. 
 Unconsciously I again became interested in my old pursuits. 
 My joy was chastened, my ambition tempered, yet life was 
 all before me. I could not sink supinely. Nothing would 
 have grieved my mother more. I was only seventeen.
 
 22 Victoire. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 A year went by, and yet the old light had not cotrfe back 
 to Frederick's face. He was not gloomy ; but in the deep 
 irides of his eyes I saw a world of unspoken sorrow, saw such 
 a look of want, such a look of longing, it often filled my eyes 
 with tears to look at him. Unlike most young men of his 
 age, he had no gay companions. I was aware of his having 
 but a single intimate friend. During our mother's life, Frede 
 rick had not seemed to need even his society ; but now he 
 often came and spent his evenings in our quiet, parlor. Henri 
 Rochelle was a number of years Frederick's senior. He was 
 a student of medicine, and, Frederick told me, distinguished 
 in the academy for his superior scholarship and faultless cha 
 racter. I remember him as a finely formed man, with a cold 
 face and a composed mien, calmly discussing by the hour the 
 most abstruse scientific and metaphysical themes. His dis 
 course had no personal interest to me. I never listened. I 
 was glad to have him come because he interested Frederick. 
 But, quietly sewing in one corner, I busied myself with my 
 own dreams. 
 
 One fact impressed me strangely. After his departure 
 Frederick always seemed more than usually depressed. Henri 
 Rochelle always seemed to leave a shadow behind him which 
 fell upon Frederick's heart. It was a mystery to me, for 
 Frederick seemed warmly attached to Rochelle, and, notwith 
 standing the after shadow, sought his company unceasingly. 
 If he had a sorrow apart from our mutual one, I resolved to 
 find it out. Heretofore there had been no reserve between us. 
 One had held no secret which the other had not shared. But 
 there was one now, I knew. I thought that it must be some 
 thing in connexion with his university life, and began to 
 question him minutely of his experience as a student. In 
 reply, he said : " I find that very few young men have had so 
 little contact with the jostling, every-day world ; very few 
 who have always found their highest happiness in the society 
 of a beloved mother. She well knew that there was nothing 
 I needed so much as to pass through a hardening process in 
 order to acquire a little more manhood. It has been a hard 
 task. I am not manly now in my classmates' sense of the 
 term. They ridicule me because I know nothing of their dis 
 sipated mode of life. They despise me because I will not 
 
 join them in their revels. Many of them glory in their infi-
 
 Love. 23 
 
 delity, and scorn me because I love and strive to serve my 
 mother's God. But, if I fail in everything else, the tender 
 conscience which she guarded so long I shall seek to carry 
 into her presence unstained. I have but one friend ; Henri 
 Rochelle I love as a brother." He laid his cheek against 
 mine ; it was hot ; there was fever in his veins ; there was a 
 strange fire in his eyes quivering^ out from under the almost 
 transparent lids. 
 
 " You have not told me all," I said. " The students may 
 annoy you. But there is a sorrow lying deeper in your heart. 
 A new shadow has fallen upon your life. What is it? 
 you have ever trusted me, Frederick !" " Trust you ? Vic- 
 toire, I trust you as I do no other creature. But why con 
 fess all my weakness ? You are too strong to feel it ; you 
 cannot understand it." " Don't talk of my strength, Frede 
 rick. Remember, I have not been tried. My weakness has 
 not been gauged ; and, for understanding, have you ever had 
 a sorrow that I did not feel ?" He did not answer, but the 
 chestnut curls shuddered closer against my cheek. 
 
 At last he spoke, and every word came low and slow, as if 
 born with a pang down deep in his heart : " Henri Rochelle 
 has a sister. She is the embodiment of my life-long dream 
 one for whose sake I would willingly be blind to the rest of 
 the universe, could I behold her before my eyes for ever. 
 There, Victoire, you have it my weakness, my sin." 
 
 I was not prepared for such a revelation. What sister 
 ever is ? I supposed that I was all the world to Frederick ; 
 and was annoyed, chagrined, to find myself mistaken. A 
 spasm of jealousy curdled my heart at the thought of a rival. 
 My father and mother in heaven, my art, my brother upon, 
 earth, absorbed the world of my affection. My deeper nature 
 had never been touched. 
 
 As I look back to my then undeveloped heart, I wonder 
 that I could sympathize with Frederick at all. I did so from 
 intuition, not from experience. I had implored his confidence. 
 I would not recoil from it now. " Why is it a sin to^love one 
 who is lovely ?" I asked. "If I could see this lady I presume 
 that I should love her myself. At least I should wish to 
 paint her picture. Does she love you, Frederick ?" 
 
 Again I felt the curls quiver against my cheek as he an 
 swered : " I know not. I only know that her eyes follow 
 mine for ever, and her soul is in her eyes. But it is madness, 
 it is sin. She is the affianced of another. In one month she 
 will be a wife, and to me the thought is hell."
 
 24 Victoire. 
 
 " But why ? If you love eacH other, why must she marry 
 another ?" 
 
 " It is the old tragedy, Victoire ; the old tragedy which 
 has been acted over and over since the world began. The 
 father sells his child for gold, heedless that he sacrifices a 
 living heart. Day and night she implores her mother to 
 intercede with her father t% save her from a man whom she 
 loathes. But he is rich ; he belongs to the nobility. Her 
 father is unrelenting. There is no hope." 
 
 For the first time Frederick's sorrow was beyond the reach 
 of my healing. It had struck deeper than I could penetrate. 
 Of the pain of a love-wounded heart I knew nothing. My plea 
 sures were purely aesthetic. My worshipping nature was con 
 tent to adore the divine beings which sprang into passionless 
 life beneath the creative hand of genius. ' Yet my very igno 
 rance made me tender. I respected an emotion which I could 
 not fathom. Long, long I pillowed that dear head upon my 
 heart. How I loved him ! 
 
 The day for the annual distribution of prizes in the Acade 
 my had come. Frederick, among the first scholars of his 
 class, was to pronounce an oration. Nobility, royalty, the 
 genius, the beauty of the capital had assembled. I had eyes 
 but for two Frederick and Beatrice Rochelle. She entered 
 the hall with her brother. I recognised her instantly. How 
 could I help it ? She had a face which is seen but once in a 
 life-time. Her eyes were liquid, lustrous, sad. The concen-. 
 trated life of a soul, its love, its longing, its unfathomed yet 
 immortal mystery, all seemed concentrated in those prophetic 
 orbs. Young, I had only to look at her to see that her heart 
 had outlived her years. No pang of jealousy stifled the 
 pulses of my heart while I gazed upon her. Rather I longed 
 to fold her to my heart, to call her " sister," to tell her I 
 would love her for ever. 
 
 From her my eyes turned to Frederick ; and, while I gazed 
 upon him, I involuntarily stretched out my hand as if to 
 break the barrier which kept asunder two beings whom the 
 gods had created for each other. He leaned against a statue 
 of Apollo, a breathing incarnation of more th^n Apollo's 
 beauty. He belonged to that rare order of men who are 
 beautiful without being effeminate. His was the exquisite out 
 line, the effulgent beauty of the Greek. He dwelt in a taber 
 nacle of etherial clay, which, while it shrouded, still emitted 
 the spiritual fire burning within the soul's shekinah. It seemed
 
 Love. 25 
 
 to surround his person with an effluence of light ; it hovered 
 about his brow, a visible panoply of superhuman glory. 
 
 The stiff declamations, the noisy eloquence of his compa 
 nions had ended. As he stepped forth upon the rostrum my 
 breath seemed suspended. Every nerve was strained to its 
 utmost tension ; my very life seemed to depend upon his tri 
 umph. His voice rose clear as jt^ie fine ring of a silver 
 trumpet soft as the sigh of a lute. Up ! up ! it went 
 through the fretted arches, up to the arabesque dome. So 
 soft, so searching, so sweet it was, it was easy for me to ima 
 gine that a god was speaking. His theme was : " Represen 
 tative Men of France." He presented Fenelon and Mirabeau 
 in contrast, types of one race in different eras. Mirabeau, in 
 his shaggy strength, his lion greatness, he portrayed in lan 
 guage strong as the soul whose fiery lineaments he depicted. 
 
 When he spoke of Fenelon his voice softened. His words, 
 in their silvery flowing, became melodious as the life whose 
 story they told. He compared the great powers of the uni 
 verse Intellect, Will, Soul. The supremacy of spirit over 
 matter. He became enthusiastic. His features seemed trans 
 figured. Light, such as I never saw before upon a human 
 face, hovered around his but only for an instant. The raised 
 hand fell. The poised form staggered. There was a gurgling 
 sound, and blood, blood, burst from mouth and nostril in a 
 crimson torrent. The soul was too strong for its casket a 
 blood-vessel had broken. 
 
 I cannot describe the scene which ensued. I indistinctly 
 remember the confusion, the groans and cries of the audience. 
 I only know that in a moment my brother was in my arms, 
 and that Beatrice Rochelle was by my side, amid the crowd 
 who had rushed to his assistance. Henri Rochelle was there 
 also. His strong arms bore Frederick from the hall ; he 
 helped support the litter upon which he was borne to our 
 home. " Ride with my sister," he said to me ; and he gently 
 led me to a carriage. In a moment I was by the side of 
 Beatrice. We had no introduction. We needed none. Little 
 she knew how well I knew her. Involuntarily I laid my hand 
 in hers, as one gasping sob struggled up from my convulsed 
 heart. A change had come over her face. Its whiteness was 
 now appalling ; the woe in the gazelle eyes had become most 
 piteous, most imploring. 
 
 When we reached the house I asked Beatrice to enter and 
 await the arrival of her brother and of mine. I would have en 
 treated her had it been necessary, but it was not. If I had not
 
 26 Victoire. 
 
 . 
 
 asked her, I think that she would have entered. I arranged 
 a couch for Frederick in the parlor, and with fainting anxiety 
 awaited his arrival. When the young men bore him in his 
 eyes were closed, his face that of death. His bearers laid 
 him softly down and departed, save Henri. Slowly his eyes 
 opened. His gaze met that of Beatrice, who stood motion 
 less at the foot of his couch. Again dawned the look of 
 celestial joy. For an instant the enfeebled arms were out 
 stretched. She went to his side. The young face bent down 
 to his. The tresses of gold fell upon the chestnut curls, as 
 again and again she kissed the cold brow. Not a word was 
 spoken. They seemed unconscious of our presence of every 
 thing but each other. The sight was inexpressibly touching. 
 I know i, I feel it now. 
 
 These twin souls, between whom fate had thrown an im 
 passable chasm, yet who saw life only in each other's eyes 
 they had mingled at last mingled upon the border of the 
 valley of shadows so near, that the light from the other 
 shore had fallen already upon their young faces, and their 
 passionate human love seemed, even now, exalted into the 
 glory of the divine. 
 
 But there was a coming back. There is always a coming 
 back. Wander as we may, forget, as we sometimes can, the 
 Nemesis Life, we awake from our vision to behold her stark 
 before us, fierce, inexorable, avenging ! Foolish heart ! 
 dream your dreams, life will be avenged ! She will measure 
 for you again her cankering cares, her stale routine, her 
 every-day flatness. Again she will taunt you with illusive 
 hope, with broken promises, with her baffling and torturing 
 mystery. 
 
 This was a new revelation to Henri Rochelle. Amaze 
 ment, pain, were depicted upon his cold features as he stood 
 apart and looked upon his sister and his friend. He did not 
 interfere. He spoke not. He only looked. 
 
 The delirium vanished. The reality, her reality, she saw 
 face to face. With a sudden look of consciousness, the sor-' 
 rowful eyes were lifted to her brother, and she stretched out 
 her hand to him. He went to her side. Like a broken lily, 
 the young head fell upon his breast. " Beatrice ! sweet 
 sister !" he said ; and, taking Frederick's hand, he laid it 
 within .hers. " Would that I had known this before. Why 
 have neither of you told me? Beatrice, you shall be saved !" 
 Frederick caught the words. "Aye! 1 ' he murmured, and 
 the white hand pointed upward. -
 
 Dying. 27 
 
 DYING. 
 
 " Tes I he was dying ; yet 
 Death seemed not like death in him ; 
 For the spirit of life in every limb 
 Lingered, a mist of sense and thought. 
 His soul 1 It seemed already free, 
 Like the shadow of fire surrounding me." 
 
 The wasting form, the hollow cough, again inhabited our 
 dwelling. Winter had passed ; so had spring ; the summer 
 had deepened, and there was no change for the better. " It 
 is the only hope," said the old physician who had attended 
 our mother. " The air of Languedoc, the scenes of childhood, 
 may revive him ; yet I have little hope ; he is one of those 
 whom the gods take early." I had but one thought now 
 how could I save my brother ; how secure for him life and 
 Beatrice ? We gave up our apartments in the Rue St. 
 Honore. With tearful regret I lingered in the little mosaic 
 court. The dusky myrtles, the pansies which I had once 
 despised, were sacred now. They had brightened the last 
 hours of my mother's life, and their faint aroma was grateful 
 to the soul of Frederick. Association will make the dreariest 
 spot precious. The soul_ can sanctify all things. It will link 
 a beloved name with the commonest thing, and its love make 
 that thing immortal. Frederick and Beatrice did not meet 
 again. She, also, was ill too ill to leave her room. And on 
 this account her marriage was deferred. Yet every day 
 Henri brought to Frederick some token from her heart. 
 Silent, eloquent messages of love were exchanged between 
 them \intil the day of our departure. On that morning 
 Henri and Frederick talked long together. They seemed to 
 cling to each other as if the precious conference was the last. 
 Their tones were low and sometimes broken. Once I over 
 heard these words : " Fill my place, Henry ; love her for my 
 sake and for her own ;" and also : " ' Where there is, neither 
 marrying, nor giving in marriage,' you will meet. There 
 will be no earthly bridal ;" and the soft answer : " It is well." 
 The summer bowed beneath the burden of its prime. The 
 trees drooped under the weight of garniture. The flowers 
 were faint with their own perfume. The air from the south 
 ern seas, laden with the aroma of a thousand vineyards, 
 swooned long before it reached the cool arms of the hills. 
 Even the hours, freighted heavily with balm, moved slowly
 
 28 Victoire. 
 
 by ; yet this enervated tone in nature harmonized with that 
 of Frederick's system. We travelled in an open carriage, the 
 length of each day's drive being proportioned to his strength. 
 Never before had Frederick's soul and mine come so near 
 together. His nature had far outlived mine. In all that con 
 stitutes life, maturity of thought, and of feeling, he was many 
 years my senior ; still, as far as I knew, I gave him perfect 
 sympathy. I had seen Beatrice. I loved her with the ardor 
 of an impassioned soul. I had a faint conception of the sacra 
 ment of bliss which might have been their portion. But the 
 closest link was this he, my all, my only one, was dying. 
 How assiduously I watched him. How eagerly I seized every 
 fluctuation of disease as an omen of good. " He cannot, he 
 must not die, my own, my glorious one !" was ever the silent 
 ejaculation of my heart. 
 
 He had not given up the hope of life without a fearful 
 struggle. Who that is young, who that knows how to live, 
 ever does ? Who that just tastes the delirious draught, does 
 not pant to drain it to the very lees 1 Frederick had prayed, 
 yea, had agonized for life for the life that he knew, the life 
 which he felt in his own young veins, to do, to be, to suffer, 
 to enjoy as a mortal can for this life he had prayed. But 
 even disease is kind. When she fastens her inexorable grasp 
 upon us she unloosens many ties which bind us to life'. Our 
 benumbed senses cling with less tenacity to earth's beautiful 
 forms. The world is fair, yet its loveliness is not for us. We 
 are soon to inhabit another country, and we turn our eyes 
 thitherward. With Frederick the struggle was over. He 
 had prayed that it might be possible, and yet the cup had not 
 passed by. He had passed the crisis which, soon or late, 
 must come to all. One by one life's most precious objects 
 seemed to drop from his grasp. If, with eyes of ineffable' ten 
 derness, he still gazed upon the objects of his love, he yearned 
 that they might follow him rather than that he might go back 
 to them. His spiritual vision was enlarged, and, with mar 
 vellous distinctness, he seemed to see the unutterable glory of 
 the hereafter. 
 
 " It seems a long way back to life. This body will never 
 be any better. Cease to expect it, Victoire, and resignation 
 will take the place of your wearing anxiety." He said these 
 words to me one evening in a wayside inn, as we rested by 
 an open window, watching the sun shut his eye of glory 
 behind the hills. His words struck an open wound in my 
 heart. I gasped before I answered: "You, who have so
 
 Dying. 29 
 
 much to live for, how can you speak so calmly of dying ! To 
 me death is terrible, either for myself or for others. Heaven 
 may be beautiful ; ' but I am in love with this green earth.' 
 Oh, it seems terrible to die !" " Yes, to you, who are in full 
 possession of life, thus it seems ; but I have reached the point 
 to which all come at last, when every object assumes its true 
 proportions. Eternity and Time have changed places. The 
 veil hiding the unseen world touches my face. And as 
 I look back, I see that which men call life is not worth the 
 ado we make about it. Life !" he added, with a touch of 
 his old enthusiasm ; " Here we only begin life. When we 
 are prepared to live, we are called up higher to drink from 
 its perpetual fountain. "When we are developed perfectly to 
 enjoy, we enter into its full fruition. The highest end of life 
 is life. If we are prepared to live, we are ready to die. To 
 me it seems sweet to go." 
 
 " Oh !" I exclaimed, " how can you speak thus ! Are you 
 willing to leave Beatrice, who loves you ? Are you willing 
 to leave me alone without a guide, without a comforter ? A 
 slight spasm passed over his face. " This," he said, " is the 
 sting of death. I cling to my idols. But Beatrice will come 
 to me. We shall not be separated. You, Victoire, I must 
 leave. But, whether I live or die, you wiU fulfil your destiny. 
 You have a destiny, and bright stars meet in your horo 
 scope. You have a glorious soul ; you must return it to God 
 enlarged, perfected ! God only can be your teacher. You 
 will be taught by suffering. Great endeavors, great tempta 
 tions, great sorrow, and a great triumph, all are in your 
 future. You need all to teach you, yourself; to teach you 
 God, and how to trust Him. It is a cruel world to leave you 
 in alone. My heart grieves for you, yet my reason scarcely 
 trembles. Your nature is strong. God is stronger. He is 
 kind. He will keep you. If I were to live I could soothe, 
 and love, and help you. I could not mould you. Dear one, 
 you will miss me, but you can live without me. You could 
 live a solitary, self-sustained life if you were the only being 
 in the universe. You will mourn for me deeply, but you will 
 outlive your sorrow. I shall become to you a fragrant memo 
 ry. As a ministering spirit I may do more for you than if I 
 walked by your side, fainting beneath the burden of my own 
 humanity." 
 
 There was hope in his words, yet my heart refused to be 
 comforted. I was so intensely human, I could see no beauty 
 in decay, no charm in death. I could feel 110 pleasure in the
 
 3 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 thought of communing with disembodied spirits, however 
 dear. I wanted my loved ones before my eyes where I could 
 see them, touch them, caress them, tell them how much I 
 loved them. 
 
 The next day, just as twilight was dropping her first faint 
 veil of shadows, we came in sight of Les Delices. How 
 peacefully it slept in the lap of the valley ! The ruddy turret 
 gleamed through its redundant vines. There stood Ceres, 
 my first dream of marble beauty. There tinkled the foun 
 tains, filling the air with softest euphony. There crowded the 
 gorgeous midsummer flowers. There fell the cascade, now 
 shrunken to a few silver threads, ever breaking, ever re-unit 
 ing over the mossy ledges of the rocks. Below swept the 
 Rhone bold, impetuous, glorious as ever ; while above, the 
 grand mountains stretched out their hoary hands in a per 
 petual benediction. 
 
 There were kind tenants to welcome us. But alas, the 
 change ! Where was our mother ? Where the lost appli 
 ances of our home ? As we passed the threshold, Frederick's 
 eye glanced eagerly around as if in quest of some treasure 
 missed. A shadow, then a gleam, passed over his transparent 
 features. 'I saw that it was no longer home to him. He lay 
 down upon a couch in the old room the room in which his 
 eyes first opened to the morning ; the room which had first 
 witnessed our baby-sports, our childish studies, our youthful 
 conferences. 
 
 I sat by his side until he slumbered. Then I went out 
 into the old garden, bending my steps toward the grove of 
 firs. The moon had come up above the mountains, and turned 
 the night into a paler day. In her full light the white brow 
 of Ceres glowed like amber. The waters of the fountains 
 seemed changed to jewels as they fell. The limpid threads 
 of the cascade, trembling languidly over the rock ledges, 
 looked like creeping veins of gold. Not a leaf stirred. Not 
 a sound was heard save the lull of the fountains, the hoarse 
 roll of the river, the calls of the boatmen coming at intervals 
 through the trees. My eye took in every shade in nature, 
 but I only saw it ; it did not comfort me. 
 
 Three years before, I had left that spot a buoyant and 
 believing child, with faith in the future unbounded. How 
 had she fulfilled her promises ! An orphan, I had come back 
 to bury the last being I loved upon earth. This was my grief, 
 my crushing sorrow. No thougnt of heaven, of the perfected 
 life which he so joyfully anticipated, could lift from my soul
 
 Dying. 31 
 
 its weight of desolation. At midnight I stole back to Frede 
 rick's bedside. There, with his hand in mine and my head 
 upon his pillow, I wept myself noiselessly to sleep. 
 
 He seemed no longer to belong to earth. His mortal life 
 was fused into one vision of a diviner existence. Of the mys 
 tery of death, of eternity, of God, of Christ, he seemed to 
 have more than a human conception, I would hold my breath 
 and listen. And there were moments, while hearkening to 
 his words, that my earth-fettered soul seemed to rise into the 
 atmosphere of spiritual joy in which he breathed. But the 
 cords would tighten again, and the bound heart fall back to 
 its old level, moaning in anguish, while it looked hopelessly 
 up to the beatific height toward which it had no power to 
 soar. But the change watched for, dreaded, came. The last 
 change which can come to the face of the living. When the 
 features became more painfully distinct, the eyes more fear 
 fully brilliant ; when around the mouth is seen a settling 
 that dreadful settling, that tension of muscle telling of the 
 grasp of the Destroyer. 
 
 On the evening of that day we lifted Frederick's couch to 
 the verandah that he might see the glory. The sun drew 
 near his setting, and floods of splendor swept down, irradiat 
 ing all things. Above the loftier mountain tops rose vast 
 masses of cumulus cloud, dazzlingly white, flushed with violet, 
 veined with gold. They loomed in the distant ether, and 
 looked the flaming bastions of the illimitable city. The sun 
 went down. The wonder deepened. The dark pines stood 
 transfigured in fire. The river ran in blazing gold. Upon its 
 banks, far as the eye could reach, village and vineyard, turret 
 and tower burned with the sunset. I looked into Frederick's 
 face. His dear head rested upon the pillows, while his eye, 
 with indescribable eagerness, seemed drinking for the last 
 time the wondrous glory of God's world. I watched him till 
 the tired eyelids fell over his tired eyes. Then taking the 
 worn Bible which lay by his side, I read, less for his consola 
 tion than my own, these words : 
 
 " Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all genera 
 tions. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever 
 Thou hadst formed the earth and world, from everlasting to 
 everlasting, Thou art God-. We spend our years as a tale 
 that is told. The days of our years are threescore years and 
 ten ; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, 
 yet is that strength labor and sorrow, for it is soon cut off, 
 and we fly away. I know that my Redeemer liveth, and
 
 32 Victoire. 
 
 that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth : and 
 'though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh 
 shall I see God. Mine eyes shall behold him and not another. 
 Jesus said : I am the resurrection and the life. He that be- 
 lieveth in me, though he were dead yet shall he live. We 
 shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. In a moment, 
 in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump ; for the trum 
 pet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible. 
 For this corruption must put on incorruption, and this mortal 
 must put on immortality. So, when this corruption has put 
 on incorruption, and this mortal has put on immortality, then 
 shall be brought to pass the saying that death is swallowed 
 up of life. O death, where is thy sting ? O grave, where is 
 thy victory? The sting of death is sin. Thanks be to 
 God who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus 
 Christ." 
 
 " ' Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus.' Beatrice !" It 
 was his dear voice that spoke. And the depth of joy in the 
 tone thrilled every fibre of my frame. His arms were out 
 stretched ; his eyes were uplifted, as if they saw other eyes ; 
 his countenance was radiated, glorified. A ray of celestial 
 love swept over his features. The breast rose and fell in one 
 convulsive struggle ; there was a sigh he h;ul .gone. 
 
 I thought he had fainted, and called wildly for help, for 
 " water ! water !" " Here is water," said a voice. It was not 
 Nannette who spoke. By my side stood a stranger. He 
 offered me water in a light urn which always stood upon the 
 verandah, near the foot of the cascade f I bathed the dear 
 brow ; I laid the beloved head upon my breast ; I covered 
 the face with wildest kisses ; I called him by every endearing 
 name ; I besought him to live to live a little longer for my 
 sake ; that I could not, would not live without him. Madly 
 I contended with the last enemy. He came not back. Vainly 
 I ciied : " My brother ! my brother !" 
 
 How long I sat with the dead strained to my heart, I do 
 not know. Nannette told me that it was a long time. Also 
 she told me that we were not alone. That, beside our weep 
 ing tenants, a stranger stood there with folded arms and 
 humid eyes. That it was he who loosened my strained arms 
 from the dead body of my brother. When she came to this, 
 I remembered the gentle grasp which opened my locked 
 fingers, and the dark eyes which looked down into mine with 
 such a depth of power ; how I resisted him ; and how, even 
 then, those eyes subdued me, and I seemed powerless to
 
 33 
 
 contend. He led me unresistingly to Nannette, and whether 
 he were of heaven or of earth seemed alike to me ; I was 
 only conscious of a positive power exercised over me, to 
 which, for the first time in my life, it seemed sweet to yield. 
 It was this stranger who composed Frederick's limbs ; his 
 hands which closed the lids over those glorious eyes for their 
 last repose. Then he went silently away, no one knew 
 whither. My grief had struck below the source of tears. I 
 moved about as emotionless as a stone. Everything in the 
 past, the present, the future, was a blank. " Frederick is 
 dead." That was all I knew. I could not pray Frederick 
 is dead what could I ask /or now ! I gathered white, unsul 
 lied flowers, laid them around his brow and upon his breast. 
 I twined, again and again, the chestnut curls around my fin 
 gers as of old. I walked around his coifin. I sat beside it, 
 and would not be called away. I wept not, I spoke not. I 
 went out to the edge of the grove of firs, and watched the 
 old man dig his grave watched the shining spade cut down 
 into the earth marked the sides of the grave, so smooth and 
 dark ; looked down to its bottom, so narrow, and deep, and 
 dreadful. 
 
 It was his request to be buried here. In his native earth, 
 where the mountains could guard his rest ; where the voice 
 of the river, the surging arms of the firs, the lapse of fount 
 ains, the psalms of birds, and the sigh of the summer wind 
 could sing his requiem in one grand symphony. The name 
 of Vernoid was honored in that valley ; and many came from 
 afar to see the earth close over the last son of the race. Many 
 eyes, which I never saw again, filled with tears (needed, per 
 chance, for themselves and for their children), while they 
 looked upon me in my tearless woe, alone in the world, an 
 orphan girl whose feet had not touched their nineteenth sum 
 mer. 
 
 Tears came at last, blessed tears ! The day after his burial 
 I stood beside his grave, my wild rebellion-crazing heart and 
 brain " Why must they die ?'' I cried. " The beautiful, the 
 immortal ! Why are they not transfigured before us, that 
 our eyes might behold the glory of the incorruptible body ? 
 Why go down to darkness, and to the worm? Why pass 
 through this loathsome gateway to enter the fields of para 
 dise? Why do they not ascend softly, softly through the 
 delicious ether, until they reach the bosom of the Infinite Fa 
 ther? Oh, why is Heaven so undefinable, so far away? 
 Why does no golden ladder reach down from its celestial 
 
 3
 
 34 Victoire. 
 
 gate, with angels descending to tell to our smitten souls sweet 
 stories of our beatified lost ones ? Then, in my agony, I felt 
 that I must reach my arms far down into that deep grave, 
 and bring back my idol one to life and love. Alas ! I was so 
 human, faith breathed no word to cheer me. I could not di 
 vorce the soul from that precious body. Blame me not are 
 we not all earthly ? Are we not all slaves to the palpable ? 
 Moved so deeply by what we see, and hear, and feel are we 
 not torpid to comprehend, to be satisfied with the unseen, the 
 spiritual, the immortal ! Fruitless, mad, was my woe. Con 
 scious of its impotence, with my face prone upon the grave, 
 I lay downand wept. 
 
 A LOVE LETTER. 
 
 Before his death, Frederick had revealed to me the state 
 of our finances. In Les Delices our entire fortune was vested. 
 The rent which we had received from the estate, had not 
 equalled our Paris expenses. After all incumbrances were 
 paid, something would remain for me ; but not a sum suffi 
 cient for my support. Henri Rochelle was to be executor, 
 and it was Frederick's request that I should write to him im 
 mediately upon his decease. The illness of Beatrice prevented 
 him from accompanying us to Languedoc. The day after the 
 burial, I penned these words : 
 
 " Monsieur Rochelle Frederick died August the first, at 
 seven o'clock p.m. VICTOIRE." 
 
 By the return mail I received this reply : 
 
 "Victoire! they ascended together. The souls which had 
 learned to live for each other upon earth, are now one in the 
 kingdom of Heaven. Beatrice died at ten minutes before 
 sev.en, on the evening of August the first. The sanctified is 
 now also the glorified. The one link which bound me to my 
 family is broken. The child of a former marriage, I am now 
 alone. Victoire, I have but one care, one love left in my 
 heart these are for you. You will be startled at this sudden 
 revelation. You have scarcely given me a thought, and 
 never, save as your brother's friend. I love you more for 
 your guilelessness. The morning we parted, Frederick asked
 
 A Love Letter. 35 
 
 me to fill his place to you, to be to you a brother. I assured 
 him that was impossible ; that, already you were dearer to 
 me than sister could ever be. That from the moment in 
 which he held up to my gaze your pictured face, the convic 
 tion had entered my soul that you would yet be my wife. Al 
 though not a visionary man, since I had breathed in your 
 living presence, this conviction had ripened into a certainty, 
 and I asked him to speak of the subject to you. He said ' I 
 can only ask her to allow you to fill my place. Were I to 
 request more, through her love to me, my dying wish might 
 be to her a command. In a choice upon which all her future 
 depends, she should act untrammelled. I have seen enough 
 of the bartering of hearts. I cannot influence her decision by 
 a word. She knows that you are my only friend. You are 
 worthy of each other, if you can win her love.' This I will 
 do I will win your love Victoire. I am not of that order 
 of men who say more than they feel. My love cannot be mea 
 sured by words, but it can be lived. You shall yet feel the 
 strength and depth of my devotion. Your situation justifies 
 the promptness of this declaration. Reason commends what 
 my heart desires. You are a woman and must have a pro 
 tector. Who more fitting than your only brother's only 
 friend ? HEXRI ROCHELLE." 
 
 If this letter had dropped into my hand from the clouds, f 
 should not have been more astonished. It aroused me from 
 my apathy of woe. It made me look toward my future. 
 Life stretched out before me. Life, not death, was my por 
 tion. Frederick had said that I had a destiny to fulfil ; that 
 ood stars met in my horoscope. What was this destiny ? 
 imply to marry ? Marriage had not entered into my plan 
 of life. My mind, entirely absorbed by another idea, had 
 not reached out toward this Ultima Thule of a woman's hope. 
 At present, art was more to me than lover or husband could 
 possibly be. I had not the slightest intention of merging into 
 a complacent matron, kept " low and wise" by chubby children 
 and household care. The thought of submitting my will to 
 the law of another, of allowing my individuality to become 
 fused into that of one mere human being, to me was odious. 
 I knew nothing of the self-abnegating love, which with infi 
 nite trust can look into the eye of a mortal and say "En 
 treat me not to leave thee whither thou goest I will go. 
 Where thou diest will I die. There will I be buried. Naught 
 but death can part thee and me."
 
 36 Victoire. 
 
 No ! Art was my chosen. I wished to live my own life, 
 develop the soul which God had given me, without inter 
 ference, without restriction. The accident of sex, the fact 
 of being a woman did not make me less determined, nor less 
 aspiring. Why did no mistress of sculpture and of painting 
 sit enthroned in the centuries beside Phidias, and Angelo, 
 and Raphael ! Through all ages had woman beheld her own 
 form upon every shrine of art, raised as the synonym of im 
 mortal beauty, without panting to embody in artistic forms 
 the soul of the beautiful which lived within her ? No ! Had 
 genius a sex ? I did not believe it. Sappho, Aspasia, Zeno- 
 bia, Hypatia were types of the universal soul which burned as 
 often in the breasts of women as of men. Then, had I 
 known them, I would have repeated the words of Tennyson's 
 Lilia : 
 
 " There are thousands now, 
 Such women, but convention beats thorn down, 
 You men have done it ; how I hate you all. 
 Ah ! were I something: great, I would shame you then, 
 Who love to keep us children." 
 
 These thoughts and feelings, which sprang spontaneously 
 in my own nature, and lived a strong life without any foster- 
 jing from external circumstances, seemed entirely to possess me 
 after reading the letter of Henri Rochelle. No girl was ever 
 wholly displeased with her first love-letter. It was a strange, 
 a sudden, a pleasant thought to me, that still the world con 
 tained one being who cared for me. Yet the letter chafed 
 far more than it pleased. Its tone of calm assurance irritated 
 . me. The one sentence " You are a woman and need a pro 
 tector; who else can it be but your only brother's only 
 friend?'' was enough to stir to its depths my defiant pride. 
 Evidently, on my part, he thought marriage a necessity. A 
 woman, I could not take care of myself; to whom else could 
 I go but to him ? - " He shall see !" I exclaimed. " I can 
 take care of myself. God will give all the help which I 
 need" 
 
 What he had said of my feelings concerning him was true. 
 If through my girlish brain there had ever floated the face of 
 an impossible hero, certainly it was not the face of Henri 
 Rochelle. The profound respect with which I had ever re 
 garded him, removed him far away from me. In the chilly 
 vacuity which separated us, love could not breathe. He was 
 cast in the Roman mould. A dominant will, a metallic iutel
 
 A Love Letter. 37 
 
 lect, could be traced in the bold outlines of the commanding 
 brow, and in the clear cold light of the penetrating eye. He 
 was one to whom a strictly feminine nature would cling and 
 obey, while he would sharpen to keenest antagonism one of 
 his own kind. He was a man whose heart never proved 
 traitor to his head. It might be a strong, a loving, a passion 
 ate, an importuning heart ; yet it could not traduce the des 
 potic will that pressed it down like a tooth of steel. The 
 will bowed only to the higher law of conscience, and his con 
 science was taught by the oracles of God. Every feature, 
 every motion, indicated power ; yet it was power in reserve, 
 a strong nature in abeyance. Possessing the largest powers 
 of generalization, it was with an eifort that he descended to 
 discuss particulars. Plots might thicken around him; he 
 was too far away to know it. Looks, motions, actions, all 
 the minutiae which form the finer shades of character which 
 are so koenly apparent to the subtle-eyed he was usually too 
 concentrated, too abstracted to perceive. But when aroused 
 to observe, nothing escaped his vision. When he took the 
 pains to look, he saw clearly, he saw far, he saw and compre 
 hended all ! He was innately (in shame I confess it), to me 
 he was distressingly good. If his virtues had been less clear 
 ly defined in the cold light of intellect, if they had only been 
 warmed a little more in the sunshine of the heart, it would 
 have been different. But every thought, every emotion, was 
 first resolved through the crystal medium of that unbeclouded 
 judgment, weighed in its most exquisite balance, before sub 
 mitted to human gaze. The man stood before you accurately 
 measured, startlingly defined. There were no sudden reveal- 
 ings, no spontaneous gushes of feeling, no certain glimpses 
 into fathomless depths of soul beyond no variation of rich 
 moods ; now gay, now sad, now fitful ; fervent, impetuous, 
 eloquent the ever glancing, ever shifting light and shadow 
 of a royally endowed nature. Calm, equable, self-poised, ab 
 sorbed, great .and good, his nature stood before me. There 
 was not a point around which the imagination could play. It 
 suggested nothing more. In its kind it was perfect. I saw 
 it all ; and in that hour it did not satisfy me. 
 
 Henri Rochelle was one of a large class of men men of 
 the highest honor, of the rarest virtue, who still are seldom 
 favorites with women. With all their goodness they repel. 
 Yet it is not their excellence which makes them disagreeable, 
 but their defects. They cannot descend to the particulars of 
 suavity and grace of manner ; to the unbought, ever longed-
 
 38 Victoire. 
 
 for charities of daily life. From the cool citadel of their 
 brain, they look down with contempt upon the foibles and 
 follies of women. The light which their souls emit, is the 
 sheen of an iceberg which glitters and freezes in the sun. 
 Virtue, which emanates solely from the brain, will always 
 be below^par ; while a genial spirit will win its way with 
 a thousand hearts, though it carry with it a fearful incubus 
 of sin. It is a sad truth ; but brilliant qualities will fascinate 
 and absorb, while ungarnished goodness is often neglected, 
 despised, forgotten ! 
 
 Men, the opposite of Henri Rochelle, too often control the 
 hearts of women. The wofld may follow them with hard 
 names, and harder stories ; still women love them women 
 who would start from the accusation of impurity as from a 
 serpent's sting. They belong to the class of whom Byron 
 says: "There are some who have the reputation of being 
 wicked, with whom we would be only too happy to spend 
 our lives." The divine fire of poetry kindles their eye, 
 glows in their words, inspires their whole being. A lambent 
 eye, a word, a smile born upon beautiful lips, moves, subdues 
 them. They may be harsh enough with men ; but to women 
 they are ever chivalric, tender. Their subtle penetration, 
 their delicate flattery, their half disguised tenderness, their 
 deference, and instinctive reverence of all that is womanly ; 
 the rich effluence of their hearts, sweetening even that in their 
 nature which may be selfish or sinful, throw around women 
 who enter the charmed circle of their personal life an irresisti 
 ble fascination. Too often they exclaim in their madness of 
 folly : 
 
 " Alas I I know not if guilt's in thy heart ; 
 I but know that I love tliee, whatever thou art." 
 
 These are the men whose impulses conquer their principles. 
 The human flower whose fragrance they exhale is blighted by 
 their touch. 
 
 I had a week in which to think, and to gather strength to 
 resist Henri Rochelle. I knew not how to trifle. I would 
 not use artifice. And as I saw no medium between perfect
 
 The Refusal. 39 
 
 THE REFUSAL. 
 
 He came ; quiet, calm, gentle, almost tender. As he crossed 
 the threshold, I saw only PYederick's friend, Beatrice's bro 
 ther, and that moment forgot to be quite as cold and formal 
 as I had intended. It was such a joy to meet one who knew 
 and loved Frederick. It was such a comfort to have an op 
 portunity to speak of those last hours, to repeat those last 
 messages, and to feel that I was not utterly alone. I related 
 every incident of Frederick's sickness from the morning of 
 their separation until his death ; every smile, every look 
 which could be depicted, I portrayed. And he told me 
 of Beatrice, of her beautiful passing away ; how she had 
 scarcely died, but, like a. pure spirit, had been exhaled into 
 the atmospherfe of spirits. How she grew more and more 
 wondrously beautiful until the last ; how ineffable was the 
 glory in her eyes, when, in the last moment, she breathed the 
 name of Frederick and departed. Thus we talked of spirits 
 of the spirits of those we loved ; and our voices were tender 
 and low, sanctified by the very names which we uttered. 
 But the revulsion came. It had to come. At last there came 
 a look of kind but certain assurance into those clear eyes 
 which brought me back to the reality. Then I knew that 
 soon we should cease to talk of spirits, but, instead, of mor 
 tals and of their tame affairs. The thought fell upon me like 
 frost. My manner grew rigid, my voice cold. At last his 
 words broke the spell. 
 
 " It is pleasant to think of our lost ones," he said ; " to us 
 their names will ever be precious ; but it is time that we 
 speak of our own life, of our own future, that lies before us. 
 We shall not love the departed less because we love each 
 other more. It will not take long to settle your affairs, Vic- 
 toire. This little estate, with its incumbrances, is your only 
 inheritance. I will pay the mortgages ; then it will be yours, 
 free from all claims from others. My studies are completed. 
 I am already established in my profession ; I only want my 
 wife, I only want you, Victoire. I feel already that you are 
 mine."
 
 4 o 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 For .in instant he seemed not to comprehend me. He 
 looked bewildered. His mind, concentrated upon the cer 
 tainty, was slow in staggering back to the idea of uncertainty. 
 With my first words of refusal all my strength came. When 
 I had looked forward to this moment I had grown weak and 
 trembled. The crisis had come, and I felt strong enough to 
 meet it. I felt that my decision was irrevocable. He had 
 wounded my pride poignantly. Had I loved him, I could 
 not accept an offer which made me so great a debtor. I was 
 not one simply to be loved and taken. I was not passive. I 
 would at least be wooed and won by the man I married. " I 
 will not marry you," I thought, and believe I looked it, as 
 I lifted my eye steadily to his. 
 
 He comprehended me now. The penetrating eye looked 
 down into my soul. Affection, passion, trembled under the 
 iron curb of will. In the deadly pallor which swept over the 
 strong face, I saw the surge of feeling. " Victoire ! do you 
 know what you say ?" he asked calmly. 
 
 " I always know what I say ; and I know also that I will 
 not marry you, Monsieur Rochelle." 
 
 " Why will you not marry me, Victoire ?" 
 
 " Because I do not wish to marry any one ; because I do 
 not love you." 
 
 " When I wrote you," he replied, " I did not think that 
 you had learned to love me. But, since my coming, your 
 kind manner has been to me the acceptance of the proposal 
 in my letter." 
 
 Here spoke the man, a true representative of most men. 
 Few men can receive simple kindness from a girl without 
 misconstruing it into something more into a proof of their 
 own intense personal power, or as the effervescence of her 
 half-concealed passion. When a man points out a woman 
 amid the crowd, gifted or beautiful, perchance, and says, 
 " She loved me," or " I might have married her" do you 
 always believe it ? 
 
 To Henri Rochelle I said : " I met you as Beatrice's bro 
 ther, as Frederick's friend ; as such I regard you tenderly ; 
 but to think of you as a lover or as a husband, turns me to 
 marble." Again he looked amazed. " Victoire," he asked, 
 " will you look at this matter in the light of reason, if you 
 cannot in that of affection ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am happy to look at it in the light of my own 
 reason." 
 
 " If I cannot convince you, I shall think that you have no
 
 The Refusal. 41 
 
 reason, Yictoire ; but I feel certain that I shall. I am not 
 foolishly romantic. My feelings are controlled by my judg 
 ment. I could willingly sacrifice my own desire, sacrifice 
 the first love of my life, ff I could thereby make you happier ; 
 v but in doing so, I should consult your interests as little as I 
 should my own happiness. You do not realize your situation. 
 It is not strange. You know nothing of the world, and yet 
 you are left in it alone. A young girl, alone ! You need a 
 protector; that protector should be your husband. Who 
 would be more faithful to you than I ?" 
 
 All that he said, doubtless, was true; yet he had not 
 fathomed the nature which he addressed, or he would have 
 chosen another mode to conquer; at least he would have left 
 a few words out of his sentences, and have soothed down his 
 tone of superiority a little. A few hours before he had seemed 
 to me a noble and tender brother ; now, I only recognised an 
 antagonist. Still he went on still in silence I listened, 
 though every word which he uttered made me more deter 
 mined noi^to submit. 
 
 " I abhor the marriage de convenance. I would not sell 
 myself nor buy you. I bestow a heart I demand a heart in 
 return yet I am willing to wait for it. Now, I only ask for 
 your confidence, your affection, and the assurance that you do 
 not love another, and for the growth of love I bide my time." 
 
 The assured tone did not alter. It was this which fretted 
 me. It said plainer than his words, " I am willing to wait, 
 because I am certain that you will love me." 
 
 " Our ideas of what will constitute a happy marriage differ," 
 I replied. " Before my fate is irrevocably sealed, I wish to 
 feel that I do love the man I am to marry." 
 
 " Esteem, affection, are worth infinitely more than the im 
 pulsive love of a passionate heart. The love which is the 
 after-growth of these qualities, alone is reliable ; but you have 
 the common girl-ideas. You are romantic, Victoire." 
 
 " Perhaps I am," I said, " but time will cure my exaggera 
 tions. I shall not marry in haste." 
 
 Again he looked astonished. Evidently I was not just 
 what he had believed me to be. Where he had expected the 
 pliancy of the girl, he met the hard obstinacy of a time-harden 
 ed woman. Frederick had been guided by his judgment and 
 wishes ; from his sister he had received perfect acquiescence, 
 the submissive reverence which the " true woman" is supposed 
 to yield involuntarily to man. lie was utterly disappointed. 
 
 " You are very unlike Frederick," he said, abruptly. He
 
 42 Victoire. 
 
 touched the only cord which could vibrate with a pang. 
 Tears started. I turned and looked through the open win 
 dow toward his grave, growing green already under the 
 shadow of the firs. My soul yearned for my brother. " Ah ! 
 if you were but here," I thought, " I should not be thus tor 
 mented." 
 
 " No ! I am not like him," I murmured ; " but I am not to 
 blame for my nature." 
 
 " Your nature is noble ; you have only to learn to bring it 
 into subjection the great lesson of life is to be willing to 
 submit." 
 
 " Submit ! I will submit to God ; but I know of no law 
 which requires me to submit to you." 
 
 " No, not to me, but to your circumstances. God makes 
 your circumstance." 
 
 " I see no circumstance which makes it necessary that I 
 marry against my will." 
 
 " Young, poor, ignorant of the world, without a living rela 
 tive, are not these circumstances which should influence you 
 to accept a lawful protector ?" 
 
 " Protector !" I said. " God is my protector. He can take 
 care of rite without human help. He has given me a purpose 
 of my own. 1 have my own destiny to fulfil. My own con 
 sciousness is a safer guide than you can be, who know neither 
 my powers nor my needs. I do not wish to marry, and you 
 cannot compel me." 
 
 " Compel you ?" And his voice, which had not varied in 
 its calm kindness, was now painfully mournful. "I would 
 never take to my heart a forced bride. I have only sought 
 to convince you. I know that if you would only acquiesce, 
 your feelings toward me would change. I confess I was not 
 prepared lor such a state of mind. It is unprecedented in 
 my knowledge of women. Believe me, it is not a natural 
 one. The heart of the real woman yearns for nothing so 
 much as to be loved. In the love of a noble man, she receives 
 her highest exaltation. The first love of my life, the love 
 of a man's strong heart, I have offered you, Victoire, and you 
 spurn it with contempt." 
 
 " No, I do not spurn your heart. I am humble when I 
 think that you deem me worthy of your love. I only resist 
 what to me seems your purpose to coerce me into a plan of 
 lifi' different from that which I have chosen. I place no lurht 
 estimate upon love. I have a human heart, which yearns for 
 alR'ction; but it must not be too dearly bought. A portion
 
 The Refusal. 43 
 
 
 
 of my best years I wish to devote exclusively to art ; and to 
 do this, if necessary, I arn willing to live alone until the end 
 of my days." 
 
 " You do not know yourself, Victoire," he said. " Your 
 heart is an xinsolved mystery. Art is a glorious mistress, but 
 she cannot be to you, through all your life, either lover Or hus 
 band. You might exist with no other friend, but it would 
 not be life. Your nature would starve, and at last you would 
 pine for the joy you had spurned, which had passed beyond 
 your reach for ever." 
 
 " You do not know me, Monsieur Rochelle. You speak from 
 the belief that all women are alike. You think only of your 
 sister Beatrice, w T hom God made to show us what the angels 
 are like. The human soul does not repeat itself. There are 
 as many types of womanhood as of manhood. All men are 
 not brave, and strong, and noble. All women are not weak, 
 and soft, and loving. Athena sprang from the head of Jove 
 in full armor. She was his equal in intellect and power. 
 She delighted in the tumult of war. She was the leader of 
 heroes. Her eye made Achilles tremble. The soul of her cha 
 racter was cold, reflective wisdom. Yet she was the patron of 
 art, and delighted in the unbought graces of life. She repre 
 sents one order of women. The world is full of Athenas." 
 
 " Athena represents a class of extreme women. But the 
 world does not need Athena now." 
 
 "No ! The world is old. Its morning freshness has depart 
 ed. The lusty strength of its noon has vanished. The fiery 
 life in its veins is spent. It wants to be warmed and nou 
 rished. It has no need of heroes now, but cries for weak and 
 clinging things, to breathe new life into its withered soul. 
 Aphrodite, the beautiful, the frail, the loving light as the 
 sea-foam from whence she sprung she is needed. Men en 
 fold her, and breathe into her ear as Zeus did of old : ' War 
 like work, my love, is not thy business. It is thy sweet care 
 to prepare the joy of the wedding feast. The care of life's 
 wild tumult leave to Ares and Athena.' All men want is 
 Aphrodite. She is easily found. May you find her, Monsieur 
 Rochelle." 
 
 " Aphrodite alone would not satisfy me ; not love and weak 
 ness, but tenderness combined with strength, constitutes my 
 ideal of woman. Athena commands only my icy admiration. 
 You are not Athena, Victoire." 
 
 " I am not Aphrodite." 
 
 . " No, but there is more than her tenderness latent in your
 
 /|/j Victoire. 
 
 heart. Never did Aphrodite love as Victoire can love, will 
 love, some day. Victoire does not know herself." 
 
 " You do not know me I am a peaceful Athena, devoted 
 to art." 
 
 " You do violence to yourself. You give supremacy to in 
 tellect ; you would crush, kill the heart, yet you can never 
 be Athena. Where is the majestic form ? You are delicate 
 and slender. Where are the classic bands of hair ? Yours is 
 silken and curling. Where the blue, frozen eye? Yours 
 is dark and liquid, breathing softness as well as fire. Where 
 the firm, strong lips ? In yours, above the curve of pride, 
 swells the fulness of feeling. Ah ! you do not know your 
 self; but your hour will come. You will feel yet that to love 
 and to be loved is, after all, the joy of life." 
 
 The strong mind was concentrated upon me now. I closed 
 my eyes beneath his penetrating gaze. An image, that he did 
 not see, rose under the drooped lids. That rich face, those 
 profound eyes, those tones, low and tender, which had swayed 
 me once, I saw, I heard again. Again the pulses of life trem 
 bled, touched by a new power. Ah, to be loved by such a one, 
 were it possible, were joy enough ! 
 
 There was a long silence. The trance of my new vision 
 was too pleasant to be broken. It might be madness ; I knew 
 that it was, yet how sweet to dream ! Henri Rochelle did not 
 know that the foolish child was obeying her heart after all. But 
 Ae, sitting there in silence, was not dreaming. Chagrin, disap 
 pointment, sorrow, love, all struggled in the breast of the man, 
 self-poised, self-sustained, strong, wise, yet baffled ; baffled by 
 a wilful girl, who had scattered his hopes, defeated his plans, 
 refused his hand, sent his heart back to feed upon itself. He 
 was in a place where it is hardest for a man to be magnani 
 mous. A man can forgive his enemy, can pardon insult, 
 treachery, wrong, in man, easier than he can forgive the 
 woman who openly, deliberately, positively refuses the great 
 gift of liis life his heart. He who in this position acts nobly, 
 is magnanimous above the average of men. 
 
 Henri Rochelle saw before him an orphan girl to whom he 
 uished to be husband, brother, friend. She was poor; he 
 wished to satisfy every want. She loved the beautiful; he 
 wished to surround her with beauty, to gratify every taste, to 
 cultivate every gift, to love her as the best gift of his life, 
 asking only in return that she should love and obey him the 
 two things which Victoire could not do. In that hour I could 
 not enter the path which he opened to me and be true to my
 
 The Refusal. 45 
 
 own nature. Every soul holds an inner life, known only to 
 itself and its Creator ; and this should be allowed to expand, 
 to grow, safe from the pressure of any outward hand. If 
 there is a thing sacred in the universe it is a soul as God made 
 it. And there is no meaner robbery than that which would 
 strip a spirit of its individuality. Yet that bent of the mind, 
 which can neither be given nor taken away, which distin 
 guishes its possessor from every other human being, is gene 
 rally regarded as a fault. The disposition is rampant in human 
 beings to condemn, suppress, thwart the idiosyncrasies of their 
 fellows. You should do so, or so ; you must be this or that, is 
 the cry. Not human voices, but the faculty dominant within 
 us, points to our Avork. It is the prophecy of an individual 
 mission, the guarantee of an individual triumph. To crush it 
 is to defy God. 
 
 There was a long silence ; both hearts were busy. 
 
 " You have plans, Victoire ; what are they ? " at last he 
 asked. 
 
 " I am going to America." This was too sudden, too 
 great a surprise. 
 
 " Impossible ! Are you mad ?" 
 
 " No ! I am perfectly sane." 
 
 " What what will become of you ?" There was more 
 of sorrow than of anger in his tone. 
 
 " Have you no faith iu God ?" Monsieur Rochelle. " He 
 will take care of me." 
 
 " He has not promised to take care of the presumptuous 
 but we will talk no longer, " he added. " I see that your de 
 cision is unalterable. My duty yet remains. When do you 
 wish to embark for America ?" 
 
 " As soon as possible. I do nbt wish to spend the winter 
 in France." 
 
 Another expression of deep pain passed over his face, but he 
 only said : " Well, I will do all in my power to assist you." 
 
 " I trust you," was my answer. 
 
 And he did do all in his power. He began to make arrange 
 ments for my departure, as if that had been his only object 
 in coming to Les Delices. America was my mother's native 
 country. I wished to see it. It was not a new wish either ; 
 but a long-cherished hope that some time I should cross the 
 ocean and visit scenes which I had heard portrayed from 
 early childhood. But, in my girlish dreams, first I had gone 
 to Italy, to Greece the old homes of art won fame and 
 riches, and then had turned to seek a home in the western
 
 4 6 
 
 Victoirc. 
 
 land. Could I have retained Les Delices, I should still have 
 hoped to see my dreams fulfilled. But it was different now ; 
 if I refused Henri Rochelle, Les Delices must be sold. My 
 ancestral home must pass into the hands of strangers. I 
 cherished the hope of redeeming it; I could not part from it 
 for ever. I would go to this new land, and work. I would 
 paint pictures which would win me not only fame but gold. 
 There, people were not sated with art. The artist was not 
 a drug. With culminating wealth, with ripening luxury, a 
 love for all beautiful forms was usurping the old greed for 
 utility. Riches easily won were lavishly spent. I should find 
 sale for pictures there. Young, unknown, I could still earn 
 money. I could take care of myself, redeem my home, fulfil 
 my destiny. Thus I believed rather, thus I dreamed. I felt 
 in haste to depart, for the presence of Henri Rochelle was a 
 sad constraint. After the position which I had assumed, I 
 could not breathe the same air with him without feeling 
 stifled. No ! IJelt that I could not live in the same country ; 
 for I knew that, with unwearying vigilance, he would watch 
 my course, and estimate my progress. I was resolved to have 
 no self-appointed guardian. Even now he vexed me. If he 
 had only appeared piqued, it would have been a relief. If he 
 had only been haughty, it would have been delightful. If he 
 had seemed hurt, wounded, better still ; then I could at least 
 have been kind. But no ; he called out only the coldest dig 
 nity. He was kind, thoughtful as before. But his very 
 attentions made him seem distant. It was no longer the 
 affectionate thoughtfulness of the privileged friend, but the 
 punctilious politeness of the stranger. 
 
 What chafed me most, I fancied that he pitied me pitied 
 my ignorance and folly. It'*here was no condescension in his 
 manner, I was sure that there was compassion. Arift more ; 
 once, twico, thrice, I saw it gather in his face, his eyes; fuse his 
 whole expression the old assurance, the calm look of certainty 
 saying: "You are mine ! You do not believe it; but you are 
 mine. I am your destiny." He was unconscious of this look ; 
 but I knew it, and it made me defy him. In a few days he 
 departed for Paris, promising to make speedy arrangements 
 for the sale of Les Delices. He said that he was intimate 
 with a gentleman belonging to the city, who wished to pur 
 chase such an estate, and with whom he was confident a bar 
 gain could be perfected. I received a letter at an early day 
 a business letter, terse, laconic as a lawyer's stating 
 that the gentleman whom he mentioned* would purchase Les
 
 Victoire on the Ocean. 47 
 
 Delices at my price, promising to pay in three half-yearly 
 instalments, giving the best of security. Thus promptly and 
 readily was the most important of my financial aifairs ad 
 justed. 
 
 I thought that nothing remained but to make my personal 
 arrangements before my departure, when opposition arose in 
 an unexpected quarter. Nannette, my old bonne, thought 
 me " crazy." As I wished to be spared her lectures, I had 
 not spoken of my plan for the future until it was perfectly 
 defined in my own mind and ready to be consummated. 
 Nannette had lived in the family from my mother's mar 
 riage, had nursed both Frederick and myself, and for years 
 had indulged in all the loquacious liberty which is generally 
 conceded as the especial privilege of old and faithful ser 
 vants. 
 
 Mademoiselle was mad ! What, beside, could ail her ? If 
 in her right mind, could she forsake her country? Could she 
 leave her brother's grave ? Could she go from the home of 
 her ancestors ? Could she, without tears of blood, sell it to 
 strangers? Who cared for Mademoiselle now but old Nan- 
 nette? No one! She had fancied Monsieur Rochelle might, 
 but it was plain that he did not else why had he gone with 
 out asking her hand in marriage ? Yet Mademoiselle was for 
 saking her best friend. She was going to leave old Nan- 
 nette. Mademoiselle was ungrateful ; she was wilful ; she was 
 always a stubborn child. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! What 
 might happen to Mademoiselle ! She could not take care of 
 herself. She was only an infant. Nannette must go. Made 
 moiselle was ungrateful ; she did not want Nannette ; yet go 
 she must, go she would, to take care of Mademoiselle ; and 
 go she did. Good old Nannette ! 
 
 VICTOIKK ON THE OCEAN. 
 
 I was alone upon the ocean. The autumnal glories of the 
 land were reflected in the resplendent colors of the sky and 
 sea. The fitful clouds had wept their eyes dry, and now were 
 out for a holiday. Soft, ethereal, evanescent forms, their fleecy 
 robes all fringed with flame, they chased each other over the 
 sky. Some, softly sw.aying up and down, floated idly through 
 the hyacinth sea ; and some, dim in the zenith, seemed to beat 
 with their invisible oars the crystalline walls of the far away
 
 48 Victoire. 
 
 spheres. Many, low down, their silvery hair outflowing far 
 upon the blue, peacefully slept the ocean their pillow and 
 heaven their covering. The sun, like a blazing ship, burned 
 against the dark horizon. Scintillant bars, uneasy bridges of 
 flame, stretched from its sides, across the shifting waters, 
 tempting yet mocking passengers to ascend into the golden 
 Argo. Under this glory crept the wrinkled ocean. 
 
 Since that hour I have loved a little girl, a melodious child, 
 with prophetic eyes sad and soft, in their beautiful mystery, 
 who, as she sat with her arms around her father's neck, gaz 
 ing out upon the measureless waters, listening to the moan of 
 the unresting waves, sighed in the sweet sympathy of her 
 soul: "Poor old sea ! poor old sea!" The child penetrated 
 the ocean's history. She knew that it was old, she dreamed 
 that it was sorrowful. Yet she knew not of the wrecked 
 treasures, lying upon its oozy floors, nor of the lost life locked 
 in its coral palaces. She saw not the tresses of gold, the hair 
 of jet, the bodies beloved and beautiful, dissolving in its slimy 
 caves lost, lost, lost for ever from the homes of earth, from 
 the hearts of the living. She did not dream that the flower 
 of the race, the wealth of centuries, had been paid as tribute 
 to its baleful majesty. She had never heard the shriek, the 
 prayer of human souls. in their last extremity ; the terror, the 
 tragedy, which ocean had witnessed in its hours of fury be 
 neath the lashed heavens, beneath .the tranquil stars ; yet she 
 sighed " Poor old sea! poor old sea !" 
 
 But even ocean can forget its horrors forget that it is 
 old, and laugh above its sepulchres. To-night it looked 
 young. Every wave seemed agile with youth, springing up 
 in eager emulation to see which could toss highest its fringed 
 cap of creamy spray. Ah ! how could ocean look old, when 
 bridges of rosy flame spanned it near and far away when 
 every grey wave was kindled with the glory of the embla 
 zoned sky ; more than earth can look old when she wraps 
 around her aged form the virginal robes of spring! The last 
 bridge was withdrawn, the last blazing spar submerged, the 
 golden ship went down down under the dark waves. Night 
 crept over the deep ; she quenched the glory of the sky ; she 
 lit her own twinkling beacons along the dim upper shores. 
 Still I sat upon the deck. Memories, yearnings came over 
 me. My heart went back to France, to Les Delices to its 
 vineyard, its garden. I stood beside its fountains, lingered by 
 its grave. 1 gazed into the fathomless world of Beatrice's 
 eyes. I pillowed the head of my lost one upon my heart.
 
 Victoire on the Ocean. 49 
 
 Again, again, dawned upon me the vision of one who seemed 
 now to haunt me always. The calm eyes of Henri Rochelle 
 met mine. I turned away ; he was nothing to me. 
 
 The great ship stru'ck the colliding waters. It heaved and 
 fell ; it hissed through the swelling surge; its groan answered 
 the groan of the deep. Through the grey night my eyes 
 wandered forth across the wilderness of waves mighty, 
 boundless! Vastness, sublimity, power, struck me chill with 
 awe. An atom of life, unheeded, in the fierce clutch of the 
 relentless sea, I was vanquished by the sense of my nothing 
 ness. What a waif upon the waters what a waif to be 
 tossed upon the bosom of life. And yet, ere I knew, 
 again hope dawned within me. Courage grew. Endeavor, 
 rooted, broad-based, seemed to make my 'centre. I became 
 heroic. The night made me grand. Victory looked from the 
 eyes of the stars. The gay young western world stretched 
 forth its strong, free arms to receive me. My mother's land, 
 .the land of my father's love, the brave, the bold, the auda- 
 ' cious, yet generous and glorious laud it had a place for me 
 amid its workers. 
 
 No wonder that the ancients, with their subtle, spiritual 
 vision, had descried, far away in the mythic west, a golden 
 Atlantis. No wonder that Plato dreamed of it in his garden. 
 That all generations of men, from the early twilight of time, 
 had turned their faces toward the evening laud; that the 
 mines of Cypango, the jewelled walls of Cathay, flashed be 
 fore the poet eyes of Columbus, when, in truth, upon the 
 thither shore of Atlantic, America stretched away to the 
 borders of sunset. The young land, which nurtured upon its 
 beneficent bosom the weary, the hopeless, the hoping, the 
 aspiring of all races, I believed had room for another in 
 whose veins burned a life real, potent, yet disquieted restless 
 as the genius of the people whose land she sought. These 
 *were my dreams upon deck these my dreams in sleep, when 
 I lay rocked in my narrow berth, the great waves of ocean 
 throbbing at my side. 
 
 It is very easy to suppose what we shall do at a certain 
 time under certain imagined circumstances. To see our 
 selves very self-composed, very wise, rarely discreet, all self- 
 sufficient. But, alas ! when the occasion comes, it is just as 
 easy to forget all our well-laid arrangements, to lose our 
 equanimity, to shift from our balance, to find ourselves drift 
 ing hither and thither scarcely knowing what we are about. 
 People of little imagination do not dream over emergencies ; 
 
 3
 
 o Victoire. 
 
 v 
 
 but, when they come, they have a cool strength, a collected 
 mind to meet them. 
 
 In my visions I had often seen myself landing in a strange 
 country. In those visions I always saw myself calm and self- 
 possessed. When the reality came, when the great ship 
 touched the wharf, when the din and whirl of landing began, 
 I was not quite the composed creature of my dreams. Friends 
 were rushing to meet friends. Oh ! what rejoicings and em- 
 bracings, what kisses and tears I beheld, as people rushed 
 into each other's arms ! Happy beings led away their re 
 turned ones, to tell, in the sweet air of home, by the .golden 
 hearth-side, all the glad and sorrowful things which "hap 
 pened since you went away." There was no greeting for me. 
 I could have wept because there was none. It was a cold, 
 gusty, leaden morning. The heavens were drab, the air was 
 drab, the people looked drab in the dingy light. Not even 
 sunshine, not even a genial air to say " You are welcome." 
 Alas! was my Atlantis a mirage? The unattainable land of 
 visions had it shifted farther away ? On, on, still on did it 
 lie, curtained with its own golden mist upon the dreamy bor 
 ders of Hesperus ? 
 
 Nannette, who had no visions, no anticipations ; felt no 
 disappointment, no misgivings, no fear. She simply looked 
 at facts stark, ungarnished facts. " Mademoiselle had run 
 away to this country to seek her fortune. Nannette had 
 come to take care of her. In Nannette's opinion Mademoi 
 selle was a little crazy. She must look after Mademoiselle's 
 trunks." This was the alpha and omega of Nannette's 
 thought. She simply knew her duty, and went and did it. 
 Nannette was wise. 
 
 In the meantime I swallowed the rising weakness, pressed 
 back the gushing flood before it had filtered out a single tear. 
 In less than an hour I found myself in a quiet apartment in 
 a good hotel, looking from my window upon the sea of human 
 life flowing through Broadway. 
 
 There was no cant in my prayers that night. No mock 
 devotion as I bowed low at the feet of the Infinite Father. 
 Wilful, sinful, He held me. He had made a path for me 
 across the great waters. The Power who had sustained me 
 until now, could I not trust it always ? I lay down without 
 ar, as peacefully as it' my head were nestling amid the 
 white pillows of my little couch in the turret chamber of Les 
 Delices. Through the glass panes at the top of my door T the 
 light shone in from the great halls. Porters ran up and down,
 
 Mrs. Skinher and a Few of her Boarders. 51 
 
 calling to each other through the long passages. The click 
 of canes, the sharp ring of metallic heels upon marble floors, 
 the sudden laugh, single words of conversation passed my 
 door, and died away in the distant corridors. Bells tinkled. 
 Music floated up from the parlors. Coming, going, all the 
 multifarious sounds of a vast hotel reached my ear. Amid 
 all I fell asleep, and not even the shadow of a troubled dream 
 passed over my spirit until morning. 
 
 MRS. SKINHER AND A FEW OP HER BOARDERS. 
 
 I brought a letter of introduction from M. Savonne to M. 
 Petitman. My old teacher regarded him as a gentleman of 
 wealth, taste, and of fine social position. The day after my 
 arrival I despatched my letter and card, and coolly awaited a 
 call from its recipient. M. Petitman came during the after 
 noon. I was summoned into the presence of a sleek, com 
 placent, smiling man, with a smooth, pulpy face, and a shin 
 ing, bald head. He possessed a great portion of .what the 
 English call " manner," which, I soon discovered, in him con 
 sisted of an odd mixture of Yankee inquisitiveness and Pari 
 sian politeness. He had a startling way of moving his bare 
 scalp back and forth as if it were making a serious effort to 
 open. He had the peculiar cringe of body which marks the 
 sycophant ; and he smiled and said "Ah," perpetually. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Victoire Vernoid, ah ! I am most happy to 
 meet a pupil of my dear friend, Monsieur Savonne. Happy, 
 happy were the hours which I spent in his studio. Ah, with 
 what delightful sensations I recall them to my memory ; the 
 most charming hours which I spent to Paris. I have a weak 
 ness for Paris, Mademoiselle Vernoid ah." 
 
 All this was uttered with a most gracious obeisance. 
 
 " You have come to America to visit your relatives ah, 
 Mademoiselle ?" 
 
 " No, sir. I have not a relative living." 
 
 " Ah ! unfortunate, unfortunate ; but you have friends 
 whom you have come to see, ah ?" 
 
 " I have not even an acquaintance in America. I have few 
 friends living. My life has passed in great retirement." 
 
 This was a most impolitic speech. A change, so slight 
 that it was scarcely perceptible ; still a change passed over 
 the glistening pulp of M. Petitman's features. It betrayed
 
 52 Victoire. 
 
 the man ; it said : " One who has few friends is nothing to 
 me." M. Petitman was one to verify poor Goldsmith's asser 
 tion : " If you want friends, be sure not to need them." Had 
 I been a distinguished genius, M. Petitman would instantly 
 have become my devout worshipper ; but an aspiring soul who 
 had yet its way to win to win unassisted, alon^ could be no 
 thing to him. Evidently, in his estimation, I had already 
 found my level. To him I was a silly, romantic girl, who had 
 ran away to a strange land, scarcely knowing what for, or 
 what I was about ; and, in doing so, had done a very improper 
 thing. 
 
 I came to these conclusions while waiting for. M. Pettiman's 
 next remark. The bland smile was remanded back. Again 
 the lips and the tongue said : " Ah, you have a definite plan 
 for the future, have you not, Miss Vernoid ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I have come to America to work as an artist." 
 
 " Ah, very commendatory." 
 
 " In my mother's native country I hope to earn friends." 
 
 " Ah, doubtless you will do so. No people are more ready 
 to acknowledge persevering talent than Americans. You 
 will have to be patient, however, until you become known. 
 You know our great Longfellow says : 
 
 " ' Learn to labor and to wait.* " 
 
 " I am willing to labor, and expect to wait," was my curt 
 reply. 
 
 The condescendingly patronizing manner which M. Petit 
 man had suddenly assumed, instead of making me feel small 
 and meek, was fast lifting me to a high altitude of con 
 tempt. 
 
 " It' you are willing to labor and expect to wait, you are 
 propped for life, and need no assistance," was his amiable 
 reply. " If you succeed, I will introduce you with great plea 
 sure to many of my distinguished friends. Mrs. Petitman, 
 who is passionately devoted to art, will then visit your studio. 
 Ah ! It would afford me pleasure to invite you. to partake of 
 the hospitalities of my house; but we are just now crowded 
 with distinguished visitors Professor Kno\yitall you have 
 heard of him, without doubt, even in France ; Dr. Stuff head 
 you probably heard" his name ; and the charming poetess, 
 MissLillion Languish you must have heard of Aery with my 
 very particular friend, Lady Magnificent, who is now on an 
 American tour, and makes my house her home while upon
 
 Mrs. Skinher and a Few of her Boarders. 53 
 
 this side of the water. So it would be quite impossible quite 
 impossible, ah." 
 
 All this was said in a strange, hesitating tone, caused by 
 the three desires struggling in his mind at once. The desire 
 to mention his " distinguished" visitors, the desire to appear 
 polite, and the special desire to remain unencumbered by the 
 household presence of an unknown. 
 
 " M. Petitman does me great honor," I replied ; " but under 
 no circumstances could I accept his hospitality. If he" will be 
 kind enough to direct me to a private boarding-house, a quiet 
 and refined home, he will confer the only favor I c'ould pos 
 sibly receive." 
 
 " Ah !" said the little man, suddenly radiating with benevo 
 lence, the oil of hypocrisy exuding through his unctuous 
 skin : " It will afford me most exquisite pleasure to do you a 
 favor. I am acquainted with a number of very genteel 
 ladies who take a few very genteel persons into the bosom 
 of their families. I think of one particularly, Mrs. Skinher ; 
 she accepts none but persons of the highest respectability. I 
 will write you a note of introduction, Miss Vernoid, ah." 
 
 All names were alike to me. He wrote the note ; I thanked 
 him ; and Mr. Petitman bowed himself out of my sight. 
 
 "Why trouble you with particulars ? I saw Mrs. Skinher, 
 and, before another night, found myself established in an attic 
 chamber of her house, with good old JJannette domesticated 
 in the kitchen as " French pastry cook." This attic parlor, 
 with its small ante-room, happened to be the only unoccupied 
 one. My first impression of it was pleasant. It seemed a 
 retreat. High above the world, nearer heaven than most of 
 the rooms in the house, it suited me. A carpet of small pat 
 tern and delicate tints covered the floor. Curtains of white 
 muslin shaded the windows. The furniture was of black 
 walnut. A few books were scattered upon the small centre 
 table. Some simple engravings hung upon the wall. Mrs. 
 Jenks observed that these attic rooms were usually occupied 
 by students or literary people, who selected them because 
 they were cheap, and because they were quiet ; that Miss de 
 Ray, a very literary lady, occupied the room opposite ; that 
 the one adjoining belonged to Sign or Orsino, an Italian gen 
 tleman, a teacher of languages. Mrs. Skinher belonged to 
 the community of respectable widows who maintain a gen 
 teel style of living by " keeping boarders." She preferred 
 a large house, full of strangers paying for their trouble, to 
 a small one in which she must live pinched and wait upon
 
 54 Victoire. 
 
 herself. Mrs. Skinher commenced her career in a poor 
 tenement in an obscure down-town street. But patience, 
 prudence, financial tact, had helped her on. Block by block 
 she came up, until now she found herself in a very genteel 
 street, in a very genteel house, tilled, as she assured me, with 
 very genteel boarders. 
 
 Do you hate dinner-eating ? I do. Po'etry sits down at 
 breakfast in the young morning, before the day comes, witli 
 its care and weariness. We come fresh from our dreams to 
 our coffee, and its fragrance is sweeter than dreams. An 
 hour hence we must be hard at work, but the hour has not 
 yet come ; we give the moment to luxury. We slowly drink 
 while we scan the morning paper and chat about the news. 
 We lean over our cup, and, slowly dipping up the nectar, let 
 it drip over the side of the spoon, a liquid rosary, each drop 
 counting some dear plan for the day, whose blossoms lean 
 against the cheek of to-morrow. People generally look well 
 at breakfast, rested and simple. A beautiful woman never 
 looks lovelier than at this hour, when, perhaps, she fancies 
 herself " not fit to be seen." More fascinating than in ball 
 costume is she in her early simplicity, in her graceful robe, 
 her delicate collar, with plain bands of shining hair. There 
 is a charm about " tea." When the day 'has shut its tired 
 eyes and departed. When we have laid our burden down at 
 the feet of night, to be lifted only by the hand of another 
 day. How fascinating is the tea-table its snowy, glossy 
 damask, its delicate plate, its light repast, its balmy tea, its 
 loving faces ! Our work is done. We have earned repose. 
 Morpheus looks. from the warm fire-shadows; and, behind, 
 Somnus opens before our yearning eyes the ivory gate of 
 dreams. Ah, tea is delightful ! but dinner dinner is sordid, 
 sensual. Around it no graces hover. It is grand and unna 
 tural. Everybody looks " dressed," self-conscious, and un 
 comfortable. Stuffed ducks and stuffed people ! Who looks 
 handsome at dinner ? Your hands swell ; your nose grows 
 pink ; your eyes grow little. I have little faith in " the feast 
 of reason and the flow of soul " at dinner. 
 
 Such were my cogitations during the first two hours' sit 
 ting at Mrs. Skinher's dinner-table. Near me, " doing the 
 honors" of a cold ham, sat a gentleman who, had he not been 
 noticed, certainly would have been disappointed in his expec 
 tations and preparations. He was small, slight, and possessed 
 the precise form of that ghostly image which we see in physi 
 ologies under the title of " consumptive." His long neck
 
 Mrs. Skinher and a Few of her Boarders. 55" 
 
 protruded over a scooped-out chest. His long hair was 
 combed straight back from his face, every hair hanging in a 
 mathematical line over his straight coat-collar. He had an 
 impertinent, turned-up nose. His eyes were black and spite 
 ful ; his mouth prodigious ; his long lips hung loose and thin. 
 He wore an immaculate white neck-tie, and, I soon learned, 
 bore the euphonious title of " Rev. Jonathan Edwards Bun 
 kum ;" that he was an incipient " divine," fast ripening in a 
 theological school. I discovered more that he had descend 
 ed from an unadulterated Puritan stock ; that his ancestors 
 fought under Cromwell, and the remainder came over in the 
 wonderful Mayflower, that miraculous ship which held so 
 many people's ancestors ; that he, the Reverend Jonathan, 
 was the valedictorian of his college class ; that he could say 
 with great pomp " When I was in Europe ;" that he had 
 spent three months in London, as many in Paris, in which he 
 never dined at a second-class hotel, nor rode in a second-class 
 car ; that he very much admired the governments of the old 
 country, and equally despised that of the new ; that an aris 
 tocracy was the order of God, and that democracy was an 
 absurdity ; and also that, in his own estimation, " Reverend 
 Jonathan Edwards Bunkuin" was the pivot upon which the 
 world turned. , 
 
 These facts I discovered from the gentleman's remarks. Near 
 by sat a lady whom he addressed as " Mrs. Wiggins." She 
 was magnificently attired, with a diamond upon her finger, 
 which, as she afterward assured me, was " of the purest 
 water." A pair of fine-colored, fine-shaped eyes, rescued her 
 face from positive ugliness. Even these, when 'they emerged 
 from their artificial smiles in" their naked light, had an expres 
 sion sly, selfish, snakish. Her complexion was sallow; her 
 long, narrow chin and thin lips, sinister. She referred often 
 to " When I was at boarding- school ;" and I found that she 
 was the product of a very fashionable intellectual nursery, a 
 plant of a very common genus. Whatever she had failed to 
 learn, it was not the art of simpering, giggling, lisping ; of say 
 ing very flat things in a whining, affected tone. Her smiles 
 all fell upon Mr. Bunkum. Her artillery of charms were 
 directed toward subduing him. The more pedantic, domi 
 neering, bombastic grew his tone, the softlier she sighed 
 "Precisely;" the oftener she simpered, " I agree with you, 
 Mr. Bunkum." At her right sat a little shrivelled old man, 
 whom, when she condescended to address him, to my horror 
 she called " Tim." He was Mr. Wiggins. Poor old man !
 
 5b Victoire. 
 
 there was something kind in his eye, something pitiable in his 
 expression, when he turned to look askance upon the magnifi 
 cent Mrs. Wiggins. He, a widower, old, rich, and alone, had 
 married Miss Euphrasia Georgiana Smith, that he might have 
 somebody to love, somebody to love him. Why she married 
 him I am sure I don't know. Why, do you think ? 
 
 Next Mr. Wiggins sat a young man with an interesting 
 face. He was pale, with a classic head, covered with a pro- 
 fusujn of curling, dark hair. His eyes were full, lustrous, and 
 wonderfully soft. They moved quickly with a startled look, 
 as if half which they saw in the world alarmed them. Clear 
 as translucent lakes reflecting every change upon the sky, 
 they radiated every internal emotion, now kindling with sun 
 shine, now deepening with shadow. Yet whatever its mood, 
 the soul which looked from those crystal windows seemed 
 pure, innocent as that of a little child. 
 
 Beside him sat a woman who I knew must be remark 
 able. She could make no pretensions to youth. Poor Miss 
 De Ray even now I sigh when I say it must have been 
 fifty! She was very tall, and very narrow, and gave one the 
 idea of possessing no shoulders, but seemed all neck from her 
 ears to her waist. Her face was sharp and wrinkled. Her 
 large, restless eyes looked enger and anxious. Occasionally 
 \ a wild light shot from them, which might have been fanati 
 cism, which might have been insanity, which might have been 
 - jjuin. 
 
 Then followed the politician of the table. He had red hair, 
 which stood erect. And if any of the public journals had 
 take'n the trouble to caricature his face, they \vould have given 
 it the bulldog look. With vociferous voice he defended his 
 favorite demigod, and the last pet measure of " the adminis 
 tration." He gesticulated violently, sometimes bringing his 
 knife, sometimes his clenched fist, down to the table in full 
 force. He had a favorite remark which he offered to the 
 company, generally without much reference to its connection : 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, take my advice expect nothing and 
 you'll never be disappointed." This reiterated truism I after 
 wards learned referred to the fact that, though he married an 
 heiress with golden visions of an easeful future, his wife, with 
 an income of a cool five thousand a year, kepi it sate under 
 lock and key ; so the gentleman could spend not a cent of it 
 in attending political conventions, nor to pay political sharpers 
 for the hope of an impossible office. Ueside him sat a beauti 
 ful creature, a perfect embodiment of American feminine
 
 Mrs. Skinher and a Few of her Boarders. 57 
 
 loveliness. Delicate, ethereal, with violet eyes, overflowing 
 with love, and serene, spiritual light. Her abundant hair, 
 golden brow.n, encircled with wavy bands the whitest of 
 brows, and clustered in curls around the fairest of all deli- 
 ciously-moulded necks. Vermeil lips, alluring in their warm 
 sweetness, yet pure in their calm curves as a vestal's own, 
 smiled over the pearls which they but half revealed. Bewil 
 dering laces rose and fell upon her breast ; their treacherous 
 meshes betrayed the softly curved arms, and swayed *ith 
 seductive grace around the petite, snowy jewelled hands. 
 She seemed interested in all that was being said ; met all 
 eyes with the sweetest of unconscious smiles, but took no part 
 in conversation. I heard her, called Mrs. Forrest. 
 
 " Mrs. Wiggins, I have been reading a delightful book to 
 day," said Mr. Bunkum. " I think it better adapted to a 
 lady's capacity than any I have seen for a longtime Abbey's 
 Child's History ; have you read it ?" 
 
 " No, I have not," simpered Mrs. Wiggins ; " I shall be 
 most happy to procure it if you recommend it, Mr. Bunkum." 
 
 "I do; ladies should know a little about history; and any 
 thing as profound as Macaulay it is not to be expected that 
 they will read, or understand if they did." 
 
 At this remark the wild light shot from Miss De Ray's 
 eyes, as she turned them full upon Mr. Bunkum. " Will Mr. 
 Bunkum allow me to inquire if he thinks Macaulay's History 
 beyond the comprehension of women ?" she asked. 
 
 " I do. There is not one lady in a dozen who, if she com 
 menced Macaulay, would have sufficient interest to read it 
 through." 
 
 "You give woman little credit for intelligence, Mr. 
 Bunkum." 
 
 " Intelligence ! Miss De Ray ; man does not need intelligence 
 in woman ; affection -affection is all-sufficient." 
 
 " You think that men should have a sufficiency of the former 
 to supply both, do you not ?" 
 
 " Certainly ; of course. No man wishes to find an equal in 
 his wife. In the lady who is to become Mrs. Bunkum, I require 
 three essentials. Firstly, affection; secondly, beauty; thii'dly, 
 common sense. To a superior intellect I should decidedly 
 object. 
 
 "Why! Mr. Bunkum." 
 
 " Because a woman does not need talent. The more she 
 has, the more she detracts from her husband's glory. All that 
 it is necessary for her to know it is his privilege to tell her." 
 
 3*
 
 58 Victoire. 
 
 There was an audible flutter among the ladies at the table, 
 except Mrs. Wiggins, who said benignly : " I agree with Mr. 
 Bunkum. Ladies should not assume to know as much as 
 gentlemen. What do you think of those who attempt to 
 write books ?" and her eyes turned a malicious glance towards 
 Miss De Ray. 
 
 " I think," said Mr. Bunkum, with an abortive attempt to 
 inflate his inverted chest, " that they would be much better 
 employed washing their children's faces. But I cannot .con 
 ceive how a woman, one worthy of the name, with the shrink 
 ing, the sensitiveness, the weakness inherent to her sex, could 
 ever allow her name to appear in a public print; she cannot, 
 and be a true woman," 
 
 " Does Mr. Bunkum believe that all American women, who 
 are authors, to become such have sacrificed all that is best iu 
 their womanhood ?" asked Miss De Ray. 
 
 " Precisely ; that is precisely what I believe. A woman, 
 possessing the true delicacy of her sex, will shrink from having 
 her name even mentioned by strangers." 
 
 " What do you consider to be the duty of a true woman, 
 Mr. Bunkum ?" 
 
 "To obey and love her husband, to love and to care for her 
 children, make up the whole duty of woman." 
 
 " These are a portion of her duties, Mr. Bunkum. But a 
 true woman is one who nurtures every faculty which God 
 has given her until her whole nature blossoms into symme 
 trical beauty. Such a woman is loving, obeying, naturally 
 the laws of love. But affection cannot absorb all her powers. 
 Man needs sustenance for his intellect as well as his heart. 
 So does woman. The more comprehensive is her nature, 
 the deeper her experience, the more profound her capacity 
 to love." 
 
 "You are transcendental, Miss De Ray. I do not under 
 stand you ; and I doubt if you understand yourself. We WIMV 
 speaking of female authorship. I am opposed to it in toto. 
 For two reasons; firstly, women have not talent, genius, to 
 write books of a high order; secondly, their books are not 
 needed." 
 
 " Women have had everything to discourage them, and yet 
 have there not been women whose works would do honor to 
 any man ?" asked Miss De Ray. 
 
 "None whose productions I would be willing to own. 
 Madame De Stael, I suppose, you rank among the first. She 
 would have made a most flimsy man. But leaving talents out
 
 Mrs. Skinher and a Few of her Boarders. 59 
 
 of the -question, I am opposed to female authorship, because 
 it tempts woman from her true sphere. I had a sister once 
 who had a passion for writing. The gift is inherent in the 
 Bunkum family. For a woman, she wrote uncommonly well. 
 But I knew that if she composed, she, in time, would be 
 tempted to publish. I could not endure the thought, and 
 forbade her the use of her pen. It came hard to her at first. 
 She said 'That she must give some expression to her inward 
 life or die.' I told her that she could tell her feelings to me, 
 which would be all sufficient. She never used her pen again, 
 except to copy household receipts and to write family letters. 
 She died before she was twenty-three, and, although she never 
 said so, I am certain that she thanked me to her dying day 
 in not allowing her to unsex herself, nor to enter into compe 
 tition with her brothers, who are all writers or public speakers. 
 And I have been spared the shock of seeing the name of a 
 female of my family in a vulgar newspaper." 
 
 " How disagreeable that would have been !" sighed Mrs. 
 Wiggins. 
 
 " Yes, it would have been very distressing to you, Mr. 
 Bunkum ; but if you never have greater reason to be shocked 
 with any member of your family, you will be very fortunate," 
 said Miss De Ray. 
 
 " You need borrow no trouble on my account, Madam. I 
 shall always be able to rule my own house. Before marriage, 
 I intend that the future Mrs. Bunkum shall promise, in all 
 things, to submit to the requirements of the gospel." 
 
 " She may claim the privilege of deciding for herself what 
 the requirements of the gospel are. American women have 
 a high spirit, and the same insatiate love for liberty which 
 characterizes American men," said Miss De Ray. 
 
 "Grace conquers nature, Madam. The first lesson which 
 I shall teach my wife, is that she must implicitly obey ; that 
 my will is her law ; that I am not only my own master, but 
 that I am also hers. I shall owe her this lesson as my first 
 duty. A husband is responsible for the salvation of his wife. 
 Indeed, I think that it is only on account of her relation to 
 man that woman is saved. I have made it a subject of deep 
 study. I have searched the best Greek lexicons, and find no 
 word in the original which convinces me that females are 
 especially included in the plan of salvation. But gallantry 
 impels me to place as large a construction as possible upon the 
 designs of God. On the whole, I rather desire that the frailer 
 half of humanity should be admitted into the celestial kingdom."
 
 60 Victoire. 
 
 As Mr. Bunkum said these words, he bowed and stretched 
 his thin lips over his ferocious jaw in a ghastly grin, which 
 he intended as a most gracious smile for Mrs. Wiggins. 
 
 " I intend that the future Mrs. Bunkum shall be a very hap- 
 
 ?y woman," he added. " I shall seem severe at first, while 
 am breaking her will, but afterwards I shall teach her to 
 see the beauty there is in entire trust, in perfect submission. 
 When our relations are perfectly adjusted, it will be my de 
 light to supply all her wants without ever asking her what 
 they are." 
 
 Poor Miss De Ray was keenly excited. She twitched 
 nervously, and her eyelids trembled over her restless eyes. 
 But the fretted soul in that jarred frame was no match for 
 the bulldog force, the dogged assumption of the Rev. Jona 
 than Bunkum ; and Miss De Ray wist-ly said no more. She 
 left the table before dessert, and, as the door closed upon her, 
 Mrs. Wiggins smiled superciliously. Often, while Mr. Bun 
 kum had been speaking, I saw resentment, nay, defiance, shoot 
 ' from her eye as from a live volcano ; but it was wonderful 
 how suddenly all fire would fall back, smothered in the crater, 
 lost in the glare of Mr. Bunkum's smile. As Miss De Ray 
 departed, she said to that august individual " Are you 
 a ware that Miss De Ray is an authoress, Mr. Bunkum ?" 
 
 " I am aware that she looks like one female authors are 
 usually frights," he replied. " It is the duty of every lady 
 to be beautiful ;" and the smile and bow which accompanied 
 these words seemed to say to Mrs. Wiggins " You have 
 done your duty." 
 
 She. smirked consciously, and said : ' Oh ! Mr. Bunkum, that 
 is quite impossible for all, you know !" 
 
 " Well, if nature has not been kind, a woman need not 
 make herself odious by turning into a has bleu." 
 
 " Miss De Ray does not assume to be very profound. She 
 writes children's books. She is now very busy with a silly 
 thing which she calls the A-B-C-darian. She is very anxious 
 to introduce it into all the public schools. For my part, I 
 think her insane." 
 
 "Probably, or she would go and teach her brothers' and sis 
 ters' children, and leave the care of the public schools to 
 those to whom they belong." 
 
 Thus ended the first sayings which I heard from the mouth 
 of Rev. Jonathan Bunkum. He flourished his napkin, placed 
 it in his silver ring with three pompous " Ahems !" and with 
 a bow, left Mrs. Wiggins and the ham " alone in their glory."
 
 Boarding-House Life. 61 
 
 These being the only objects which he seemed to think 
 worthy of his undivided attention, and the only ones to 
 which he was capable of doing perfect justice. 
 
 While passing through the last hall, as I went to my room, 
 a sound startled me and arrested my steps. I listened. It 
 came from Miss De Ray's room, a deep, half-suppressed, ago 
 nized sob. One followed another in slow, painful succession. 
 It was the live sob of a convulsed heart. Within its compass 
 seemed compressed the sorrow, the disappointment, the pain 
 of a whole life. It smote my soul. I said to myself " Mr. 
 Bunkum may abuse female authors ; Mrs. Wiggins may scorn 
 you, if she pleases; I like you, poor Miss De Ray; and if I 
 dared, would come in and tell you so." But, as it was, I entered 
 my own silent retreat. I sat down and thought of Mr. 
 Bunkum. He was a new specimen of a man to me. Did he 
 represent the men of America ? Did the free government 
 engender tyrants ? He was a tyrant, I knew. My last thought 
 that night was Mr. Bunkum, after which I again devoted my 
 self to eternal celibacy. 
 
 BOARDING-HOUSE LIFE. 
 
 An indolent, objectless, listless life seemed that of the lady 
 boarders. If their existence had an object, it must have 
 been already attained, for they were guiltless of either physi 
 cal or mental exertion. " Nothing to Do" was stamped 
 alike upon their delicate hands, and upon their expressionless 
 faces. In a room warmed to a tropical heat, upon a luxurious 
 sofa, they would lie through all the day, reading the last sen 
 sation story, playing with the rings upon their waxen fingers, 
 dreaming the softest, it may be, the silliest of dreams. When 
 night crept down into the beleaguered street, and the gas 
 waved its banners of flame athwart the sombre walls of the 
 houses, and flooded their rooms with radiance, they would 
 languidly assume the dignity of martyrs, and allow themselves 
 to be dressed for dinner. When variety came to their apart 
 ment it was usually in the form of a worn dressmaker, who, 
 day after day, Avould sit before them, fashioning w T ith weary 
 fingers the most costly fabrics into faultless robes ; or a lady 
 splendidly attired would call to discuss the last opera, the last 
 ball, the newest style, with all the. prospective weddings and 
 births within the circle of acquaintance. When the heavens
 
 62 Victoire. 
 
 were cloudless and the day beguiling, the ladies would arouse 
 themselves to severer exertion. The faultless robes were 
 hung upon the faultless form, and the beautiful wearer went 
 for a drive or promenade in Broadway. And one, I breathe 
 her name most tenderly dear Rose Forrest whose gentle 
 heart yearned to be a ministrant of love, she wen't and taught 
 the children in the Ragged School. True, she went in an 
 enamelled coach, went radiantly attired, and the poor little 
 sinners whom she taught were too busy looking at their beau 
 tiful teacher to learn either to read or sew ; but she wanted 
 to do good, she wanted to be good, and this want, unuttered 
 though it was, gave a seraphic softness to her eyes, a celestial 
 sweetness to her smile, while, all unconsciously to herself, it 
 lifted her into a serener atmosphere of being than that inha 
 bited by her ephemeral companions. 
 
 But on ill-omened days, when the sky was sulky and the 
 very air fretful and teasing, the bad temper of the weather 
 would steal like contagion into human hearts. Then no story 
 book, no day dream, no new dress even, could restore the lost 
 equilibrium of amiable dulness to the fair occupants of the 
 sofas. They would suddenly become gregarious, and, congre 
 gating in different rooms, would serve up for each other's 
 taste minute dishes of gossip and scandal. The last dinner 
 talk, Mr. Bunkum, Miss DeRay, the looks, manners, and 
 foibles of each absent person would be most thoroughly mas 
 ticated. Then would follow more secret revelations. Snatches 
 of private conversation overheard in halls ; family secrets, 
 which, in some mysterious way, had penetrated into feminine 
 ears within inviolate closets ; the deplorable state of feeling 
 existing between Mr. and his wife; followed by commi 
 seration, denunciation, and doubtful sighs. All were blamed, 
 few praised, the world itself condemned, and the ladies would 
 separate, each meekly believing herself to be the only one ot 
 her acquaintance "fit to live." Some had children, but they 
 were left entirely to the charge of nurses. Of the holy minis 
 try of motherhood the beautiful cares and hallowing joys 
 of a home which make the sweetest life of every real woman 
 these ladies had read, but knew very little of them in rea 
 lity, and cared less. 
 
 It was like transition from one world to another to pass 
 from my Languedoc home to live in a New York boarding- 
 house. The different phases of humanity afforded me enter 
 tainment, the dinner table-talk amusement, yet I instinctively 
 felt that my actual life must be lived in the silence of my
 
 Boarding-House Life. 63 
 
 room and the solitude of my own nature. A glowing 
 thought, a definite purpose, had already shaped in rny brain. 
 I would begin my first great work. I would paint a picture, 
 which would command for me reputation for genius and 
 remuneration for labor. My faith in my success amounted to 
 presumption. It was not belief in my own power that made 
 me confident, but love for the subject which I had chosen. I 
 knew that in a thousand endeavors I might fail, but in this I 
 could not, for it would be an embodiment of love. I should 
 infuse my soul, its deepest, warmest, strongest life, into my own 
 creation. How it glowed before my mental vision in the 
 rarest colors of reality, my picture that was to be ! It was 
 Frederick's death scene the mountains, the river, the cot 
 tage, the verandah, with the roseate sunset flushing all ; Frede 
 rick reclining upon his couch, his dying eyes unlifted. Above, 
 through a luminous veil of mist, shone the face of Beatrice. 
 Suffering, yearning, longing love, looking no longer from the 
 marvellous eyes ; but . love ineffable, beatified, triumphant, 
 drawing him upward with irresistible attraction. Above 
 her, still further withdrawn within the mysterious veil, dimly 
 looked down two other faces my father and mother. By my 
 side, his eyes fixed upon the dying, stood the stranger the one 
 sad, sweet mystery of my life. Why did my hand tremble 
 and my being thrill at the memory of that face ? Why, in 
 recalling each lineament until it shone palpably before me in 
 its ideal presence, I found richer society than the company of 
 the living could bestow, they who know best the mystery of 
 the human heart perhaps can tell. 
 
 I commenced my picture. It absorbed me. I arose from 
 my couch and sat down to it. I went mechanically to my 
 meals, only to return to it. I ate in silence ; simpering, hypo 
 crisy, bombast, were nothing to me now ; they neither dis 
 turbed nor amused me. I passed the lighted parlors, with 
 their music and mirth ; passed the ladies chatting in the halls, 
 to return and gaze in silence into the dawning faces of my 
 loved ones. Day by day they grew, gradually unfolding into 
 the warm lineaments of life beneath my touch, until at last 
 these faces were no longer pictures but souls ; and I seemed 
 to breathe again in the living presence of the only beings 
 whom I had ever loved. 
 
 Winter passed. The snows melted from the house-tops, 
 falling in warm rain from the flooded eaves. From their sooty 
 winter covering 'the pavements emerged clean and warm 
 Cumulous clouds, radiant harbingers of pleasant weather,
 
 64 Victoire. 
 
 floated up from the region of the "Bay," and, reposing upon the 
 pellucid ether, hung their white panoplies of promise above the 
 waiting city. Life grew jubilant. Even the organ-grinders 
 beneath the windows played a merrier tune. Breeze and beam, 
 laden, I thought, with the last summer's sweets, came stealing 
 in to woo me out into the presence of the great Mother of 
 all. Nature said " come !" and I went. I saw no Boulevards, 
 no Champs Elysees, no gorgeous palaces, no forest parks, 
 with their umbrageous shade, their misery, pomp, and revelry; 
 but found little green oases, spots of rest, lying here and there 
 upon the dusty heart of the city. 
 
 I loved Union Park the best. I loved its bright patches 
 of grass in which the dandelion showered its stars ; its femi 
 nine maples, shaking their breezy skirls in the glad spring 
 sunshine. And, when they were touched with hectic and 
 leaned in love against each other, dying beautifully, meet 
 types of the frailest and fairest of the human race who blossom 
 and perish early, they touched my heart as nearly. There 
 the fountain showered its liquid stars; there gay children 
 gathered and frolicked in the sunshine ; there birds warbled 
 their sweetest idyls. I would sit in some sun-warmed spot 
 and watch the little ones. Their music made me glad ; their 
 young life stirred my own. The pretty German fratileins in 
 white caps, who knew me because -I smiled upon their bonny 
 baby charges, would come, and holding up a patrician rose 
 bud, say : " Isn't mine the prettiest ?" And I could satisfy 
 them only by assuring them that all were "prettiest," when 
 each would toss her baby in the air and go away content. 
 
 April shut her tearful eyes. May laughed above the shoulder 
 of her weeping sister. I saw the buds burst ; I saw the young 
 leaves come out to kiss the spring ; saw the fountain bathe 
 the feverish brow of the year's adolescent days; and simply 
 to live, to drink in sun and song and odorous air, to thrill to 
 the touch of the electric wind till every pulse seemed sur 
 charged with a new magnetic life only to breathe was 
 ecstasy. 
 
 Summer came. The butterflies flitted away from the parlors 
 below to the breezy hills and to the invigorating sea. Only 
 the inhabitants of the attic remained. The attic's warbler, 
 Miss De Ray, still piped her languishing lyrics in the room 
 opposite. Soft-eyed Orsino, the Italian teacher, still went 
 and came from his daily tasks. While I, unchanged, sat a 
 worshipper in the midst of my gods. No wonder Mrs. Skin- 
 her made the remark which she did : " I always have very
 
 Orsino. 65 
 
 peculiar people in my attic." If the attics of New York would 
 disgorge their inhabitants to-day, a greater variety of remark 
 able people would be seen than all the soirees, receptions, and 
 assthetic clubs of a season can produce. To the attic comes 
 fallen greatness, disappointed hope, aspiring genius, the refugee 
 from other lands, the seedy philosopher, the penniless poet. 
 Too light of gold to gravitate to a lower level, they ascend to 
 the attic by the force of a natural law. Here life is lived, 
 seldom in comedy, but often in direful tragedy. How often 
 I have lifted my eyes to the top of a stately mansion, to the 
 narrow, prison-like windows which crown its summit, and 
 said : " I wonder who rooms in the attic ?" 
 
 ORSINO. 
 
 Orsino, the Italian teacher, was the young man whose face 
 attracted my attention pleasantly at my first dinner at Mrs. 
 Skinher's. There was something in his eyes which touched 
 me. They did not move, they only touched me, stirring in 
 my breast the slumbering pool of pity. I saw that he was 
 one of those aeolian-strung beings upon whom every passing 
 influence can play, bringing out a wail or a melody. One of 
 those unconscious human Christs who have come into the 
 world to suffer for the follies and sins of others. I often met 
 him upon the stairs, passed him in the halls, and we had 
 learned to bow and smile upon each other, and that was all. 
 
 But one evening as I sat alone, as usual, looking at the 
 growing faces upon the canvass before me, a shadow fell upon 
 the threshold, and, looking up, I saw Orsino. He stood in 
 the open door with a look of embarrassment upon his face, as 
 if he hardly had decided whether to enter or withdraw. " Will 
 the Signora pardon ?" he asked, hesitatingly, as he caught my 
 uplifted eye. " I have heard much of the Signora's picture ; 
 I have come to see it ; I thought, perhaps, it would make me 
 think of those I used to see in my own countiy." 
 
 " You are welcome," I replied ; " but if you have looked 
 upon the paintings of Italy, you will see little to please you in 
 the work of an amateur." 
 
 " Ah, this is beauty !" he exclaimed, advancing, and gaz 
 ing directly at the portrait of my mother the same which 
 won my childish love upon the walls of Les Delices. " This 
 
 5
 
 66 Victoire. 
 
 is like the Madonna to whom I used to pray," and he crossed 
 himself reverently. 
 
 I knew that one who had such eyes as Orsino must be a 
 worshipper of the beautiful. He was not profuse in adulation; 
 be did not tire me with exclamations of "How beautiful!" 
 " Oh, how lovely !" but his changing check and enkindling 
 eye betrayed a delicate appreciation more deliciously grati 
 fying to me than a room full of compliments. I eagerly 
 watched the impression which my own painting would make 
 upon his susceptible mind the one into which my utmost 
 being was infused. When his eye fell upon it, he held his 
 breath for an instant. He looked at Frederick, and, following 
 the upturned eye, his gaze rested upon the mist-veiled face of 
 Beatrice. 
 
 "Do you paint spirits?" he asked. "That is a spirit. 
 What eyes ! they were never made for earth. I wish that I 
 could see such a pair of eyes in this world." 
 
 " They once looked upon the world ; but they closed early, 
 and no wonder." 
 
 He looked from my face to that of the Stranger. " Is this 
 your brother ?" he asked. " You have the same look in your 
 eyes." 
 
 " No ! he is not my brother. Do we look alike ?" 
 
 "Yes, in your eyes. You look as if you thought of the 
 same things." 
 
 " Perhaps we do." 
 
 I had painted that face faithfully, as it looked forth upon me 
 from my own soul. Was it a likeness, or, after all, was it 
 only a vision ? Why had the eyes the expression of mine ? 
 Surely I had not intended to paint my own. So I thought, 
 and in my thought forgot Orsino. 
 
 But he needed no words. Others had come to my studio, 
 had stared and taked; he gazed, felt, in silence. Mrs. Wig 
 gins had ascended to my attic, and, after looking at each face 
 through her lorgnette, exclaimed : "My ! how tiresome it inu^t 
 be to sit and paint all day ; but you make pretty faces ; I 
 think that I will have you paint my portrait." And I had 
 answered: "Thank you, Mrs. Wiggins. I do not paint 
 portraits." 
 
 Rev. Jonathan Bunkum had asked cynically if he might 
 compare my pictures with those of the Louvre, which he be 
 lieved I had had the opportunity to study. He came, and, 
 standing before the pictures, had delivered an essay of techni 
 cal criticism, duly divided by naked " heads," from firstly to
 
 Orsino. 67 
 
 the intolerable " tenthly." He said, in conclusion, with great 
 unction : " I think I see some faint indications of talent. Young 
 ladies often have a taste for drawing but there never was a 
 woman who had genius to make her a great painter. This is 
 pleasant amusement for the time being. You will drop it when 
 you marry. What man would want an artist for a wife !" 
 
 What woman would want a fool for a husband, I thought ; 
 but only said : " We differ in opinion, Mr. Bunkum. Art 
 opens a wide sphere to woman, and I think that she has a nature 
 large enough to fill it." 
 
 He departed with a look of amazement upon his face that 
 any woman should have the audacity to offer an opinion differ 
 ing from that of Rev. Jonathan Edwards Bunkum. 
 
 But here had come a simple spirit, who in silence looked 
 through the visible symbol to the invisible soul. Here was 
 no affectation, no pretension. He simply gazed and felt. And 
 I, in silence, accepted his unspoken sympathy. 
 
 Perhaps the gratitude in my heart shone in my eyes ; for 
 when I said, as he turned to depart " Do not be in haste, 
 Signor Orsino," his countenance suddenly radiated. If I 
 cannot speak sincerely, I say nothing. If the eyes which look 
 at me do not say, " You are welcome," my soul, without a 
 word, retires back to itself. If I hold converse, it must be 
 beside the warm fireside of the heart. I cannot stand shiver 
 ing outside, muttering through barred windows. There were 
 no bars across Orsino's windows. I looked straight through 
 their limpid crystal into the fair, unpeopled world within. I 
 saw a beautiful solitude there yet to be filled. 
 
 " Are you very lonely in this strange country ?" I began. 
 
 " Ah ! very, very !" and a shadow dropped over the soft 
 eyes. " Italy is my own land ; all whom I love are buried 
 there." 
 
 " France is my own country ; all my kindred are buried 
 there." All whom I love, I was about to say ; but, looking up, 
 my eyes met those of the stranger upon the canvass. " You 
 are alone in the world ; how sad !" I said. 
 
 " Yes, I am an exile. My family are dead. No one lives 
 who cares for me." 
 
 " I do," I was almost impelled to say, he looking so unfeign- 
 edly forlorn ; but a " sense of propriety" repressed with 
 frozen touch the warm, running ripple of natural sympathy. 
 
 " Is not the Signora alone ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes ;" yet I had not thought of that before. 
 
 " Are you not lonely?"
 
 68 Victoire. 
 
 " Ah, no ; I have company in the faces of my friends." 
 
 " But they cannot speak to you ; they have no voice ; they 
 cannot say : ' I love you !' " 
 
 " Yes, they do say ' I love you ;' they say so with their 
 eyes ; every moment of the day they whisper this sweet story. 
 No ; I am seldom lonely ; when I am, I go out into God's 
 world. The sky smiles, the sea smiles, the flowers smile, the 
 birds sing and tell me to be happy. Sunshine, balmy air, 
 running water, make me glad ; these no wealth can take from 
 me ; they are God's ; s'o they are also mine ; mine to enjoy and 
 to love. My Father's own rich gifts. No, Siguor Orsino, I am 
 seldom sad, never miserable." 
 
 "Yet you have lost all your kindred." 
 
 These words awakened a single pang. It hurt me 'while I 
 said : " Not lost, not lost ! they have only passed into another 
 country, a radiant one. They visit me sometimes, and I 
 know when my work is done I shall go to them." 
 
 Was it really me, saying these words I who one little 
 year before had been so bitter in my rebellion? Yes, the very 
 same ; thus we pass from woe to* resignation. 
 
 " I wish that I could be so happy," sighed Orsino. 
 
 " Why may you not be ? You own the earth as well as I ; 
 besides, you are a man, and can go forth in the great world 
 unquestioned. Don't you find anything to amuse you, to 
 instruct you, to make you happy ? Have you no friends ?" 
 
 " A few among my countrymen. But we are all exiles ; 
 we are all sad. This is a great country, Signora, great and 
 free. But Italy is in chains. We weep for our country ; we 
 cannot save our country." 
 
 I could appreciate this sorrow. The night of my father's 
 death came back. I remembered how he died for his country. 
 I recollected that I was the child of a hero. 
 
 " Poor, poor Italy !" I said, " no wonder that you weep 
 for her ; no wonder that you love her, if she is your mother." 
 
 " Your words are kind, Signora. It seems strange to hear 
 kind words." 
 
 " Why, who dares to be cruel to you ! You stand up a 
 free man, in a free country, a gentleman and a scholar besides. 
 Why do you speak as if every one was unkind ?" 
 
 " Not unkind, but cold, cold ; that is the word, Signora. 
 America is a cold country. The American is cold. He lives 
 for himself. He is in a great hurry. He hurries to be a boy ; 
 he h lyrics to be a man ; he hurries to be rich ; he hurries into 
 the grave."
 
 Orsino. 69 
 
 " Can't you hurry and keep in the crowd, Signer ?" 
 
 " No, no, no. I feel different. I want not to hurry. God 
 does not hurry. The American says : ' My life has a great 
 object.' Very often the great object is himself. He says 
 much about duty. Duty sometimes is a pious name for selfish 
 ness. He says : ' Life is a struggle ; life is a battle ; he must 
 hurry.' If his friend dies, he says : ' Poor fellow,' but has not 
 time to go to the funeral ; he seizes another friend by the arm, 
 and hastens on ; and so he hurries, hurries, Signora, till all 
 that is left of him is muscle and eyes. I cannot live so. I want 
 not to hurry ; I feel strange and alone." 
 
 He need not have told me this. You are alone, I thought ; 
 but did not say so. I only said : " You should have many- 
 friends." 
 
 Again he went on : " The Italian has a burning heart. His 
 friendship is devotion, his love is idolatry. He tells it in 
 the warm words of the South. The American does not under 
 stand him. If I should speak only words of friendship to an Ame 
 rican lady, she would think that I Avas making love to her. 
 She would drawback oifended. I teach the languages. I have 
 a large class. Many of them come from a distance ; and when 
 they return to their homes I know that I shall never see 
 them again. When the time draws near I grow sad, I grow 
 sick. 1 lose my appetite ; I lose my flesh. This week I have 
 lost ten pounds from grief. They have not lost one pound." 
 
 I laughed outright. " Signer, you will vanish soon, if you 
 are going at such a rapid rate." 
 
 He was in serious earnest, yet he did not seem offended 
 with my mirth. He knew it was mirth, not mockery. His 
 words were despondent, mine joyous. We were fair examples 
 of most of the cornplainers and comforters "which are found in 
 the world. His words oozed from the wounds of a hurt heart. 
 Mine flowed from the fulness of health and the depth of a 
 buoyant temperament. 
 
 In every nature capable of the deepest emotion, there is a 
 silent under-chord which only needs to be touched to send 
 forth a wail of sadness. It is the faint, smothered cry of the 
 immortal, trembling out amid the coarse hilarity of human 
 life. There are beings so exquisitely organized that they seem 
 one bare and aching nerve. Around them fold no harder 
 tissues to blunt the agony which they feel from the ever- 
 hurting pressure of external objects. Such a being trembles 
 at the slightest touch, thrills to a look, may be wounded by 
 a word. This is the organism of genius ; and, when the crea-
 
 jo Victoire. 
 
 tivo faculty is given, such are the beings who make incarnate 
 for the world the divine essence of Beauty. To them all life 
 is intensated. They always live more years than are record 
 ed for them. 
 
 Such a soul was Orsino. 
 
 IMPROPRIETIES. 
 
 A very unfortunate class is that which can never learn 
 what the world calls " propriety." It seldom includes the 
 world's greatest sinners, but always the world's sufferers. 
 The law of God may be forgotten, but the law of Society 
 must be obeyed. Yet Right has a deeper significance than 
 Appearance; and the sin of the world is, that it seeks to seem, 
 rather than to be good. The person who cherishes and 
 covers sin in the soul is usually the one most deeply shocked 
 at the slightest breach made in the bulwark of conventional 
 ism. Innocence is its own shield ; it does not need to have its 
 hands tied with a thousand withes of custom in order to keep 
 it from mischief. It is the impure of heart, the easily tempted, 
 who need all the little chafing bands which society ties 
 on so well. Society only says : " Hide. Sin as much as 
 you please, but hide your sin." Alas! for the simple, sin 
 cere souls, who can never learn to be proper ; who only 
 ask, " Is it wrong ? Is it right ?" and then run into the 
 face of the world's opinion. If they are sensitive (and they 
 usually are), woe to their lacerated hearts. Envy, malice, 
 and all uncharitableness will come forth from their dens in 
 hell to punish their temerity. Woe also to those who go 
 astray, be it ever so slightly. Society never says to such 
 unfortunates; "Come! I will lead you into a less treacherous 
 path ; flowers will blossom there which are thornless ; there 
 you 1 may breathe airs which are never deadly, and gather 
 fruit which holds no lurking poison." No! It rises with a 
 scorpion whip, and hunts its victim to the door of the grave. 
 The lovely are sacrificed to the unlovely, the pure to the 
 impure. Mrs. Grundy rules; gossip and scandal are her 
 viceregents. 
 
 Mrs. Wiggins could despise and neglect her husband ; 
 could cherish evil thought in her heart till it looked like a 
 demon through her eyes; still, to the world, Mrs. \Viggins 
 was elegant and accomplished one of the beau monde, a
 
 Improprieties. 71 
 
 " star" in society. Mrs. Wiggins thought it exceedingly im 
 proper that Signor Orsino should visit the studio of Made 
 moiselle Vernoid. It was a disgrace to the house. Mrs. 
 Wiggins should leave immediately if there was not a change. 
 As usual in such cases, the ones most concerned were the 
 last to learn that they were the subjects of disparaging com 
 ment. The knowledge came to me very suddenly one even 
 ing. Orsino had spent an hour after dinner reading aloud in 
 my studio. He had been reading from the German of Ludwig 
 Uhland, and the melodious monody of" The Passage" haunted 
 my heart after its reader had departed, and half sadly I mur 
 mured to myself two of its verses : 
 
 " So, whene'er I turn my eye 
 Back upon the days gone by, 
 Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, 
 Friends that closed their course before me. 
 
 But what binds us, friend to friend, 
 But that soul with soul can blend ? 
 Soul-like were those hours of yore ; 
 Let us walk in soul once more." 
 
 The wind was sobbing outside of my window the autumn 
 wind, with almost the wail of winter in it. As I listened, 
 there stole over me that first sweet sense of comfort, that 
 feeling of gratitude for shelter and a home, which conies to 
 vis in the autumn, when perhaps for the first time we nestle 
 up to a ruddy fire, saying: " How pleasant it seems ;" then, 
 sinking back in our chair, yield, unconsciously, body and soul, 
 to its soothing glow and dreamy repose. 
 
 Thus I felt. For the first time in the season the anthracite 
 in my little cathedral stove was all ablaze. I could fancy that 
 a mimic sunset was streaming through its windows of isin 
 glass. Every object in the room reflected its radiance. Gold 
 en shadows rose and fell on the white walls, and hung gold 
 en veils on the faces of the pictures. Oh ! it was golden 
 all ! The half sadness which Uhland's monody had stirre<? in 
 my soul had sunk back quiescent, and I was peacefully happy 
 when the door opened and Nannette entered. I saw at a 
 glance that she had come to lecture me. She glided like a 
 black shadow into my little palace of golden visions. I asked 
 no questions. Why ask the clouds if they are going to rain, 
 when they hang low and lowering above you ? 
 
 I felt happy, doubtless looked so; and there is nothing more 
 vexatious to some people than the fact that you look happy 
 when they think that you ought to look miserable. Nannette
 
 72 Victoire. 
 
 evidently thought it my duty to look so at the present time, 
 for she sat down with a very severe frown on her good old 
 face. 
 
 " Ma jeune demoiselle Victoire, aimez-vous Monsieur Orsi 
 no?" she inquired, without a word of preliminary, and with 
 out a smile, looking as grim and inflexible as a lump of granite. 
 
 " Folie ! Non, ma chore Nannette." 
 
 " Non, Mademoiselle ?" 
 
 " Nbn,je ne Vaimepas, est ce qui a mis cela en votre tete, 
 Nannette . ? " 
 
 " Ah, they say you be top much together," she groaned. 
 " Mon Dieu, Mademoiselle, est-il possible d' } entendre tels mots 
 de vous" and Nannette groaned again, as if her last friend 
 had departed. 
 
 " ' They say ?' Nannette, ' They say' tells all the lies which 
 are told in the world. I like Signer Orsino very much. He 
 comes and reads to me, because he is alone and so am I ; 
 because he is a beautiful reader and I praise him ; because 
 I am fond of the books which he reads ; but I do not love 
 him, and he does not love me. Will you believe what I say, 
 Nannette ?" 
 
 " Mademoiselle was carefully taught," was her ambiguous 
 reply. 
 
 " What has that to do with my question, Nannette ?" 
 
 " Madame taught Mademoiselle to behave with propriety at 
 all times," she said, gazing steadfastly into the fire. 
 
 " Nannette ! what do you mean ? What have I done ? 
 Propriety ! Am I not a model of propriety? More, I am a 
 perfect recluse; I go nowhere, I see no company; I have not 
 made an acquaintance outside of this house since I came to 
 America." 
 
 " Better if you had not made some inside of it," she inter 
 rupted. 
 
 " Nannette, if yon mean Signor Orsino, I must tell you that 
 you are very silly. You don't know what you are talking 
 :il tout. Not a person in this house appreciates Signor Orsino. 
 They don't know him, for he lives in a world higher than 
 they have ever reached." 
 
 Of course Nannette did not understand this; but, fortu 
 nately, her head was so full of her subject, she could pay little 
 attention to the words which came from mine. 
 
 " Madame Wiggins dit, que vous etes mauvaise, mauvaise 
 fiUe! MonDlen! Mon Dieu I that Nannette should live 
 to hear Mademoiselle called mauvaise, mauvaise T
 
 Improprieties. 73 
 
 " Bad ? That will not make me bad, Nannette ;" and the 
 proud blood of many generations swept through my veins at 
 the thought of being unjustly accused. " I am cross at you, 
 sometimes, Nannette. I have been cross to-night; that is very 
 bad, for you are my best friend, ma chere bonne. But I can 
 never perjure, my soul by conscious evil. I shall never be 
 bad as Madame Wiggins means. Nannette, mets-le-toi dans 
 F esprit; qui fait mal, trouve mal. Remember it, Nannette ; 
 he who does evil finds evil. It is the secretly guilty who are 
 most likely to accuse the innocent. I know that you love me, 
 Nannette ; it has hurt you to hear me spoken against. I am 
 not afraid of the issue of falsehood. I am not afraid of any 
 thing but sin. But for your sake, Signer Orsino shall not 
 come and read to me any more." 
 
 " He can read to you in the parlor, Mademoiselle ?" 
 
 " No, Nannette ; he cannot. He tried to do so, but Mrs. 
 Wiggins made it intolerable. Her sly jests, her covert insi 
 nuations to those around, made it impossible that he could 
 read or I listen. Now she slanders us, because we absent our 
 selves from her presence." 
 
 Mine was no uncommon case ; the -shrinking sensitiveness 
 of innocence, unjustly judged, is often seized as the conscious 
 ness of guilt. I could not blame Najmette. The servants 
 had heard Mrs. Wiggins, and with their limited range of 
 topics, they had little else to talk about save the gossip of the 
 house. And my poor old nurse had been tormented by hear 
 ing her foster-child made the subject of their careless com 
 ment. Good Nannette, with her French idea that a young 
 man must not speak to a young woman save in the presence 
 of a duenna, no wonder she was shocked. 
 
 The next afternoon Orsino came, bringing the poems of 
 Henirich Heine: Orsino had been in Germany, and was 
 passionately fond of German literature ; especially he liked 
 the purest and most melodious of Heine's lyrics. I remember 
 that he read many, one the 
 
 " I know not what it presages, 
 
 This heart with sadness fraught ; 
 'Tis a tale of olden ages 
 That will not from my thought 
 
 ' The air grows cool and darkles; 
 
 The Ehine flows calmly on ; 
 The mountain summit sparkles 
 
 In the light of the setting sun."
 
 74 Victoire. 
 
 He was as unconscious as usual. lie had found a book 
 which he knew that I would love as well as himself, and had 
 come to read it. Whether proper or improper, he had never 
 thought ; therefore did not know. I took my work and sat 
 down to listen. I seized my task and began very industriously, 
 but it would fall from my relaxing fingers. My cheek would 
 fall upon my upholding hand, until at last, leaning forward, 1 
 forgot everything in the poet's inspiration. 
 
 Orsino sat apart in his accustomed seat under the narrow 
 window. He read long ; the splendor of sunset fell upon his 
 brow as the last words of the " Lorelei" died on his lips, and he 
 laid down his book, leaned his face upon his hand, and looked 
 up. Far below was the tumult, the grief, the sin, of the great 
 city ; the chafing mass of humanity moaning on its far-a\vay 
 wail, fitful, dying, rose and fell, yet we heeded not its 
 murmur. Above spread the glory of sunset, the promise of 
 the open sky, and this was all that we could see. The eyes 
 of Orsino seemed to penetrate heavjen. An aura encircled his 
 face and hallowed each beautiful featuie. In. spirit he had 
 passed away from the book, from me, from himself. He was 
 thinking, and his thoughts went out to the invisible. He made 
 no sign, he spoke no word. The god in Orsino was dumb. The 
 fact that this exquisite sensibility was always felt and never 
 spoken, that the soul had no language by which it could con 
 vey its subtle and profound emotion, lent an inexpressible 
 mthos to Orsino's character. There was a brow, an eye, a 
 smile which told wondrous stories, but the lips never revealed 
 them. Yet in his very dumbness he was closely allied to the 
 spiritual. God's sublimest lessons come to us without a 
 sound. Nature does not syllable her subtler teachings. Spirit 
 may converse with spirit without an audible sign. I needed 
 no articulate language to understand Orsino. I drank of the 
 inspiration of his nature, although from his lips fell no winged 
 words, betraying the mysterious beauty of the unfathomable 
 world within. I felt an artist's delight in watching the end-, 
 less variations of his face, and a woman's interest in following 
 his soul's moods. 
 
 Thus I sat and watched him now, as the last sun rays 
 quivered and faded on his brow ; watched him in silence until 
 he awoke from his dream. The last shaft of orange fire had 
 pierced the attic window ; glum, gray light now covered it 
 instead. The golden vision of the sky had faded, and Orsino's 
 soul had come back to the world. He started, looked around 
 as if to assure himself of his identity and surroundings, stoop-
 
 Improprieties. 75 
 
 ed and picked up " Heinrich Heine," which had fallen on the 
 carpet, looked at me as if he had just discovered my presence, 
 and said : " Ah, Signora ! will you pardon me ? I forgot ; I was 
 thinking." 
 
 Then for the first time it occurred to me that I had some 
 thing special to say to Orsino, and that now was the time to say it. 
 
 " Signor Orsino," I said, " I am indebted to you for many 
 delightful hours the most delightful which I have spent in 
 America. You will believe me, I hope, though I tell you 
 that you must not come and read to me any more." 
 
 " Read to you no more ! No more ! Have I offended you, 
 Signora ?" 
 
 " Offended me ! Never ! That seems impossible." 
 
 " Then why may I not read to you, Signora ?" 
 
 " It is not proper." 
 
 " Proper," he said, with a bewildered air. " Proper ?" 
 
 Poor fellow he was master of a number of languages, but 
 this word did not belong to his vocabulary. 
 
 " No it is highly improper, so the ladies of the house 
 declare, for Signor Orsino to visit the room of Mademoiselle 
 Vernoid." 
 
 " It is not wrong, Signora !" 
 
 " Wrong ? No, there is no wrong about it ; they would not 
 care if there were, but they choose to consider it an impro 
 priety, and that it must not be, and we must obey, Signor." 
 
 " Why ? It is not wrong, Signora." 
 
 " Wrong or right is not the question," I said again. 
 
 His simple soul could think of no other. Conventionalities 
 he knew nothing about. 
 
 " Society is full of whims, Signor Orsino ; and though at 
 heart we may be no nobler for doing thus, for the sake of 
 peace we cannot afford to trifle with them." 
 
 Orsino did not feel the force of my little speech, I concluded, 
 from what he went on to say. 
 
 " When I left my country my heart was broken, and in this 
 land I have found no one but you who has cared for me. 
 No one else has cared for me enough to listen to me read. 
 I have no mother, no brother, no sister, no wife. Why may 
 I not come and read to you, Signora ? Ah, America is a cold 
 country. Americans have cold hearts. I am very sad." 
 
 He need not have told me this. Poor heart ! one had only 
 to look into his eyes to see that sadness had made them her 
 perpetual home. It was a very little thing, a most trivial privi 
 lege, whose promised loss he was bewailing ; but it was his
 
 76 Victoire. 
 
 one social joy, the one little ewe lamb of kindred communion 
 which made warmth in his else uninhabited soul. He clung 
 to it with lingering love, not because he was weak, but be 
 cause he was human. 
 
 Orsino never came to read in my studio again. And be 
 cause it was the last time, I have loitered over its memory 
 lovingly. Sweet Mrs. Wiggins had her way. 
 
 Not very long after, one evening at the dinner table, I met 
 the eyes of Orsino fixed upon me with a sad, almost a tearful 
 expression. Well as I knew those eyes, I had never seen that 
 expression in them before. Some new, strange experience 
 had come to Orsino. What can it be, I thought, as I stood 
 a few moments after, looking up at the stars through my attic 
 window. Just then came a low knock at my door, which I 
 knew. In a moment more Orsino stood in the centre of the 
 room, his slender figure erect, yet quivering with intense 
 excitement, his great eye kindling and dilating with an 
 unspoken revelation. 
 
 " Victoire I" he said (he never called me Victoire before), 
 " I am going. I am going to Italy, to my own land. I could 
 not go without coming to you, my sister." 
 
 " Going to Italy ! and why do you go to Italy ? You can 
 do Italy no good ; you are better off here," I said. 
 
 " Can you ask me why ? Is there not hope ? Will not 
 Italy be free ? Will she not be glorious as of old ? Do not 
 Mazzini and Garibaldi call ? Fifty of my countrymen sail 
 to-morrow, and I go with them. Rejoice, Victoire; I am 
 going to fight for Italy. Rome shall be free." 
 
 " Rejoice ! Don't ask me to rejoice. Don't ask anything so 
 unreasonable. Signer Orsino, you are almost the only friend 
 I have in the world. This moment I feel as if I would rather 
 Italy stay as it is than lose you." 
 
 In perfect woman fashion, I forgot the universal in the per 
 sonal. 
 
 " Oh, Victoire, you are not a Roman. The Pantheon is not 
 yours, nor the Coliseum. You' are not the daughter of an 
 enslaved people, whose fathers were heroes, or you would not 
 speak thus. Friendship is sweet, but liberty is sweeter. If 
 I can die fighting for the liberty of Italy, I choose to die 
 rather than live. 
 
 'How can a man die better 
 
 Than facing fearful odds, 
 For the ashes of his fathers, 
 
 For the temples of his gods?'"
 
 Improprieties. 77 
 
 All men are sometimes eloquent. The enthusiasm enkin 
 dled by a great idea will lift a man out of his every day 
 nature and manner into something sublime. So seemed Orsino 
 now. I made no reply, for the image of my father, as I saw 
 him last alive when about to depart on a similar errand, 
 stood before me ; and, for an instant, I felt like the child of a 
 hero. But only for an instant ; for then I saw him as I saw 
 him last gory, ghastly and I shuddered. 
 
 " Victoire," said Orsino, and now his voice was low with 
 the womanly tenderness of his nature ; " Victoire, give me 
 this ? '' and he lifted one of the curls which fell upon my shoul 
 ders. 
 
 Without a word, I severed it and laid it in his hand. I 
 had scarcely done this, when I started at a rapid pass he made 
 with his hands, and, with the motion, a delicate chain of fret 
 ted gold fell around my neck. To it was appended an 
 exquisitely wrought cross, piercing a tiny circlet of pearls in 
 the form of a crown. 
 
 " Your emblem, Signora," he said, looking first at me, then 
 at his gift encircling my throat. " This is mine ;" and he held 
 up in his hand a chain, the counterpart of the one he had 
 given me ; but, instead of a cross and crown, it held a mimic 
 sword encircled with a golden wreath of laurel. " Amulets, 
 both," he murmured. 
 
 " Victoire, Signora, sister mio, keep this for me. If you 
 never see me more, remember that Orsino loved you as his 
 last friend." 
 
 He pressed the tress of hair to his lips ; and, taking both my 
 hands, he gazed into my face as if his memory were taking it 
 into everlasting keeping. Yet so rapid, so fervent were his 
 movements, before I could speak he was gone. I never saw 
 Orsino again. 
 
 In the morning no Orsino sat* at breakfast. No Orsino 
 came to dinner. No Orsino crossed me on the broad stair 
 case or spoke to me in the hall. Orsino was gone. When 
 I realized this, when I looked at his vacant chair, and missed 
 the only pair of eyes which, amid the many there, had turned 
 to mine with a look of affection, I was conscious, for the first 
 time, that I had come to need that look, and to depend upon 
 it for happiness as we do upon an every-day joy. Again came 
 over me the dreary consciousness of loss ; the feeling that all 
 I had was taken ; that nothing was left in the house or in the 
 world for me. 
 
 Yet I did not love Orsino. Orsino did not fill my nature ;
 
 7 8 Victoire. 
 
 but he had his place in it. His affections were all tendrils, 
 and clung to their object. Whereas, the nature that could 
 absorb my love must stand strong arid high, where mine must 
 climb to reach it. My heart had never quickened its beating 
 at Orsino's looks or words, yet I gave him the affectionate 
 sympathy which his nature craved. It made me happier to 
 know that I could brighten his life a little ; I needed some one 
 to care for, and to pray for, and there was nobody else who 
 seemed to care for me, or to need me. Besides, Orsino's beau 
 tiful soul had been to me a pleasant study ; it suggested lovely 
 pictures, it kindled quiet thoughts ; he was all that I had, and 
 yet he had gone. 
 
 " The attic has lost one of its inhabitants, Miss Vernoid : 
 you must be very lonely ?" said Mrs. Wiggins at the table, 
 with her most supercilious smile. 
 
 " Yes, I am very lonely," I said, perfectly indifferent to the 
 construction placed upon my words, either by Mrs. Wiggins 
 or the remainder of the company. 
 
 " Is there another one here whom I care for ?" I said to my 
 self, as my eye ran along the line of faces at the table til! it 
 fell on the wasted one of Miss De Ray. Alas, this forlorn 
 face had always silently appealed to me ; and, as I looked at it 
 now in my own loneliness, my conscience smote me that I 
 knew so little of its owner. Why had I not tried to kindle a 
 little warmth in this chilly life ; to make the world a little less 
 desolate to one who seemed utterly alone in its midst ? were 
 questions which I asked myself, without receiving any satis 
 factory answer. 
 
 But if a dilapidated maiden of fifty, wrinkled and wild, was 
 less an object of interest to a young girl than a young, intel 
 lectual man, it was exceedingly human, and only proves that 
 in this respect, at least, the young girl had been true to her 
 normal nature.
 
 A Literary Woman. 
 
 A LITERARY WOMAN. 
 
 I had never been able to get on very far with Miss De Ray. 
 I had made slight attempts to do so, embracing every availa 
 ble opportunity to inquire after her health, and to offer any 
 little courtesy of word or act which might help to convince 
 her that somebody was interested in her welfare. She seemed 
 to accept slight attentions from any one gratefully, yet such 
 was the shyness of her manner that, after the usual common 
 places had been exchanged, it seemed impossible to add ano 
 ther word. Usually she seemed absent and melancholy. If 
 it had not been Mrs. Wiggins's opinion, I am inclined to think 
 that I, too, should have thought her a little crazy. I had 
 often invited her to my studio, yet she accepted the invi 
 tation but once; when coming up the stairs with me, she 
 came in, looked at the pictures hurriedly, and, without com 
 ment upon any of them, with a sad, half smile, walked out. 
 Certainly she possessed far less tongue power than is usually 
 accredited to women of her class. She never invited me into 
 her den, for den it was, and if the excessively hot weather of 
 the summer had not forced her to open its door, in order that 
 she might breathe, I never should have seen what a frightful 
 little hole it was. Write, write, write! One could easily 
 imagine that Miss De Ray had been born with a pen in her 
 hand, and had never relinquished it for a moment since. 
 
 Through the long, burning August days, she sat from early 
 morning until far into the night, in the same spot bent over a 
 little old table which held a pyramid of manuscripts, in which 
 was excavated a slight hole, large enough to hold the sheet on 
 which she wrote with as much zest as if the perpetuity of the 
 universe depended on the woi'ds which it contained. How 
 wretched the room looked ! A tattered shade hung on the 
 window. A small, bleared looking-glass hung on the wall. 
 A scanty, ragged square of carpet was nailed on the middle 
 of the floor, which was matted from beginning to end with 
 old newspapers and disfigured manuscripts. A bed, a few 
 chairs, with the old. writing table in the centre of the room, 
 completed the furniture. 
 
 For the sake of Miss De Ray, and of literary ladies in gene 
 ral, I was glad that the Rev. Jonathan Bunkum had never 
 seen this apartment. Directly opposite mine, in passing tap- 
 and fro before its open door, it was impossible that I should 
 i.ot become thoroughly acquainted with its individuality ; yet
 
 80 Victoire. 
 
 I never beheld it without an nndefinable heart-sickness creep 
 ing over me, as I thought of the joyless life compressed within 
 those four shabby walls. Miss De Ray had no hour in the 
 day for exercise, no hour for rest, scarcely for food. In silence 
 she wrote on through the long, languid hours of the solstice, 
 and I was only reminded of her proximate life by the rustling 
 of her leaves, as she turned them over, and the frequent ner 
 vous, irritating cough which tormented me, by making me 
 think what a torment it must be to its owner. 
 
 Miss De Ray seemed to have no time for going out, and 
 after I had given her undoubted proofs of good will, she ven 
 tured to ask me to post her letters at the nearest mail station, 
 as I passed in my daily walk. Glad to do her this little ser 
 vice, every day for months I mailed for her letters directed 
 to the most distinguished public men of the city and State, 
 but, strange to say, never brought back any replies, and never 
 knew of the mail-carrier leaving any for her at the door. It 
 was evident that Miss De Ray was absorbed in a literary work 
 of vast importance to herself, if to no one else. Could it be 
 the A-B-C-darian which Mrs. Wiggins had said she wished to 
 introduce into the public schools ? 
 
 The winter had come, and for the first time in my life I 
 found myself dreading the future. I had received my last re 
 mittance, and, with the utmost economy, this would not supply 
 my wants beyond the spring. From the beginning, I had had 
 reason to think of the time as near at hand when I should be 
 entirely without resources; but while there was yet more 
 money to come, that day had seemed far distant. I had all 
 the faith which utter inexperience gives, that " something 
 would happen " before my means utterly failed. My idea of 
 what that something would be was vague, still I had an idea. 
 My picture, already nearly completed, I intended to send into 
 the annual exhibition of the Academy of Design, and, although 
 I thought that no want would tempt me to sell it, the admira 
 tion which I fondly hoped it would win would give me repu 
 tation as an artist, and reputation, work. Foolish child ! I 
 smile pityingly upon her visions now. I had yet to learn that 
 a paying reputation, most of all an artist's, conies only after 
 long years of work and waiting ; that his first great efibrt sel 
 dom establishes his fame or supplies him with the means of 
 obtaining bread ; that before these great ends are attained, 
 Jteually the best years of his life have gone. Sanguine and 
 believing as I was, as the winter advanced and my slight 
 purse grew more and more slender, I began to think what
 
 A Literary Woman. 81 
 
 want might be like, and to think what I could do if I really 
 found myself penniless. Though I tried not to see it, still a 
 cloud seemed to be rising in my future ; scarcely perceptible, 
 it hung like a shadow over the bright horizon of my dreams. 
 With all my faith in th# good something which was to 
 happen, I could not quite forget the fact that if the coming 
 year copied the first, it would not be prolific of great results. 
 In the programme of my American life, I had recorded for 
 the first year even " a little fame, and at least friends." The 
 year had gone, and I had neither. I had no acquaintances, 
 to say nothing of friends, and I knew of no safe avenue to 
 lead me to new desirable relationships. I was just beginning 
 to learn that there is nothing more solitary or loveless than 
 the life of a young worker, poor, unknown, cast friendless into 
 a great city. I was learning very fast that fame and friends 
 do not come at our bidding. That if they are ours at last, it 
 is because they have been earned, as well as desired. Usually 
 they are the hard-bought recompense of persevering toil and 
 of patient waiting. I am not speaking of butterfly friends, or 
 of ephemeral honors bought by wealth or position, but of 
 the royal heritage of genius, which she toils and suffers to 
 win. It is not enough that you have genius ; the world wants, 
 and has a right to demand, a proof, a visible guarantee of 
 the God-Power within you. You must embody your creations. 
 You must transfigure into a radiant incarnation the impal 
 pable soul of beauty conceived and born in your own secret, 
 solitary visions. To you, beautiful and precious as it maybe, 
 with what fear and trembling you will put its garments on, 
 lest when you have given them their last artistic touch, the 
 world will look and see in your idol no beauty to be desired. 
 Happy for you if you have fpr a friend an inspired soul with 
 a prescient eye, who will penetrate to the beauty which the 
 world is slow to see, but prompt to command when it does 
 see. Holding it up to the great public eye, if that soul says 
 in a voice which is law : " See what hath been wrought in 
 pain and in poverty, in secret and in silence, with working 
 and waiting. Give genius its crown." It will be received 
 and you will triumph. But if there is no imperial soul to 
 take your work from your hand when completed, you may 
 wait long for an audience to do it honor, weary toiler. 
 
 But I had no just reason to accuse the world of neglect, and 
 felt no inclination to do so. What had I done to deserve iVt 
 praises ? It was useless to deny it, I was living a very self- 
 contained and selfish life. What effort did I make for any one 
 
 6
 
 8l Victoire. 
 
 but myself? The picture! The world had had no chance 
 either to praise or condemn, and that I had no friends was 
 not the fault of people, but the result of circumstances. People 
 were under no obligation to seek me until I had made myself 
 an effort to be sought after. 
 
 I sat philosophizing after this fashion one afternoon, rather 
 ill at ease withal, when I heard Miss De Ray's door open, 
 and instantly after a faint, nervous knock on mine. This was 
 an unusual occurrence, and, as I arose and opened it for her, 
 I was glad to see one who needed kindness and friends more 
 than myself. Talking with her, I thought, would make me 
 feel more thankful. I welcomed her heartily, and, as I drew 
 a chair for her near the fire, could not but observe how 
 pinched, and cold, and miserable she looked. She coughed 
 incessantly, .and as I saw her wasted frame quiver to the 
 grateful warmth of the fire, the thought struck me that Miss 
 De Kay had none in her room that bitter day. It was evident 
 that she had come to warm, not to talk, for she said nothing. 
 
 " How are you succeeding in your literary pursuits ?" I 
 asked, clumsily enough, eager to show my sympathy with her 
 in the only subject in which I had any reason to suppose her 
 to be interested. 
 
 She did not answer, and as I looked up I saw that she was 
 weeping ; she shook convulsively. I went up to her, laid my 
 hand on her grey hair, drew her unresisting head to my 
 breast, and there let her weep. 
 
 Poor grey head! since you lay a bonny wee thing on your 
 mother's bosom who has ever pelted, or smoothed, or loved 
 you, I thought ; while, like a soothed child, Miss De Ray wept 
 on. At last she came to the consciousness of her strange 
 position. 
 
 " You must think it very strange to see and hear me cry," 
 she said. "But there is a tone in your voice so kind that it 
 touched my heart. You must know that I am not used to 
 kindness. I have felt a drawing towards you since I saw 
 you first, for I felt that you have a kind feeling in your heart 
 for me. I have not wanted to draw too near, lest I should 
 chill you ; for you know I am winter, and you are spring. I 
 have wondered that you could feel any sympathy for me, 
 you are so young and look as if you had been so tenderly 
 reared. You don't know what it is to struggle on in the 
 ^frorld alone, do you ?" 
 
 " I don't know that I have a living relation ; I have been 
 alone for nearly two years."
 
 A Literary Woman. 83 
 
 " Well, it is hard to bury your friends ; but to be alone, and 
 old and poor, is harder still. After all, you don't know 
 anything about the real struggle of life, my child the fierce 
 struggle for daily bread and God grant that you never 
 may." 
 
 I thought of my attenuated purse, but said nothing. 
 
 " As women are paid, it is hard for a woman to earn all that 
 she eats, and wears, and needs. Do you suppose that I write 
 for reputation or for pleasure, Miss Vernoid ? If you believe 
 Mr. Bunkum and Mrs. Wiggins, you must think that I belong 
 to a very silly class. Half the world, at heart, are prejudiced 
 against literary women. They fancy that they do from vanity 
 what they are often compelled to do from necessity. They 
 don't know that they write for bread. I write for bread, for 
 shelter, for fire. Do you think that I would bend over a table, 
 half frozen from morning till night, to write, if I could sit in 
 a comfortable chair and sew or read instead? There is no 
 life so comfortless as a naked literary one without the comfort 
 of a cheerful home and of loving friends." 
 
 " Have you written all your life ?" I asked. 
 
 " No, indeed. At your age, I didn't think of such a thing. 
 I was a farmer's daughter, and taught a district school. When 
 I commenced, I was full of energy and buoyant life. But as I 
 taught on, year after year, in a little, close, unventilated school- 
 house, ' boarding around,' enduring all sorts of fare, in all sorts 
 of houses, and with all sorts of people, at last my health failed. 
 My face grew sharp and wan. I lost my elasticity. I lost my 
 spirits. 1 lost my appetite. I had a pain in my side and a cough, 
 till at last I could scarcely realize that the forlorn and laded 
 ' schoolma'am,' whom young women snubbed and old women 
 pitied, and gentlemen took no notice of whatever, could be 
 any relation to the red-lipped Mary De Ray, who used to 
 laugh and sing, who was courted and kissed at sleigh rides and 
 quiftings, and who dreamed such rosy dreams of husband, 
 home, and cherub children. The ' schoolma'am' was the 
 , skeleton of that happy creature. She, in her physical and 
 mental misery, was just what such a Hie makes hundreds of 
 Mary De Rays every year. My father and mother were 
 dead. My brothers were married to wives who could not 
 be troubled with a sick, old maid sister-in-law ; my physician 
 said that I must leave school. Yet I 'must do something to 
 live. In my long intercourse with children, I had learned to 
 tell them stories for rewards at ' recess, and for pastime in 
 winter evenings, when they used to gather around me by their
 
 84 Victoire. 
 
 homo firesides. I thought that I could write one. Propped 
 up in bed, I wrote my first child's story on little slips of paper. 
 When completed, I sent it to the Sabbath-school Union. They 
 purchased it ; it brought me in a little money, and so all my 
 stories have brought me in a little ; enough to keep me alive 
 until now. But my last, a school book, is a failure. Some 
 times I feel as I were failing myself, as if I could not think, 
 nor write as well as I did once. If true, it is not strange ; I 
 am growing old." 
 
 " Perhaps your book is not a failure, after all," I said. 
 
 " Yes, it is. I have applied to all the principal men who 
 are interested in education for their influence to introduce 
 my ' A-B-C-darian' into the public schools, but with no effect. 
 They are too busy to look at the book, or too indifferent. I 
 am a stranger to most of them, and to those who know me I 
 am only a grey-haired old maid, whose books and whose pre 
 sence are both a nuisance. They don't know that while I 
 have been writing it I had not a cent to pay my last month's 
 board nor to buy a little coal to warm my stiff fingers ; that, 
 old and homeless, I have only pain and want and the grave 
 in my future ; if they knew all this, perhaps they would be 
 kinder. Still, they who guard their wives and children so 
 lovingly may think that a woman who has neither father, 
 lover, nor husband, has no business in the world. I am sure 
 I am willing to die. Earth is bleak to me. I hope that heaven 
 is a warmer country." 
 
 And, with these words, the forlorn, grey head nestled 
 closer to my heart. 
 
 Poor Miss De Ray ! A woman with a child's heart, she 
 aspired to no mission higher than to write books for children. 
 Yet even she must be hunted with the cry " literary," and bo 
 made the daily butt of an evil .woman and a conceited man. 
 As I recalled in how many nameless yet diabolical ways they 
 managed to torment her, my ire grew warm towards both, and 
 I believe I could have seen Mrs. Wiggins and the Rev. Bunkum 
 thrust into a bag and then into the Hudson, after the good 
 old fashion, provided they were drawn out after a hearty 
 ducking, upon the promise that, in the future, they would 
 attend to their own little souls and leave those of other 
 people alone. 
 
 But better thoughts came to me as I sat holding that sad head. 
 I had money enough left to pay three months' board. Miss De 
 Ray should have enough to pay for one. I lifted her up, 
 went and counted the gold, came and slipped it softly into her
 
 A Literary Woman. 85 
 
 hand. It gav.e her a new sensation, the touch of gold. She' 
 started, looked bewildered, then thrust it back. 
 
 " No, no, no ! I cannot accept. You are too good to me," 
 she said. 
 
 " Miss De Ray, you must. It is yours. Go and pay Mrs. 
 Skinher." 
 
 It was the only way, by a high, peremptory tone, to compel 
 her to ttike it. There are tones of voice which admit of no 
 gainsaying. You must flee or obey them. I had resolved that 
 Miss De Ray should have the money ; take it she must, take 
 it she did. 
 
 The next morning Miss De Ray did not come down to 
 breakfast. It was unusual, for the poor creature seemed to 
 depend upon her morning cup of coffee. Mrs. Skinher, who 
 always seemed a degree more attentive to her boarders after 
 having received their monthly stipend for the food and 
 shelter which she gave them, told Nick, the waiter, to carry 
 Miss De Ray her breakfast. Remembering her sensitive pain 
 when even the servants saw the inside of her cheerless apart 
 ment, I offered to carry the cup of coffee and roll myself. 
 Knocking at her door, I received no answer, and heard no 
 sound ; none, though the rap was repeated twice, thrice. Start 
 led by the silence within, at last I ventured quietly to enter. 
 Papers here, there, everywhere, were, as usual, the adornment 
 of the little den. There was no fire, no coal visible to make 
 one, although it was bitter cold. A slight elevation in the 
 bed told that a human form was there, and the thought came 
 that God had kindly taken her. But no ; the meed of suffering 
 was not full. The last pangs of disease, the sting of death, the 
 victory of the grave, were to be felt yet. 
 
 As I drew near, I saw that Miss De Ray was sleeping a 
 dull, disturbed, feverish sleep which did her no good. Present 
 ly she began to cough, and opening her eyes, saw me standing 
 beside her bed, waiter in hand. Her eyes lighted up, but she 
 looked miserable, sick, and wasted. 
 
 " I coughed all night, or I shouldn't have slept so late," she 
 said. 
 
 " Drink this cup of coffee ; it will do you good ; then lie down 
 till a fire is made and the room is comfortable. No wonder 
 you cough." 
 
 " Well, I shan't long. I think that my coughing is almost 
 over. It will be easy and pleasant to die now ; God has given 
 me one to care for me while I stay." 
 
 I looked at her to tell her that she was not going to die at
 
 86 Victoire. 
 
 present, but could not, for I saw that she was, that the story 
 was almost told. It had been long in telling this story of 
 daily dying ; it was not short as it seemed, only I had not 
 read it before. The thin, pinched face, the quick, hollow 
 cough, I had seen and heard ever since I first met Miss De Ray. 
 I had never thought till very lately but that she had always 
 had them ; to me they had been a part of Miss De Ray, and 
 not that distinct power, death, whose work, commenced in 
 the stifling school-room, achieved its final triumph in the 
 failure of the " A-B-C-darian." While hope stirred in her, 
 she could exist ; when that departed, she had no vitality left. 
 
 Miss De Ray did not rise that day. For many previous 
 ones she had sat wrapped in a thin shawl, without any fire, in 
 fierce mid-winter, a prey to the most terrible forebodings ; the 
 appalling dread of a most sensitive nature, shrinking from the 
 thought of utter destitution, sinking down aghast at the ap 
 proach of hunger, cold, wasting sickness, and the world's cold 
 charity. I stayed with her till I saw her quietly asleep at 
 night. A sympathizing human presence seemed to magnetize 
 her into a peaceful quiet. Her restless eyes grew calm, and 
 followed me with a look of tranquil love. During the day, 
 at her request, I gathered up the masses of manuscript scat 
 tered about and committed them to the flames ; all but a few 
 rhymes, into which I saw was written her inmost life, which 
 I asked to keep for her sake. She was deeply touched. 
 
 " No one ever cared for my verses before," she said. 
 
 I fear that I should not, if I had not cared for their author. 
 
 Most of the manuscripts which were burned had found 
 their way into print. They were stories of miraculous boys, 
 and of impossible girls, who, in the eyes of their doting fathers 
 and mothers, managed to become full-fledged angels here be 
 low ; while, in the eyes of other people, they were tedious, 
 premature little saints, every drop of childhood crushed out 
 of their hearts. A monstrosity upon human nature is the 
 young hot-house ascetic who complacently proclaims : " I'm 
 going to heaven when I die, cause I'm a good boy, and give 
 my pennies to the heathen ; but Johnny'll go to hell when he 
 dies, cause he's bad, and spends his cents for candy." 
 
 Innocent Miss De Ray thought differently. In every story 
 she had a marvel of a child, who passed through the agonies 
 of conviction and the ecstasies of conversion before it was 
 old enough to know what either meant. Also a wonder of a 
 little sinner whose mission seemed to be to torment the little 
 Christian. Naughty Tom, Dick, and Harry, who read her
 
 A Literary Woman. 87' 
 
 stories from the Sabbath-school library, who grow fatigued 
 over the little saint and excited over the sinner, and think 
 that they will not try to be so very good when it is so much 
 more fun to be bad, can never know of the long, sad hours of 
 privation and pain in which these brain-children of a guileless 
 soul were born. 
 
 Miss De Ray never went down to the table >again. Mrs. 
 Wiggins and Mr. Bunkum never troubled her any more. The 
 boarders missed her, and wondered what had become of Miss 
 De Ray. I told them, what all might have known before, that 
 Miss De Ray was in the last stages of consumption. Mrs. 
 Wiggins said that people were never seized with the consump 
 tion so suddenly; that evidently it was only one of Miss De Ray's 
 crazy freaks to attract attention. With a few questions of 
 curiosity and ejaculations of wonder, all interest ended. None 
 of the ladies felt equal to making an ascension to the attic. 
 
 The hearts of a few would have expanded with tears if they 
 had realized Miss De Ray's condition ; but they could not real 
 ize it without seeing her and her room. The established habit 
 of self-indulgence seemed to render it impossible that they 
 should overcome the inertia sufficiently to make so great an 
 effort solely for the sake of another. To that forlorn couch 
 neither friend nor kindred came. 
 
 But nature and God were kind. She prayed for release, 
 and her desire was granted. As she drew near to the gate of 
 the valley of shadows, " the rod and staff" were stretched 
 forth for her support, and she seemed to forget the dark road 
 of the past in the exceeding glory of the path which stretched 
 before her. The vision of immortality was her consolation ; 
 and if it were only a vision, who would not rather behold it 
 with their mortal eyes than to drop hopelessly from this sor 
 did earth, an atom of dust into the bosom of nothing ! 
 
 I received her last smile ; her eyes were turned to mine 
 when she died. The meagre yet bitter tragedy of her life 
 ended with a smile. When I saw that she was dying, I went 
 to Mrs. Skinner's room to inform her of the fact, but found 
 that she was absent. Alone I watched the last struggle, 
 closed the dying eyes, folded the dead hands on the becalmed 
 breast never more to heave with anxiety, pain, or sorrow. 
 
 All was over when I heard the click of Mrs. Skinner's lock. 
 Trembling in every nerve with grief and excitement, I went 
 out and encountered her in the hall, just as she was descend 
 ing to her dinner-table in full costume. 
 
 " Miss De Ray is dead," I said, and burst into tears. Alone
 
 88 Victoire. 
 
 with the departed I had not shed one, but the effort to speak 
 broke the tension of self-restraint. 
 
 " Dead ! how disagreeable ! I do hate to have people die in 
 my house ; it is so inconvenient." 
 
 As Mrs. Skinner said these words, she, in her elegant bro 
 cade, and velvet basque, and blonde coiffure, full of pink roses, 
 looked as if she would never be guilty of so uncomfortable 
 an act as dying. 
 
 " Has she left anything for funeral expenses ?" she inquired. 
 
 "Not a cent." 
 
 " How provoking ! Now I shall have to go to the Poor 
 Commissioner, and have all the fuss of seeing her buried." 
 
 " Can't we raise the means in the house ? If each lady would 
 contribute a small sum, it could be done. It would be a mark 
 of respect to one who deserved more than she received when 
 alive." 
 
 " Nonsense ! the most absurd nonsense ! She is nothing to 
 any one in this house. She belongs to the city poor ; it is the 
 duty of the city to bury her." 
 
 " She is a fellow creature," I ventured to say ; " a lonely, ne 
 glected fellow creature, who had no one to love her while she 
 lived." 
 
 "That is not my fault nor "yours, and it would not alter the 
 fact whether we paid for her coffin or the city ; and I am sure 
 it will make no difference to her." 
 
 " It would make some difference to me if I thought that 
 the city would pay for my coffin." 
 
 " Very well, you may buy her coffin if you please ; I have 
 other uses for my money ;" and the brocade rustled with a 
 most emphatic sound.. 
 
 She began to descend ; I heard the stir of her costly robes 
 growing softer and softer at each receding flight of stairs, till 
 it ceased altogether ; then I leaned my head on the baluster 
 and wept. The attic seemed so forsaken, so desolate ; life 
 seemed so dreadful, so colored with the hue of Miss De Ray's 
 history; hearts so hard, cold, frozen ! I thought of the career 
 of the two women, Mrs. Skinher and Miss De Ray ; both 
 nearly of an age ; both left dependent upon their personal ex 
 ertion. One had succeeded, the other failed ; one was rich, the 
 other had just died a pauper. The world sneered at Miss De 
 Ray, patronized and courted Mrs. Skinher. She was made of 
 most common material, and in that consisted its excellence. 
 Contact with the world did not hurt, .it hardened and helped 
 her. She had practical sense, business tact ; she could make
 
 A Literary Woman. 89 
 
 a shrewd bargain, and always in her own favor. Neither 
 above nor below the world's every-day level, she faced it, 
 combated it, walked with it, and succeeded. 
 
 Miss De Ray's fibre was too fine for life's common uses. Its 
 rough friction made her sensitive and sore. The pressure of 
 need, which had quickened Mr!. Skinher, crushed, killed her. 
 " Poor creature !" the compassionate said, " she has no faculty 
 to get on in the world." 
 
 " She is a silly old maid, who has taken to literature for the 
 want of a husband," said the unfeeling, and to either class it 
 was all the same whether she lived or died. 
 
 My sorrowful thoughts ended in one question : How can I 
 save her from a beggar's funeral? I had resolved that no 
 passer-by should sing for her : 
 
 * " Rattle her bones over the stones, 
 
 It's only a pauper whom nobody owns." 
 
 Hopelessly I thought of my own almost empty purse. Still 
 I could give half of its contents ; something would happen 
 before the rest was gone, but that would not be enough to 
 defray the expenses of a funeral. Who would make up the 
 deficiency ? I thought of Mrs. Forrest, of the loving light in 
 her eye, of the tender smile for ever playing in the mobile 
 curves of her lovely mouth, of the poor little beggars who 
 were the daily recipients of her pennies, of the gratuitous 
 speech which Kate, the chambermaid, had uttered only the 
 day before, that "Missus Forran was a juwil of 'a lady, an 
 ilegant lady with natur' in her heart, fur indade she gave Mrs. 
 O'Flaherty a shillen over, whenever she paid for her washin'." 
 
 I resolved to go to Mrs. Forrest as soon as dinner was over. 
 The light, and warmth, and fragrance of the dining hall would 
 have been grateful, but I felt too sick and dreary to go near it. 
 
 I went back to the sepulchral room and ghastly corpse. 
 Miss De Ray had given me the key to her trunk (the only 
 article in the rootn which she owned), saying that I would 
 find in it the articles necessary for her interment. On opening 
 it I found that it contained little else. A few old-fashioned, 
 faded garments lay on the top, while at the bottom of the 
 trunk, carefully wrapped in a napkin, I found what I sought, 
 a muslin cap and a muslin robe. Kneeling beside the bed, I 
 unfolded it, fold by fold, till, coming to the last, something 
 fell upon the floor" which looked like a small book. Picking 
 it up, I discovered it to be a miniature case. I opened it and 
 two faces looked out upon mine. Both were young, and one
 
 90 Victoire. 
 
 was lovely. One was a fine-looking man, with an upright, 
 sensible, tender face ; the other was the picture of a girl, with 
 full, soft, fawn-like eyes, which looked steadfastly into the 
 face of the young man, their opal depths overflowing with 
 love. The features were those of Miss De Kay. Was it 
 possible? Could it be ? The Milken, flowing hair, the serene, 
 satisfied eye, the perfect curve, the peachy bloom of the 
 cheek, all belonged to early youth. Had Miss De Ray ever 
 been young ? I had never realized it before. It seemed as 
 if she. had never been. I looked from the budding face of 
 the picture to the dead one beside me, to the grey hair, the 
 shrunken features, shrivelled with want and woe, and knew 
 that both belonged to one being; the stamp of the individual 
 soul rested upon both. What shocked me so was only the 
 difference between youth and age, between hope and despair, 
 between life and death ; the change which, in lighter or darker 
 phase, comes alike at last to each human creature. There 
 was a story here, one which Miss De Ray did not tell, one 
 which she could not write nor sing, yet one which she had lived. 
 She meant these faces to be buried with her. I kissed them 
 reverently and laid the miniature beside her, with the cap 
 and shroud. 
 
 I waited until I knew that the gay dinner party had dis 
 persed, and then descended to the parlor of Mrs. Forrest, 
 knocking timidly on the door, for I had come to ask a favor, 
 to me a new errand. Her sweet voice responded, and I 
 entered to find her lying on a sofa wheeled near the grate, 
 the gas-light flickering on her pale, lovely face. Evidently she 
 had not been down to dinner, for she still wore her rich 
 morning robe de chambre, while dessert, on a little ebony 
 stand beside her, remained untouched. 
 
 " Why don't you come oftener to see me ? " she said, ex 
 tending her little jewelled hand. "How I wish you would 
 come and sit evenings.' George is so often detained at the 
 ofiice, and I get so lonesome. Why don't you come ? " 
 
 " I don't know why," I answered, "except it be that it has 
 become so completely my habit to sit alone, it never occurs 
 to me to visit. I only came now to ask a favor." 
 
 "A favor ! how odd ! You seem like one of those people 
 who never need a favor, and who would be much happier 
 granting than asking one. You know, if it is possible for 
 me, it will delight me more than I can say." 
 
 " You can do me a great favor, a real kindness, Mrs. For 
 rest, and I knew that you would be glad to do both. Miss
 
 A Literary Woman. 91 
 
 De Ray died this afternoon. She has left nothing for funeral 
 expenses. I thought that you would consider it a privilege 
 to make up the deficiency, which I cannot at present fill. 
 You would not see a fellow creature, a woman, go from such 
 a house as this to be buried by the city, would you, Mrs. 
 Forrest?" 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! A woman, a sister has suffered and died in 
 want above my very head, while I have been listless and com 
 plaining in all my luxury. I knew that Miss De Ray was 
 sick, but I thought that she was not very sick. I meant to 
 have gone to see her before she was ; indeed, I thought this 
 very morning of taking her a little wine, but became interested 
 in anew book and forgot it. Now she is dead, and I did 
 nothing to comfort her. Oh, dear, how careless and forgetful 
 I am of everybody but myself! Poor Miss De Ray, how I 
 wish I had been kind to her. I am so indolent even my good 
 impulses die, because I don't use them till it is too late to 
 make them a blessing. Nothing that I can do now will com 
 fort her poor, aching human heart. Oh, Rose Forrest, why will 
 you be such a useless creature ! " 
 
 And with this self-crimination, she rocked herself to and 
 fro on the sofa in unaffected distress. 
 
 " You wrong yourself. Yours is the sweetest kind of use 
 fulness, for you bless others without knowing it. Your face 
 does that. It is because I knew that you are kind to every 
 body that I came to you," I said to her. 
 
 " I have not been kind to Miss De Ray. I could not have 
 been more carelessly cruel than to let her die without giving 
 her one sisterly smile, one little comfort. I wonder why it 
 was she always seemed so far away from me. I did not know 
 how to talk to her when I saw her every day. It was my 
 foolish fear that I could not please, I suppose. If I were not 
 afraid to run the risk, I might comfort more forlorn hearts 
 than I do. The funeral will be no trouble. George gave me 
 a hundred dollar bill, this morning to buy a dress pattern 
 which I fancied at Stewart's. I am sure I don't want it. I 
 have more than I can wear now, and I am tired of being fitted 
 and fussed over by a dress-maker, though mine is one of the 
 best women in the world, and I don't believe that George 
 will mind. Will a hundred dollars be enough ?" 
 
 Before I could reply, " George" entered the room ; a young, 
 handsome metropolitan, with laughing black eyes, and unex 
 ceptionable moustache, and that careless, graceful suavity of 
 manner which bespeaks high breeding and an easy fortune.
 
 92 Victoire. 
 
 " Why, pet," he said, turning from giving a cordial wel 
 come to me, " what is the matter ? You look as if some 
 affliction had befallen you. Had some one else secured the 
 dress pattern ? or did Nell forget to come to go with you ? 
 If she did, it's too bad. But don't cry, and I'll pinch an hour 
 out of to-morrow, to take a drive with you myself." 
 
 " Will you ?" and her face shone transfigured with delight. 
 " But, George, it isn't the dress. Nell did come, but some 
 way I felt as if I didn't want it, though I know it is beautiful. 
 I am tired of so many new dresses. They take all my time 
 and strength, until I seem to live for nothing but to attend to 
 my costume." 
 
 " Well, that is because you must look beautiful you like 
 to look beautiful, don't you, Rose ? I never saw a woman 
 but what did." 
 
 " I like to look beautiful to you, George." 
 
 " That you do, and always succeed. Then you have no 
 objection to looking beautiful to Miss Vernoid, to sister Nell, 
 to cousin Fred, and a host of others, have you? Come, 
 confess, Puss; you know that you do ?" 
 
 " Yes, George, I know that I like to look pretty ; but I 
 don't care about it now. I only care that I am of no use in 
 the world, and live the most self-indulgent life possible." 
 
 " No use ! Then music is of no use, nor flowers. You are 
 useful in the manner that they are. You were born to be beauti 
 ful, to win worship and love. They are yours. You win 
 without knowing it you bless, when you think the least of 
 blessing. Every one who loves you ascends to a higher 
 level in order to meet your beautiful soul. Yet you fret in 
 your pretty way, because your little white hands are not 
 digging in some vulgar job of every-day usefulness. Don't 
 you know, Rose, that the people, whom you hear making 
 such a great fuss about doing good, are never the most useful ? 
 I don't care a fig about seeing my Rose chief lady directress 
 of all the public city charities ; to ba beautiful and good as 
 you are now is vastly more graceful. I declare your eyes 
 are full of tears ; Miss Vernoid, what is the matter ?" 
 
 There was a just perceivable vibration of impatience in his 
 tone when he made this interrogation, as if he thought that I 
 had something to do with his darling's moist eyes. 
 
 " Miss Vernoid came in to tell me that Miss De Ray is 
 dead. She died this afternoon, George. It makes me sad to 
 think of her cheerless life, of her lonely death. Only think 
 of it, George, arn't you sorry ?"
 
 A Literary Woman. 93 
 
 " Sorry ? I am very sorry that she had a bleak time of it 
 when alive ; but there is no sense in my feeling sorry that her 
 condition is bettered. If there is a heaven, and I suppose 
 that there is, why should I feel sorry because she has gone to 
 it?" 
 
 " But if it were me, George, who died all alone, and with no 
 money to bury me, wouldn't you be sorry ?" 
 
 " Ybuf" and the young man's eyes grew humid as he 
 looked into that lovely face, " you die alone, and no money 
 to bury you that will never be your fate, my darling. The 
 mere thought, crazy as it is, gives me the blues. Why do 
 you persist in talking of such doleful things ? You are not 
 like yourself, Rose, to-night. You are far too susceptible and 
 sympathetic. I wish that such forlorn bodies as Miss De Ray 
 were never allowed to cross your path. Come, cheer up, pet. 
 She is beyond the need of your sweet gifts now." 
 
 " Oh no, George ; that is why I have been talking. I want 
 the hundred dollars which you gave for the new dress to buy 
 her a good coffin and for funeral expenses. May I have them 
 George may I ?" 
 
 " May you ? The money is not mine. Have you been all 
 this while getting courage to ask for the privilege of spending 
 your own money in your own way ? Take the hundred 
 dollars, and another hundred, too, if you want them ; only 
 don't redden your beautiful eyes. I want to look at them, 
 while I am eating my dinner." 
 
 Nick had already appeared with his tray of smoking viands, 
 and I left the young husband to enjoy the privilege, of which 
 he seemed never to weary that of gazing at the rare yet 
 fragile idol which absorbed the passionate worship of his 
 heart. 
 
 In the morning we went together and selected a tasteful 
 coffin, Mrs. Forrest giving directions to the undertaker for an 
 ample funeral. How gentle was her voice, how serene her 
 face, how ennobled her whole mien ! She was a loving woman 
 now ; no longer the weary, listless lady of fashion. Gazing 
 and listening, I forgot to mourn that the power of munifi 
 cence had gone from me. 
 
 When it was whispered through the house that Mrs. 
 Forrest was interested in Miss De Ray'* funeral, said funeral 
 suddenly became the fashion. The ladies who, before, had 
 been entirely unequal to the task of ascending the attic stairs, 
 immediately received an accession of strength, which bore 
 them to that upper realm apparently without effort.
 
 94 
 
 _ T . 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 " Poor thing !" " Unfortunate creature !" and " If we had 
 only known !" were ejaculations poured out around her coffin 
 without stint. Mrs. Wiggins came, and, lifting her eyes, said 
 with sanctimonious unction : " God is exceedingly obliging to 
 have taken her. Not that she was in my way ; not in the 
 least. I am never annoyed by insignificant people. But as I 
 said, God is obliging, because, of course, such a very queer 
 person could be no very great addition to heaven. What an 
 odious room ! If I had known just how it looked, I should 
 have been positive that she was crazy. As it was, you kno\v 
 I had my suspicions. Miss Vernoid, don't you observe that 
 the corpse is offensive ?" 
 
 It was a quiet and not utterly a heartless funeral. Two 
 women shed tears of sincere sorrow beside the open grave of 
 Miss De Ray. 
 
 Sweet Rose Forrest, gentle, beautiful and good, here, in 
 epitome, let her story be told. 
 
 In one little year, from amid the many coffins in that great 
 sombre warehouse, another was selected one of rarest rose 
 wood, silver-chased, satin-lined. The form laid in its softened 
 shadow was not a faded one, but that of a young and most 
 lovely woman. The richly embossed plate upon its cover 
 said : 
 
 ROSE FORREST, 
 Aged 23. 
 
 An aristocratic assembly gathered at the splendid mansion 
 which the young wife had called but a few months her 
 home. There were no lack of mourners ; and not the least 
 sincere were the poor, whose wants that beloved one had 
 relieved. Not much was it like the funeral which left the 
 house of Mrs. Skinher one year before the scanty funeral of 
 the old and unloved one. Father, mother, brothers, sisters, 
 lover, husband, bowed in their agony of grief over their lost 
 idol. Why did she die, the beautiful, the adored ! 
 
 But the old maid and the crowned wife have met upon one 
 level of joy ere now. 
 
 ADVERSITY. 
 
 Take not this cry upon your lips, lonely toiler "No one 
 cares for me." Never, until we see soul to soul, with no bar-
 
 Adversity. 95 
 
 rier of mortal clay between, shall it be revealed to us how far 
 the sinuous roots of human relationship extend, or, in their 
 marvellous outgoing, what distant soul they touch. You fall 
 from the immaculate altar, to which you were lifted by love's 
 blind idolatry, to be trampled on by your worshipper as com 
 mon dust. Hearts that you cling to in love's weak depend 
 ence, weary of you ; they exhaust all that your nature can 
 give them, and then you can no longer satisfy their needs. 
 The individuality, once your fascination, their satiety now 
 makes a festering fault. They, are tired of your faded face ; 
 they chafe under your oppressive and exacting love. The 
 spell by which you won them is dissolved ; they are wide 
 awake now, and to their awakened eyes you have ceased to 
 be lovely. They have never for an instant accused themselves 
 of infidelity towards you ; they would start in horror from the 
 accusation of treason. There is an infidelity of the heart, a 
 treason of the afiections, which can never be made answerable 
 to a human law. The world will never accuse them of infi 
 delity or of treason ; it will have no right to accuse. The 
 wily heart does not flaunt its falseness into the face of the 
 world ; no, it only taunts in secret, with torturing, careless 
 coldness, the sad eyes of its victim. 
 
 Where is the old, ever-present, ever watchful, ever-antici 
 pating tenderness ? Where the old eagerness at returning, 
 the old lingering at going away ! Where the rest, the bless 
 edness, the bliss, your presence once gave ? Where the trance 
 of delight in which your loving nothings, your childish ca 
 resses, once enfolded them where ? Now your tremulous 
 love-words fall upon abstracted ears ; your shy, faltering ca 
 resses are received with cold passivity, or endured with ill- 
 disguised impatience, which even politeness cannot hide from 
 your keenly-quickened vision, you are robbed, hopelessly 
 robbed. Alone, shelterless, bereft in spirit, you call in anguish 
 for what you have lost. Not God nor angels can restore it. 
 You can never be avenged. They who defraud you, can they 
 give back the boundless devotion, the worshipping love which 
 you lavished ? The all-embracing hope, the infinite trust in 
 humanity, now hopelessly shattered ? Can they restore to 
 you the ravished bloom, the lost virginity of your morning 
 soul? Never. The love with which you have so long en 
 riched one you cannot quickly transfer ; you cannot find 
 satisfaction in new ties ; you cannot worship at strange 
 shrines. 
 
 No ! If it is your saddest of fates to watch the growth of
 
 9 6 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 indifference, of alienation in one to whom you have given all, 
 life has nothing left for you but its grandest lesson resigna 
 tion. There is no resurrection morning for a love, dead and 
 buried. You will find work enough for head and hands; 
 later affections, untimely November flowers, will bud amid 
 the ruins in your breast ; but only chilly winter blossoms they 
 will remain to the end. The spring-time of the soul once los't 
 never returns. 
 
 The friend that we believed in beyond a doubt, the one 
 whom we set apart from all others, saying: "In flood and 
 peril, in anguish, in disgrace, I would trust in thee and rest 
 in thee without a fear;" when the sore need comes, the elect 
 ed friend drops off. Where the anticipated fealty ? where 
 is the magnanimous royalty of love, which was to have been 
 our assurance, our support, our all, in the hour of our ex 
 tremity ? Where ! Not in the soul in which we believed ; 
 perhaps not in the nature that we longed most to lean upon, 
 inot there and it is well. 
 
 Yet Truth and Love are in God's world, and they are ours. 
 The universe holds no power that can defraud us of our in 
 alienable portion; somewhere in the ages we shall find it. 
 Not very far off, perhaps there is one whom we scarcely 
 notice in the world's crowd; one to whom we give few 
 thoughts, little love, if love at all ; that one would die for us, 
 aye, more, that one would live for us, a life of utter abnega 
 tion to all things, save the love which it pours in consecrated 
 incense at our feet. If life leads us along the summer' path 
 of fortune, this soul will not intrude to whisper its worship ; 
 but if she leaves us far down in the valley of sorrow, then we 
 shall know that we have a friend ; and, though all others for 
 sake, we may say : " There is one who cares for me." 
 
 We cannot measure the cycle of a single soul ; we cannot 
 tell how widely embracing is that soul's atmosphere of attrac 
 tion ; we do not always know when we stand inside the arc of 
 its power, irresistibly drawn by its occult force. There are rare 
 moments in life in which we wake to find ourselves possessed 
 with a mysterious feeling of kinship for one standing without 
 the sphere of our individual life, with whom we are never to 
 enter into any intimate personal relations, yet the vines of alli 
 ance, reaching out from that soul, cling closely to our own. 
 We know not when, we know not why, was revealed to us its 
 interior gloom or glory, nor why our own eyes are shadowless 
 lamps by which this soul has read the secrets of our heart. 
 Yet a little thing, a look, ^ smile, a word, spoken, written,
 
 Adversity. 97 
 
 sung ; an intonation of voice, an unconscious act, may have 
 been the " open sesame," which unlocked to each the pene 
 tralia of the other's spirit. We never shall be more to each 
 other than we are now. We shall exchange scarcely the 
 coldest courtesies of life, never the seductive cadences of love. 
 We shall never pull a pebble out of the great wall of conven 
 tionalism in order to look with longing eyes into an alluring 
 elysium beyond. 
 
 Alas ! yet the tropical heart languishes on in one imperisha 
 ble summer, under the icy brain, whose wintry will can be 
 melted never by the sunny efflux of a love-begotten spring. 
 Over-leaning the frigid fastness of the mind, into each summer 
 soul gazes the face of the other, lit with loving eyes. We know 
 not how, we know not when, but there was a moment when 
 invisible hands fastened from heart to heart, across the great 
 gulf which divides us, the electric cord now vibrant with such 
 mystic harmonies. So illusive is its tissue, we cannot sunder 
 it, so tense its subtle fibre, we cannot lengthen it ; we cannot 
 draw nearer, we cannot go further apart. 
 
 " Each is naught to each, shall we be told ; 
 We are fellow-mortals, and naught beside.' 
 
 We know that we are more. Marvellous intuitions of all 
 each soul is to the other float in upon the consciousness. 
 Reason, with harshest gesture, says : " You lie, begone !" 
 The imperative intuition, kindling to the brilliance of a blazing 
 truth, cuts into the indestructible, central soul the calm reply : 
 " I know." "I know that there are moments when the face 
 of each flashes unbidden upon the other's thought ; moments 
 when the cool, soft hand of one would lie soothing as dew 
 upon the burdened and burning brow of the other. There 
 are hours when longings for the absent presence pierce the 
 soul as the wondrous vision of unattainable joy, the unattaina 
 ble presence could bring shifts across its horizon of tears, the 
 mocking glory of the ' Might Have Baen.' " 
 
 Through the wearing routine of life's common care, through 
 the fretting friction of life's daily toil, penetrates to your 
 heart the lightning knowledge that the abysmal solitude of 
 the other's soul is palpitant with loving thoughts, aching 
 to be ensphered in words of love for you ; that its soundless 
 silenoes thrill with inarticulate tones, which yearn to break 
 upon your breast in floods of sacred tenderness, but doomed 
 to moan on, void and voiceless fdr ever to your earthly ear. 
 
 5
 
 9 8 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 How many would start in amazement if it were certainly 
 revealed to them who loves them best. How often we would 
 turn in cold incredulity if told into whose soul the impression 
 of our own had sunk the deepest, or into whose life our own 
 had interwoven itself the closest. 
 
 Cease to sigh " No one cares for me," you of the pining 
 heart, whose tired feet seem to walk so wearily in the dreary 
 procession of the " unloved." Like the gauds of fortune, the 
 prizes of friendship, the gifts of love are not so unequally be 
 stowed as they sometimes seem; it is a part of the blindness 
 of our mortal condition that we cannot see how fairly they 
 are distributed. But we shall see. In the kingdom of heaven 
 soul will meet soul, and say : " When you fainted under your 
 mortal burden, when you wrestled with human fear, when 
 you suffered and wept, and there were few to comfort and 
 help you ; when your days were long and lonesome, dreary 
 with privation and care, and you wept because there was so 
 little love in them, I was cognizant of your life from afar, yet 
 you did not know it ; I loved you with all the fervor of my 
 humanity, yet you dreamed not of it ; I would have enfolded 
 and cherished you, but it was forbidden." In the calm liberty 
 of the infinite, when our enfranchised souls shall have lifted 
 the last veil from the face of mystery, remember then we 
 shall know why here we are often so near, and yet so far, so 
 much and yet so little, to each other. 
 
 " No one cares for me," I said, sad and low, to myself, as I 
 stood all alone the day after Miss De Ray's funeral, with my 
 face leaning against the window-pane, gazing listlessly on the 
 world below. The tense winter had culminated ; its mailed 
 heart had broken into floods of wild, desolating rain, pouring 
 from the black roofs and rusty eaves, splashing in mad rivers 
 along the muddy channels of the streets. Grey mountains of 
 salted snow still lifted their unmelted summits in the way of 
 horses and vehicles, to the misery of those whom they carried. 
 In the garden courts, patches of black earth, with vagabond 
 bits of dishes, broken kitchen wares, and household debris, 
 which careless servants had swept out to be covered by the 
 unsullied ermine of winter, now protruded stark and staring 
 through their rent and melting mantles. The world looked 
 dirty, disgusting, forlorn. Men looked forlorn under the 
 glazed hats and drifting umbrellas. Women looked forlorn 
 in bedrabbled skirts and soaked gaiters, flying in the arms of 
 policemen over deluged crossings, cramming themselves into 
 gorged six cent coaches. Little children looked forlorn with
 
 Adversity. 99 
 
 their weary, paddling feet sad little street sweepers, with 
 their scanty covering, gaping shoes, old men and women 
 faces, and diabolic brooms. The courts, all alike in a row 
 behind the houses, how dismal they looked with their petit 
 garden beds, from whose hearts in summer loving hands 
 had coaxed a few vines and flowers out into the sickly, un- 
 genial light. A few blasted blossoms still clung to their 
 stalks, shuddering in the t winter wind; vines, scathed and 
 still, clung to their mouldy trellises. 
 
 " No one cares for me," again I murmured ; and as I spoke 
 the wind cried outside of the window like a homeless child. I 
 shut my eyes. I saw Les Delices. Its blossoms were not 
 dead, its fountains were not frozen, its statues were not 
 swathed in ice, its tidal leaves did not surge around Frede 
 rick's grave. No. Before my second inmost sight it stood 
 in the trance of a summer noon. The mountain, summits 
 burned in smouldering clouds of electric crimson. The cas 
 cade fell in sheets of crystallized sunshine trailed its glory 
 over blistering rocks, dropping at last on the cool hearts of 
 purple mosses which waited its coming in the humid gorges 
 below. Again the fruits in the hands of Ceres flushed with 
 mocking mellowness. More than ever the redolent flowers 
 blushed above the mirrors of the fountains. Waters trickled 
 in the throats of marble lilies tinkled, gurgled in myriads of 
 murmurous jets. 
 
 I saw' a pomp of fruits, a blaze of blossoms ; everywhere life 
 was redundantly, royally riotous. The turret flamed scarlet 
 through the effeminate vines, which bound it with their 
 enervating arms, stifled it with ravishing yet poisonous per 
 fume. The pines spread out their firmament of balm, exuding 
 balsam from every odorous pore. The fervid winds seemed 
 to faint, cloyed by the heavy fragrance which oozed from 
 every vein in nature. The grave of Frederick was embosomed 
 in bloom ; flowers, radiant enough to have blossomed in the 
 gardens of the blessed, waved their censers over his rest, as if 
 the elements which once fed the tissues of that beautiful body 
 could only be transfigured into Nature's most perfect forms. 
 
 Silence reigned. No stir of human life disturbed the trance 
 of the dumb midsummer carnival. The doors were closed 
 and barred. Defiant creepers had covered with veils of im 
 penetrable emerald the shut windows through which once 
 gazed the living faces of a dead family ; aggressive weeds 
 peered with brazen eyes through the interstices of the veran 
 dah, and flaunted their flaming falchions over the marble
 
 loo Victoire. 
 
 pavement winch once re-echoed with the fall of childhood's 
 jubilant feet. Growths of fiery green pressed in close de 
 file along the broad avenue which led to the house ; wing 
 ing, rippling, in rank luxuriance, they filled with their noxious 
 life the sacred path once so carefully tended ; and there 
 was no tender hand to thrust aside their crowding faces; 
 no indignant foot to crush all their vaunting splendor in the 
 dust. 
 
 No one ? Yes, one. Silent, deserted, desolate, first it 
 stood before me, steeped in the torrid glory of that embla 
 zoned noon ; but soon I saw and felt the presence of a human 
 soul. I saw, yes saw, the stranger, whose memory had filled 
 my life. It was not the immobile, the impassive face upon my 
 canvas; not a picture, nor a ghost, which I saw, but a living 
 presence, in all the plenitude of imperial manhood, with pas 
 sion, power, sorrow, love in the living eyes, which passed up 
 the deserted walk of Les Delices. Once before he had entered 
 that sacred precinct. Now, with folded arms, he gazed before 
 it, reading the story which its stillness told. I saw him go to 
 the grave of Frederick, attracted by the white marble cross 
 at its head, which shone dazzlingly in the overflowing sun 
 light. I saw him gather a flower from that grave, a flower 
 itself the incarnation of colorless flame. I saw him return ; 
 saw him stand upon the spot where once he stood before ; 
 long he lingered there. I saw him drink from the urn, still 
 standing moss-rimmed, at the foot of the cascade. Lingering, 
 lingering I saw him depart ; saw the rippling waves of green 
 close behind his soundless feet as he passed slowly, slowly 
 down the deserted path, going, going whither ? 
 
 This I saw. " You don't believe that I saw it ?" Very 
 well. "Did he tear his hair or weep?" Oh, no ; he did no 
 thing so absurd. 
 
 I opened my eyes. There was the" narrow attic window, 
 the grim, grey light, the dirty, rainy outside world my 
 world. 
 
 " No one cares for me." Again I moaned, and now there 
 was an eternity of yearning in the cry. 
 
 What ailed me ? A few weeks before I could have uttered 
 these words with mocking indifference. I could have said 
 them, shaking my head with a laughing defiance. What if 
 no one did care for me, it was not so terrible a thing to live 
 alone. Besides, I never was alone. Art, nature, were my 
 chosen, inseparable companions. My own soul seemed exhaust- 
 less in its opulence. I was drunken with the exuberant wine
 
 Adversity. 101 
 
 of my own overflowing life. I fed upon the delectable juices 
 of my own bounteous vitality, and was satisfied. 
 
 Now the sating sweetness in my veins seemed shrunken, 
 dead ; the tropical wine of my young life spent, quaffed to 
 the lees; the pure, luminous atmosphere of spirit dense with 
 clouds, heavy, black. 
 
 For weeks I had not thought of myself had thought of 
 nothing but Miss De Ray. The object of my care taken, the 
 reaction had come. Life could not seem to me quite that 
 which it had been before I knew her. It was my first contact 
 with a hard, actual experience. I had read of sad fates, of 
 sorrowful, desolate lives ; now I had both seen and felt how 
 dreary such a life could be. Doubt, fear, had come unbidden, 
 stretching forth despairing hands towards my future. Would 
 it be my lot to live such a life, to die such a death ? 
 
 I thought of Henri Rochelle. I saw his calm, cold face, 
 kind in its very coldness. Would it not have been better 
 (certainly it would have been wiser) to have accepted his 
 offer ? Should I not have been happier, as I should surely 
 have been quieter, to have been now the matronly mistress of 
 his home^the loved, the protected, the dependent wife ? No ; 
 still I had strength enough to resist him. I did not want 
 his home nor him. At least he should not know of the ful 
 filment of his prophecy ; he should not have the triumph to 
 see how soon, how very soon, I had grown tired, had fainted 
 under the burden of my own life. I should not write to him. 
 I should take excellent care to hide my future from him, if it 
 was to be unfortunate. Besides, even he had ceased to care 
 for me. The envelope, which brought the last remittance, 
 brought no accompanying token, no word of kind remem 
 brance, no anxious inquiry concerning my fate, no tender 
 warning regarding my future ; nothing but the bare blank 
 money, and that the last. / 
 
 " No one cares for me !" The last cry was wilder, more 
 desolate than all. Then I saw that face, not on the canvas, 
 but gazing in upon the eyes of my soul. At that moment 
 Nannette entered. 
 
 " Nannette, tell me was it so ? or did we dream it ? Did 
 a stranger come to us when Frederick was dying ? Did he 
 speak so kind to me ? Or is it a dream? Did we dream it, 
 Naimette ?" I asked, gaspingly. 
 
 " Non, non, Mademoiselle ! How often must Mademoiselle 
 be told. If only Mademoiselle had said that she saw the 
 strange Monsieur then she might ask with propriety, then
 
 1O2 Victoire. 
 
 doubt with reason. Nannette very well knew that Mademoi 
 selle thought that she saw things which no one else ever saw. 
 Mademoiselle had been a little crazy from her birth ; had 
 always seen visions with her eyes open. Nannette never 
 dreamed except in bed ; then of nothing but the calamities 
 which would certainly befall Mademoiselle, if she did not get 
 over being crazy. But this strange Monsieur, Nannette saw 
 with her own eyes, spoke to him with her own voice ; that 
 settled the question. Why would Mademoiselle continue to 
 ask ?" 
 
 " Where do you think that he came from, Nannette from 
 heaven ?" 
 
 " Why would Mademoiselle blaspheme ? From heaven ? 
 Humph ! He came down the Rhone valley as other travellers 
 
 a, did '" 
 
 " Why do you think he went away so soon ? Frederick 
 
 dead, too ? " 
 
 " Would Mademoiselle never stop asking silly questions ? 
 How was Nannette to know other people's business ? Why 
 should Monsieur stop with strangers ? Very likely he was in 
 haste to return to Paris." 
 
 " How did he go, Nannette ?" 
 
 " Would Mademoiselle ever cease asking that question ? 
 She was growing crazier and crazier, Nannette knew. How 
 many hundred times must she be told that Monsieur went 
 away on a horse. Was there more than three ways for any 
 man to go ? In a carriage, on a horse's back, or on his 
 own feet?" And Nannette began to groan terribly over 
 Mademoiselle's lack of common sense. 
 
 "There, don't take on, Nannette; don't! I shall surprise 
 you by suddenly growing wise some day. See if I don't. 
 Just answer one more question, ma chere bonne, and I won't 
 annoy you any more. Did he look like this picture did he, 
 Nannette, I asked." 
 
 "Plus beau I plus beau I Was Mademoiselle so vain as to 
 think that she could paint a face as handsome as Monsieur's ? 
 She never could-; Mademoiselle never saw such eyes as Mon 
 sieur had ; never, never such beaux yeux" 
 
 " Well, well, Nannette ; after all it is a dream ! " 
 
 The days crawled away yes, they crawled. My picture 
 was complete. Love could suggest no alteration ; it stood 
 ready to be sent to the directors of the Academy of Design 
 for their annual exhibition. I thought it strange that I felt 
 so hopeless about it ; I who had been so believing before. I
 
 Adversity. 103 
 
 thought of beginning some small pictures for sale. Broadway 
 was full of picture stores, where I might offer them, yet it 
 was almost with a feeling of terror that I contemplated doing 
 so. Vainly I said: "I must do something." Vainly I re 
 called to my thought my almost penniless condition ; vainly 
 I thought of Miss De Hay, with the consciousness that, if I 
 should sicken and die, my fate would be no better, no different. 
 Fully conscious of my precarious situation, with a ghastly 
 future staring me in the face, neither the sight nor conscious 
 ness moved me to anything like adequate action. I seemed 
 apathetic, dead. The old energy, the gay activity, the buoy 
 ant hope, all were gone. 
 
 Once no bereavement could quite crush my elastic life. I 
 shrank not, I only panted for life's coming contest. Now I 
 felt equal to no endeavor ; with everything to be done, I felt 
 powerless to do anything. Once, everything had seeded 
 possible to the patient hand and resolute heart ; now, I lelt 
 no faith in myself; none scarcely in God. I felt nothing but 
 a gloomy foreboding, a dread of life, a shrinking from the 
 future, a willingness to die, because I felt an inability to live. 
 
 From the hour in which I watched Miss De Ray die, my 
 buoyant and exultant health seemed broken. Somewhat of 
 the death chill of that moment seemed to have penetrated my 
 own life. The long tension of brain and heart during the 
 lonely watchings beside her bed, seemed broken at last in 
 utter prostration. The decay of her body seemed to have 
 touched my own. Ah ! it was a new sensation, when first I 
 felt the virus of disease polluting the joyous current of my 
 warm, young blood. Vainly I struggled to arrest its course ; 
 vainly I tried to shake off my lethargy. My torpid, aching 
 limbs grew heavy as stone ; icy chills crept through my veins; 
 forked pains stabbed my brain, and punctured every nerve. 
 One morning I fainted. I came back to consciousness only 
 to feel that earth had shrunk far away from me ; that the 
 time when my life was a delight, when I had felt ambition 
 and hope, belonged to another existence. 
 
 Could it be possible ! Was I the same being who had felt 
 life thrill and throb through her veins in ecstasy, the one to 
 whom simple existence had been a delicious delirium ? Now 
 I could not move ; I could not lift my hand ; I ould scarcely 
 see. What was life, that which we call life, to me now? 
 What is it to any of us, when we feel that it is no longer ours. 
 Alas ! how soon it slips away from us, this beautiful world. 
 The eager project, the absorbing plan, the promise of success,
 
 104 Victoire. 
 
 the life of our mortality, its pleasure, its pain, its sweet daily 
 nothings, which are yet so much yesterday were ours but 
 belong not to the abject creature of to-day. 
 
 " Not to me, not to me ! " I murmured. " I am weary ; I 
 am sick. I have no hope to-day. Life is nothing. Nothing, 
 nothing, that which I called life. Was I ever one of earth's 
 mad crowd ? Did I ever chase such phantoms ? With wild 
 avidity did I struggle for an earthly prize ? It looks little 
 now ; how little ! Yet for that I wrought, for that suffered, 
 believed, lived ; I can strive no longer. Life has laid me down 
 at the mouth of the dark river, and has gone away and left 
 me alone. And yet, yet I would live. ' Life, come back ! In 
 the cup within your hand, there must be a draught for me, 
 something sweet, which I never yet have tasted. I am so 
 weak I cannot stretch out my hand for it. Oh, pitying angels, 
 come to me ! Pour into my wasted veins the elixir of life ! 
 Let me live ! " 
 
 THE COMING BACK. 
 
 Let me live ! With this cry upon my lips, I had drifted 
 out helplessly, hopelessly into that chaos of disjointed dreams 
 which men call madness. Torn by the fierce terror which 
 had confronted me, spent by the agonized struggle through 
 which I had passed with spectral foes, who had glared 
 upon me with their green, chatoyant eyes, I was lashed back 
 upon the shore of life, an abject creature, a worn and wasted 
 creature. Very near me still surged the waters of Death. 
 Hungry was their roar, but they could not engulf me again, 
 those cold, clammy waves ; not now, not now, for I was up 
 lifted in the tender arms of the angel of life. My prayer had 
 been answered, the words had been spoken : " You shall live." 
 My obtuse sense heard not the whisper which came after : 
 " Live ! In the fulfilment of your prayer, accept the promise 
 of your keenest agony." 
 
 I opened my eyes one morning I knew that it was morn 
 ing, because the pulses of the eastern sunshine were throbbing 
 through my Eastern window, dilating in ripples of gold over 
 the pictured face of my mother which hung opposite. Through 
 its baptism of flame, it looked down upon me, the holy eyes 
 filled with the same anxious, foreboding tenderness with 
 which they used to gaze upon me iu my wayward childhood.
 
 The Coming Back. 
 
 All the mother's apprehensive soul seemed to have stolen 
 anew into the pictured eyes. " Mother ! Ma m&re ! Ma 
 mdre /" With this cry faltering on my lips, I came back to 
 life. What ailed me ? Had I just awakened from the dreams 
 of a single night ? Why did a great gulf seem to divide me 
 from my past existence? Why did it 'seem so dim, so far 
 away, so illusive, like the panorama of landscapes and faces 
 which troop through our night-time visions ? 
 
 What ailed my arms ? Wasted and lifeless they lay upon 
 the coverlet, their veins shrunken and dry as if fever had 
 sucked the last drop of life from their courses. When I re 
 membered them last, not a line had fallen from their rounded 
 mouldings, from their flexile, warm-tinted curves ; true, then 
 I folded them across my breast in my first utter loneliness, 
 but the sickness which had entered the heart had not then in 
 vaded their young physical fulness of beauty. Then my 
 hands, too, so delicately wrought ; dimples slept in their un- 
 wasted surface ; violet veins, fibrous wine-jets traced their 
 whiteness ; their blushing, tapering nails were rose petals 
 dropped on snow ; but now, now, they lay before me, old, 
 wasted. Joints rose hard and stark where dimples had nestled. 
 The veins had spread into one stagnant purple pool, suffusing 
 even the wiry, corrugated muscles, their dark currents stain 
 ing the shrivelled fingers and curdling under the livid nails 
 in blackened clots. 
 
 Slowly, lifelessly, I lifted that smitten hand to my head. 
 Where now were the great drifts of hair ? where the sweep 
 ing masses of defiant curls, which always would curl, and in 
 their own way, in spite even of their wilful owner ? Of bur 
 nished brown, in the sun flashing out the sheen of gold, was 
 this hair of mine. How I had loved to fill its clinging rings 
 with faint, bewildering perfumes, odors pressed from the hearts 
 of roses ; from veins of satingly sweet water-lilies, with the 
 tears of violets and heliotropes, and then shake its loosened 
 meshes about my face, until half intoxicated with its fra 
 grance. With earth's own ravishing juices I had fed its 
 opulent growth, cherished it with a woman's sacred pride, this 
 woman's " glory " of sumptuous hair. But it was gone I 
 was discrowned. A few obstinate little rings clung closely to 
 my damp forehead, but the tide of sweeping silken splendor 
 had been swept utterly off by some ruthless power. 
 
 Slowly my hand passed over my face ; anxiously, painfully 
 I questioned its identity. The eyes seemed to have settled 
 back into cavernous vaults ; the rounded outline of the cheek 
 
 5*
 
 106 Victoire. 
 
 had sunken, the mobile lij)s had become tense, as if tightened 
 by pain. I looked languidly around my room ; when I closed 
 my eyes to sleep, it did not look like that. Now the pictures 
 were dusty, as if no loving hand had touched them for many 
 a day ; my pet books and trinkets were scattered about in 
 sad confusion ; I could never have sat for a moment in a room 
 so disorderly. What demon had been making havoc in my 
 sanctuary ? What made it so suggestive of a sick chamber ? 
 My centre table was filled with vials and glasses, all mixed 
 with my pretty treasures, and the atmosphere was stifling 
 with the vapor of noxious draughts, and the exhalations of 
 deadly disease. 
 
 I heard a sound, and, looking, there stood Kate, the cham 
 ber-maid, at the foot of the bed, leaning upon her broom, 
 gazing intently upon me. She had been looking at me all 
 the while', yet I had not seen her before. 
 
 " Kate, what's the matter ?" 
 
 I did not know my own voice ; it sounded broken and 
 husky, as if all worn out. 
 
 " Mathar, indade ! There's enough the matter wid ye, I'm 
 thinkin'. Mrs. Wiggins will be mad enough to murdther me 
 for not attindin' to her rooms afore. But if I lost me piece I 
 vow'd I wudn't stir a peg from this spot, till I knovv'd. I 
 know'd in that slape, ye'd come, or go for good, and it sames 
 ye've come." 
 
 " What ails me, Kate ?" 
 
 " A quare question. Miss. A brain faver has had howld of 
 ye this many a day. Ye has been as crazy as a Bidlum luna- 
 tez, and yet ye're afthur knowin' nothin' about it ? No one 
 could do nothin' wid ye but me, and indade it was as much as 
 iver I could do to hold ye. Ye had a mighty .proud way of 
 shakin' yoursel'. You said ye wouldn't be held, and ye 
 wouldn't. And 'twas well me arms were a bit stronger nor 
 yourn." 
 
 " Why did you hold me, Kate ?" 
 
 " Hold ye ? It's pity ye're not afthur knowin'. Didn't I 
 hold you to keep you from flyin' out of the windy, or some- 
 thin' as bad, 'cause ye was a perfect wild cat, that's why. You 
 would go, an' you would go to Lice, to Lice, but whither it 
 was varmin or a piece, ye meant, faith, I cudn't tell. You 
 kept callin', and callin' some Fredrik, and some one ye called 
 Bu-Buty, or some such outlandish neme. And you talked of 
 some one who kem only once. ' Why didn't he come agin ?' 
 ye kept askin'. Then ye had hapes and hapes of strange talk
 
 The Coming Back. 107 
 
 about your faytlier an' murther, and about yoursel' starvin', and 
 dyin', 'cause your money was all gone. Sometimes laughin' 
 frightful-like, and sayin' you didn't care ; and sometimes cryin' 
 and wringin' your hands till it made me heart ache to hear 
 ye ; sometimes shriekin' till I declare it made the hair on me 
 head shiver." 
 
 " Oh, Kate ! why didn't you stop me ?" 
 
 " Stop ye ! I would like to have seen the one that could 
 a stopped ye ! You was the craziest crathur I ever seen in 
 all me life. Didn't I tell you no one could howld ye but rae- 
 sel' ? There allus was a flash in your eye. I seed it long 
 enough ago that it made no manner o' use to say no if you 
 said yes, nor yes if you said no. Well, that flash turned into 
 a stidy, jnirnin' coal, when you were a lunatez. In my notion, 
 very quare eyes ye have, Miss. They have all sorts o' look in 
 thim. I seen them look soft as a baby's, and they quite tuk 
 the heart out of me." 
 
 "Never mind my eyes, Kate. I care nothing about them, 
 nor their looks. Where is Nannette ? Where is Nannette, 
 Kate ? You have been very kind to me, I know ; I shall pay 
 you for it when I get well ; but I want my bonne will you 
 call her, Kate ?" 
 
 " Your what f Miss. I don't understand your haythenish 
 nemes." 
 
 " I want my nurse, ISTannette. She has taken care of me 
 ever since I was born. Didn't she nurse me when I was ill, 
 Kate?" 
 
 " She gave you into my keepin', Miss. Do you think she 
 had nothin' to do but to stay wid ye all the blessed time, 
 when she had pastry to make for all the house?" 
 
 "Kate, who cut off my hair? Who dared to cut off my 
 hair? Did you?" 
 
 My head felt strangely light, bereft of its beautiful burden. 
 My debilitated mind toiled slowly from thought to thought, 
 entirely absorbed for the moment by each one which pos 
 sessed it. 
 
 " Me /" exclaimed Kate, indignantly. " Me ! as if I hadn't 
 hair enough of me own on me head without stealin' other 
 people's." And Kate shook a ferocious mop of knotted hair, 
 rankly luxuriant, yet not unbecomingly folded around the 
 broad Irish brow. 
 
 " Who dared to cut off yer hair ? Who, indade, but the 
 leedy of the house hersel'. She said there was no sort of use 
 to have such a mess of curls tumblin' and tossin' on a crazy
 
 io8 Victoire. 
 
 head ; that you'd never git over yer fever till they were all 
 cut off. So she cut them off vvid her own hands and her own 
 scissors." 
 
 " She did f What did she do with them, Kate ?" 
 
 " Do wid thim ! Why she tuk thim off, to be sure. Ye 
 don't suppose ye'r the only one in the house that would like 
 to wear such currls, do ye? Oh, she's an ould sarpent!" 
 
 " Kate, will you ring for Nannette ? I must see Nannette. 
 She never left me so before." 
 
 " Well, she guv ye into my keepin'. * Take care of me 
 mam me mam' somethin'.' I've no power to spake your 
 haythenish furren words. But I understood this ' take care 
 of her.'" 
 
 A solemn, almost a tender look now pervaded Kate's face ; 
 then, for the first time, the thought slowly dawned upon me 
 that something might ail Nannette. 
 
 " Is Nannette sick ? Tell me, Kate, if anything has befal 
 len her ? She is all that I have left in the world. If she should 
 leave me I should be utterly alone." 
 
 " Don't, don't, in the name of the Vargin, don't spake to 
 me in that voice ; it goes into my sowl like a little child's cry- 
 in', that has no murther. Well, you are not goin' to die now, 
 that's shure. I watched you all through the turniu' slape, 
 and while I watched, I said me prayers as fast as iver I could : 
 ' Hail Mary, full of Grace,' and the ' Prayer for the DyinV 
 The saints forgive me, that I said thim wid me eyes open. 
 I was lookhr to see whather ye was comin' or goin', and now 
 ye've come, I know ye won't go. Ye couldn't die now if ye 
 tried. So it won't kill ye, if I till ye the whole truth." 
 
 " What truth, Kate ?" 
 
 " Well, well, can't ye be afthur waitin' one blessed minut ?" 
 And Kate took a long breath and seemed with difficulty to 
 swallow something in her throat, as if, though there was no 
 danger of its killing me, the " whole truth " was not very easy 
 to be told. 
 
 " Faith ! I dun know what's ailin' me that I'm makin' such 
 a fuss about spakin' a few wurrds. Now ye've come, ye can't 
 go, that's sure. Only I've no wish to be botherin' ye that's 
 the truth as much as the orther. (Here Kate swallowed ano 
 ther lump in her throat.) 
 
 " Well, from the hour ye tuk crazy, she was awful gloomy- 
 like. She wouldn't say nothin' to nobody but me. To me she 
 talked ahape. Sure she went on making pastry jist the same, 
 and these quare soups with everything iu thim, smellin' so of
 
 The Coming Back. 109 
 
 garlic, I think I'm in me own counthrie, when I stand over the 
 pot. She cooked the same French fooleries, but as I was say- 
 in', she talked hapesto me. She sez, ' Kate,' sez she, 'if any 
 thing happens to me, you take care of me mam mam', 
 sumethin'. There ! I can't say your haythenish Frinch nemes. 
 Why don't you have sinsible nemes, like other folks ?" 
 
 " Never mind the name, Kate ; she meant me.'' 
 
 " Mint you ! Who ilse could she mane ? Wasn't her life 
 bound up in ye ? But oh, she tuk on terrible, cryin' and 
 gronin' about her mam her mam, sumethin'. Her mam, 
 mam, sumethin', had been creezy ever since she was borned 
 into the wurld. She was allus seein' strange sights, wid her 
 eyes wide open ; allus doin' quare things, and the quarest, 
 creeziest thing she ever done was to come to this miserable 
 counthrie ; and indade it's the creeziest thing that I ever done 
 mesel'. Sure wasn't I a hape better off at home ! Wasn't 
 me fayther a will-to-do farmer, that niver sent his gells out to 
 sarvice ! But I heard how in this counthrie the dollars sprout 
 ed in the streets as thick as potaties, and the fool that I was, 
 I kem to see and make me fortin'." 
 
 " Yes, Kate, you'll tell me all about it some time, please ; 
 but not now. Where's Nannette ?" 
 
 " Can't ye be patient ? As if I wasn't tellin', as fast as me 
 tongue will let me, the truth, and the whole truth. Though 
 the Lord knows, mesel' wud be the last 'un to tell it, if I 
 hadn't watched ye through the turnin' slape, and seen ye 
 come ; so I know ye won't go, if I do tell the truth, and the 
 whole truth.' 3 
 
 " Tell me quick, quick, 'Kate ? What is the truth, and the 
 whole truth ? Oh, do call Kannette." 
 
 " Wasn't I tellin' that she said her mam mam, you, she 
 mint, was creezy iver since ye were borrn, only in no frightful 
 way, till ye tuk the faver. Well, well, she came up one day, 
 mornin' it was, and sat by yer bid. She rubbit yer hands and 
 rubbit yer hair (the sarpint hadn't tiched it thin), she callit 
 you hapes of nemes in her murderin' Frinch, but low like so I 
 knovv'd that they mint somethin' swate. The more she talked 
 the wilder you tuk on, callin' for Lice, for Lice, for Fredrik and 
 for Buty, mixin' Frinch and Inglish in a haythenish hape. At 
 last you grow'd so bad I had to come and hold yer hands, 
 and ye were so mighty strong 'twas as much as iver I could 
 do to hold thim. Then she groaned and cried, and said agin 
 her mam, mam somethin', allers was creezy, but niver so bad 
 afore. Who would care for her mam when she was gone ?
 
 i io Victoirc. 
 
 Who would miss her ? Who would treat her jist as well as 
 if she wasn't creezy ? Oh, if God would only take her main, 
 mam smethin' ! Kate, K:ite, she cried, take care of my . 
 Just thin I heard a quare sound. I looked, an' she was fallin'. 
 I know'd she had tuk a fit sich as old folks has. A fine time 
 I was havin' betwune ye both. I couldn't lave ye to tind to 
 her, yet I run an' lifted her in my arms. I thought that the 
 breath was lavin' her so I call't loud for Mrs. Skinur. She 
 came quick enough, and skeerd too, the sarpint. When she 
 saw all the thruble, what do ye think she said ? Why she 
 said ye must be clared out of the house ; that thur had bin no 
 luck in the attic since ye kem into it. Hadn't the tacher gone ? 
 wasn't the writer dead ? and now ye was turnin' it into a Bid- 
 lum ; an' worse than all, here was her cook in a fit. Who'd 
 make the pastry for dinner? If she belaved in a divil she 
 would sartinly say ye had brought him into her attic. Nick 
 and Bridget Kenyon tuk your nus away in their arms an' laid 
 her on her bed. The docthor was call't, but he said it was no 
 fit, 'twas 'gestion of the heart ; that thruble broke it ; so Miss 
 'twas graife for ye that kilt her, for she didn't brathe agin. 
 No, she never brathed agin. Now I've told ye the truth and 
 the whole truth. I know'd you could bar it and not go. 
 I know'd by the look in yer eye when ye kem out of the 
 turnin' slape, that ye'd come back to the wurld to stay, and to 
 be a sinsible person in it." 
 
 " Oh, Kate ! .Kate ! Kate !" 
 
 " Ye may well cry Kate. If it hadn't bin for Kate ye'd bin 
 dead afore now. Isn't it me that's taken care of ye this many 
 a day ? Whin I was runnin' from room to room altindin' to 
 the ladies' babyish wants, wouldn't I make thim wait while I 
 run up to see how ye were gettin' on. Ye was quiet as a 
 dead lam' part of the time, when the docthor had given ye 
 morphus or white stuff wid some sich name, for I wint for the 
 docthor meseP and told him if I guv him my own wages he 
 should be paid. No, indade ! there was no one but Kate to 
 tind to ye, poor young crathur. Blessed Missus Forrau, the 
 jawel, she kem as long as she could. Every blessed day she 
 kem an' mixed drinks for yer hot throat wid her own white 
 little hands. I seed her kiss your forhead, too, many and many 
 a lime, but at last her husband took her away to a fine great 
 house he had bought. He said his wife was far too deliket to 
 l>e thrubled with such a sight. Kose v says he, ye musn't go 
 to that room no more. I'll hire some 'un to take care of Miss 
 Ver (I can't say yer outlandish ueine.) Mr. Forran, sus I,
 
 The Coming Back. 1 1 1 
 
 ye needn't hire no mis. Her own nus guv her to my keepin'. 
 I'll take care on her if I lose me piece. 'Deed I knew while I 
 kept doin' the work of two common gels the sarpent would 
 be in no hurry to sent me off. She didn't darken yer door 
 but once ; not she. Then she brought her scissors an' didn't 
 she shear off them currls ! You'd better leave that hair on the 
 head where it belongs, I said. Kate, sez she, attind to yer own 
 consarns; who iver got well of a faver with such a hape of 
 hair on their head ? 'Fore she went off she looked around 
 an' samed mighty taken with the picters. The big picter, she 
 said, should hang in her parlor ; that was jest the size she want 
 ed. When the frightful madness was gone like, and ye lay 
 like one dead afore ye went into the turniu' slape, who should 
 come in but Miss Wiggins. She had come to see how ye were 
 lukin', she said. She had hearn yer hair was all cut off, and sjie 
 knew ye'd look like a fright without it. There she stood in 
 the middle of the floor, starin', her snake eyes lookin' so divil- 
 ish glad I wanted more nor iver I wanted to say me prayers 
 to knock her down. There was a wonderful contint came in 
 her eyes as she stood lookin'. You wouldn't parade that hair 
 no more that was sartan, she said. Ye'd niver look fit to be 
 seen again was shure. Ye wouldn't insult her at the table no 
 more with yer scornful eyes, sayin' nothin', but lookin' as if you 
 owned the universe. Now, Miss, I've towld ye the truth, 
 an' the whole truth." 
 
 "Oh, Kate! ring for Nannette. Nannette can't be dead; 
 though it seems long, very long, since I saw her last, my 
 dear, dear bonne. Oh, Kate, it is all a dreadful dream. Won't 
 you call Nannette ?" 
 
 "Drame! drame it may be to ye. But do ye think that 
 I've bin tuggin' an' luggin' up an' down to wait on ye all 
 these wakes in a drame ? I tell ye I'm wide awake, and so ye 
 will be afore long. Do' ye think I'd stan' here, lyin', when 
 I didn't know what word might kill ye, although I felt shure 
 ye wouldn't go, now ye'd come. Likely I dramed it! Didn't 
 I help lay her out wid me own hands? Didn't I take her own 
 money that she'd saved in the toe of a stockin' and go an' 
 attind her funeral? Wasn't she taken to the church? an' 
 didn't I hear grand mass said for the repose of her sowl? 
 and didn't more rale tears ryn out of me eyes than I thought 
 me whole body could howld ? Wasn't I cryin' more for ye 
 than for her, ye poor lorn lam' ? I Avish it was a drame" and 
 Kate fairly broke down, and her sobbing head found but an 
 uncertain support on the handle of her shaking broom.
 
 112 Victoire. 
 
 "Now I have towld ye the truth, and the whole truth, an' 
 if ye hadn't come fairly back it would have kilt ye afore now ; 
 an' a great fool I am, to be tnakin' a noise mesel', an' ye so 
 wake. Mrs. Wiggins may try to murther me if she pleases 
 for not attindin' to her rooms. Mrs. Skinher may say that I 
 may go (she'll pay me to come back as she has afore, for 
 she knows I does the work of two common gels), I don't care 
 the snap of me finger for ather of thim; ye shall have a warm 
 drink afore I does another thing ;" and with these words Kate 
 went out and left me alone. 
 
 Alone! I had fancied myself alone before. I had felt 
 alone, never dreaming the while how much I leaned on the 
 humble but faithful heart which had given all its life to me 
 and mine. My soul just emerging from the shadow of death ; 
 my senses still torpid and weak through suffering; think not 
 that in that moment I realized what I had lost, in the last relic 
 of my family. I could not make her dead. I still felt that it 
 was all a dream. When we have possessed an object all our life, 
 when it has been so entirely our own, that we have scarcely 
 thought of it as a positive blessing, and then it is suddenly, 
 irrevocably taken from us, through time only we grow into 
 a full consciousness of our loss. Not at first when the simple 
 knowledge breaks upon us; not then, but in the days and 
 weeks and years that come afterwards. When, amid our. life- 
 way, we miss and sigh for the kindness, the unforgotten ten 
 derness, which that lost one gave us ; or when we recall in 
 sad regretfulness our own lack of loving deeds, of soothing 
 sympathy, of tender charity, weeping because of what we did 
 not do, then we feel all that we have lost, and weep bitterest 
 tears over the memory of our dead. 
 
 Do you fancy that my history is to be a cemetery lined 
 with tombs from its morning to its evening gate ? Remember, 
 many die that one may learn how to *live. There are beings 
 over whose life no fierce storms ever sweep. Harmonious, 
 benign, beautiful from their birth, nature's elect and best be 
 loved children, they need not the pangs of bereavement, the 
 refining fires of anguish, to winnow their souls and make them 
 pure. Untouched by heavy sorrow, unscathed by dire temp 
 tation, from a soft cradle through a sheltered summer path, 
 they pass to a far off, peaceful gr*ave, beloved in life, bewept 
 in death, their earthly calm anticipating the endless calm of 
 Paradise. We see such beings, we mark such lives; but not 
 to all his creatures can the Father grant such discipline. 
 There are torrid souls, whose sultry horizon is always scintil-
 
 The Coming Back. 113 
 
 lant with lurid lightnings. In their fervid atmosphere kindle 
 all latent forms of sensuous loveliness. In their fertilizing soil 
 lies the germ of every delight; from their exhaustless richness 
 spring luscious fruits in prodigal profusion, mingled with 
 poisonous growths, bewildering in their gorgeous magnificence 
 of beauty. These are the souls in which smothered earthquakes 
 pant ; these the souls athwart whose lavish bloom the hurricane 
 and tornado pass. Terrible is the storm which can purify the air 
 poisoned by its own superlative sweetness, and tear away from 
 that soul the luxuriant blossoms which poison while they fill it 
 with their beauty. There are natures wild, importunate, impe 
 rative in their humanity. So tenacious is their earth-grasp, so 
 absorbing their earth-love, so mad their clinging worship of the 
 earthly idols which their own idolatry has fashioned, only by the 
 fiercest wrenching are they torn away. It is the fate of such a 
 soul to stand stripped and bare. Every idol taken, every fibre 
 bleeding, in its awful isolation this soul learns how to live. 
 Was this why I was utterly bereft that I might lay the burden 
 of my mortal life at the feet of Infinite Pity, and there learn 
 patiently to bear it ? 
 
 Days of darkness creep into every life, but not in the same 
 seasons. There are lives which shut in night, across whose 
 morning never swept a cloud. There are mornings heavy 
 with storm upon w T hose blackness bursts the glory of a re 
 splendent noon, followed by the mellow splendor of a tranquil 
 afternoon and evening, which melts like a golden dream into 
 the supernal atmosphere of heaven. My morning had not 
 passed ; the noon, the afternoon, the evening, were yet to come. 
 Every support torn away, my nature stood alone. Now 
 it could lean on the Everlasting Heart and learn how to 
 live. 
 
 Kate was right. I had " come" and could not " go." The 
 currents of life, for a while reversed, were calmly flowing back 
 into their courses. Still weak, yet certain in their returning 
 force, the sorrow which confronted my dawning conscioxisness 
 did not drive them back to leave me dead in my desolation. 
 No ! Life had come back, and if Kate had filled another hour 
 with horrors, the time had passed in which they might have 
 killed me. 
 
 "Kate, what is that Tying on the table? It looks like a 
 letter ;" I asked, the morning after my return to life, as I lay 
 weak almost to lifelessness upon my pillow. 
 
 "Sure, an' it is a letthur. Didn't the post-man bring it 
 when you was takin' on the wust ? Faith, I forgot it, wid all
 
 114 Victoire. 
 
 the rest there was to till. An' I'm thiukin' now ye be n't 
 strong enough to rade it." 
 
 "Kate, I can read it," and the blood thrilled feebly around 
 my heart with undefined hope and fear, for I knew that the 
 bliss of heaven or the pangs of hell can be folded within a 
 paper envelope. So can be an inane nothing, or a most quiet 
 joy, such as I found in mine. The letter bore a foreign post 
 mark, and came from Orsino. Kate propped my head and 
 steadied the paper, which my enfeebled hand held so tremu 
 lously, while I read : 
 
 "VICTOIKE, SISTER : 
 
 " Orsino sends you greeting ! a greeting baptized in the 
 fervor of an Italian-'s heart. Italy, my mother, has snatched 
 me once more to her embrace, and all my soul blossoms. Oh, 
 Signora, could you behold me now, you would not know me. 
 1 am no longer sad, I no longer feel alone, I drink the air of 
 Italy and am glad. In America I was in a wrong latitude. I 
 did not belong to it ; I could not live in it. I grew chilly ; I 
 grew cold ; my nature shrivelled, because there was no gra 
 cious outside warmth to wake it, to kindle it, to make it grow. 
 Change of place will transfigure a man until he don't know 
 himself. In the wrong place no man is great, because he must 
 be false to himself. His nature dwindles, his soul grows 
 stagnant, his power dies. He is cramped, he wants room, he 
 wants air, he wants liberty. In the right place all his nature 
 grows ; it blossoms, it bears fruit ; it scatters all around it 
 rich efflorescence. When he gets again in the right spot, how 
 he curses himself for staying so long in the wrong. Why did 
 I stay in that cold country ? Why did I creep back and forth 
 so long from my stupid task, while all the time the sun rose 
 and set over Italy ; while Italy cried for liberty, while Rome, 
 my best beloved, languished on her purple hills, and wept to 
 be free ? Signora, still you see I talk much of myself. You 
 t:i nght me to do so by listening so sweetly; by always say 
 ing, 'Tell me more; I liki- to hear you.' I think of your great 
 kindness with tears. I think of you, and am no longer glad. 
 I have a strange feeling that you are in sorrow ; you whom 
 no sorrow seemed to touch. Do you look at your amulet? 
 The pearls in mini' burn like rubies; they have caught the 
 color of my blood ; they glow with the ardor of my hopes; 
 only when I look at them and say, 'Victoire,' then all the 
 ruby dies, the sardine glow goes out, the pearls grow 
 pallid white, and I feel that you too have grown sad and
 
 Getting Well. 115 
 
 alone. America is a cold country. Signora, come to Italy : 
 you have a summer soul, and Italy is a summer country. The 
 campagna stretches away tranquil and smiling ; herdsmen and 
 sheep are at rest on its green expanse ; the Tiber flows on 
 without a murmur of discontent, beneath its crumbling 
 bridges, beside the wrecks of departed power ; and the sun 
 looks from the depth of the tranced heaven, as calmly as if 
 earth never saw a storm. Yet beneath, and around, an earth 
 quake mutters. The sounds which I hear stir all my blood, 
 arouse all my nature ; they make me heroic. What do you 
 think that they are, Victoire? What, but ' Viva la Liberia /' 
 These are the shouts which I hear : ' Viva V Independenza 
 d* Italia /' The terrible words of the great Danton are written 
 on the walls of Rome. Do you wonder that my blood is 
 stirred ; that I have passed away from my common self? Italy 
 shall be free ! Victoire, does the shout reach you across the 
 waters ? Do you hear this cry ? Oh, if you were here, Signora, 
 you would put on the garb of a Roman soldier, take his sword, 
 and, when the hour comes, strike for liberty. The nurse of the 
 arts, the mother of the beautiful, a woman could fight glo 
 riously for Italy ! There has been a Rome of the Caesars, a 
 Rome of the Popes ; the Rome of the people is yet to come! 
 Italy shall be free ! Do you believe it, Victoire ? Signora, 
 write and say? 
 
 " OBSINO." 
 
 I fell back upon my pillow from physical exhaustion. I 
 should have made a sorry relay for the " Roman Legion." 
 
 GETTING WELL. 
 
 May came and looked in through my window, looked 
 tenderly upon me with her adolescent eyes. The. earth thrilled 
 with her presence. In the arteries of myriad trees, in the 
 veins of countless flowers, life was all astir, touched with her 
 mystic magnetism. Impregnated by her seminal breath, dor 
 mant seeds quickened with new life, broke from the fructuous 
 earth, new creations of beauty. Pallid flowers awoke in their 
 humid homes under the dense, dappled leaves of the forest, 
 and grew warm-hued in the warmth of her smile; garden 
 bulbs, the cherished nurslings of household hands, pushed
 
 ii6 Victoire. 
 
 aside the homestead mould with their purple heads, and hung 
 in the irradiating sugshine their prismatic blossoms. Dreamy, 
 voluptuous May brushed with her garments the cold, proud hills, 
 and they glowed with tender verdurous life ; she passed over 
 the stark orchards, and they burst into a passion of redolent 
 bloom ; touched with warm breath the indolent streams, and 
 they ran garrulous with delight. Dandelions, far and near, 
 inwrought with gold the green robes of the meadows; birds 
 in their coverts of daedal leaves, wove all the air into song in 
 tribute to her coming. Old men came out into the perfume, 
 the melody of her love-enkindled air and felt in their sunken 
 veins the lost pulses of their youth. Men and women forgot 
 their cares and renewed the dead courtships of their vanished 
 springs ; while in the heart of youth throbbed the old ecstasy, 
 ever new young men and maidens loving and longing for 
 each other. Across vast wildernesses of bloom she came, and 
 through the narrow, stifling window smiled upon me a pri 
 soner, till the balsam of pines and the nectar ( of apple blossoms 
 distilled over my palsied senses. One year before I had gone 
 forth to meet her in the sunny air, beside singing fountains ; 
 there she had baptized me with her own plenitude of glad 
 ness, till all life seemed a carol, a prean, an organ anthem of 
 ecstatic praise. Now, through a prisoning window, she poured 
 her fragrant blessing ; shorn of its earlier promise, it was no 
 less nature's own sacred benediction. . 
 
 Languid, helpless, -still I lay, longing to behold the glory 
 of the outer world. Zephyrs stole up from the little courts 
 below, sweet with the odor of lilacs and magnolias, and as 
 they touched my wasted temples, I wept with regret and 
 gratitude. I knew that the month had brought the annual 
 exhibition of the National Academy of Design. On ray weary 
 conch I saw distinctly its cloister-like rooms; felt the warmth, 
 the dimness, the repose which pervaded them. There walked 
 the poet to and fro, his eyes kindling with fine disapprobation, 
 or lost in rapt admiration, as he gazed at some dream of 
 beauty made palpable by the artist's hand. There sat the 
 artist, listening with throbbing heart to the spontaneous words 
 of praise or blame concerning the creation into which he had 
 infused his deeper soul. There stalked the critic, eager for 
 the faults which he was about to proclaim to the world. 
 There, lost in dreamy wonder, stood the fair young girl, 
 daughter of poverty, perchance, who had denied herself of 
 some needed comfort that she might feast her eye upon forms 
 of beauty, such as visited her in dreams, but brightened not
 
 Getting Well. 117 
 
 the dark home of her daily toil. There graceful mothers, 
 in the full bloom of matronly beauty, led about their pretty 
 children, tricked in ringlets and plumes, living pictures rarer 
 than any canvas could show. There stood the Broadway 
 exquisite and the Broadway belle, in an agony of simpering 
 appreciation and exclamatory delight. There, side by side, 
 sat men and women who would rather gaze into each other's 
 living eyes for one blessed minute than look upon the most 
 wonderful miracle of beauty which ever artist's soul conceivd 
 or artist's hand portrayed. There, upon the sombre wall, in 
 happy or hateful shadow, hung the yearly offerings of Ameri 
 can art. Faulty (failing oftener in physical execution than in 
 high poetic conception) ; full of the inspiration of promise, 
 seemed these works of the vigorous, masculine school of art 
 in this youthful western world. 
 
 My picture, my long dream of beauty, of love and of sorrow, 
 was not there to challenge either condemnation or praise. 
 No ; it stood just where it stood when last I looked upon it 
 before I passed into the weird realm of forgetfulness, when I 
 beheld it with loving yet foreboding eyes. The day in 
 which it should have been sent dawned upon me, yet I knew 
 it not ; the object of my labor, of my deepest love, was no 
 more to me than if it had never existed. Was this the end 
 of my dream? No, not the end. 
 
 As the long, lonely hours dragged away, leaving me still a 
 prisoner, I learned to look, and to long for nothing so much 
 as the face of Kate, my unwearied and unfailing friend. 
 Many, many times a day, she came and covered me with her 
 rough yet tender kindness. The fact that she had a special 
 object of care, of solicitude, seemed to add much to her sense 
 of personal dignity. 
 
 " What's the use o' livin," she said, "if you ben't of no use 
 to nobody ? I feels as if I'd somethin' to do, and was o' some 
 account in the wurld, sin' she guv ye into my keepin'. Faith, 
 I know I'm a dale happier. I uset to spind every spare 
 minnut, fightin' with Nick the black sarpint. Now it's mesel 
 that's somethin' better to do. Darlint, I would not care no, 
 I'd like it, to have the care of ye allus ; to be takin' care of 
 some un, gives me sich a blessed feelin' here." And Kate 
 clapped her broad hand on the capacious region w r here 
 throbbed her great, warm, Irish heart. 
 
 I often wept when she had gone, thinking of my poor 
 bonne. Poor Nannette ! Why hadn't I been kinder, gentler, 
 more thoughtful of her always ? Had I cared for her, and
 
 ii8 Victoire. 
 
 thought of her welfare, as my mother would have done ? No, 
 I knew that I had not, and it was too late now. In watchful, 
 anxious care, the Irish chambermaid equalled the French 
 nurse ; but she was more bustling and breezy, brought more 
 life with her into the room, and certainly was less pervaded 
 with the idea that " Mademoiselle was crazy." 
 
 The hour of misfortune comes, and we find ourselves receiv 
 ing every kindness from one upon whom we have no claims ; 
 one from whom we had the least right to expect sheltering 
 care. Hard would have been my fate, utter my loneliness 
 and my need, through that long, struggling convalescence, 
 had it not been for the pity and womanly love of Kate, the 
 Irish chambermaid. 
 
 I was dressed at last ; another day, and I thought that I 
 should be strong enough to walk out into the air. On that 
 morning Mrs. Skinher called for the first time. 
 
 "You have had a long illness," she observed, as she 
 smoothed the skirt of her gorgeous morning robe and seated 
 herself. " A long illness, but you have had the best of care." 
 
 " Yes, Kate has been as kind as a mother." 
 
 " Kate! She could not have taken care of you without my 
 permission. Of course you could not expect me to stay in a 
 sick room, and have the care of this great house on my hands 
 besides ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; I could neither have expected nor. have wished 
 such a thing." 
 
 " But your tone gives all the credit to Kate. Kate is a 
 lazy thing, and would rather be fussing in here, than doing 
 her proper work." 
 
 " I don't think she is lazy, Mrs. Skinher." 
 
 " You don't think so ? What do you know about it, pray? 
 I think that I have some opportunity to understand the 
 character of my servants. Kate is a lazy thing. She has 
 spent twice the time in this room that she had any occasion 
 to. Yet I endured it. I was not going to have it flung in 
 my face that I neglected you ; nor have the fuss which was 
 made over Miss De Ray. You have made me more trouble 
 than you can ever pay for. Nannette was the best pastry 
 cook that I ever had, and I have no idea that she would have 
 died if she hadn't been so frightened and troubled about 
 you. The doctor said that she had the heart disease, but I 
 am sure that she would not have died when she did, if you 
 h:id not been taking on at such a rate. Some people seem 
 born to make others trouble. For my part, I have managed
 
 Getting Well. 119 
 
 to live in the world, and to take care of myself without help, 
 and without troubling other people." 
 
 I did not disturb her complacent conclusion with a reply. 
 
 "Miss Vernoid, I suppose that you are aware you have 
 contracted a large bill during your sickness ?" 
 
 " What is its amount, Mrs. Skinher ?" 
 
 " Something over three hundred dollars. A small sum, 
 except to those who have no money. There is three months' 
 board due. As you retained your room, and had the care of 
 a nurse, I did not reduce the weekly charge ; in justice to 
 myself I should have charged more, but I did not. Then 
 extras for coal and gas amount to something. Besides, here 
 is the doctor's bill, which I paid myself. I did not wish Dr. 
 Smirk to think that I kept a class of boarders who were not 
 able to pay their physician. In all, it is three hundred and 
 fifty dollars. Here is the bill, with all the charges." And 
 she arose and handed it to me. 
 
 " I came in to give you some advice," she added, resuming 
 her seat. " I think that you need it. And to tell you that I 
 am prepared to make the payment of this bill very easy for 
 you. If you will transfer the ownership of these paintings to 
 me, I will give you a receipt in full. Nothing could be easier." 
 
 " Nothing could be harder. I shall never sell these paint 
 ings. But I will leave them as security till I can earn money 
 to pay you. I would as soon sell myself as my mother's 
 picture." 
 
 " Fudge ! I care nothing about your mother's picture, 
 except that it is the handsome portrait of a handsome face, 
 and would look well in my back parlor. The large painting 
 I want for the front one. You are not in circumstances to be 
 sentimental, Miss Vernoid. You might as well transfer the 
 right of ownership at once. You will never redeem them. It 
 needs no penetration to see that you are not one of the sort 
 to make money. If you must earn your living, it will be a 
 hand to mouth sort of business, I know. I don't believe that 
 you have any more faculty to get on than Miss De Ray." 
 
 " If I have not, I shall not sell my pictures." 
 
 " Oh, no ; such folks are always running into the face of 
 their own interest. I suppose that you'd rather stay in debt ; 
 a pretty way to begin life ! My advice to you is : live with 
 in your means. If you have only two cents, be content with 
 what two cents will bring. People will respect you more for 
 it, for you won't rob them. The little you have will be your 
 own, and you can be as independent on a crust, if it's only
 
 no Victoire. 
 
 paid for, as if you sat on a throne. That's my doctrine. Go 
 to a cheap, but decent down-town boarding-house, there are 
 lots of them, and begin life right ; that's my advice, Miss Ver- 
 noid. Give me your pictures, clear yourself of debt, then 
 you can begin life fair and square." 
 
 " I like your advice, all but the last sentence. I shall not 
 transfer my paintings to you ; but I will leave them as security 
 for my debt. It is useless to ask me to sell them." 
 
 " It will be all the same to me in the end," she answered, 
 exultingly. " When will you earn three hundred and fifty 
 dollars to redeem them ? With all your painting, I don't see 
 that it brings you any money. I should throw up such a 
 worthless business." 
 
 " Mrs. Skinher, will you be so good as to return the hair 
 which you cut off from my head during my illness." 
 
 She started. "Wasn't it my duty to cut it off? Did you 
 ever hear of any one getting well of a brain fever with such 
 a mop of hair on their head ? If I hadn't cut it off, it would 
 have dropped off, every hair of it. I did my duty." 
 
 "I am not impugning your motives, nor finding fault be 
 cause you cut it, though I had much rather it had dropped in 
 my hands than have been shorn off when I did not know it. 
 I only ask you to return it, Mrs. Skinher." 
 
 " Return it ! Why, do you think that I have it ? What 
 should I want with your hair?" 
 
 " Nothing, I should think. So you will return it, will you not ?" 
 
 " I am willing to help you in any reasonable way. It might 
 make me a soft pincushion. I will give you five dollars for it." 
 
 " It is worth more than five dollars to me for its memories, 
 and worth more than that to any one else who wants it. I 
 am unwilling to sell it, Mrs. Skinher." 
 
 " A wonderful opinion you have of your hair," she said, 
 red with anger and embarrassment. " I won't be mean. 
 I will allow you ten dollars ; but I want no words about it." 
 
 It was useless to attempt further to recover my lost 
 treasure. Already Mrs. Skiuher had had it transformed into 
 a wig. 
 
 " Remember that these are all to be left," she said, with a 
 deep emphasis on att, looking around on the pictures and 
 rising to depart. " And the sooner you make a change the 
 better. I can't keep Kate out of your room, and I need her. 
 You don't want to increase your debt, for I cannot allow 
 more for the paintings. You had better get another boarding 
 place as soon as possible. I am willing to be a referee for
 
 Getting Well. 121 
 
 your respectability." And Mrs. Skinher shut the door with 
 that sharp, hard ring, so like her. 
 
 Gone ! I looked around upon my pictures, my silent sacred 
 friends, and no tear rose to my eye. I knew that I could not 
 lose them ; they were too much a part of me to go from me 
 for ever. I may part with you for a season, but you will all 
 return to me again, I said, with a smile of faith, darkened by 
 no shadow of doubt. 
 
 A new purpose came intp my heart, and with it new strength 
 into my limbs, new vitality into my veins. I took up the 
 morning paper which Kate had brought me, and commenced 
 reading the " Wants." I had read but a little way when I 
 came to this advertisement : 
 
 " At No. street, respectable sewing girls, or ladies with limited 
 
 means, will find a comfortable home for a moderate charge. Good references 
 given and required." 
 
 I could not wait for the morrow to find the air, nor to know 
 my destiny. With trembling steps I sought the city cars, ' 
 and the cars conveyed me to the very threshold of the 
 " comfortable home." I found it not so comfortable as it 
 might have been. It was a forbidding looking house, in a 
 forbidding street. I found that its proprietress was a respect 
 able widow of the rusty bombazine and wan-featured type. 
 She looked pinched and care-worn ; anxious, but not hard ; 
 nervous, but not cruel ; with a piteous " where-shall-I-get-my- 
 daily-bread " look in her faded eyes. Her house was intensely 
 shabby, so was she, but it was the result of poverty, not of 
 meanness. She had a kind, humane look in her eyes which 
 prepossessed me in her favor. 
 
 " I cannot make the home as comfortable as I wish ; but I 
 do the best I can," she said. " The women who live here can 
 afford to pay very little for their board. Some of them are 
 rough. I fear that you would not find them the company you 
 have been used to, still they are decent." 
 
 She seemed anxious lest I should expect more than she 
 could give me. " I will try it. I ask only for quiet. I ex 
 pect little." 
 
 " When will you come ?" 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 In a few moments I was on my way back to Mrs. Skinher's. 
 
 Once more in my room, I made up a little package of keep 
 sakes for Kate a few wearing trinkets, and a small engrav 
 ing of Raphael's Madonna, which I had seen her cross herself 
 
 6
 
 1 22 Victoire. 
 
 before very often. I had scarcely done this when she entered. 
 She had missed me, and now came full of consternation. 
 
 " Sure, afthur all," she thought, " I had gone, and kilt meself." 
 
 "No," I said. "I shall never do anything so foolish. I 
 love to live too well ; but I am going away, Kate. Here are 
 some keepsakes for you, and some time some time, Kate, I 
 shall pay you for all your kindness to me. I love you, Kate, 
 for your blessed heart ; and shall never forget to be grateful. 
 
 Come to No. street and see me. If I ever have a 
 
 home I'd like to take care of you, Kate ! " 
 
 It was the last day of May that I left Mrs. Skinher's. The 
 sun poured into my window, flooding all my pictured faces as 
 I stood and looked at them for the last time. I took but one 
 away. I carried in my hand, when I passed from that door, 
 but one thing. It was a small medallion engraving of Cor- 
 reggio's Christ. All women love Christ. They come to God 
 through Him. They feel their souls drawn towards Him 
 through the divinest sympathy. Not so much by word as 
 deed did Jesus prove his tender, loving compassion for women. 
 " Daughter, thy sins are all forgiven thee ; go and sin no 
 more," were the words of the immaculate Master in the face 
 of accusing, self-righteous, polluted men. No wonder that wo 
 men followed Him from afar, touching the hem of His garment, 
 that, by some mysterious power, a little of the God-life might 
 be imparted to them ; no wonder that Martha served Him ; 
 that Mary sat at His feet ; no wonder that to-day, in the secret 
 and silent places all over this grief-smitten earth, does the 
 loving, longing, unfilled heart of woman pour its floods of 
 infinite want into the bosom of the Lord and Saviour of her 
 soul. 
 
 The sun suffused the marble vestibule with amber, as Nick 
 opened the door for me for the last time. Brightly the sun shone 
 on the marble steps ; its gold gleamed through the shimmer 
 ing maples, which shaded the broad, clean street with their 
 refreshing green, their umbrageous, shifting shadows ; the air 
 was sweet with magnolias; and so, with my "dead Christ" 
 in my hand, I went away. 
 
 ANOTHER BOARDING-HOTJSB. 
 
 Another transition I Another change, greater than had ever 
 come to me before. Persons who, in travelling, have accident-
 
 Another Boarding-House. 123 
 
 ally found themselves in the sitting-room of a third-rate hotel, 
 can, without difficulty, see the apartment in which I found 
 myself at the "comfortable home," dingy, smutty, uncomfort 
 able, odious. I had not the consolation of remembering that 
 I was only a traveller ; no, I had come to stay, not to live. 
 A passive existence in such a place could not be life, at least 
 to me. The room was large and dark ; the windows, looking 
 out upon a narrow, dismal street, were hung with cobwebs and 
 tattered shades. The walls were hung with coarse, gaudy 
 paper, enamelled with grease spots and holes, with powdered 
 plastering sifting through ; adorned also with colored prints, 
 pictures of buxom ladies in red dresses, with a full-blown rose 
 in their hair or in their bosom, bearing the euphonious name 
 of "Nancy," or "Laura- Jane," or the more startling ones of 
 " Star of the Evening," "Light of the Morning," or one equally 
 poetic and sublime. A faded cotton carpet covered the floor ; 
 a coarse wooden stand stood in the middle of the room, in 
 lieu of a more graceful centre table ; on it, around a corroded 
 lamp, were piled some torn newspapers, the current almanac 
 for the year, a well-thumbed city directory, an abridged copy 
 of Webster's Dictionary, and a shabby Bible. A faded lounge, 
 a fly-specked looking-glass, and wooden chairs completed the 
 furniture. Too weak to stand, I sank upon a chair beside the 
 table, leaned my head upon my hand, and turned from the 
 room to its inmates. 
 
 Alas ! what weary, haggard faces ! Brows prematurely 
 wrinkled and furrowed with care. The traces of hard pas 
 sion, the sullen, vacant or brazen expression on the different 
 faces, told how the fine temper of the soul had been destroyed 
 in the fierce furnace of their struggling life. Evidently the 
 women who sat there were on a level with their surroundings; 
 they looked coarse and vulgar, or sick and unhappy. All sat 
 bowed over their work, sewing vigorously, some with con 
 tracted brows in sullen silence, others discussed loudly some 
 topic of vulgar life, while a few seemed to derive their enter 
 tainment from ridiculing a girl who sat in silence, quite apart 
 from the rest. I listened to the dissonant voices, to the rude 
 laughter, to the jests, and sickened with disgust. Perhaps this 
 sickness suffused my face, for they looked at me askance, and 
 with little welcome in the look. 
 
 " Guess Miss Grammar has got somebody to keep her 
 company at last," said a red-haired, red-eyed, freckle-faced 
 girl, turning towards the solitary one whom they were 
 ridiculing.
 
 1 24 Victoire. 
 
 "-Where's your manners, Nance?" said a little pert, button- 
 eyed girl, with a nose in the air. 
 
 " Hain't got none ; they ain't needed here." 
 
 " Well, folks might as well be civil," answered Pert. 
 
 " Civil ! ain't I civil, I'd like to know ? You know well as 
 me that Miss Grammar thinks that we ain't none of us good 
 enough to keep her company. I reckoned she'd like to know 
 somebody had come what was probably good enough in their 
 own opinion, anyhow," said Nance, with a toss of her head 
 towards me, which she intended should be very contemptuous, 
 but which was only ridiculous. 
 
 " You'd better leave them that hain't hurt you alone," 
 protested little Pert. " I don't blame Grammar a snap for 
 cutting you." 
 
 " Oh, no, you don't ; but you are mad as a hare when she 
 cuts you. You'd put on as many airs as she, if you know'd 
 enough to carry them." 
 
 " I know enough to carry all the airs I please," and with 
 these words, the nose in the air went up higher, as if infinitely 
 insulted. 
 
 I was greatly amused. In this circle, coarse as it was, caste 
 had entered. Here, as everywhere else, society was strug 
 gling to sustain its distinctions. Already I had heard enough 
 to know that the girl Avhom they called Grammar was the 
 butt of the rest, and a glance at her revealed the reason. She 
 looked as much out of place as would a seraph from heaven. 
 A slight, willowy figure sat in the low wooden chair; a slen 
 der foot, with a proudly-curved instep, rested on the bare 
 wooden stool ; small, thin hands stitched on, without ceasing, 
 the delicate fingers stained with the dark fabric which they 
 were sewing. That foot would have looked more at home 
 nestled in velvet cushions; that hand was fair and lovely 
 enough to have been shaded by ethereal laces ; just the fin 
 gers those to sweep over the keys of a piano, or the cords 
 of a harp, or to touch with grace the artistic appliances of a 
 sumptuous home. The head and face were wonderful. The 
 head seemed too massive, too powerful for that slender body. 
 The heavy braids of black shining hair, wound round and 
 round it, rendered its classical contour still more sinking. In 
 tellect was embossed upon the pale, broad brow. Genius 
 wept in the great dark, despairing eyes. With these features 
 the positive beauty of the face ended. The lower portion 
 was painful. The muscles around the mouth frere tense, rigid 
 not with harshness; it was the tension of suffering, the
 
 . 'Another Boarding-House. 125" 
 
 rigidity of endurance. The strained lines were replete with 
 strength. The wounded heart might throb with throes of 
 most poignant pain, but those lines held down the quivering 
 lips, and the proud soul would utter not a single cry. 
 
 The rude thrusts of her companions seemed not to reach 
 her. Had they spoken in a language which she could not 
 understand she could not have sat more impassive, more 
 unmoved. The calm, compressed lips relaxed neither in 
 anger, in sarcasm, nor in scorn. The great eyes looked 
 straight at the stitching, as if stitching comprehended the uni 
 verse. This composure could only be the offspring of a strong 
 character, of a great nature ; it was not the child of inanity. 
 If ever power, capacity to suffer ; if ever soul was stamped 
 upon the human face, it was upon hers. She could not have 
 been more than twenty, yet to look in her eyes, you felt that 
 she had lived centuries. I saw that her nature was self- 
 poised and solitary ; saw that she lived in a region apart from 
 her companions ; one that they could not reach," nor even 
 discern. 
 
 Still I sat by the shabby stand, studying this face, when a 
 young girl tripped in, whom Nance instantly hailed as 
 "Tip." 
 
 " Well, Miss Tip, have you come again to 'stonish us all ?" 
 
 " Yes. Why not ?" replied the young creature with a 
 voice and a laugh gay as a running brook. 
 
 " Why not ! Well, if that isn't cool ! Why shouldn't one 
 sister set herself up for her learnin', and t'other for her beauty ? 
 I'll tell you just why: 'cause decent people don't like to be 
 imposed on ; that's why. For my part I feel as good as any 
 body." 
 
 " I'm glad that you do ; why shouldn't you, Nancy ?" 
 
 " Why shouldn't I ? 'cause some folks think I ain't ; some 
 folks are so big feelin' they think nobody hain't so grand as 
 they are. Let 'em stick up. I ask nothin' of nobody. I'm's 
 good as the grandest lady what walks the street." 
 
 Tip had no reply for Nancy's most satisfactory estimate of 
 herself. She had dropped a bundle upon the floor at Gram 
 mar's feet, and sat down upon the low stool before her. 
 
 " What did Mr. Bertram say ?" asked Grammar, in a low 
 tone. 
 
 "He said that he was sorry, but that he couldn't treat you 
 any better than the other ' hands ;' that he must cut down 
 the pay." 
 
 " What have you brought ?"
 
 1 26 Victoire. 
 
 " Satin vests, two shillings apiece." 
 
 " And he will sell them for ten dollars," said Grammar, and 
 I saw the muscles around the white mouth quiver. " You 
 will have to give up your music lessons, Hope.'* 
 
 " Never mind ; 1 can help you the more. I have been think 
 ing of it all the way back that I would help you more, and 
 it will make me so happy." 
 
 " Hope, I don't want you to help me more." 
 
 " Oh, no, you don't want her to help you, do you ? We all 
 know'd that afore. You want to make a grand lady of Miss 
 Tip, don't you ? You want to marry her to a rich man, don't 
 you ? Then Aunt Grammar can take care of the children. 
 She needn't work for other folks no more ; she can put on as 
 many airs as she pleases," shouted Nance, who had overheard 
 Grammar's last words. 
 
 " If I ever do have a nice house, I'll invite all you girls to 
 a tea party," said Tip. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you'd like to crow over us, perhaps, if we hadn't 
 made as good markets," exclaimed Nance and Pert in a 
 breath. 
 
 " No, indeed, but how good it would seem to have one nice 
 tea all together. No frowy butter, no skippery cheese, no 
 chalky milk ; but tea with white sugar and cream, and straw 
 berries, and biscuit white as snow. Wouldn't it be pleasant, 
 girls ?" 
 
 " A likely story," said Nance, in a milder tone, mollified by 
 the epicurean picture in spite of herself. "Do you think that 
 Aunt Grammar would allow any such doin's ? She won't let 
 you keep our company now ; do you think that she'll let you 
 do it then, when you live in a fine house of your own ?" And 
 Nancy's tone unconsciously betrayed a faith in Tip's exalted 
 destiny as well as in the life-long authority of Grammar. 
 
 During the conversation I had been gazing at Tip. No 
 wonder that Nance had asked if she had come to astonish us. 
 She astonished me with her rare, her radiant beauty. She 
 was not more than fourteen. She stood on the mystic 
 boundary which divides childhood from womanhood ; dazzling 
 as a child, I was lost in imagining what the glory of the woman 
 would be. She wore a rose-pink calico dress, terminating at 
 the ankle, displaying a petite, patrician foot, in a high, plain 
 shoe. A mantle of muslin revealed the aerial outline of her 
 undulating, girlish figure, while the broad flat upon her head 
 shaded, yet exposed the beautiful features. Had her hair 
 been fairer, she would have been a blonde, for her complexion
 
 Another Boarding-House. 127 
 
 was transparently pure, the faintest of rose tints inlaying the 
 pearly cheeks. Her hair gleamed dusky-purple in the sun ; 
 dark it was, yet it seemed infiltrated with shifting golden 
 lights ; it covered the delicate head with waves, falling around 
 the slender w-aist in curls profuse and free. The young lip 
 was glorious ; the eyes enough to make an artist mad not to 
 paint their color, but expression. The irides of deep, lucent 
 blue were almost covered with the dark, dilating, lumi 
 nous pupil, which produced the rare combination of melting 
 softness and kindling brilliancy. Serene to sadness, they 
 drooped under the long curled lashes, but only opened to 
 scintillate starry sunshine, which seemed to radiate from her 
 inmost being, to glance and play over every feature, baptizing 
 herself and every surrounding object with its effluence of 
 brightness. It was die outflowing light of innocence, of 
 enthusiasm ; the guileless glory of a sunny and unsullied 
 soul, which sin had never shadowed nor sorrow dared to 
 darken. 
 
 " Round her she made an atmosphere of light; 
 The very air seemed brighter for her eyes, 
 They were so soft, and beautiful, and rife 
 With all we can imagine of the skies;" 
 
 besides all that we dream over and long for in the loveliest 
 of the earth. 
 
 Tip's story of strawberries and cream, of "biscuits white as 
 snow," was interrupted by a bond fide ring for supper. The 
 girls dropped their work simultaneously, and passed through 
 a dark passage, down into a damp basement, where tea was 
 spread. It presented a dismal contrast to the brilliant dining 
 hall, the elegantly arranged table of Mrs. Skinher, resplen 
 dent with china and silver. When I saw the food prepared, 
 I did not wonder that the young girl's fancy had hovered over 
 something good to eat. Fastidious by nature and education, 
 I could not overcome the repugnance the table appoint 
 ments aroused sufficiently to eat. The soiled brown cloth, 
 the cracked colored ware, the brassy spoons, were bad enough ; 
 but the black, leathery bread, the cake, apparently shortened 
 with candle-grease, the rancid butter, and the sloppy tea were 
 worse. No one but Nance seemed to partake of the food 
 with the slightest relish. Grammar's great eyes dilated over 
 her tea cup, as if she saw wondrous visions in it ; but not a 
 mouthful of food passed her lips. The sweet child beside her 
 seemed to make fruitless efforts to swalloAV the coarse food
 
 1 28 Victoire. 
 
 which I knew must hurt her delicate throat. As I compared 
 her softly curved, blooming face with the murky, angular 
 faces of her companions, I was almost tempted to believe that 
 the angels fed her in secret with their own ambrosia, so much 
 finer and ethereal seemed her composition than such poisoned 
 nutriment could make. 
 
 After tea the girls returned to their tasks. I asked to be 
 shown to my room. " My room !" I said again, as I stood 
 alone gazTng around it. "My room ! Have I come to this ?" 
 " Yes, you have come to this," answered Fact. " You prayed 
 for life ; accept without a murmur what it gives you." 
 
 The chambers had been portioned into small sleeping closets. 
 I stood in the midst of one of them. It was just large enough 
 to hold a bed, a stand, a single chair, with sufficient useless 
 space to hold a trunk. Thank God it had a window, which, 
 though it looked out upon a reeking alley, was better than 
 none. I knew in the day a few faint sunbeams would struggle 
 down to bless me, and that, when I was very hungry for the 
 sight, I could thrust my face into the air and catch a glimpse, 
 only a glimpse, of the azure heaven above the house tops. 
 I hung my pictured Christ on the narrow strip of wall at the 
 foot of my bed, where the divine eyes could greet me first on 
 waking ; where I could look into them, and gather courage and 
 comfort to bear me through my weary days. 
 
 This done, I sat down upon the edge of my low cot and 
 began to think. If I had found nothing else to arouse my 
 interest, I should probably have fallen back upon ihe con 
 sideration of my miserable self and more miserable condition ; 
 but as it was I thought only of Grammar and Tip. So unlike, 
 yet each so intensely interesting ; the one so beautiful, the 
 other so great. Who could they be ? How had they come 
 into such a place ? Alas, that I was not rich that I might paint 
 their faces, and take them and myself away from this hateful 
 place. But as it was, I was sure that we should be friends 
 and love each other. How I thanked God in humble grati 
 tude that I had never found a spot so dark but that it held 
 some bright thing ; something to bless me ; something that I 
 could love. 
 
 My meditation was broken by the opening of the door in 
 the adjoining room. There was only a thin partition between, 
 so that I heard distinctly. Some of the girls were retiring 
 for the night. In a moment I recognised the voices of the 
 sisters who had absorbed my thought. 
 
 " This has been a sad day, Hope," said Grammar.
 
 Another Boarding-House. 129 
 
 " Yes, a little sad ; very sad for you ; you fee everything 
 so much, dear Morna. Don't feel so bad about the music les 
 sons. I shall learn them some time, and if I let them rest a 
 little while, I can help you so much more." 
 
 " Don't speak of helping me, again, Hope ; don't ! You 
 know that every stitch which you take in that wretched 
 sewing, only hinders you so much in your preparation for the 
 situation which you are suited to fill. Don't speak again of 
 helping me in that way ; you know that I cannot bear it." 
 
 " Well, I won't, dear Morna, if you will believe in the ' good 
 time coming." 
 
 " The good time ? it has never come to us yet, Hope." 
 
 "But it will. Morna, I am as sure of it as if it were 
 here." 
 
 " You are young, Hope, and I don't know why, but you 
 learn nothing of life even from its miseries." 
 
 "I never felt miserable, Morna. How can I, when our 
 Father in Heaven is so kind. But I feel sad because you are 
 so anxious about me. I have no fear. God will take care of 
 us ; you know that He always has. I am sure that He won't 
 leave us, if we try to be good." 
 
 " Good ! It is almost impossible to be good under some 
 circumstances, at least for me. I cannot always be patient. I 
 feel very rebellious to-night. I did not feel half so much so 
 when I had to give up my own music, for then you could still 
 continue yours. But now, to know that your lessons must be 
 discontinued, because, work as we will, we cannot pay for 
 them ; to know that the harder we work the less we receive, and 
 that it is all that we can possibly do to pay for our miserable 
 shelter and unsatisfying food, seems a little more than I can 
 silently bear. I want to believe, but to-night, I can't, that 
 God is kind, that He rules this world justly. This moment I 
 cannot feel that He does." 
 
 " Oh, Morna, what would our mother say to such words ! 
 If we can go to'heaven, as she did, won't it be enough ?" 
 
 "No! not as I now feel, it would not be enough. To go 
 to heaven as she did would be torture. It is a great sorrow 
 on my heart to-day that she who loved all beautiful things, 
 who was all beauty and love herself, had nothing in this world 
 but a hard, grinding life ; nothing but poverty and pain, and 
 
 died at last as . Oh ! I cannot think of it ; the thought 
 
 makes me mad ! Yet I am wicked, Hope, and I cannot help 
 it. If God wanted me to grope through this world without 
 seeing its glwy or longing for its joy, He would have given 
 
 6*
 
 130 Victoire. 
 
 me a different nature. I cannot believe that earth is a place 
 in which we are born simply to dig and die. Mere breath is 
 not life. I want to live ! I want life for my soul ! I want to 
 know, I want to enjoy, I want to give expression to the force 
 within me. I cannot forget how much wisdom and beauty, 
 how much love and happiness, there is in the world, and all 
 locked away from me, and from you who were created to be 
 so much happier than I. And when I think of all this, I 
 feel that I could tear the very angels from heaven to grant 
 me what I ask." 
 
 " Oh, Morna, I never heard you talk so before. Oh, how sad 
 I am that you feel so bad. Don't wish me happier. I feel 
 that 1 have everything when I think that I have such a sister. 
 I thank God every day for you, Morna." 
 
 A deep groan was the only response. There was a long 
 pause, in which I heard the deep, agonized breath of Morna. 
 In a few moments the silence was broken by the voice of the 
 child as she read these words : 
 
 " Now, no affliction for the present seemeth pleasant, but afterwards it 
 worketh the peaceable fruits of righteousness." 
 
 "We want faith in the 'afterwards,' don't we, Morna?" 
 asked the sweet, young voice. 
 
 "Yes, yes, that is what ./want. You have enough. But 
 God seems so far off, the way is so dark, and I am so wicked ; 
 but I can pray. No one is too wicked to pray," said the 
 elder girl. 
 
 I heard the rustling of their robes as they knelt down, and 
 in a moment I heard Morna say, in a deep, low tone : 
 
 " Oil, Thou Great Eternal ! who hast been sought after 
 through all the ages ; Thou, whose ways are past finding out, 
 who coverest Thyself with mystery, as with a garment, yet 
 commandest Thy creatures to call Thee Father ; help us to 
 call Thee by that precious name ; help us to believe that Thou 
 wilt not cast us utterly away. Help us to believe that Thou 
 wilt forgive our sins, and accept us for the sake of Thy Be 
 loved. We come to Thee for light, for wisdom, for help, for 
 guidance. We cry for light, for our earthly way is very dark. 
 We fear even the unseen hand which leads us, so impenetrable 
 is the gloom before us. Let Thy light shine in upon us that 
 we may see the way. Oh, give us wisdom, that we may shun 
 error, and know the truth. Oh, give us grace to quell the wild 
 cry of our hearts, to stifle the great insatiate want which it is 
 not Thy will to satisfy. Give us patience, that we rebel not
 
 Another Boarding-House. 131 
 
 against Thee. Give us patience to wait until that which is in 
 part shall be done away, believing that we, at last, shall see 
 Thee face to face. Oh, give us patience, that however bitter 
 the cup which the future holds in her hands for us, we may 
 drink it without a murmur, saying only ' even so, Father, for 
 it seemeth good in Thy sight.' Oh, save us from the faithless 
 ness of our own hearts ! We know that Thou art Infinite, 
 that we are less than atoms in Thy sight. We are abject in 
 our littleness. We magnify the greatness of Thy majesty. 
 Thou art so far away, so wonderful in Thy glory, we some 
 times fear that Thou art never mindful of us. Have pity on 
 us, oh, our Father." 
 
 Her voice seemed overwhelmed with the greatness of her 
 thought. The last woi'ds were almost inarticulate ; a low, 
 imploring, yet half despairing cry, it died ; then the voice of 
 Hope broke the stillness ; sweetly it murmured: 
 
 " Precious Saviour ! VVe come to Thee as little children, 
 because we love Thee. We know that Thou art our best 
 friend, and we love to tell Thee our hearts. We are homeless 
 lambs, knocking at the fold of the Good Sheperd. Oh, dear 
 Jesus, let us in ! Take us out of the cold ; carry us in Thy 
 bosom, oh, our Saviour! There evil cannot reach us; there we 
 shall be carried white and blameless. We cast all our care 
 upon Thee ; for Thou carest for u*s. We lay our burden 
 down at Thy feet. We know that Thou wilt lift us up, and 
 lead us always. We know that we are sinful, but Thou art 
 all-saving. O Christ! Thou hadst no earthly home; Thou 
 hadst not where to lay Thy holy head. But now Thou art in 
 Thy Father's House. There, there are many mansions. We 
 believe that Thou hast prepared one for us. Help us so to 
 live, that with joy and gladness we may behold Thy face. O 
 Jesus ! bless Morna ; comfort my dear, dear " 
 
 Here the gentle voice broke under its burden of love ; it 
 dissolved in tears such tears as angels we'ep. Yet how much 
 those prayers comforted those hearts I knew when, a few 
 moments after, broke upon the night the wondrous enchant 
 ment of their blended voices, singing low : 
 
 " Jesus, lover of my soul, 
 
 Let me to Thy bosom fly, 
 While the nearer waters roll, 
 
 While the tempest still is high. 
 Save me ; oh, my Saviour hide I 
 
 Till the storm of life is past, 
 Safe into Thy haven guide, 
 
 Oh, receive my soul at last 1 "
 
 132 Victoire. 
 
 I buried my head in my pillow and wept ; wept as the peace 
 of believing stole through all my soul. It was not more the 
 words of that divine hymn than the spell of low music which 
 stirred all the depths of my being. I had heard the best 
 singers of the age, those who were making the melody of the 
 century, yet I had listened to no human voices which had 
 ever moved me like these. The singers of heaven would not 
 have seemed more alien to that little room than did these 
 sisters. The voice of Hope was sweet ; the voice of Morna 
 was more; it was pathos, it was passion, it was power; 
 it was love, yearning, infinite, breaking in floods of melody, 
 in low, impassioned, imploring gushes of music over the words 
 of the hymn. It awoke everything in me ; all that I had ever 
 longed for, hoped for ; lost sensations, buried dreams, all 
 came thronging into my soul, while I listened to that voice. 
 Yet over all fell the great peace. With the music still vibrat 
 ing through my soul, I fell asleep. 
 
 Why must they dawn upon us, life's grim, gray mornings ! 
 Why must we come from the palaces of our dreams, from the 
 gardens of Paradise, back to the hard tasks of the grinding 
 day ? The night is ideal ; through her dusk aisles glide all 
 fair and visionary forms ; through her haunted halls troop all 
 fantastic delights. It is one of the most painful of sensations 
 to pass from some halcyon dream of sleep into the bald 
 morning face of a new, forbidding reality. To open our eyes 
 suddenly upon disagreeable surroundings, to gaze around, 
 bewildered, only to wake to the utter consciousness of the 
 dreaded, hated, day-time task, which is waiting impatiently to 
 sap our energy, to drink the very blood of youth and hope. 
 The light of some mornings, how drearily, how dreadfully, 
 how appallingly it dawns upon our shrinking senses! How. 
 we dread the day, how hateful is our work, how we sigh for 
 the visions which have just letl us! Not when health and 
 hope are perfect -not then, do we dread the morning; but 
 when we have grown weak and weary, when we feel inade 
 quate for effort, when we shrink from life's daily contest, 
 asking only rest then we dread the dawning day. 
 
 I shrank from the naked truth of the next morning, as it gazed 
 stark upon me through the gray light. Sickness and poverty 
 had overtaken me ; real life had seized me. I was their slave, 
 and must obey. I must work ; more, I must go and seek 
 work. I endeavored to bring my enfeebled frame up to the 
 demands of this thought ; still it moved languidly, so faint 
 was its diminished vitality. How I missed my accustomed
 
 Victoire Goes to Work. 133 
 
 pictures ! How imploringly I looked into the eyes of my 
 pictured Christ ! 
 
 As I opened my door at the call of the breakfast bell, I 
 encountered Hope, just issuing through hers. How lovely 
 she looked ! I saw her, and felt a throb of gratitude that at 
 least I had this fair creature to irradiate my dark path. She 
 looked at me, and the soft eyes beamed and the little hand 
 was outstretched. 
 
 " I don't know your name," she said, " but I am so glad 
 that you have come. You will comfort Morna so much. She 
 will love you, I know. And your room next to ours ? I 
 didn't know that. I am glad." 
 
 " You say that Morna will love me ; won't you a little too?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; but my love isn't worth so much as Morna's." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'm a child. I haven't Morna's great soul. Morna 
 garners all her love for a few, and such love! Mine couldn't 
 be worth as much to any one." 
 
 "I love you and your sister very much already." 
 
 "You do? how glad I am. I must go and tell Morna. I 
 thought that you would love her. I saw it in your eyes 
 yesterday. Oh, it made me so happy ! " 
 
 Descending into the sitting room, we 1 found Morna in the 
 very spot in which she sat the day before, her task already 
 commenced. The other girls had descended to their breakfast. 
 
 " Morna, this lady says that she loves you," said Hope, 
 leading me by the hand to her sister's low chair. The dark 
 eyes were lifted to mine in one eager, questioning, penetrating 
 glance ; the great orbs grew dewy, the tense lines around the 
 mouth relaxed, she stretched out her hand. "God has sent 
 you," she murmured. 
 
 Bending down, I kissed her forehead. Hope held up her 
 budding mouth. 
 
 These kisses sealed our blended destinies. In them a new 
 epoch in three lives began. 
 
 VICTOIRE GOES TO WORK. TRIES HARD TO BE SENSIBLE. 
 
 I had been dreaming long enough. I had been sneered at 
 for my dreams, too, that hurt me quite as much as their failure. 
 After we have persisted in our own way, after we have mark
 
 134 Victoire. 
 
 ed out our own course and pursued it in spite of remonstrance 
 or advice from others, after we have chased our phantom and 
 failed to reach it, there is no state of mind more humiliating 
 than the consciousness of that failure. To know that we 
 have failed, to know that others know that we have failed, 
 there is a thrust of poignant pain in the thought to a proud 
 spirit. The words of Henri Rochelle came back to me : " A 
 young girl, poor, ignorant of the world, you need a lawful 
 protector." It came back to my memory, also, my lofty scorn 
 ing of that good man's love. Was I sorry ? No. I was 
 only sorry that in that last hour I had not been a little kinder. 
 Already I had learned that love's gifts are not so manifold that 
 we can scorn the humblest, albeit 'tis not the one which we 
 need and long for most. 
 
 " I have failed." I said these words aloud and very slow, 
 showing no pity to my writhing heart. I felt no tender sym 
 pathy, no compassion for myself. I had failed, and the failure 
 was my own fault. In what respect had I shown any wisdom ? 
 I had not made a single effort to secure a paying employment. 
 I had sat in my room, painted out a dream, spent all my 
 money ; now I was penniless ; worse, I was miserably in debt, 
 worn, and wasted with sickness. Shall life be a failure to 
 morrow, and to-morrow, because it is a failure to-day ? Be 
 cause this hour is a failure, shall it remain a failure to the 
 end ? Never ! I answered. 
 
 Just then an arrow of sunlight flashed down the narrow 
 alley-way, shot into the window of my little closet where I 
 stood, and quivered on the pearly crown of Orsino's amulet 
 which hung upon my neck. The gray, foreshading dawn had 
 deepened into a lustrous day. I had feared this day; I had 
 quaked at the thought of it ; for I knew that in it I must go 
 forth and seek kindness from the hearts of strangers, and I 
 dreaded a repulse. Then the consciousness came to me 
 that in all my life I had never dreaded work ; I had only 
 shrunk from seeking it as a boon from others. The super 
 cilious, inquisitive, or insolent look, bent upon me because I 
 asked for " work," how could I brook that ! Even if work 
 were given to me with such a gaze, would it not be like me 
 to cast it down in dire disdain, even if I knew that starvation 
 waited for me at the door. Ah, my haughty soul ! to bend 
 it into the cramping arc of its every day action would be 
 work enough for one poor creature ! The dreaded day had 
 come, bland, benign, beautiful it was. Its invisible finders, 
 dipped in balm, beckoned me out into the budding world to
 
 Victoire Goes to Work. 13 
 
 meet success, yet I stood trembling, waiting, trying- to gnin 
 courage and strength to go. Morna and Hope were toiling 
 hard down stairs, their delicate lingers eagerly flying to gain 
 upon their increased task ; trying so hard, so patiently with 
 those pretty fingers to earn the right to live. 
 
 Only a few hours before Morna had said: "God has sent 
 you." I would accept these words as truth as a blessed 
 promise for the future. I would go and find work, and come 
 with my toil, and sit down by the side of these girls, and be 
 to them a sister. 
 
 I had been standing in bonnet and mantle all this time, a 
 package of small drawings and paintings lying on the bed by 
 my side. I took them in my hand, looked into the face of 
 my pictured Christ with an inarticulate prayer, and went out. 
 I had resolved to seek employment as a designer, and so took 
 a package of my Paris sketches as specimens. Thanks to the 
 philanthropy which has since opened a school of design for 
 women, so that designing and engraving are no longer among 
 her mooted tasks. Men are very suspicious of any new, un 
 tried employment for woman. They are fearful lest, in some 
 way, it will make her encroach upon their masculine preroga 
 tives. They have so long looked upon the working sisterhood 
 as dish-washers, baby-tenders, shirt-makers, that they have 
 learned to regard these as the only genuine female employ 
 ments. They have little faith that woman would do any 
 other work as well. But let a woman go quietly to work, 
 without noise or pretension, to do the thing which she would, 
 and if it so be that she does it well, and in a womanly way, 
 though it may not be called " woman's work," she will find in 
 men her warmest approvers and most generous friends. And 
 it is a little odd, the man the most bitterly opposed to all 
 female innovation in general, succumbs with a most suave 
 grace to Any such innovation in particular, if he only like the 
 woman who, in her pretty way, is doing her best to widen a 
 little the narrow circle of being which he calls her " sphere." 
 If it is only " my Nancy " or " my Dolly," who wishes to do 
 the wondrous thing, ah, that is a different matter. " Dolly 
 is clever," " Nancy is a genius ;" " nothing should trammel 
 them ; but the stupid mass, let them walk in the old beaten 
 track," says Mr. Conservative. 
 
 ; Well, I found it the common opinion that it was a great 
 leap out of the common track for a woman to presume to be 
 a designer or engraver. 
 
 " You don't look as if you could carry a stidy hand ; and as
 
 136 Victoire. 
 
 for that matter, I don't believe that there is that woman 
 in the world that can ; stidy enough to make a good 
 pictur." 
 
 " If this is your opinion, I do not wish to work for you." 
 " Designing isn't woman's work, anyhow." 
 This was my first trial in asking for work. I left the esta 
 blishment without even showing my specimens. 
 
 In the second, their " designers were all men," they politely 
 said. "They employed only the best draughtsmen." 
 
 With a sinking heart and fainting steps I tottered towards 
 the door of the third engraver. If I was to be rebuffed here, 
 I knew not where else to turn. 
 
 "I would like to find employment as a designer ; I have a 
 few specimens to show you," I said, in a faltering voice, I fear, 
 to a pleasant-looking gentleman, seated beside a desk in a 
 cheerful counting-room. 
 
 He rose and politely offered me a chair. Then opened the 
 package, took up Monsieur Savonne's letter which lay on the 
 top. He read it, and glanced from the letter to me. " You 
 have been ill ?" he asked, gently. 
 
 I had a splendid front of contempt wherewith to meet 
 harshness or insolence; but at the sound of these few kind 
 words I felt all my soul dissolving. It was with difficulty I 
 answered, 
 
 " Yes, very ill." 
 
 Eagerly I watched his face, as he looked over my sketches. 
 It grew more and more pleasant, I thought. 
 
 "We have not been in the habit of employing lady de 
 signers ; indeed, to find one, is very unusual," he said, at last. 
 " But I am pleased with your designs ; they are very original 
 as well as beautiful. Here is a book which you may illustrate. 
 I intended it for our best artist. If you do it satisfactorily, 
 and I think that you will," he added, encouragingly, " you 
 shall be paid all that we would have given him a handsome 
 remuneration." 
 
 The revulsion of feeling after my agony of fear and sus 
 pense seemed greater than I could bear, without an outward 
 demonstration. I could have kissed that man, who was nei 
 ther young nor handsome, and it would have been the holy 
 kiss of gratitude. I could have blessed him on my bended 
 knees, yet did nothing so remarkable. I thanked him quietly, 
 with tears in my eyes, and went away. 
 
 I went back not with the faltering step of my coming. I 
 felt as if wings had burst forth from my feet. I did not walk
 
 Victoire Goes to Work. 137 
 
 I scarcely touched the ground I felt a sense of flying. I 
 opened the book in the street, and in an instant hundreds of 
 pictures seemed to flash upon me, with which I would illus 
 trate its thought. So I returned to the " comfortable home," 
 and took my place amid its workers. 
 
 Poor Morna Avon dale ! I soon learned why she was per 
 secuted. Her tormentors could not forgive her superiority. 
 Abuse is an involuntary tribute which base souls pay to great 
 natures. If she had only felt insulted, if she had only re 
 taliated, they would have enjoyed at least the variety of a 
 quarrel. But this calmness, this loftiness of soul, this un- 
 uttered pity, seemed to them unpardonable. They hated a 
 greatness which they could not equal, and affected to despise 
 a nature, whose depth they could not fathom. Had she only 
 answered proudly and disdainfully, she would have seemed 
 more like one of their own kind. But while that classic head 
 was embossed upon the air before them, while they beheld 
 that calm, broad brow, and met the silent gaze of those spirit- 
 searching eyes, they must feel that she was the native of a 
 loftier sphere than the one in which they were born, and that 
 she sat an alien in the midst of their low tribe. Because they 
 knew this, they hated her. True, Morna answered not, com 
 plained not ; yet it was this daily, petty persecution, this per 
 petual dropping, which made the ceaseless friction, the change 
 less agony, which wore youth, and elasticity, and life away. 
 To have each day the dreary counterpart of its predecessor, 
 to sit through the long hours cramped in one position, breath 
 ing a fetid atmosphere, shut away from God's sunshine and 
 joy-inspiring air, was bad enough ; but when to these miseries 
 was added a stream of vulgar talk, low jests, horse laughs, and 
 grating voices at times uttering words of imprecation, and 
 even of abuse, was to endure a life which, at times at least, 
 must have seemed intolerable. 
 
 With only a few exceptions, these poor girls seemed not to 
 have a hope or an aspiration above the life which they lived. 
 They had always drudged, and their mothers had drudged be 
 fore them. They had never known any life but that of poverty 
 in its most grinding forms. It is not the sad thing about such 
 a life that it makes the hands hard and the body weary ; the 
 sadness is, that it steals from our being its tender, beautiful 
 bloom ; that it leaves no space or time for the spirit to grow ; 
 that it grinds existence down to one sordid material want, and 
 encrusts the soul with selfishness. To work, to eat, to dress 
 in some cheap finery, if possible to find a husband who would
 
 138 Victoire. 
 
 deliver them from their present bondage of body and soul into 
 another as abject this to these poor girls was life. Heaven, 
 to those who thought of it, was a great undefinable space 
 which held no " slop shops " nor slop work, filled with people 
 who sang perpetually and enjoyed a good time generally. 
 Selfish, ignorant, debased in intellect, in the darkened temple 
 of flesh the light of the immortal burned dimly ; yet they were 
 hardly to blame. Bread they must have ; for bread they lived ; 
 and to win simply what their body needed they had to sacri 
 fice physical, mental, and spiritual health. 
 
 The age holds out lofty opportunities for women to win cul 
 ture and triumph in the sciences and arts ; and yet to the great 
 mass of the daughters of the poor, the drudgery of the kitchen, 
 the wasting slavery of the " slop shop," is all that saves them 
 from starvation or shame. 
 
 The summer wore on and the atmosphere of the sitting- 
 room grew intolerable. Morna, Hope, and I took refuge in 
 our little less intolerable closets up stairs. By looking out 
 into the alley-way we could catch a glimpse of blue ether. 
 Besides I had bought a white monthly rose and had set it in the 
 open window. Once in a while a fragrant zephyr would float 
 over its odorous buds and lose itself unawares in the stifling 
 closeness of the little chamber. It was full of vestal blossoms 
 now, and although it stood in the window of a reeking alley, 
 we would bury our faces in its fragrant bloom, and think of 
 sunny gardens and wildernesses of flowers. Sometimes a sun 
 beam lost its way down in the prisoning alley and would wan 
 der lovingly over Morna's white brow, and hide itself in the 
 depths of Hope's lustrous hair. 
 
 As yet I knew nothing of these girls' history. I determined 
 to know their story, and thought that the best way to find it 
 out would be first to tell my own. I told them of Les De- 
 lices; pictured the mountains, the valleys, the Rhone; told of 
 Paris. Never was story-teller blessed with more appreciative 
 listeners. Hope's eyes grew radiant, and Morna's great orbs 
 became luminous with unspoken interest. 
 
 " I have told you my story ; now tell me yours," I said, one 
 purple summer twilight, just as Morna folded up the second 
 satin vest which her delicate hands had fashioned that day. 
 How weary she looked ; how pale ; yet I thought not half as 
 forlorn as when I first saw her t\vo months before. I took her 
 hand in mine. I lifted up the hot masses of hair from her tired 
 brow. I soothed it and kissed it. " Come, Morna, tell me 
 your story."
 
 Morna's Story. 139 
 
 " My story ?" she said, sadly. " There is no poetry, nor 
 beauty, nor any story in my story. It is only one of life's 
 every -day tragedies, Victoire. That is all ; a common-place 
 tragedy, and nothing more." 
 
 " Well, tell it ; do. I can't tell how much I want to know 
 how two such flowers as you are ever sprung up in such a 
 doleful spot as this is. How you ever found such a ' comforta 
 ble home.' " 
 
 " I am willing to tell you," she said ; " but it can't interest 
 you.". 
 
 Then Hope came and took my other hand, and laid her 
 beautiful head on my lap, as we sat before the window, Morna 
 and I, the white rose breathing between us. 
 
 MORNA'S STORY. 
 
 "I can't begin by telling of better days," she said, " for my 
 father and mother were always poor. I can remember a time 
 when we were comfortable, only comfortable, and those were 
 our best days. Then we lived on the second floor of a great 
 house which had once been grand, but now was let in tene 
 ments because its locality had ceased to be fashionable. My 
 pleasantest recollections linger about this home in which my 
 happiest hours were spent. There was one room hung with 
 velvet paper of a rich, dark green, mottled all over with clus 
 ters of purple grapes. This was our ' best room.' Here the 
 table was always set for tea ; here at evening we awaited our 
 father's return. My mother knew how to make everything 
 look pretty; every article in the room was plain, but she had 
 touched all with a poetic grace. I remember that there was 
 a small book-case filled with books, and that over it hung a 
 picture of Raphael. A stand always stood by the window fill 
 ed with geraniums and monthly roses. Then there was a 
 table covered with pretty books and trinkets ; my mother's 
 workstand and little cushioned rocking-chair and the cradle 
 for we always had a baby in the house and that is why it 
 was never lonely. White curtains hung upon the windows ; a 
 bright carpet covered the floor ; and when the lamp was lit at 
 night and the table set for tea ; when the tea-kettle, which 
 my mother kept as bright as gold, sang over the glowing 
 coals and the tea urn filled the room with fragrance ; when 
 kitty purred on the rug, and baby crowed in the cradle ; when.
 
 140 Victoire. 
 
 father came, the event to which every other event in the day 
 pointed ; then it was a pleasant spot, the pleasantest that I 
 was ever in ; and I don't believe that I shall ever see another 
 which will seem so bright to me. 
 
 " But you see, Victoire, this home of ours was not much 
 like Les Delices ?" 
 
 " Never mind, dear ; go on." 
 
 " At tea father and mother had so many pleasant things to 
 tell each other. After prayers and the evening hymn, mother 
 sat by the cradle and sewed ; father read aloud, and I sat on a 
 low stool at their feet and listened. 
 
 " My father was a book-keeper, and had only a limited salary 
 to support a large family. While health remained he did this 
 in comfort, and, besides, saved a little. He hoped to have enough 
 at last to buy a cottage and garden in the suburbs of the city. 
 This was his darling dream ; a home, a sunny home all his 
 own, radiant with wife and children, made the only picture of 
 human joy on which he cared to dwell. His natural capacity 
 fitted him to fill a much larger sphere than he ever occupied. 
 But from early boyhood he had elbowed his way through the 
 world's crowd alone. There was no tender voice to tell the 
 orphan boy what he might be, or what good and great things 
 he might do. And at last the sweet voices of desire within 
 him grew silent, because there was no one to listen or to an 
 swer. The flower of genius unfolded in his soul, filling all the 
 air around him with beauty ; but it never basked in the sun 
 shine of ease or leisure ; even culture was denied it. So its 
 blossoms were scattered around ; they never ripened into fruit 
 which the world could see. The world never knew that this 
 flower filled all his beitig with fragrance, and to its undiscern- 
 ing eye he lived and died ' only a common man.' He had a 
 passion for music which he had little time to cultivate, but he 
 played the flute very sweetly, and I can feel now how all his 
 soul used to flow through its melody. Like most men, he fell 
 in love too early, married, and found himself bearing the bur 
 den of poverty and of a family before he had sounded the depths 
 or measured the breadth of his own nature, or its needs. Still 
 I think that he was a happier and a better man than he would 
 have been had he lived alone, a selfish, solitary life,"filled only 
 with the dreams of ambition. 
 
 " When I was a little more than six years old my father was 
 taken ill. You know how ghastly it makes a home to have a 
 father or mother sick. When my father was ill, all the light 
 in the world seemed to go out. The green sitting room was
 
 Morna's Story. 141 
 
 darkened, for he lay in the room adjoining. The children 
 crept in and out to look at him without a sound. I sat on my 
 little stool, always in sight of his bed, while my mother, pale, 
 yet saintly in her paleness, sat by his side through the hours 
 of the night and day. Weeks rolled away, and he did not 
 grow better. What the doctor called at first a slow fever, at 
 last he called consumption. The little hoard of savings was 
 fast being spent. My mother had a triple burden laid upon 
 her. She nursed my father, took care of her children, and be 
 sides sewed for their support. No suffering called a murmur 
 to her lips, no sorrow could make her forget that whom ' He 
 loveth the Lord chasteneth.' Her patience, her serenity, her 
 hope, even then dawned upon me as a mystery. I knew that 
 many times a day she went into a little room to pray, but did 
 iiot know that here she found the secret talisman of power. 
 On this little shekinah the glory of God rested ; here angels 
 fed her with the bread which cometh down from heaven, 
 which sustained her in the extremity of sorrow and peril. 
 She took me with her into this little room, and here I learned 
 how to pray. The first impromptu prayer my childish lips 
 ever uttered was for my father's life. . I thought it so terrible 
 to die. I loved my father so ; how I prayed that he might 
 live ; how I watched him and hung over him, listening for his 
 breath ! I could scarcely have a more vivid conception now 
 of sickness and death than I had then. When I saw my 
 father suffer, when I heard him cough, I would weep convul 
 sively. 
 
 " In such an hour of sorrow, Hope was born. She was 
 serene and beautiful from her birth, a Christ-child. The day 
 on which she was born our father died. She was taken to his 
 bedside, and I remember, as he touched the baby brow with 
 his wasted fingers, kissed it with his icy lips, he turned away 
 and groaned. Alas ! he knew that he was dying ; with the 
 prescience of a spirit, he saw the future. I saw him lay down 
 his head, and die. My mother laid her face on the baby's 
 silken hair and wept low, but as if her heart was broken. 
 Four little children, I the eldest, went as mourners to our 
 father's grave. We came back, and I can feel now the chill 
 which struck me as I entered the deserted room and thought: 
 'No father! no father.' 
 
 " The ladies of the church to which my mother belonged 
 came to see her. One, celebrated for her profession of piety, 
 offered td take me as assistant nurse to her own infant. She 
 told my mother that she would take good care of me. There
 
 142 Victoire. 
 
 seemed to be no alternative ; and my mother, thinking that I 
 should have a better home than she could give me, with re 
 luctance and tears, gave her consent to let me go. I was 
 delicate and knew nothing of hardships, yet I was immediately 
 made a little drudge. I rocked the cradle, scoured knives, 
 waited on the other servants, and found myself a little foot 
 ball whom nobody thought too mean to kick. Yet I would 
 not complain, because I thought of my mother. Although not 
 rich, my associations had always been the most refined. My 
 mother had guarded me assiduously from the coarse contact 
 of rude children. She and my father had made me a com 
 panion. I knew of the books which they had read together. 
 Already the words of Milton, of Shakspeare, of Shelley, lin 
 gered in my childish brain. Now my society was confined 
 to the kitchen. I heard only the tattle and slang which usually 
 make up kitchen talk, when the mistress is far enough away. 
 Yet doubtless Mrs. Dolittle thought that she did her whole 
 duty to me. For on the Sabbath she dressed me in a suit of 
 cast off garments, and sent me to Sabbath-school. Punctually, 
 every Sunday morning, she said: "Morna, have you learned 
 your Sabbath-school lesson ?" And with this question her 
 religious instructions began and ended. 
 
 " I was never made for a servant ; yet here, for my mother's 
 sake, I submitted to the most pitiless tyranny. It was a hard 
 lesson for a young child. It was hard to lug about, up and 
 down stairs, a great lubber of a baby, till every joint in my 
 poor little spine ached with excruciating pain. It was hard 
 to be ordered about like a little slave by the children of Mrs. 
 Dolittle. I could not understand why the little Dolittle girls 
 should have flowers, and music, and books, which they cared 
 nothing about, while I, who loved them so very much, had 
 none. I could not understand why it was my lot to wait upon 
 them ; why I had to be treated by them as an inferior, while 
 all the time they were coarse and rude to a degree which 
 shocked me in every nerve. 
 
 " Once my feeling got the better of my patience, and I said 
 to Master Puffer Dolittle, who threw his ball purposely from 
 the third-story window, and then ordered me to carry the 
 baby and go after it, 'I will not do it;' .and to Miss Cillie 
 Dolittle, who- exclaimed: 'You must; you're our servant.' 
 I said : ' I am as good as you, Miss Cillie Dolittle.' My inso 
 lence was immediately reported, and without delay I was 
 ordered into the presence of Mrs. Dolittle, who said : ' Morna, 
 you are a saucy little thing ; a little impertinent, wicked huzzy.
 
 Morna's Story. 143 
 
 I would send you straight out of the house, if it were not for 
 your poor mother, who has had so much trouble. (She forgot 
 that she was getting out of me the work of a large servant 
 without the trouble of paying wages for it.) Yes, you are a 
 wicked little huzzy. How dare you say that you are as good 
 as my daughter, Miss Dolittle ?' 
 
 " ' Because, ma'am, I think that I am.' 
 
 " ' You do, d-o you ! I'll teach you w-h-a-t you are !' she 
 said, fiercely shaking me and slapping me without mercy. e I 
 will teach you better. You belong to a different class of 
 beings. Your father lived and died a poor man. Mr. Dolittle 
 is worth half a million. Never, never let me hear such words 
 come from your mouth. How dare you compare yourself 
 with my daughters, the Misses Dolittle ?' 
 
 "In all that great house, there was no one to speak tenderly 
 to the fatherless child, or to give her young, yearning heart 
 one drop of the sweet affection which it so hopelessly craved. 
 The hardest thing to bear was a basket filled with refuse 
 food, which I was ordered to carry to my mother. Then 
 I was filled with humiliation, shame, and rage. I remember 
 when fairly outside of the gate, I set down the basket, or 
 rather it fell from my trembling hand. Then I shook my 
 little fist at the iron railing, and cried : 
 
 " ' I hate you, Mrs. Dolittle ; I hate you. You are not half 
 a? good as my mother ; you are not half as beautiful ; yet 
 you send victuals to her that, you would not eat. When you 
 die, I hope that the old de\il will get you, Mrs. Dolittle.' 
 
 "Of course this rage was very impotent and slightly 
 wicked, not at all in accordance with the Sabbath-school lesson 
 which I learned every Sunday. It was also very natural and 
 very genuine. 
 
 " I endured martyrdom with Mrs. Dolittle until I was twelve 
 years old. Then I implored my mother to take me home and 
 allow me to help her. By sewing all day and most of the 
 night, she managed to support herself and her four children. 
 I cannot tell you how she loved everything beautiful ; to be 
 surrounded by beauty had once been a necessity of her 
 being ; but now she only looked at narrow, naked walls, on 
 bare floors, and wretched furniture ; the green room, all 
 flushed with purple grapes, fragrant with roses and geraniums, 
 and bright with home's happy, loving faces, had gone. So had 
 gone the old bloom from my mother's cheeks. Her eyes were 
 too bright, and every vein showed in her white forehead and 
 hands, But she never complained ; and when I, in my rebel-
 
 144 Victoire. 
 
 lion, would say : * Mother, why is it ? God docs not seem 
 kind,' she would always answer, 'What we cannot know 
 now we shall know hereafter. My child, I am \villing to 
 wait.' 
 
 "The cholera broke out in the city. It raged fearfully in 
 our locality. I could not look out without seeing the hearse 
 or the dead cart piled with ghastly, purple bodies. Men fell 
 dead on the pavements. The streets grew silent, almost 
 deserted. The gloom was awful. Close confinement, bad 
 air, poor food made us eai-ly victims. Grace, Neddie, and Bel 
 sickened first; then our mother, then Hope, then I. We 
 could do nothing for each other, only when our agony would 
 let us, we looked into each other's eyes. They yes, I can 
 say it they died. Hope and I still lived. Men came to carry 
 them away, to throw them all together into the dead cart, 
 into one grave. I wept, I implored. I clung to the men's 
 feet, I covered them with my tears, beseeching with gasping 
 breath that they would leave me my mother. Useless was my 
 woe. They tore her body away from me ; they took them all, 
 took them to the dead cart, threw them with a thousand others 
 into one vast hole in Potter's Field. My mother buried like that. 
 I never could find my mother's grave. That hers was such an 
 end, that she, who had the nature of a seraph, should be buried 
 like a beast, is the one thing in life to which I know not how 
 to be reconciled. She should have been dressed in spotless 
 robes. Soft hands should have folded those tresses, laid 
 those lily hands on that lovely bosom. Flowers should have 
 been laid in her coffin, a hymn should have been sung at her 
 grave, and a voice should have cried, as they laid her softly 
 down upon my father's breast : ' I am the resurrection and the 
 Life.' But no ; they buried her as they bury brutes my 
 mother. 
 
 "Victoire, you see my life began to wither early; it grew 
 bitter ; it grew hateful. I wished only to die. I prayed for 
 annihilation. I wanted to forget, and yet I lived and remem 
 bered. God's angels were abroad as well as His pestilence. 
 Tender-eyed women walked unharmed amid the plague. 
 They came to the wretched chamber where I lay almost 
 lifeless. They warmed and nourished and nursed me. 
 Hope nestled in my bosom, and for her sake I became willing 
 to live. 
 
 "The great wave of death rolled by. Health and activity 
 came back to the city. I had something to do. Hope was to 
 be educated at all hazards; I, if possible. My father had <le-
 
 Morna's Story. 
 
 * , 
 
 signed to have given me a finished education had he lived. 
 Now what I obtained must be earned by my needle. I excelled 
 in my trade, and obtained the best work which the shops 
 afforded. Still the wages were so small, it seemed almost 
 hopeless to lay by enough to pay for a teacher. You know 
 nothing about such a struggle, Victoire. Men who grind a 
 woman's wages down to the most miserable pittance know 
 nothing about it. We hear a great deal about self-made, 
 self-educated men. Self-educated women, 1 suppose, are rarer. 
 I only wonder that there are any ; that all who try, unaided, 
 alone, to earn a thorough education, are not dead before their 
 object is gained. Only they who try know how wasting, how 
 killing it is, with the point of a needle, to purchase food, cloth 
 ing, and education. It is stitch, stitch, stitch, till the last drop 
 of vitality is stitched away for a most meagre pittance. Then 
 where is the time, the strength, the power, the freshness of 
 mental vigor needed for study ? Nature will be avenged ; 
 the body must rest or die. As women are paid, it is all a 
 woman ought to try to do to earn her food and clothing with 
 a needle. But thousands are trying to earn the means to buy 
 culture, and to fit themselves for nobler spheres of action. The 
 women of this country are pervaded with the intense, intel 
 lectual life of their age and race ; they pant to know, to do, to 
 be, yet loving women still, with all their mental and moral 
 hunger. To thousands Fate holds out a needle, saying: 
 ' Know, do, be, if you can.' How they strive, how they live, 
 how they die ! their wants unuttered and unsatisfied, I know 
 and feel. How the young heart faints, how the young hands 
 grow weary, how the sweet eyes close in sleep and long-for 
 getting ere the dreary task is half accomplished, alas, I 
 know! 
 
 " Well, we denied ourselves of all save the barest necessa 
 ries of life in order to save a little money." 
 
 " You mean that you did, dear Morna ; you never denied 
 me anything," interrupted Hope. 
 
 " After my daily task was done, by taking a few hours from 
 sleep I managed to study arithmetic, algebra, and 'at last 
 geometry. I began the Latin grammar besides. I drew 
 books from the city library, which I read on Sunday. Hope 
 went to the public school, and, besides, took music lessons. 
 The desire to take lessons on the piano myself became almost 
 a fever. My whole nature wept for expression. My bound 
 soul moaned to assert itself to give some utterance to its own 
 life of thought, of emotion, of suffering. I thought that in 
 
 7
 
 146 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 music I could embody all that I ever dreamed, or felt, or con 
 ceived. At last, at last, by pinching still closer my scanty 
 wardrobe, I had money enough saved to pay for a course of 
 lessons. I went to a noted teacher ; I was determined not to 
 be taught by a second-rate artist. Of course his terms were 
 high, yet with a feeling of satisfaction which only those who 
 have had a like experience could ever imagine, I laid my dear 
 won earnings in his hand, a full equivalent for all I asked in 
 return ; then sat down and received my first lessons in the 
 art which has since become the passion of my life. 
 
 " My teacher was a German gentleman, well trained in 
 German University lore, who, as many Germans do, had given 
 up his life to the science of music. He was a large, handsome 
 man, in the depth of whose dark eyes seemed always to burn 
 a low, lurid fire ; yet how kindly they looked on me. He was 
 thirty, perhaps ' I was seventeen, as life is measured. I knew 
 nothing of men. The only ones whom I knew well enough 
 to speak to were my employers, who gave me work and paid 
 me for it as I went and came. My teacher's voice was low 
 and seductively sweet when he spoke to me; very unlike the 
 sharp, metallic tones of my employer. It was only natural 
 that I should prefer the former. It was only natural that its 
 music fell pleasantly upon my cold, void ear, and soothingly 
 on my aching heart, which from my mother's death seemed to 
 have lain in my breast in a half dead slumber, conscious only 
 of a nameless, never ceasing ache. Well, it was only natural 
 that this new voice, so full of music, should stir my sleeping 
 heart, and, in an indefinable way, awaken its long-hushed in 
 stincts. I knew nothing of analysing emotions then. I only 
 felt, without the consciousness of knowledge, that mine were 
 pleasant when I listened to that voice. He was very kind to 
 me, this teacher of mine, and to some natures there is nothing 
 so dangerous as a subtle, delicate kindness ; they have thirsted 
 for it so long and so hopelessly, that, when they taste the first 
 draught, they are intoxicated with its sweetness. 
 
 " Nothing could have been more grateful to me than his 
 manner, never oppressive, never intrusive, full of that gentle, 
 chivalric deference, expressed in looks, tones, and actions, 
 rather than words, which belongs only to men of the finest 
 intuitions, who have sounded the depths of the womanly 
 nature. Though I could only come for my lesson when my 
 day's task was completed, in the twilight before I began my 
 evening work; though I always came unattended; though he 
 must have known by my dress that I was very poor; he never
 
 Morna's Story. 147 
 
 took the slightest advantage of this knowledge. He asked no 
 questions, not even the common ones, which most men who 
 claim to be gentlemen would have asked ; no, he annoyed me 
 in no way. Had I been the fairest and most favored lady in 
 the land, he could not have treated me with more respectful 
 consideration. * 
 
 " But I was shy and silent. Nowhere else did I feel quite 
 so awkward, or quite so shabby, or quite so insignificant, as 
 in his presence. He seemed so grand, so far removed from 
 me, both by his acquirements, his genius, and his position. 
 When I looked at him, all that was common, and miserable, 
 and painful in my own lot crowded into my mind, and I grew 
 oppressed, and wretched, and miserably embarrassed, until 
 his gentle riant grace put me unconsciously at my ease. I 
 saw my folly in bringing myself in personal contact with one 
 between whose lot and my own existed so great a disparity. 
 Then I consoled myself by saying: 'He will soon give me all 
 the lessons that I can pay for ; then I shall go my miserable 
 way, and he will trouble me no more.' He lived in a hand 
 some house, full of rich furniture, pictures, books, and music ; 
 sometimes I found in the room two beautiful children, which 
 the nurse would carry away when I came-; sometimes a fair- 
 haired lady passed me in the hall ; his wife, I thought. 
 
 " He was not long in discovering my passion for music. I 
 learned rapidly. When my fingers touched the keys I felt 
 inspired. After much urging, at last I ventured to let him, 
 hear my voice. ' You will make a great singer,' he ex 
 claimed. ' Thousands will melt into tears at the sound of 
 your voice. Why have you not let me hear it before ?' My 
 whole soul rose in, tumult at his words. After that I sang 
 every day. After the lesson he would play and sing some 
 favorite air of mine, unasked. Sometimes the dusk stole 
 down, unnoticed, and found me still listening, entranced, lost. 
 Then he would kindly offer to accompany me to my home. 
 But I always refused. I vowed that he should never see my 
 home. 
 
 " He lent me books. He offered to teach me German, that 
 I might read Goethe, and Schiller, and Klopstock in their ori 
 ginals. This was impossible. To study German I must relin 
 quish music. Yet I read the books which he lent me the 
 philosophers of Germany ; at last, the philosophers of France. 
 My whole nature protested against much of their philosophy. 
 I told rny teacher this. He smiled. ' I wanted your opinion,' 
 he said. ' I would not ask you to believe them.' He must
 
 148 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 have seen that my susceptibility to music amounted to weak 
 ness. With all my love I was afraid of it ; it moved me so 
 much. He played for me the music which melted me the 
 music which filled my soul with dew. At last I could not 
 think of him in distinction from his music. The airs which 
 toe played and sang floated through my being during all the 
 nights and days. His music magnetized me, and in this way 
 he won a power over me. 
 
 " One afternoon I came, weary and dispirited. Nearly all 
 the previous night I had sat up and sewed in order to win the 
 hours for my lesson. My overtasked nerves were in the 
 relaxed condition which made me most susceptible to every 
 external influence. Besides, I was sad'and sick at heart. My 
 course of lessons was almost completed. I had not half enough 
 to pay for another. How could I live without music now ? 
 
 " I went through with my usual lesson. Then he played 
 for me one of Beethoven's most melting symphonies. Physi 
 cally too weak to restrain my emotion, I buried my face in my 
 hands and wept, wept silently, yet it was the weeping of de 
 spair. He ceased. He rose from the piano and came to me. 
 He laid his hand soothingly on my forehead, laid back the 
 heavy hair, and said that nothing could grieve him more than 
 to see grief in me. No sorrow could come to me that would 
 not be his. He only asked the privilege of soothing it away. 
 He sat down and took my hand. From the beginning he had 
 grown gentler and gentler in his manner towards me, but 
 never had he spoken in the tones of seductive tenderness 
 which he uttered now. 
 
 "'There were souls made for each other,' he said, 'destined 
 from the hour of their mortal birth to be the consolation and 
 joy of each other. There was no human law which could 
 separate such souls. The law of nature was the law of God, 
 and that law demanded that they should live for each other. 
 He was willing, yea, he could not help, but live for me. Was 
 he wrong in believing that I would live for him ? From the 
 first moment that he looked into my eyes he saw that my soul 
 answered to his. Besides, I came to him in dreams. I was 
 inwoven with all his music. I filled all his thought ; I was 
 enshrined in his heart. Had he not a place in mine ? My 
 beautiful soul was an alien in the cruel world ; it needed a sweet 
 spot to rest in ; my nature was too fine to be jostled by the 
 rude crowd ; it would wound me in a thousand ways at every 
 turn. A cruel fate had defrauded me of all that my nature 
 most craved. My life should be filled with beauty.^ If
 
 Morna's Story. 149 
 
 my soul could only grow in the divine atmosphere of love, I 
 would learn to sing sweeter than ever the angels sang. More 
 tkan everything else, I needed love, and cherishing, and house 
 hold joy. Would I not let him give them to me ? He would 
 give rne a home filled with all beauty, and he desired no return 
 but my love and my presence.' 
 
 " My face lay hidden on my arm, which was flung over the 
 back of my chair, when he came and sat down by my side 
 and took so gently my other hand. At first I was only con 
 scious of the sound of his voice penetrating me with its music. 
 Then I became conscious that he was offering me sympathy ; 
 then I grew confused.. What did he mean? Then like light 
 ning his meaning flashed upon me. 
 
 " I lifted my face. I said : ' I wept at your music, for I was 
 weary and sick, and it answered the moan of my heart. But 
 because I weep, why should you come and offer me love, and 
 cherishing, and household joy you who have no right 
 to bestow them? Do I understand you? Are you not 
 married ?' 
 
 " ' Married ! yes, I am married, as the world goes,' he said; 
 ' but that is no reason why I may not love and protect you, 
 whom I love more than any other woman upon earth. Morna, 
 Hove you? 
 
 " He had never spoken my name before. Now he uttered 
 it, and the words which came after in a low, slow, distinct 
 tone, whose music, rippling over every syllable, thrilled through 
 my heart. 
 
 " To a nature all hungry for affection, there is no sound in 
 all the universe so seductive in its sweetness as the words, 
 ' I love you.' Independent of the soul which breathes them, 
 there is an abstract deliciousness in the simple thought. No 
 lips had ever uttered these words to me since my mother 
 died ; there were none in all the world to love me now but little 
 Hope. As this utterance sank into my soul, for an instant the 
 thought came to me that, if I were his wife, hallowed and 
 cherished, standing by his side in this my home so beautiful, 
 so full of melody what a different place the world would 
 seem ; then how happy it would make me to hear the words, 
 * I love you.' But quick after this thought came the damning 
 one that now uttered to me ; this declaration was an insult to 
 all that was holy in my womanhood. And the consciousness 
 of a great wrong done to me sank like a stone through its 
 ocean of tears, down, down, till it pressed hard and cold the 
 bottom, of my bruised heart.
 
 150 Victoire. 
 
 "I was too weak and worn to turn in proud indignation ; 
 my exhausted veins did not overflow with the proud vitality 
 which scintillates flashing and defying rage. If we are pricked 
 and hurt, we can turn with a splendid ire upon our tormentor ; 
 but if paralysed by a mortal wound, we can writhe and die in 
 silence under the hand which smites us. I felt wounded 
 through all my soul. ' You have done me a great wrong,' 
 was all that I said, and I rose to depart. ' Do you refuse my 
 love ?' he asked, and now his accent was as eager as before 
 it had been slow. 
 
 " ' You have no right to love me, or to ask for my love,' 
 I said. 
 
 " This man had charmed me with the wondrous melody of 
 his voice ; there was a magnetism in his presence, a fascination 
 in his surroundings, to me, so alone and so far below him. 
 But I did not need affection so much, that I could even ima 
 gine the possibility of joy ever flowing from an unhallowed and 
 unlawful passion. 
 
 "'I have a right to love all that is lovely,' he said; 'for 
 this reason I love you. I acknowledge no God but Reason. 
 This God assures me that it will be a greater act of mercy to 
 give to a heart fainting for air, and sunshine, and song, the 
 life which it needs, than to leave it to stifle and perish 
 alone. Why not submit with a flood of sunny tears, like a 
 dear child, saying to me the truth " I will let you love me, 
 because I am very much in need of being loved." ' 
 
 " Still I was passing quietly towards the door, my heart all 
 the while filled with a nameless terror. 
 
 " ' Do you think to escape me, you slender thing?' he said, 
 confronting me. The music in his voice was dead. It trem 
 bled with rage as well as passion. 
 
 "I lifted my eyes to his; the low smouldering fire had 
 burst into a flame. I saw it and loathed him, and forgot that 
 to me he had ever been gentle, or tender, or winning. 
 
 " ' Stay !' he exclaimed, and his hand seized my shoulder like 
 a vice. I uttered a faint cry, half from terror, half from pain. 
 
 "'Hush!' he said, with an alarmed look at the closed fold 
 ing door. ' Be quiet ! you should not have enraged me. 
 Have I not ever been gentle and kind to you?' he murmured, 
 in the old tone. 
 
 "It was too late. He had over-estimated his power. It 
 was his music that I loved after all ; its charm broken, he had 
 no spell wherewith to allure me. I had reached the door, 1 
 tried to open it ; to my dismay I found it locked. I hurried
 
 Morna's Story. 151 
 
 to the window I would have leaped from it, but he stood 
 before it. Before I knew it, a piercing cry, born of terror, 
 burst from my lips, which to me seemed to penetrate heaven. 
 I don't believe that he thought me capable of uttering such a 
 Bound ; he thought that I would not dare to make a noise. 
 He rushed towards me in guilty fear, at the sound of approach 
 ing feet. My cry had been heard. He opened the door, 
 he thrust me forth, and with no gentle hand. 
 
 " I had nearly reached the hall dooi-, when I heard a voice 
 on the stairs exclaim 'For heaven's sake, Carl, what is the 
 matter ?' * Nothing dear, except that an insane girl screamed. 
 One of my scholars has gone music-mad, that is all.' * Well, I 
 hope you'll prevent her coming here again, if she is going to 
 scream like that. I thought some one was being murdered.' 
 
 "This conversation I heard as I rushed towards the door. 
 I fled from the house as for my life. I turned neither to right 
 nor left. I relaxed not my steps till I knelt by the little bed 
 where Hope lay smiling in her sleep. 
 
 " I crept back to myself ; my heart coiled up within itself, 
 wounded, ready to die. I had been stabbed through my one 
 joy. -Music to me was holy. Yet the one who was blended 
 with music in all my thought, was the only being who had 
 ever attempted my ruin. I doubted all men. I feared them. 
 I fled from their presence. I even doubted God. I called 
 upon Him only for my mother's sake. I wept, I tried to be 
 lieve. But all my nature seemed so cold and dead. Still that 
 heavy sense of wrong seemed to press like a stone against the 
 bruised fibres of my heart. 
 
 " The infidel books which he had given me to read had left 
 in my soul a few drops of their subtle poison. Mystic philoso 
 phies and ideal theories of matter and mind, of God and His 
 universe, would at times usurp the place of Christ and the 
 Bible. Yet not always ; there were hours when I clung to 
 both as my dearest hope. One blessed lesson my last sorrow 
 had taught me. I had learned how full of peril was the life 
 of a young girl cast alone and friendless into a great city. I 
 saw how, through their human need of sympathy and a little 
 love, they are sometimes led on to fall. With infinite love 
 and infinite trust, at last they yield to one who makes them 
 the idol of an idle hour, only to weary of them, and cast them 
 off at last, discrowned of youth and honor, to live a life of 
 shame or to die ' one more unfortunate.' Had my woman's 
 heart been a little more importunate for love, my moral sense 
 a little less fearful of sin, might not I have been cast out like
 
 l ^2 Victoire. 
 
 them, when my hour of charming had gone by ? What but 
 the tender care of the merciful God had kept me from being 
 one of them ? 
 
 "I no longer sought a knowledge of music. I sought 
 nothing for myself I cared only to educate Hope. It was 
 Hope who kept alive the little light of faith in my heart." 
 
 " Oh, no ; it was God's spirit, Morna," said Hope. 
 
 "Well, it was God's spirit, speaking through you. You 
 helped me to believe. So the years have crawled away, 
 each the dreary counterpart of the other. My heart has re 
 mained mute and unstirred ever since. Oh ! it is a dreadful 
 thing to feel Faith lying in your breast, dead, dead. 
 
 " But a change came with you, Victoire. The first moment 
 I saw you, I felt that God had sent you. My heart is coming 
 to life again. Faith may yet blossom like the rose. 
 
 " This is all. Now you will believe me, Victoire, that my 
 story is as commonplace as it is wretched." 
 " And Morna bent her head and touched her lips to the 
 white rose, blooming between us. A just opening rose. 1 
 gathered and laid it in her bosom ; then I culled another, a 
 folded bud, unsullied as falling snow, and hid it in the meshes 
 of Hope's purpling hair. 
 
 MORNA, HOPE, AND VICTOIRE LEAVE THE "COMFORTABLE 
 HOME." 
 
 It is the lot of some never to be positively happy ; their 
 nearest approach to it is resignation. They are ever resigned, 
 but never glad. These are the beings who think profoundly, 
 feel acutely, whose discerning, spiritual eye penetrates the 
 abyss of the pas and of the future. Their mental and moral 
 faculties are broader and farther reaching, their sensibilities 
 more acutely strung, more keenly alive, than those belonging 
 to beings cast in a commoner mould. They seem to hear all 
 things, see all things, feel all things, suffer all things. And 
 this soul, to whom is given such power to see, and feeT, and 
 comprehend, dwelling as it does in the bosom of unrevealed 
 mystery, shrinks back sad and baffled, bearing upon its heart 
 too great a burden of profound thought to be ever lightly gay. 
 This soul encircles all things ; it turns in sadness from the un- 1 
 solved problem of the physical universe, to muse and marvel 
 over the phenomena of man ; upon the prospects and possi-
 
 Leaving the " Comfortable Home." 1 53 
 
 bilities, upon the being and destiny of the imprisoned and alien 
 soul, which for a little time sojourns in fleshly tabernacles. 
 Vainly it asks science and philosophy to explain. Height and 
 depth say : " Not in us." " The universe of stars is cold, and 
 dead, and tongueless," and they exclaim, as Pascal exclaimed : 
 "The eternal silence of the infinite spaces affrights me." 
 
 To such a soul religion can be the only comforter. Happy 
 is it if it receives this divine consoler. She says : " Now thou 
 art embosomed in mystery, but in the hereafter thou shalt 
 understand." If it can only lean upon the bosom of faith, the 
 great soul is content to wait amid the blended harmony and 
 discord of this transient life, until the glass which reveals 
 darkly shall be removed. Then it knows that it shall " see 
 eye to eye" with the Father of all mystery and of all know 
 ledge. Such a soul had Morna a soul that needed more than 
 all things else an unwavering trust in the Infinite Power 
 which overrules our destinies. Yet that which she needed 
 most seemed often to elude, to shift far away from her. Her 
 nature seemed to have but one lack, and that was faith ; 
 she questioned all things. She wanted to solve the problem 
 of her own existence. Why had her Lord sent her into the 
 world to suffer, and yet to make no sign ? Why was her soul 
 surcharged with silent and smothered power, which yet had 
 no adequate expression ? Why must her soul devour itself, 
 because it had no outlet? Hungering for wisdom, beauty, 
 love, why must her life be one long, unuttered want ? Why 
 must she for ever stifle so much that was loveliest in her ? 
 She asked these questions aloud but once, that first night in 
 the little chamber. She never complained, or said: "I wish 
 my lot were different." Yet I had only to know what she 
 was, to know also what she suffered. 
 
 But as the long, hot, weary days dragged by, giving no 
 rest from toil, no ease from care, to those delicate hands and 
 tried young hearts, I could not help but ask sometimes Why 
 is it ? As they sat before me, hour after hour, through the 
 long days and longer weeks, those young and gifted creatures, 
 stitching the very bloom and beauty of their being into the 
 uncouth garments, for whose fashioning they received scarcely 
 enough to keep body and soul together, I could not help say 
 ing Why is it ? Why so often are the obtuse and vulgar, who 
 know only low material wants, garlanded with the world's 
 rarest beauty, while to such souls as these, fitted by their 
 ethereal organism to enjoy all eclectic blessings, life is measured, 
 or rather stinted, narrow, meagre, and hateful a taunting and 
 
 7*
 
 1 54 Victoire. 
 
 unsatisfying portion? Why? I asked. And yet while asking 
 the question, looking into the soul-face of Morna, and the 
 serene, sunny eyes of Hope, an assurance always arose beyond 
 it, a faith in their happy destiny. The Power which rules 
 us is just and loving. And though in the infinite cycles of 
 God's thought, our little times and seasons are as naught, and 
 though we may wait until we have counted the last link in 
 that brief piece of eternal duration which we name life, yet 
 every soul at last receives its heritage. And though now 
 Morna and Hope sat in the shadow waiting and longing, I 
 believed that God's sunshine would cover them at last, and 
 that their beautiful souls were the guarantee of their coming 
 beautiful soul-portion. 
 
 Who came to see me one day but Kate. 
 
 " A purty place this, for the like of ye !" she exclaimed, 
 looking about in great disdain. 
 
 " It is good enough, Kate, till I can afford a better." 
 
 " It's a burnin' shame for the like of ye to be here. Indade 
 an' it's mesel that would have a gran'er house than this. I'm 
 afther thinkiu' it's very shabby." 
 
 " Never mind, Kate, when I get a grand house, you shall 
 come and live with me, and do just as you please, and stay as 
 long as you live, if you want to." 
 
 " Indade !" 
 
 Kate spoke in a very incredulous tone, as if she had very 
 small faith in my ability to obtain a grand house. 
 
 " If you don't get married, Kate, I hope that I can take 
 care of you some time, and make your life very easy and 
 pleasant." 
 
 " The vargin ! what wild talk. As if I couldn't take care 
 of raesel, and ye too, a hape better nor ye can take care of 
 yoursel. I think that I'm afther seein' how ye take care of 
 yoursel." And again she looked around the sitting-room of 
 the " comfortable home " with an air of disgust. " Not even 
 a soffy in the room for ye to rest your poor back on ; a purty 
 place for the like of ye." 
 
 "It's good enough and to spare! I'd like to know if 
 Miss Victory is made of better stuff than other flesh and 
 blood ?" called out Nance Jones, who, as usual, overheard. 
 
 " It's good enough for ye, and too good ! ye freckle-faced 
 spalpeen, but it haint good enough for Xer, now let me tell ye ; 
 ami ye know it." 
 
 I coaxed Kate to ascend to my little chamber with all ex 
 pedition. I would as soon have seen two wild cats come to-
 
 Leaving the "Comfortable Home." 155 
 
 gether as to have watched two such belligerent natures as 
 Nance Jones and Kate Murphy enter upon a war of words, 
 which in all likelihood would have ended in a tearing of eyes 
 and pulling of hair. 
 
 It was a lovely afternoon, and Kate went with me to show 
 me the spot where my poor Nannette rested in the Catholic 
 cemetery across the river. It was a sheltered and quiet nook. 
 No ruthless feet had profaned the spot, since they had laid 
 her kind old head to sleep on its clay-cold pillow ; yes, it was 
 a peaceful and lovely spot. My first spare earnings paid for 
 her grave-stone, and the bland sun of September smiled softly 
 on the simple marble tablet which rose to the memory of 
 Nannette, my dear bonne. 
 
 I found my employer all that he appeared at first; a 
 generous and noble man. He criticized kindly, and com 
 mended wisely (which is rarely done), and encouraged, al 
 ways by giving me good work and good wages. Already I 
 was blessed beyond my improvident deservings, and began 
 to taste the sweets of that noble independence which flows 
 from a knowledge of having earned what you enjoy, from 
 the consciousness of labor conscientiously performed and 
 generously requited. Already my enfeebled pulses began to 
 thrill with something akin to their old exultation. 
 
 The redemption of my pictures was the first object to be 
 gained, and the early autumn saw one hundred dollars in the 
 bank saved for that purpose. By the coining spring I hoped 
 to pay the last cent due to Mrs. Skinher. To do this I knew 
 that I must deny myself of all superfluities. I felt resigned 
 to any privation, except that of spending the winter at the 
 " comfortable home." 
 
 " Girls ! I have thought of a new plan," I said one day to 
 Morna and Hope. 
 
 Both pairs of eyes were turned upon me with wonder. 
 
 " There is no need of our living here. We can hire two 
 rooms, and go and keep house together. We can sleep in 
 our own bed, eat at our own table, and be as independent and 
 happy as we please, and it will cost no more than to stay 
 here." 
 
 " Oh ! it would seem like a story in a book," said Hope, 
 hanging around my neck. 
 
 " It seems too pleasant ever to be true," sighed Morna. 
 
 But it did come true. We rented two small rooms on the 
 second floor of a tenement house, in a respectable, but, of 
 course, very unfashionable street. Barren they looked to the
 
 156 Victoire. 
 
 eye, with their naked walls and bare floors ; but to us they 
 geemed a very Eden, into which no serpent could ever enter. 
 No, nor a Nancy Jones, to jeer and abuse ; no discord, no 
 ungeniality, nobody but three girls, all differing, yet each very 
 much in love with the other. 
 
 What a shabby little room it was. I scarcely thought of 
 it then, but am fully aware of the fact now. It was such a 
 relief to get away from the " comfortable home," from its un- 
 genial air, from its coarse surroundings, and to find ourselves 
 in a little nook all our own. Why, as we looked around it, 
 we would as soon have thought of criticizing Paradise if we 
 had suddenly found ourselves transported to its shelter of 
 beauty. I had not forgotten that once I had been surrounded 
 by the appliances of an easeful and elegant home ; but that 
 time seemed so far away, I had long ceased to compare it 
 with my present, or to measure the worth of what I had 
 once possessed. I compared the little room with nothing 
 gone before, but loved it as a present home, and with a thank 
 ful heart came into it as to a blessed refuge. Its walls were 
 only whitewashed walls ; they could not have looked more 
 blank and chilly than they did. Yet we did not see it. A 
 few frameless sketches had taken the place of my old idols, 
 with their softening glass and massive, golden-fretted mould 
 ings. The rigid white curtains on the windows cast no rosy 
 glow, no attempering shadow on the staring faces of my now 
 pictures. There were no voluminous folds of gold and crim 
 son damask, no floating waves of misty lace to be gathered 
 into sculptured holders ; but unrelenting in their stiff severity 
 these white curtains fell over the high narrow windows. Ar 
 tistic eyes saw that they lacked all dreamy grace, yet the 
 satisfied heart suggested no improvement. A cheap yet neat 
 carpet covered the floor ; a single table, a few chairs, an 
 easel, a book-case, and a cooking-range hid behind the fire 
 screen, completed the appointments of the new home. I for 
 get the white rose tree stood in the window. 
 , 4 There was an ask-no-more look in Hope's eyes, and a world 
 of content in Morna's, as we sat down to our first breakfast. 
 A simple breakfast, yet to us how delicious were its warm, 
 delicate rolls, its fresh egg omelet, the fragrant amber-crystal 
 coffee ! How refreshing to our eyes was the unsullied table 
 cloth, the pure white ware, free from a single flaw. 
 
 " All our own ! Only think of it, girls ; all this belongs to 
 Avondale and Company !" And I looked around with pro 
 bably an absurdly satisfied expression.
 
 Leaving the "Comfortable Home." 157 
 
 A tear glistened on Hope's long eye-lashes ; it fell, a star of 
 dew on the rose leaves of her cheeks, with a quick warm 
 shower of dew-stars pattering after. 
 
 " I can't help it ; I am so happy," she said, dashing them 
 away with her little white hand. 
 
 " How beautiful everything is ! How good God is ! Oh ! 
 I am so happy !" And the sunlit shower fell faster. She 
 thought to hide its brightness within the shadow of her exu 
 berant curls, but failed. Then not knowing what else to 
 do, she plunged her beautiful head first in Morna's lap, then 
 in mine. " Would we forgive her for being so foolish ? She 
 couldn't help it ; indeed she could not." 
 
 We were kissing our pet into assurance, telling her that she 
 was the silliest little puss that ever did live, and we loved her 
 the better for it, when we were interrupted by a hard, plump 
 knock on the door. 
 
 I arose and opened it, and found standing before me in the 
 narrow hall, an odd-looking boy with a teacup in his hand. 
 He might have been twelve years old, and what was unusual 
 enough for a city boy, was nearly as broad as he was long. 
 His torn pantaloons were held up by one very imperious sus 
 pender, leaving his feet far in the rear ; and very odd feet they 
 were. One was clothed in a lady's gaiter, so much too long 
 that the toe stood perpendicularly in the air, while the other 
 wore a most stubbed and pugnacious boot. He had on a 
 coat which, in the variety of its many colors, outvied the 
 famous garment of the patriarch Joseph. Its innumerable 
 round holes and zigzag tears were filled Avith bits of bright 
 red and yellow flannel, and darned down on strips of varie 
 gated ribbon, or glaring calico, till it seemed slashed with the 
 hues of the rainbow. In the mending of this coat, a luxu 
 riant imagination had evidently exhausted itself. The'same 
 glowing and unchastened fancy, which excites feminine fingers 
 to sew together innumerable bright little rags until they 
 grow into "Rising Suns" and "Star of Bethlehem" patch 
 work quilts, destined to shed their effulgence over sweltering 
 feather beds~and snoring men and women in the pine-box 
 houses of the rural districts. 
 
 The head which surmounted this coat was as unique as the 
 garment itself. Rebellious, self-asserting hair stood erect from 
 the low, square forehead in the most impudent and obstinate 
 fashion. The eyes, like two very black and very shiny but 
 tons, twinkled far back in a bed of fat ; but the nose was the 
 oddest of all such a pug ! The berry on the end of it red
 
 i 5 8 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 as a cherry. Huge cheeks and a great, grinning mouth, full 
 of white teeth, completed the boy. 
 
 " Please, ma'am," he began. 
 
 " Well, little boy, what will you have ?" 
 
 " Please, ma'am." 
 
 " Well ; please what ?" 
 
 " Please, ma'am, will you lend my mamm half a cup o' sugar ?" 
 
 " Who is mamm ?" 
 
 *' She's my mamm." 
 
 " But what is her name ?" 
 
 " Her name is mamm." 
 
 " She must have another name." 
 
 " That's all the name I know on. I calls her mamm. Dad 
 calls her mamm. The young 'uns call her mamm, all but 
 Glory Ann she can't talk straight, and calls her murn." 
 
 " What is your name ?" 
 
 " George Washington Peacock." 
 
 " Then, little boy, your mother's name is Mrs. Peacock." 
 
 " I don't care a darn if it is. I know that she is my mamm, 
 and that's 'nuff for me, I reckon." 
 
 " You shouldn't swear. Don't you know that it is wicked ?" 
 
 "Mamm sez it's wicked ; but I'd jest as soon be wicked as 
 good. What's the difference ? Hang it if I see any ! Them 
 what I've hearn called good are wus than t'other ; meaner 
 enuff sight. There's old Pharisee Pomp he's prayin' wher 
 ever anybody'll listen he's good, I s'pose ; but he'll skin a 
 chap alive and sell his skin for sixpence. There's Lazarus 
 Lorn, is allers doin' a feller a good turn, but he's wicked. He 
 gits drunk. I'd rather be wicked." 
 
 " You don't mean you would rather get drunk ?" 
 
 " I likes to take my tip ; of course I does. What's a young 
 man gwine to do when t'other young man sez ' Take a 
 treat ?' " 
 
 "Say no." 
 
 " I sez yes. I'll be hanged if I'm gwine to do without my 
 tip for all the wimens in creation." 
 
 " Where do you live ?" 
 
 "Up stairs. Where do you s'pose I hailed from ? Mamm 
 said : 'Give my compliments to the lady, and say please, 
 ma'am, mamm wouldn't begin to neighbor so soon, but she 
 must have some sugar in her tea. I'll send it down when dad 
 brings some hum.' Darn it, I can't think of the rest. 
 Mamin's speeches are so all-fired long." 
 
 " You are welcome to the sugar ; but please say no more
 
 Leaving the "Comfortable Home." 159 
 
 bad words ; we don't like to hear them," I said, taking his 
 empty cup. 
 
 By this time Morna stood beside me, her eyes overflowing 
 with smiling wonder, while in the rear Hope was doing her 
 best to suppress her gurgling laughter, not at his vulgar 
 words, but at the unmitigated oddness of his looks. In a 
 moment more we heard the stamp of the masculine boot 
 blending with the flapping of the feminine long-toed gaiter as 
 cending the stairs below the newly-filled cup of sugar. 
 
 " Here is missionary work for you, Hope," I said, as we 
 went back to our seat. " You needn't go outside the house 
 to find a heathen." 
 
 " I will try to coax him to go to Sabbath-school with me 
 next Sunday," she said. 
 
 Ever to be remembered is that first day spent in our little 
 hired home the first day of our maiden housekeeping. Birds 
 under their leafy domes, in their summer nests, out in the 
 free sunny air, never warbled with more delicious abandon 
 than did Morna and Hope over their work. Hope's voice 
 was just . like a bird's, dilating, in its liquid sweetness ; 
 quivering with a thousand jubilant trills, it was the spon 
 taneous outgushing of a heart surcharged with melody. Mor- 
 na's voice my hand trembles as I write of it, so sensibly 
 does its marvellous refrain surge back upon my soul, till all 
 my being thrills once more as it thrilled to her symphonies in 
 those years long gone. Her voice was a soul, pouring into 
 the ear of the Infinite, in wild and wondrous music, all the 
 impassioned and immortal longing which a soul may feel, yet 
 never tell in spoken or in rhythmed words/ Her voice was 
 worship one of those rare voices which we sometimes hear 
 floating apart from all the others through the reverential 
 atmosphere of a country church, till we forget its prosaic sur 
 roundings, its commonplace faces, its tedious prayers and 
 stupid sermons, while we tremble in rapt exaltation to the 
 grand surges of triumphal praise, to the melting cadence of 
 supplication, all vibrant with adoring love. Hers was one of 
 those wondrous voices which flood with their marvellous 
 melody the dusk arches of solemn minsters, which dilate 
 through the forest-like aisles of old cathedrals, till the loftiest 
 embrasure of gorgeous glass, till stony niche and moresque 
 alcove, are permeated with its efiluence of symphony ; while a 
 thousand reverent hearts, melted by its shivers of sweet 
 sound, weep in silent rapture, or rise upon its impalpable 
 pinions of harmony to the far-off, unimagined audience-cham-
 
 1 60 Victoire. 
 
 ber of Deity. Hope's voice filled me with gladness, but 
 Morna's with a haunting and vague unrest. The voice of 
 Hope was full of joy, of'life's attainable joy, which may be 
 possessed in this world by every healthful nature. Delicious 
 in itself, it suggested nothing sweeter beyond it. I listened, 
 and thought of Hope in her budding bloom as the loveliest of 
 mortal creatures ; I loved Morna's voice for what it made me 
 desire, for what it made me forget, and for what it made me 
 remember. But it never made me happy, for it always hinted 
 at the unattainable. It suggested something which in all my 
 human life I had not found, and might never find. Some 
 thing I knew not what, yet it seemed a possible bliss, of 
 which, in my common moods, floating along the low level of 
 daily life, it entered not into my dead soul to conceive. 
 Morna's voice made it a palpable, throbbing verity. \Yhy 
 might it not be mine ? Why need I wait to find it in the 
 far distant ages this happiness so dim, so shadowy, so tar 
 away ! Her voice filled me with love, and worship, and long 
 ing ; it made me feel capable of all suffering and of all joy ; 
 but alas, even its beautiful, unattainable bliss seemed embo 
 somed in sorrow ; the voice itself seemed dissolving in melo 
 dious tears, so that while I listened I often wept, yet knew 
 not wherefore. 
 
 Certainly on this day Morna did not think to make me 
 weep, for her mood was a nearer approach to happiness than 
 I had ever seen in her before, and her voice, as it rose and 
 fell, floating far away, was wild and sweet as nature's own ; 
 not when it wails on desolate shores, or trails its moaning 
 dirges across forsaken seas, or chants its melancholy anthems 
 through the chill aisles of naked woods, but when it sings 
 itself to rest on the palpitant hearts of deep-bosomed trees, 
 or distils its dreamy music over gardens of imperishable 
 bloom in the trance of summer noons or the golden calm of 
 balmy summer nights. Thus she sang on this day ; yet I 
 remember, as I sat apart with my face turned towards the 
 window, that the sunlight might fall upon the task before me 
 as I worked and listened, the tears fell too upon the white 
 card on which I was sketching. I have forgotten whether I 
 chided myself for weakness or not ; if I did it would have 
 made no difference. My proud vitality of strength was 
 broken ; the strong, calm nerves sickness had weakened. I 
 was much more easily moved by all things than I had once 
 been ; had grown more womanly, men would say. Still 
 there was no morbid misery in the few tears which blotted
 
 r 
 
 Our New Neighbor, Mrs. Peacock. 161 
 
 my white task, and it was a happy, a very happy day this, the 
 first in our new home. 
 
 The day-time work was done, the simple tea ended, and 
 we sat in the twilight, the purple gloaming ; that mystic 
 hour when day is departing and night has not come ; when 
 curtains, furniture, pictures, are revealed to us in violet light 
 or crimson shadow ; when the misty room seems peopled 
 with dreamy phantoms ; when books are a mockery and work 
 a shame that hour which should be consecrated to sacred 
 converse or delicious thought. Well, in that hour we sat and 
 talked talked as girls will, not wisely of course ; had we 
 talked wisely we should not have been girls, but time-taught 
 women, which we were not then quite. 
 
 Already we had grown self-indulgent. Morna and Hope 
 took an hour from each evening to study French, and I well, 
 I had begun their portraits, and to this dear task also was 
 given an hour, which shone like a star between the day and 
 night-time tasks. We were talking of them, and of what we 
 were " going to do," or be, some time in the marvellous future, 
 when there came another knock on our door, a softer, a more 
 lingering knock than had startled us in the morning. This 
 time Morna responded to the call, and opening the door ush 
 ered in a great woman, who had a pleasant, sailing motion, like 
 a full freighted ship. She carried a teacup in her hand, and 
 announced herself as "Mrs. Peacock, ladies." 
 
 OUR NEW NEIGHBOR, MRS. PEACOCK. 
 
 We asked Mrs. Peacock to be seated, and looked with a 
 slight feeling of wonder into the face of George Washington's 
 " mamm." She began : " Ladies, I have brought back your cup 
 o' sugar. I hope George Washington asked for it with per- 
 liteness. I doz my best to make him perlite, but 'taint of 
 much use. George Washington's diiferent from all the rest 
 of my children. I've a beautiful family of children ; you 
 must come up and see 'em ; but asI was saying, George Wash 
 ington aint like none of the rest. I'm sorry to say he's marked. 
 Yet I have all a mother's feelings for George Washington. 
 I've had more trouble with him than with all the other nine 
 together ; 'deed they aint no trouble. Oh ! you must come up 
 and see little Serepty Louizy. But as I was say in', George 
 Washington makes me worlds of trouble ; me nor Mr. Peacock
 
 162 Victoire. 
 
 can't do nothin' with him. If I could move out of New York 
 I'd have some hopes of his outgrowin' his swearin', but now 
 'taint no use, for George Washington will run the streets and 
 sell newspapers. He's a good boy in one particler he does 
 keep his mother in newspapers and new books. 1 s'pose you 
 wouldn't think it, ladies, that with so many children, I'd have 
 much tifne to read, but I does 'deed I can say, next to ten- 
 din' baby, readin' is my life. I've a great taste for literatur' ; 
 but that's not strange, for I belong to the Greens of Green- 
 town ; I'm Serepty Ann Green that was. My family's the most 
 haristocratic in the county. I tell you what, there aiut none 
 that stand afore the Greens of Greentown. You should see 
 my father's country seat. Oh, it's beautiful ! I allus takes my 
 family into the country in the summer (she added with an air 
 of consequence) ; of course all genteel people go into the coun 
 try. I have to leave Mr. Peacock business always detains 
 him in the city, poor dear ; but I take the rest of my family all 
 but George Washington, he stays with his father ; but all the 
 other nine. I should die if I couldn't go to my father's coun 
 try seat every summer. You see I pine for my native air. 
 I've hearn that people's early surroundin's makes a difference 
 in their disposition. I expect that's why I'm romantic, be. 
 cause I was brought up in such a romantic place as my father's 
 country seat. And as I was tellin', I'm crazy for literatur' ; 
 if I'd only got my hand into it, I could write a novel as well 
 as any on 'em. 'Deed I've serious thoughts of tryin' it, if it 
 wasn't for holdin' Serepty Louizy so much, I would. Of 
 course I could do it. I might as well be makin' money writin' 
 books as other women. I knows my novel would take, 'cause 
 I'd make the weddin's 'ponderate. They must have a dread 
 ful time gittin' each other, but you must marry them at last; 
 that's the way to make a good novel, one that'll sell. Folks 
 don't want to read about funerals. But my heroine should 
 marry for love ; of course she should. I married for love my 
 self. I, Serepty Green that was, married a poor man. My 
 father discarded me, and threatened to cut me off without a 
 cent, but I married for love ; and if I were to git married a 
 thousand times, I'd always marry for love. There aint noth 
 in' else wuth gittin' married for ; mark my words, young ladies, 
 there aint nothin' in the world wuth marryin' for, but love ; of 
 course there aint ; mark my words." 
 
 Here Mrs. Peacock took breath, an act, however, which 
 seemed entirely unnecessary. For she could talk the longest, 
 without stopping, of any woman that I ever saw before or since.
 
 Our New Neighbor, Mrs. Peacock. 163 
 
 Emerson thinks that two are necessary to the carrying on of 
 a perfect conversation. Mrs. Peacock thought one all-suffi 
 cient. She never demanded a reply but the more listeners 
 she had, the better. 
 
 " Well," she went on, "I've come down to 'gratulate myself 
 and you on havin' good neighbors. You'll find me a good 
 neighbor, an excellent neighbor. I prides myself on bein' a 
 good neighbor. I am allers ready to ask a good turn, and I'm 
 allers ready to do a good turn ; that's what I call bein' a good 
 neighbor. Besides, I give nobody a chance to feel neglected. 
 I'm allers glad to make a friendly call ; that's what I call bein' 
 a good neighbor. And I 'gratulate myself that at last I've 
 got some ladies to be a good neighbor to. As I married below 
 my station, I've had to neighbor with some very common sort 
 of folks ; but I tell you I never for a minute forgot that I was 
 Serepty Ann Green that was, or that Mrs. Serepty Ann Green 
 Peacock I am. I thought I'd bring back the .cup o' sugar, and 
 apologize tl^it George Washington wasn't more perlite. I 
 listened at the top of the stairs, and know that he might a 
 done better; he will say bad words but you see he's marked ; 
 that's what's the matter with the poor child. I think he'll 
 outgrow it. Besides, I came down to tell you, ladies, that 
 you'll find in me a most excellent neighbor, and I expect to 
 find the same in you." 
 
 The hour for the French lesson, the hour for the portraits 
 went by, and still Mrs. Peacock's tongue moved on. It was 
 not a trip-hammer tongue ; oh, no ! it rolled slowly, steadily, 
 endlessly, like a well-oiled, well-poised wheel propelled by 
 powerful machinery, which never paused, because it never * 
 grew weary. Her talk seemed interminable an ocean with 
 neither bottom nor shores. The long fringes of Hope's eyelids 
 had begun to droop on the fair cheek. Morna leaned her 
 head upon her hand with a look of pain ; I had grown very 
 tired of being a polite listener, when we were relieved from 
 an unexpected quarter. A powerful baby shriek pierced the 
 air, descending from the upper regions. " Oh ! that's my 
 baby ! that's Serepty Louizy ! Glory Ann has let her Tall out 
 of the cradle ! Oh, that's mother's darling baby !" cried Mrs. 
 Peacock, in a tone as near akin to agony as her comfortable 
 voice could possibly assume. She rushed out of the room, 
 leaving at least this impression behind her, that she was well 
 satisfied with the world in general, and remarkably well satis 
 fied with herself in particular. 
 
 Indeed, a most comfortable looking woman was Mrs. Pea-
 
 164 Victoire. 
 
 cock. And in this country, where work and worry make so 
 many lean, sharp-eyed, anxious-looking people, a thoroughly 
 comfortable looking person like Mrs. Peacock is a blessed 
 sight. To see one who has a genius for taking things easy, 
 no matter how life comes, accepting it just as it comes, with 
 unruffled equanimity, is really a delightful sight by way of 
 novelty. 
 
 Mrs. Peacock's nerves were too deeply embedded in adipose 
 to be easily reached by the fretting friction of every-day 
 annoyance. What blessed nerves they were ! they never ached, 
 and were never sore. The only sensation which they seemed 
 to know was the sensuous life which trickled through the 
 unctuous ducts and creamy sacs of her vast body. There was 
 not a wrinkle in Mrs. Peacock's face, not one. Not a crow 
 foot had dared to leave a track in the corners of her eyes. 
 Her hair was warmly golden, flushed with red ; her face golden, 
 tinged faintly pink, mottled with patches of moth, which 
 spotted its round surface, like the opaque blots Tjshich darken 
 the golden face of the full-orbed moon. She had light blue, 
 misty eyes, which swam in a dreamy haze, and one of those 
 sensuous mouths in which the upper lip droops over the 
 lower; mouths which seem made to enjoy good things to eat. 
 Then she had a form swelling everywhere in curves, not an 
 angle to be seen ; little fat hands ; such women always have 
 fascinating hands. 
 
 Mrs. Peacock needed but three things to complete her 
 happiness a baby, a book, and plenty of food which she 
 liked to eat. The two latter were necessary ; the first was 
 indispensable. Mrs. Peacock revelled in babies. She always 
 had a baby, and she always wished to have a baby. She 
 would as willingly have gone without her eyes two months 
 of the year as to have gone for the same length of time with 
 out a baby. Not only was the little mewling, crooning, crying 
 thing itself necessary to her happiness, but several of her 
 lesser joys depended upon its existence. 
 
 If Mrs. Peacock had had no baby, she could have offered 
 no plausible' excuse for sitting from morning till night in a 
 little broken, bumping, thumping rocking-chair, affected with 
 a chronic squeak in one rocker, and a most execrable shriek 
 in the other, quite sufficient to rack anybody less like a 
 cushion than Mrs. Peacock's into a thousand pieces. Of course, 
 it Mrs. Peacock had had no baby, she would have had no 
 proper excuse for leaving her work undone. The only object 
 in the universe for which Mrs. Peacock was capable of feeling
 
 Our New Neighbor, Mrs. Peacock. 165 
 
 anything like a positive hate, was work. Her temperament 
 and physical constitution made her lazy. She could no more 
 help it than she could that deep, composed respiration of hers. 
 If she had a baby she couldn't work ; of course she couldn't. 
 It was her duty to improve her mind and cultivate her talents 
 for " literatur ;" what else was her mind and talents given her 
 for? If she had a baby she could sit all day, thumj^ thump, 
 squeak, squeak, in the little old chair, singing to baby, and 
 swallowing yellow-covered novels. In the mind of Mrs. Pea 
 cock the baby was sufficient apology for all delinquencies. If 
 Mr. Peacock found his shirt minus buttons, which, alas ! he 
 often did, and then took the liberty to discourse upon the fact, 
 after the manner of men, the only consolation which his spouse 
 could afford, was: 
 
 " Well, Mr. Peacock, you should consider the baby ! Dear 
 itty t'ing she takes all muzer's time, so she does ; and so she 
 should, muzer's darlin' baby !" she would exclaim in the mouth 
 of Serepty Louizy, rocking and jumping her in a violent man 
 ner, drowning in noise and baby-talk poor Mr. Peacock's 
 faint sermon on shirt buttons and the beauty of finding them 
 on shirts ; he, in the meantime, in silent and grim despair, 
 fastening on that garment with crooked and corroded pins. 
 
 When Mr. Peacock found his hose without heels, which was 
 also a frequent occurrence, and ventured to suggest to Mrs. 
 Peacock the propriety of encasing them in a network of yarn : 
 "Dear me! Mr. Peacock; do you forget the baby?" that 
 lady would exclaim : " Of course you can't expect me to 
 mend or to do anything but take care of my family, until it 
 has grown out of the way ; and I'm sure I don't know when 
 that will be." 
 
 Mr. Peacock didn't know either ; for to him the time when 
 the family would be grown out of the way, seemed as far off 
 as the millennium. Unconsciously the unfortunate man had 
 learned to regard the little helpless inhabitant of the cradle as a 
 dreaded rival, the foe to his daily and nightly comfort. Mr. 
 Peacock could endure it in the day-time, but he did wish that 
 he could sleep nights. The hourly wakings from pleasant 
 dreams he bore like a hero at first, but twelve years of nightly 
 nudgings had tired him out. He was very weary*of being 
 startled from pleasant dreams by the good-natured but 
 peremptory call : " Mr. Peacock ! Mr. Peacock ! I declare if 
 you ain't asleep ! Don't you hear the baby cry ? Mr. Pea 
 cock, do get up and get a light !" The baby was Mr. Peacock's 
 Nemesis.
 
 1 66 Victoire. 
 
 Mrs. Peacock belonged to that class of people who lie be 
 cause they cannot help it. She would not have sat down and 
 told a deliberate, wilful lie any sooner than the mass of cate 
 chism-taught women ; still she managed to tell a great many 
 lies nevertheless. Her brilliant and exhaustless fancy played 
 around the simple, ungarnished truth, illuminating it with 
 all the ^,uds of fiction. Thus all her statements outleaped 
 the cramping boundaries of fact. Exaggeration was as natural 
 as her breath, and having always indulged it as a habit, it had 
 become a most imperious one, and she of course did not realize 
 to what a very absurd extent she carried her misstatements. 
 Had her powers received due cultivation, she would have 
 made one of those ladies who write "stories;" who, having 
 nothing more important to do, sit in their shady parlors and 
 see how many brilliant and beautiful lies they can dilute upon 
 paper, and in this way give healthy ventilation to their sur 
 charged imagination. Had Mrs. Peacock been one of these, 
 the description of her " father's country seat," without doubt, 
 would have added lustre to the columns of a flash journal, as 
 one of the quieter " picters" of a blood-and-thunder story. 
 But with all her passion for " literatur'," never having got her 
 hand into the way of writing, as she said, her burdened ima 
 gination had no outlet save her mouth, so she felt compelled 
 to tell with her tongue a few of the lies which many others 
 write upon paper, and then palm upon the credulous public as 
 the efforts of genius. 
 
 Mr. Peacock looked as composed and happy in his mind as 
 a poor man who had had ten little Peacocks presented to him 
 in a dozen years could be expected to look. As far as flesh 
 and blood make a human being, he was a very faint shadow 
 beside Mrs. Peacock ; indeed it can't be denied that Mr. Pea 
 cock looked thin and nervous, and his black eyes, which were 
 exactly like George Washington's, without George Washing 
 ton's setting of fat, seemed restless and anxious. It must 
 have been the thought of that everlasting baby which made 
 them so. Mr. Peacock was not miserably poor. He held a 
 subordinate position in a wholesale store, and his income was 
 sufficient to suppprt his family in a common way, with a little 
 to spare} had it been more judiciously managed. George 
 Washington drove a lucrative business in the streets as " news 
 boy ;" and amid the hundreds of his fellows who smoked 
 cigars, chewed vile tobacco, drank, swore, and yelled in the 
 streets, there was not one \vho could throw his heels higher 
 in the air, run faster in spite of his fat, scream worse English,
 
 Our New Neighbor, Mrs. Peacock. 167 
 
 or lie louder, or faster, about the " ship" that hadn't come, or 
 the news that was not in the paper, than George Washington 
 Peacock. 
 
 Hope's gentle soul seemed to be burdened with the thought 
 of George Washington from the morning of his first Appearing. 
 "Would he go to Sunday-school with her?" she wondered. 
 She was afraid that he was one of the boys whom she had 
 heard screaming outside of the church on the Sabbath : " Sun 
 day Herald! Times! Mercury!" "What a dreadful way to 
 spend the Sabbath. She should try to coax him to go to Sab 
 bath-school. Did we think that she would succeed ?" 
 
 "Yes," we said, of course. And before Saturday came, I 
 yielded to Hope's entreaties to go up with her, just to see if 
 George Washington ever had been to Sunday-school, or if he 
 would go. 
 
 We found Mrs. Peacock's sitting-room to be just like her 
 self. A gorgeous imagination, as coarse as it was luxuriant, 
 seemed bursting from every nook and crevice. The tawdry 
 white curtains were looped back with brilliant rags of ribbon, 
 revealing paper shades of a very startling pattern, covered 
 with castles and ships, men and wild beasts, in strange proxi 
 mity and stunning relief. The whitewashed walls were hung 
 with colored prints, patriotic, sanguinary, and sentimental ; 
 George Washington, " the Father of his Country," " Benjamin 
 Franklin," and " Andrew Jackson," of couse were there ; so 
 also were the " Battles of Bunker Hill" and " Lexington," in 
 which were seen very fierce horses jumping in the air, men 
 writhing on the ends of bayonets with torrents of blood spurt 
 ing from their noses ; and beside these pictured battles hung 
 the " Soldier's Departure" and " Soldier's Return," in both of 
 which was seen a ringleted lady,, holding a very elaborate 
 pocket-handkei chief, clinging to the neck of a tall gentleman 
 in gold epaulettes, a blue coat, and tight white pants. The 
 mantel was crowded with ornaments. In the centre stood 
 the image of a huge old man, with his tongue hanging out as 
 if in great distress, holding a clock face in the centre of his 
 stomach. Besides, there were plaster of Paris vases filled 
 with yellow lemons and red tomatoes ; painted owls and ani 
 mals, and queer old men and women. In one corner stood a 
 table piled with dishes sadly mixed up with the remnants of 
 breakfast; the stove, red with rust, held a standing army of 
 pots and kettles ; in a room adjoining, the nursery probably, 
 the whole troop of little Peacocks were screaming, laughing, 
 crying, and fighting, as it suited their mood ; the happiest
 
 1 68 Victoire. 
 
 amusing themselves by dragging about the floor the bed 
 clothes belonging to a neighboring bed. Before the window, 
 with her back turned towards us, sat Mrs. Peacock, in the old 
 broken rocking-chair, rocking vigorously, thump, thump, 
 squeak, sqneak, holding Serepty Louizy and reading aloud. 
 Amid the general uproar we knew that she had not heard our 
 knock, and so ventured to enter unbidden. As she was not 
 aware of our entrance, she continued her reading, and we 
 stood and listened, scarcely knowing what better to do : 
 
 " They hurried to Adolphe's chamber ; they heard a groan 
 as they opened the door ; they found their son stretched on 
 the bed, pale and haggard ; on the table was a phial labelled 
 'poison ;' the phial was empty. 
 
 " ' My son ! my son ! you have not been so wicked. Speak ! 
 speak !' 
 
 " * Oh, I suffer tortures ! Oh, I am dying. Leave me ! 
 Celeste has also taken poison ; we could not live without each 
 other. Cruel parents, we mock you and die !' 
 
 " ' Recover, recover, my son, and Celeste shall be yours,' 
 said his mother, falling in hysterics." 
 
 Here Serepty Louizy gave evidence of her existence by a 
 loud scream. Mrs. Peacock ceased reading, seized the young 
 lady's toes one by one, singing : " This pig went to market, 
 this pig stayed at home ; this pig ate all the white bread, and 
 this pig had none. This pig said, I'll tell mamma 
 when she comes home." Serepty Louizy seemed infi 
 nitely amused, and became quiet. Mrs. Peacock resumed 
 her reading: 
 
 " ' Adolphe, traitor ! where hast thou been !' 
 
 " ' Merely shooting in the woods, my angel.' 
 
 "'What! without me? Fie! promise that this shall not 
 happen again.' 
 
 " ' Oh, dearest ! too gladly do I promise. But, Celeste, 
 three hours have I been seeking for you. Where have you 
 hid yourself?' 
 
 " ' Don't look so angry, my Adolphe. I was only directing 
 the gardener to build a little arbor for you to read in. I 
 meant it as a surprise.' 
 
 " ' My own Celeste ! three hours is an eternity without you. 
 Promise not to leave me again.' 
 
 " ' My own dearest, dearest Adolphe ! how I love you. May 
 my company ever be as dear to you.' " 
 
 Here Serepty Louizy thought it.time to give another scream 
 by way of interlude, louder and more protracted than before.
 
 Our New Neighbor, Mrs. Peacock. 169 
 
 " What ails Muzer's ducky diamond ? A wicked pin pricks 
 her, so it does." 
 
 " Rock-a-by, baby, on the tree top, 
 When the wind blows the cradle will rock ; 
 When the bough bends the cradle will fall, 
 Down'll come cradle, baby, and all." 
 
 Serepty Louizy became quiet, and again Mrs. Peacock read 
 on: 
 
 "'Indeed, Adolphe, if the truth may be said, you have 
 lately contracted a bad habit you are getting a squint in 
 your eye.' 
 
 "'Madame!' said Adolphe, prodigiously offended, hurrying 
 to the^ glass. 
 
 "'Don't be angry, my love; I would not have mentioned it, 
 if it did not get worse every day; it is yet to be cured; just 
 put a wafer on the top of your nose and you will soon see 
 straight.' 
 
 " ' A wafer on the top of my nose ! Much better put one on 
 the tip of your chin, Celeste.' 
 
 " ' My chin,' said Celeste, running to the glass. ' What do 
 you mean, sir?' 
 
 " ' Only that you have a very large wart there which it 
 would be more agreeable to conceal.' 
 
 " ' Sir !' 
 
 " ' Madam !' 
 
 " ' A wart on my chin, monster !' 
 ' ' A squint in my eye, fool !' 
 
 ' ' Yes ; how could I ever love a man who squinted ?' 
 ' ' Or I a woman with a wart on her chin!' 
 ' ' Sir, I shall not condescend to notice your insults.' 
 ' ' Madam, I despise your insinuations.' " 
 
 Serepty Louizy now thought it high time to enter upon a 
 series of screeches, in comparison with which her former 
 efforts were but feeble echoes. Evidently she had heard 
 enough of that story, and did not mean to listen to any more. 
 Mrs. Peacock began to rock and sing with accelerated violence. 
 Thump, thump, squeak, squeak, was the refrain to her song : 
 
 " Hush, my dear 1 lie still and slumber. 
 
 Holy angels guard thy bed, 
 Heavenly blessings without number 
 Fall on Serepty Louizy's head." 
 
 We thought the moment a good one to present ourselves. 
 
 8
 
 170 Victoire. 
 
 The presence of strangers might change the current of Se- 
 repty Louizy's emotions. 
 
 " O laws ! I'm glad to see you ; glad you've begun to neigh 
 bor. Serepty Louizy has got a colic this mornin' ; but I think 
 she'll be better soon. Sit down," said Mrs. Peacock, as she 
 turned and saw us advancing. 
 
 " Does she see the ladies ! Muzer's baby dear ?" she said, 
 dancing Serepty Louizy in the air, who opened a pair of black 
 eyes very like George Washington's and stared at us in baby 
 wonder, her colic apparently entirely cured ; while the flock 
 of little Peacocks came rushing from the nursery to see the 
 strangers. 
 
 " There, children, go back ! Go back to play, mother's 
 little dears. Don't cry, Glory Ann, and you shall have a 
 sugar doll ; George Washington will bring it to you. The 
 children are so happy this mornin' I didn't hear you come in. 
 You see that I has a beautiful family. Children is a great 
 blessing. I pity every one that hasn't got any. Oh, did you 
 hear me readin' ? That's one of the most interestin' stones 
 George Washington has brought me for a long time. One of 
 Bulwer's stories for married people. * True Ordeal of Love' 
 is the name of it. Well, I like Bulwer ; he goes to the root 
 of matters. Of course he knows hasn't he had 'sperience ? 
 Of course he knows that, if we've a mind to, we can look at 
 one little fault in a person till we can't see nothin' else, till it 
 covers them all over, and grows as big as Celeste's wart. He 
 knows that folks dead in love can grow dreadfully tired 
 of each other, if they're never apart. Bulwer knows all 
 about it; he knows 'taint no use talkin' over natur's defects. 
 As I sez to Mr. Peacock, Mr. Peacock, sez I, it 'taint no nse 
 makin' words over what can't be helped. Married folks don't 
 ought to find fault with each other. It don't do no good. 
 They take each other for better or worse, and if they find it's for 
 worse, it don't make it better to go thro' the world growlin' 
 and grumblin'. For my part, I think it's a great deal better 
 to make the best of folks, instead of the worst on 'em. If 
 they see you remember the good in them, they feel kind o' en 
 couraged and keep growin' better and better ; but if you keep 
 talkin' of the bad, why they grow discouraged and think 
 there aint a bit of use in tryin'. As I sez to Mr. Peacock, 
 Mr. Peacock sez I, you needn't 'a married me if you didn't 
 want to ; of course you needn't ; you might have married 
 Susan Slasher; she wanted you bad enough, mercy knows. 
 I needn't have married you ; of course I needn't. Wasn't
 
 Our New Neighbor, Mrs. Peacock. 171 
 
 young Squire Tim dead in love with me ? Didn't he look jest 
 as if he were meltin' whenever I kem round ? Didn't I look 
 straight ahead, dre'ful unconscious, just as if nothin' ailed him ? 
 and all from principle? I wasn't goin' to encourage him 
 just to dissapint him, and make him take pisen, for wasn't I in 
 love with you, Mr. Peacock? Didn't I have lots of lovers? 
 I, Serepty Ann Green of Greentown, and never looked at any 
 of them, because I loved you, Mr. Peacock ? But sez I, 
 suppose I'd married Squire Tim, and you'd married Susan 
 Slasher, Susan wouldn't have had my faults ; of course she 
 wouldn't ; but she'd a had her own. And sez I, Mr. Peacock, 
 you wouldn't have liked her faults- any better than you like 
 mine. I know Susan is a cut-and-dash sort of a woman ; she'd 
 a put the work through faster than I do, like enough ; but 
 would she have given her life away to your children as I do, 
 Mr. Peacock ? No, you know she wouldn't. Has she got 
 my elevated mind? No, you know she hasn't ; and my taste 
 for literatur'? No, you know she hasn't. But she's got a 
 higher head ; that you know Mr. Peacock. She'd a taken her 
 own way by storm, not quietly as I do ; that you know, Mr. 
 Peacock. And there's Squire Tim I spect he's as many faults 
 as you have, Mr. Peacock, if I only knew 'em ; you'se a dre' 
 ful trial to me sometimes, Mr. Peacock, scoldin' around, but 
 I love you better than a thousand Squire Tims. Pity if I don't. 
 And if you squint a little, I aint goin' to look at it till you 
 squint worse, or till I see nothin' but squint ; and you musn't 
 stare at the wart on my chin till it covers all my face. That's 
 what I say to Mr. Peacock, young ladies, and it's just as good 
 for you to hear. Only when you get married, be sure you mar 
 ry for love, and for nothin' else, aud everything will come 
 out right. Squints and warts will keep growin' less and 
 less." 
 
 We were thankful that the second for breathing had come ; 
 and Hope filled it by asking in a slightly tremulous voice, as 
 if she had no right to put the question, if George Washington 
 attended Sunday-school. 
 
 " Laws a day ! I'm sorry to say it, but George Washington 
 doesn't. As I was tellin' the other night, George Washing 
 ton aint like none of my other children George Washington 
 is marked. I never could make him mind. He's got way be 
 yond me or his father, and does jest as he pleases. Still I've 
 all a mother's feelin's for him, poor boy. And I can't com 
 plain, he's very good to his mother in his way. See, he 
 brought me all those books" and she pointed to a bureau piled
 
 172 Victoire. 
 
 high with yellow literature. " I wish he would go to Sunday- 
 school ;" and a real sigh came up from her motherly heart. 
 
 At that juncture a very decided clatter was heard on the 
 stairs, and in a moment more George Washington presented 
 himself looking just as odd in the face, but a little more 
 civilized in costume, than when he presented himself at our 
 door for a cup of sugar. The pugnacious boot was now ac 
 companied by its masculine fellow, and the broad back was 
 covered with a " hard times" coat all of one color. I conclud 
 ed that on the former morning we had seen the young gen 
 tleman in his early dishabille ; that the feminine, slatternly 
 gaiter had been worn for the soothing of a sore foot, while 
 V habit de drap et V habit de soie, which had astonished us with 
 its brilliancy, was an exclusively home garment, worn, very 
 likely, for the satisfaction of his mother, whose fantastic mend 
 ing had made it the gorgeous thing it was. George Washing 
 ton carried under his arm a budget of illustrated papers which 
 he tossed into his mother's lap. In alighting they hit the 
 head of Serepty Louizy, who set up a scream of anger rather 
 than pain, loud enough to put all her colic cries far in the 
 shade, beating the air with her little fists and looking fiercely at 
 George Washington, as if there was nothing which she want 
 ed to do quite so much as to hit the red berry on the end of 
 his nose. 
 
 " Stop your yellin', Rep, you little porcupine," said the 
 young gentleman, looking with considerable complacency, 
 however, on this pocket edition of himself. 
 
 " Mamm, there's readin' enough to keep you till to-morrow. 
 The Pirate of the Pacific's advertised ; I'.ll git you that in the 
 mornin'.'' 
 
 " George Washington, don't you see the ladies ? Can't 
 you be perlite ?" 
 
 " No ! darn it, I never learned." 
 
 " George Washington, won't you never stop swearin' and 
 callin' me Mamm ?" 
 
 " I swears and calls you Mamm behind folks'sback, so I'll be 
 hanged if I don't do it before their face. I doesn't want 
 nobody think I'm better than I is." 
 
 " I wish you'd dress up nice and go to Sunday-school every 
 Sunday, George Washington ?" 
 
 ^ The d 1 you do ! Well, I shan't do it. I can spend 
 
 my Sunday in a more satisfyin' manner. Sunday I yells the 
 loudest, I lies the fastest, I makes the most money. Sunday's 
 the day I sell so many Sunday Heralds to the tine gentlemen
 
 Our New Neighbor, Mrs. Peacock. 173 
 
 on their way home from church. 'Tisn't this bird'll leave 
 his best trade and go to Sunday-school. I'm in fur the cash." 
 
 " These ladies have come in to ask you to go to Sunday- 
 school, George Washington ; I wish you'd be pei'lite." 
 
 George Washington moved uneasily. All the while he had 
 been talking he had never looked at us once, and in spite of 
 his ]oud, defiant tones, there was an undefined embarrassment 
 in his manner, as if he himself was conscious of breathing very 
 near a new foreign element. 
 
 " Wouldn't you like to go to Sunday-school with me ?" 
 asked Hope, in a half supplicating tone. 
 
 At the sound of that delicious voice, George Washington 
 turned from the little old broken chair of his mother, which 
 he had been jerking and twitching in a most unaccountable 
 manner, and took in Hope from head to feet with his snapping 
 eyes. They dilated with admiration to the utmost limit which 
 the fat would allow. 
 
 " I'll be if I wouldn't," he said, slowly. " If you'll 
 
 let me go with you, I'll be if I don't go > evary darned 
 
 Sunday. Cash, Sunday Herald fine gentlemen, may all go 
 to the d 1." 
 
 " If you won't say bad words I'll be glad to have you go," 
 said Hope. 
 
 " Darn it, I wouldn't if I could help it. I'd never say ano 
 ther just because you don't want me to. But when a fellow 
 can't help it, what's he going to do, darn it ? If any body 
 could make a chap decent, 'twould be some 'un who looks 
 and talks just like you. Mamm allers says I am marked, so 
 what's the use tryin', d n it ?" 
 
 " Oh, George Washington ; never mind if you are marked ; 
 you'll outgrow it. 1 never meant to discourage you, George 
 Washington ; never. It's against my principles, as I said to 
 your father ; ses~ I " 
 
 " There, Mamm, there ! don't begin one of your all-fired 
 long speeches or you won't stop till night." 
 
 " Well, George Washington, you're a good boy to promise 
 to go to Sunday-school," she said, encouragingly. 
 
 " No, I aint, neither. I wouldn't go now to please you. I 
 go to please lier, though you knows I allers said I'd do as I'd 
 a mind to, spite of all the wimmens in creation." 
 
 " Well, you are a good boy to go to please her. It'll do you 
 a great deal of good and larn you not to swear." Mrs. Pea 
 cock seemed determined that her son should not falter on the 
 good track for lack of her approval. " You're my own dar-
 
 174- Victoire. 
 
 ling sonny ! Come and kiss your mother, George Washing 
 ton ?" 
 
 " Don't be silly, Mamm, don't. I won't kiss yon, I'll be 
 
 if I will. If I can't kiss who I \vant to, I won't kiss nobody." 
 
 " Stop your noise, you little porcupine," he shouted angrily, 
 shaking his fist, as if it were a relief to his dissatisfaction, at 
 Miss Serepty Louizy, who was jumping and crowing on the 
 pinnacle of baby glee, as if delighted with the fact that George 
 Washington couldn't kiss the one whom he wanted to. 
 
 Sabbath came jubilant with its morning bells, the whole 
 world seemed full of their nine o'clock music, when another 
 loud round knock was heard on our door, and we opened it 
 to behold George Washington Peacock, dressed in a new suit 
 from head to toe. A bright red handkerchief tied his fat neck ; 
 a galvanized spread eagle blazed on his shirt bosom as a 
 breast-pin ; his wilful hair was oiled to softness ; his black- eyes 
 twinkled with a new happiness. It was the event of his lite 
 when he stepped out upon the sidewalk beside Hope to go 
 for the fifst time to Sabbath-school. We walked to church, 
 rejoicing in our hearts that there "was at least one voice the 
 less (and a very lusty one too) to desecrate the sacred stillness 
 of that autumnal Sabbath with the eager, mercenary shout of 
 " morning papers," " morning papers !" "Sunday Herald, 
 Mercury, Times.' 1 '' 
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON PEACOCK IN A FIRE. 
 
 Mrs. Peacock had never received into her luminous intel 
 ligence the full significance of the injunction of Solomon : 
 
 " Withdraw thy foot from thy neighbor's house, lest he be 
 weary of thee, and so hate thee." 
 
 Mrs. Peacock could visit and tend the baby as well as re^d 
 and tend the baby ; besides, Miss Serepty Louizy had all the 
 strong likes and dislikes which a one year old young lady is 
 entitled to have, and much preferred visiting to the little old 
 excruciating rocking chair with the chronic squeak, or the 
 monotonous sing-song of her mother's voice reading aloud 
 some lachrymose story. 
 
 Dodging at the leaves with her baby fists, and bobbing her 
 little black pate against the cover till the book shook so that 
 her mother could not read, ceased to be a satisfactory revenge, 
 after she had learned the sweetness of coining dowu stairs,
 
 George Washington Peacock in a Fire. 175 
 
 and having her mouth filled with sugar-plums. This act, at 
 first a pleasure, very soon became a necessity. Serepty 
 Louizy having received sugar-plums once, knew of no reason 
 why she might not continue to receive them daily to the end 
 of her mortal life, and acted accordingly. In the first place, 
 she set up a succession of poignant, piercing shrieks each 
 morning, as a signal to her mother to bear her in her arms 
 down stairs. 
 
 " Bess her itty heart ! she wants to go and see the ladies, so 
 se duz, and so se sall^ muzer's bessed birdy baby !" Mrs. 
 Peacock would exclaim before the first volley of cries was 
 exhausted. Next to babies, and reading ,nd eating, Mrs. 
 Peacock delighted in visiting, provided she might visit where 
 she could find a patient listener. For this reason, with a 
 sense of satisfaction she heard those daily morning screams, 
 because they gave her a good excuse for making a morning 
 call. The shrieks of Miss . Serepty Louizy were distinctly 
 heard in our little apartment, and we deemed ourselves most 
 happy if we could conclude our breakfast before her cries 
 began. Alas, we knew too well the inevitable sequence to this 
 warning sound would be the creaking and groaning of the 
 enfeebled and disjointed stairs, shuddering under the double 
 burden of Miss Serepty Louizy and her ponderous mother. 
 In a moment more would appear the golden face of Mrs. Pea 
 cock bland as the full moon. She would begin : 
 
 " You see, ladies, I keep my promise not to let you feel 
 neglected. My attention is proof of my 'preciation. Of 
 course you know I didn't neighbor jest the same with nobody 
 else in the house ; I know a lady jest the minit I set my eyes 
 on her, and for my part, I'm glad at last I've got some ladies 
 to neighbor with. Next to children, there's no blessin' like 
 good neighbors. As T married below my station, I've had to 
 neighbor with them who wasn't ladies, but as I was tellin' you 
 afore, I never forget that I was Serepty Ann " 
 
 Here Serepty Louizy would think it high time to have her 
 claims recognised, and, seeing no sugar-plums forthcoming, 
 would begin to shriek her disappointment. 
 
 " Dear me, Serepty Louizy has got such a colic this morning. 
 I don't see what ails the child, but she has it now every blessed 
 day, 'specially in the early part. I brought her down to see if 
 it wouldn't pacify her. Nothin' duz her so much good as to 
 come down here, poor little thing. The likin' she has taken 
 to you is surprisen." 
 
 By this time Serepty Louizy would be sucking her sugar-
 
 176 Victoire. 
 
 plums with all a baby's fierce avidity. The time had come 
 when, in the memoranda of our daily wants, AVC would as soon 
 have left out bread as sugar-plums ; for we could not have 
 dreaded hunger more than we did the voracious screams of 
 the little animal from up stairs. 
 
 " Tank de ladies, Serepty Louizy ! muzer's darlin' baby 
 must be perlite ; tank de ladies for the sugar-plums!" Mrs. 
 Peacock would exclaim, bobbing forward with her hand the 
 little head covered with bristling black hair, as a tacit 
 acknowledgment of favors received. But her effort to make 
 Miss Serepty Louizy -return thanks was always abortive, 
 resulting only in^a violent shriek and grabbing of the little 
 hands for the retreating sugar-plums, which Serepty Louizy 
 saw disappearing down "muzer's" throat. 
 
 " There, there, don't cry ! muzer won't eat no more ; muzer 
 don't want baby's sugar-plums ; no she don't" (a lie, of course). 
 
 " Poor little thing, she feels thankful, but she can't show 
 perliteness cause she can't talk. The ladies won't hold nothin' 
 agin her, muzer knows. She's got lots of love in her heart, 
 only she don't know nothin' how to show it. You only ought 
 to hear her cry to come down and see you every mornin'. 
 All my children's is 'fectionate. There's George Washington, 
 ludj how he's taken to Miss Hope. Why I never see nothin' 
 like it. Miss Marna and Miss Victory; he thinks that you 
 are both very fine, but that you can't hold a candle to Miss 
 Hope for looks. Excuse me for being plain it's my way. 
 That's only what George Washington thinks. 'Taint no ways 
 sartain he knows. Now he says I ain't handsome ; p'haps I 
 ain't now, but I was I tell you, ladies ; Serepty Ann Green 
 was the belle of Greentown. Oh^ dear, those days are gone 
 and over ! No woman can allers stay a belle. When I get 
 kind o' lonesum', cause there ain't no one now to tell me I'm 
 handsome, I 'sole myself with the 'flection that I'd rather be 
 the happy mother of my beau'ful family, than to be a faded 
 belle, livin' on flattery that don't mean nothin' after all, and 
 in the long run ain't by no means satisfyin'. 
 
 "But George Washington, if he is my son, and if he does 
 have his little failins, he's honest. He never says one thing, 
 when he means t'other. No, George Washington never does. 
 So when George Washington faid : ' Mamm, you ain't hand 
 some and never was,' I knew he meant it. 'Twasn't very 
 pleasant to natur' to be told so, but I 'soled myself with two 
 'flections : first, that George Washington thought he told the 
 truth ; second, that he didn't know. Of course 'twasn't in
 
 George Washington Peacock in -a Fire. 177 
 
 the order of natur' that he should know how I looked when I 
 was Serepty Ann Green, the belle of Greentown. Ses I, I'm 
 glad you've taken to Sunday School, I think you'll comfort your 
 mother's heart yet ; ' Mamm,' says he, ' I don't go to comfort 
 your heart ; I goes jest because she wants me to. I'd cut off 
 my nose, I'd saw off my feet, I'd bury myself alive, if she 
 wanted me to. I wouldn't do one on 'em for you ; not one 
 on 'em.' 
 
 At about this stage in the daily narrative, the sugar-plums 
 having all vanished through the agency of Mrs. Peacock and 
 her infant daughter, the latter would commence a series of 
 screeches for more. All in the house having been devoured, 
 the young lady, Serepty Louizy, seemed to have an intuition 
 that her cries would be unavailing until the next morning, 
 and so consoled herself by shifting her desires to other objects, 
 which she demanded just as vociferously as she had before the 
 sugar-plums. There was not a portable article in the room 
 that she did not want. She screamed for the few trinkets 
 which it contained ; she screamed for the white roses in the 
 window; she screamed for my pencils and crayons; she 
 screamed for the pictures on the wall, and for the pictures 
 on the easel. She would jump in her mother's lap, trying to 
 grasp the unattainable treasure, but her little hands with all 
 their grabbing only clutched the air. Then she would stamp 
 her mother's knee in rage, and the black hair would bristle all 
 over her little head, until I, at least, no longer wondered why 
 George Washington called her a porcupine. Her loving mo 
 ther recognised in her paroxysms of temper only the severest 
 agonies of colic, and when at last even Hope's sweet face look 
 ed worn ; when Morna's was covered with a deadly pallor 
 and her nerves strained to their utmost tension ; when I was 
 ready either to laugh or cry with mirth at Serepty's young 
 face, or vexation at her tiresome noise ; when the hubbub 
 grew so dense that it could not be penetrated by Mrs. Pea 
 cock's " sez I," then that lady would depart with step as 
 accelerated as her lymphatic temperament would allow, "to 
 go and get some perry goric to ease Serepty Louizy's colic." 
 
 She would depart, but not for the day. No ; there were a 
 hundred things for which she " must run down just for a mi 
 nute." She wanted half a cup of sugar. "It was impossible 
 for her to drink her tea without sugar. She forgot to tell Mr. 
 Peacock that she wanted sugar. Would we lend her a draw- 
 in' of tea? Mr. Peacock would bring some home at night." 
 " Could we let her have jest a teaspoonful of starch ? Mr. 
 
 8*
 
 '78 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 Peacock was so perticler about his shirts ; he wouldn't wear a 
 Bhirt unless it was starched jest so. To night was 'Lodge 
 night,' and Mr. Peacock hadn't a clean shirt to wear, and 
 there he was, Worthy Grand Master of the Lodge. The shirt 
 must be washed, starched, dried by the stove, all in an hour, 
 or what would Mr. Peacock say ? Why he'd scold ; Mr. Pea 
 cock could scold, and there wasn't a man in the world but 
 what would scold if his shirt wasn't ready. Men couldn't 
 make no allowance for children that had to be taken care of; 
 they must have their shirt, children or no children, or they'd 
 make a fuss. Why even George Washington would rage 
 about his collar, if it wasn't jest so stiffs Would we have mer 
 cy on her and lend her a spoonful of starch? Would we 
 let her take a needle and thread ? Mr. Peacock's suspender- 
 button was broken off, and he was so nervous and in such a 
 hurry. He didn't see how she lost so many needles ; but if 
 he only had the dear children to take care of, he could see. 
 Why, Glory Ann lost a dozen in one morn-ing, jest inakin' her 
 doll a hood and a petticoat. Would we let her have the 
 needle and thread ? Mr. Peacock was in such a dreadful 
 hurry." Of course the last glimpse which \ve ever had of the 
 needle and thread was when we placed them within Mrs. Pea 
 cock's fat fingers. 
 
 Twilight would fold us in her purple pinions; the hour of 
 charmed communion would come the hour for the French 
 lessons, the hour for the portrait; but instead of the quiet, 
 the calm which had filled these hours with enchantment, the 
 only hours which we could coax from toil to call our own, we 
 would have Mrs. Peacock and her endless " sez I's." Thus 
 was the sacred privacy of our home invaded, almost every 
 hour of the night and day, by an amiable and yet most alien 
 element. Because Mrs. Peacock was just the mooney, amiable 
 woman that she was, was precisely the reason why she robbed 
 us completely of so much precious time, which we owed to 
 useful and ennobling employments. To a surly woman it 
 would have been easy to have said, with a face of steel : " We" 
 are busy, and have no time to attend to you now." But to a 
 woman sailing in dozens of times a day, with her face golden 
 and bland as an unbeclouded moon, with only kindness in her 
 eyes and in her heart, although we had not a moment to 
 give her, it seemed impossible to say: "You are not wel 
 come." 
 
 It is wonderful of how much of our life work, of how many 
 priceless opportunities, of how many rare successes, are we
 
 George Washington Peacock in a Fire. 179 
 
 defrauded by very amiable persons who, in all their existence, 
 have never found a noble work and purpose of their own. 
 They are the leeches of society, who suck away the life-blood 
 of our usefulness. Unless rudely shaken off, they.cling to us 
 for ever, sapping the nerve of daily endeavor, fattening on our 
 very failures. They rob us of our garnered minutes ; they 
 take our beautiful brief hours. Night comes and finds us 
 listless, weary, with the day's inexorable task unfinished. 
 The nervous force which would have made us perform 
 it well is all exhausted ; we squandered it, listening and 
 
 talking with , who had "A pleasant time ; such a pleasant 
 
 time." 
 
 The " pleasant time" cost nothing. has nothing 
 
 to do but to be amused. It will cost us a sleepless night of 
 toil, a morrow of lassitude, and of over-work* In a whole week 
 we can hardly bring up the arrears of the lost day. In the 
 meantime our delinquency will incommode others, who can 
 see no mortal reason why we are " behind-hand." We knew 
 
 this when we sat down a martyr to listen to . We shall 
 
 be perfectly aware of it to-morrow, when another is 
 
 ready to monopolize the day ; yet because we like both of 
 
 these 's, in neither case will we have the moral courage 
 
 to say : " I am glad to see you, but must leave you now ; my 
 duties are imperative." A great bane. to men and women 
 who work, and must work, is that class of persons who are 
 always " dropping in," but rarely dropping out ; who are call 
 ing to "stay just a minute," but who manage to stay the whole 
 day ; inopportune mortals, who never know when to come 
 nor when to go. No wonder that Voltaire said : " The 
 amount of time which people spend in talking is frightful." 
 I thought the same while listening to Mrs. Peacock. From 
 the sound of her voice there seemed to be no reprieve, no 
 relief. 
 
 The only thing which she never exaggerated- was her 
 account of George Washington's devotion to Hope. When 
 he stood before her, he seemed no longer to possess the 
 characteristics of George Washington Peacock. He was no 
 longer the gruff, swearing, ruffianly newsboy. The very 
 needles of his hair seemed soothed and softened ; his whole 
 face grew more human. He was not rough, and loud, and long 
 in speech to her ; but answered in awkward, stammering 
 confusion, and stood as one in a daze, as if dazzled and awed 
 in the presence of a new and beautiful mystery. 
 
 We heard a loud clattering on the street-stairs one morning,
 
 180 Victoire. 
 
 then a fiercer clattering in the hall, as if the house was being 
 invaded by a small army, followed by a moment's calm ; then 
 a rap on the door. It was opened and there stood George 
 Washington, in the midst of a troop of newsboys, dirty, 
 ragged, their rolls of papers stowed under their arms, yet all 
 looking as eager as if they \verejust entering a menagerie, or 
 any six cent wild beast show. 
 
 " Here she is; there she is! look at her, b'hoys ; say agin, 
 if you dares, that she ain't no handsomer than the wax n'ggers 
 in the shop-windows what they put the shawls on and the 
 gran' frocks on ; say agin if you, dare that she ain't no hand 
 somer, you don't believe, than them dull wax things. Say it 
 agin if you dare, and I'll take you into the street and give , 
 you a lickin', every one on ye ; I'll be hanged if I don't. Now 
 say it agin, if yo dare." 
 
 George Washington made this proclamation standing in the 
 door, pointing with his finger at Hope, who sat sewing, her 
 long curls falling over her work. He was greatly excited ; 
 the end of his nose was redder than ever before, as if ready 
 to burst with indignation. The remainder of the boys seemed 
 to have no inclination to " say it agin ;" perhaps they did not 
 dare, for evidently George Washington was a champion-king 
 among them, and they hardly cared to have a taste of his 
 pugilistic quality. After gazing for a moment, one shouted, 
 followed by all the rest in concert : " Yes, she's handsumer ! 
 Jack Peacock, you're right ; she's handsumer than the wax 
 figger. She's handsumer than any leddy we ever see in 
 Broadway. Does that suit you, Jack ?" 
 
 At this juncture Mrs. Peacock's door was opened, and she 
 came down the stairs, followed by eight minor Peacocks, 
 Serepty Louizy in her arms, screaming at the utmost limit of 
 her voice, louder and yet louder as she drew nearer the realm 
 of sugar-plums. 
 
 " Mercy on us ! George Washington, what is the hallooin' ?" 
 
 " Mamm,' taint none of your business. I wish you wouldn't 
 allers be a 'pearin' round, when you ain't wanted. Rep, you 
 kittle owl, stop your screechin', or I'll help you stop," said 
 George Washington, evidently nettled by the sudden inundat 
 ing efflux of all his family constituents. 
 
 There was a just perceptible quivering in Mrs. Peacock's 
 motherly voice, as if her motherly heart had been reached and 
 slightly jarred, by George Washington's rude, unfilial repri 
 mand, as she said : " Til tell you one thing, George Washington , 
 Miss Hope won't never take any notion to you at all, if you
 
 George- Washington Peacock in a Fire. 181 
 
 ain't a more perlite man to your own mother. Miss Hope is 
 a lady, every inch of her." 
 
 For the first time in her life Mrs. Peacock had found the 
 spring which, if only touched, reached George Washington's 
 heart. He looked through the open door at Hope. He hung 
 his head in silent shame. His companions had never seen 
 their king, Jack, cowed before. They looked exultant, as if 
 they would like to laugh, but did not dare, lest they should 
 receive a thrashing for the same in less than five minutes. 
 " Come, boys," said George Washington ; and they went 
 away much quieter than they came. 
 
 Hope was the daily recipient of George Washington's 
 bounties. He never presented them to her face to face, yet 
 never left room to doubt for whom they were intended. 
 Mysterious newspapers, illustrated with all the wonders of 
 the day, found their way under the door-sill during the hours 
 of darkness. We would find them in the morning with 
 " Miss Hope" scrawled on their white margin. In the same 
 auspicious hour, we often found a portly bag hanging on the 
 outside door-knob, labelled in glaring capitals : " Miss Hope." 
 Upon exploring its depths, we usually found delights for the 
 stomach, in the form of peanut candy, lozenges, peppermint 
 drops, cracked nuts., and mottoes ; or we found something 
 pretty to wear ; a comb, a cornelian cross, a little bottle of 
 eau de cologne, and once it contained a pair of gilt washed 
 ear rings, garnished with green glass, which must have cost 
 
 the stupendous sum of twenty-five cents. 
 
 ** * * * * ** 
 
 It was mid-winter. For many days it had been fearfully 
 cold. One night, after many hours of restless sleep, I woke 
 with a choking sensation as if breath was departing, while 
 Morna and Hope seemed to respire as if suffocating. It was 
 a moonless night, very dark ; I could not see, yet felt that the 
 room was swimming in smoke. I started, as I saw a tongue 
 of fire, a narrow, creeping tongue, curl along the crevice of 
 the door. 
 
 " Girls ! girls ! I believe that the house is on fire," I said, 
 quickly. They had wandered too far away on the other side 
 of the gate of visions to be easily recalled. 
 
 " Girls ! Morna, Hope, come ! Do come ! The house is on 
 fire. Be quick, quick !" 
 
 They were awake now. Not a word was spoken ; tho 
 cei'tainty of an awful truth was upon us. It seemed not a 
 Becond before we passed to the door, gasping for breath. It
 
 182 Victoire. 
 
 was through the door which led into our sitting-room that 
 the smoke crowded, and the tongues of flame crept. Would 
 it be possible to save anything ? I opened the door to see. 
 A dense ocean of smoke, hot, stifling, rushed through the 
 dead silence of the room into my face. The wood-work 
 crackled ; the blackness was seamed with fire. Tortuous 
 serpents of lurid flame writhed on the walls. Fitful, fiery 
 glimmers darted athwart the purple gloom, the shadows of 
 the ascending demon, who had not yet burst into the room in 
 all his resplendent blazing fury. It was too late to save a thing ; 
 I fell back suffocated before the advancing, thickening 
 smoke. 
 
 " Quick, or those children will be burned in their beds," 
 said Hope, as we three reached the stair leading to the next 
 story together. In an instant more we were knocking at the 
 door of the Peacocks. 
 
 " Mr. Peacock ! Mr. Peacock !" we heard the lady call ; 
 " Mr. Peacock, I say." 
 
 " Well ! well !" 
 
 " Don't you hear that dre'ful knockin' ?" 
 
 " Do let me alone ! You're allers hearin' knockins." 
 
 " The house is on fire ! If you want to save yourselves, come 
 quick." 
 
 Alas ! Mr. and Mrs. Peacock were too busy talking about 
 the probability and improbability of this " knockin' '' to hear 
 the agonized call. There was not a second to lose. I threw 
 myself, with more force than I dreamed of possessing, against 
 the door. 
 
 "There; I guess you'll believe thafs a knockin'," I heard 
 Mrs. Peacock say to her doubting husband, as I fell upon the 
 floor of her outer room. 
 
 " Well, I'd like to know what is to pay !" groaned Mr. 
 Peacock, as if there was no such thing on earth as a quiet 
 sleep for him. 
 
 We were all in the room by this time. "The house is on 
 fire! Unless you make haste the stairs will be in flames. 
 Then there will be no way of escape, not even by the roof; 
 for you know this building is higher than those around it. 
 Can't we get these children out safe?" 
 
 "The house on fire!" murmured Mrs. Peacock, dreamily, 
 as if the thought was swimming pleasantly ever her oblivious 
 senses. " The house on fire ? Then our names will be in all 
 the papers in the mornin'." 
 
 " The house is on fire ! The Lord have mercy on us, for we
 
 George Washington Peacock in a Fire. 183 
 
 can't all get out, that's sure," moaned Mr. Peacock ; and we 
 heard him feeling for his clothes in the dark. 
 
 " The house on fire !" screamed George Washington, as he 
 came rushing from another room. " Then it's time to go to 
 yellin'." 
 
 "It is time to get a light. Will you find one, George 
 Washington ?" I asked. We had not been standing still all 
 these seconds. We were taking the poor little Peacocks from 
 their warm nests, as fast as six hands could in the dark. 
 Mrs. Peacock had arrived at something like a state of con 
 sciousness, and was moving as fast as her capabilities would 
 allow. 
 
 " Oh, George Washington, can't you save two of your little 
 brothers and sisters ? We will take the rest," implored Hope, 
 as he produced a light. 
 
 " If I don't save nothin' else, I'll save you. I'll die in the 
 fire if I don't," said the boy, his great face looking ghastly 
 white in the light. He opened the window. He thrust out 
 his head and shouted, " Fire ! fire ! fire !" in a clarion voice. 
 He suddenly stopped ; we looked, saw the empty, open case 
 ment, but no George Washington. George Washington had 
 vanished through the third story window. 
 
 " George Washington ! George Washington, my son ! Oh, 
 my boy !" cried Mrs. Peacock out of the window, forgetting 
 the rapidly approaching flames, heedless for once of the 
 screams of Serepty Louizy, thinking only of her first born. 
 We were trying, with Mr. Peacock's aid, who was carrying 
 Serepty Louizy, to marshal the crying, terrified children out 
 of the room. 
 
 " George Washington ! George Washington !" again cried 
 Mrs. Peacock, leaning far out 9f the window. A voice 
 came up through the darkness his voice from the street far 
 below : 
 
 " Mamm, stop your yellin' ; take them young un's up onto 
 the ruf as quick as blazes, or you're all goners. Oh, mamm, 
 take care of her. I'm comin'." 
 
 We all rushed to the hall. It was too late ; we could not 
 descend; the stairs were all ablaze. It had taken too long to 
 get the family of twelve Peacocks fairly out of their nest. 
 It was well that Mr. Peacock had not followed George Wash 
 ington's example. Had he done so, he would have been 
 shivered into a hundred pieces, for he had not George 
 Washington's deep, easy cushions of flesh to fall upon ; 
 and if he had seen fit to have killed himself, what would
 
 184 Victoire. 
 
 we have done with Glory Ann, whom he carried, or with 
 Moses whom he led ? Mrs. Peacock had seized Serepty Lou- 
 izy, while Morna, Hope, and I led the other six by the hands. 
 Every little Peacock screaming, on we fled, the great masses 
 of smoke and flame rioting fast in our wake. We passed the 
 fourth story, we reached the garret ; we gained, but with no 
 small difficulty, the roof. It was no poetical task, in the dark 
 ness, in the bitter cold, to lift nine helpless, weeping children 
 out upon a frozen housetop. Now the street was ram 
 pant with half-frantic people, every one of whom knew that 
 there was a family inside at the mercy of the flames. The night 
 was filled with the clangor of the bells, the wild alarm-bells ; 
 fiercely they rang, till the frigid air seemed to throb and pant 
 with their eager desire, their impetuous pain. The fire-engines 
 rattled along the street; firemen shouted hoarsely, and called 
 and answered each other through their keen, shrill trumpets. 
 Boys screamed fire, until their voices broke like the tense snow 
 creaking under their rebounding feet. The multitude groaned 
 and shouted. The engines sent up their jets of gushing 
 water still the fire raged on; still we stood among the 
 screaming children, on the high housetop, while our foe 
 drew nearer, nearer. We heard the crackling of burning 
 wood; the crash of glass as it shivered and fell; heard the 
 low, throbbing motion of pent and pressing flame, panting 
 to burst unrestrained into one all-enveloping terror. Clouds 
 and columns of purple smoke arose, enwrapped us, and 
 rolled away in fiery mist, in glimmering banners of ensan 
 guined vapor. Over us the heaven hung molten red ; the 
 black air was sown thick with fire-sparks, uneasy stars, stir 
 ring in the gloom of Erebus. The fire broke in lurid splen 
 dor through the melting* casements; it threw knots of sul 
 phurous flame to the very housetop. Blazing scarlet, tipped 
 with keen blue tongues, vivid, eager, it lapped the cornices 
 at our feet. In flaming pennants it streamed against the sky, 
 magnificent in fury; then falling apart in disjointed, glitter 
 ing chains, dropped back into the night. I felt as if in 
 the presence of an omnipotent yet pitiless foe. I was 
 awed by the might of a terrific power. I shuddered as 
 I looked on those around me, as the crying of the children 
 pierced the surrounding terror. I had ever expected to die 
 quietly in my bed, and not to pass away in any heroic or ro 
 mantic manner whatever, and although probabilities were 
 slightly against it this expectation did not forsake me now. 
 No ! Deliverance would come ; yet I am not sure that
 
 George Washington Peacock in a Fire. 185 
 
 the deliverer assumed before my vision the form of George 
 Washington Peacock. 
 
 " Save them ! Save them ! Save them I " were the shouts 
 which came up from below, as a ladder laid its blessed head 
 against the smoking cornice. In another instant George 
 Washington's head, half-buried in a fireman's hat, appeared. 
 " I said I was comin'. Come, Miss Hope, come, Miss Hope, 
 come ! The fire is almost to the roof ; no tellin' how soon the 
 walls '11 fall. Come, Miss Hope !" 
 
 " Oh, George Washington ! Don't you care nothin' about 
 your mother, nor Serepty Louizy, nor " cried his 
 mother. 
 
 Hope took Mrs. Peacock's hand and walked with her 
 carefully to the edge of the roof. " Save your mother, your 
 father, all, before you ask me. I cannot, will not come, until 
 the last," she whispered. 
 
 " I'm goin' to save them. I'm goin' to save them all ! I 
 only wants to save you fust. I wants to save you." 
 
 Mrs. Peacock had no intention of being saved last. Already 
 with great apparent coolness she was stepping down upon the 
 ladder with Serepty Louizy in her arms, calling : " Come, Mr. 
 Peacock, bring along the children. Come, young ladies, 
 there's time enough if you'll only hurry." 
 
 The ladder was fastened to the roof of an outbuilding in the 
 rear. A man stood here, and another midway on the ladder, 
 as George Washington brought them down ; while an excited 
 crowd of men, women, and children groaned, cried, and shouted 
 upon the ground. The fire raged most furiously in the front 
 of the building, where it originated, but pressed fast and hot 
 upon the rear ; piercing with a thousand glittering poniards 
 the purple blackness of bursting smoke. Up and down, up 
 and down, through the dense stifling air, passed George 
 Washington in rapid succession, at each return shouting 
 more wildly and despairingly for " Miss Hope," yet each 
 time rushing away with the child which was proffered him, 
 as if he felt that it was the only way by which he might at last 
 save her. Eight children had passed down ; the only one left 
 was Glory Ann in her father's arms. There was not a mo 
 ment to be lost. 
 
 " George Washington, here's Gloi-y Ann ; take her. Go, 
 go, young ladies. I ain't the man to leave three ladies to burn 
 alive on the top of a house, or to be smashed in the ruins," 
 said Mr. Peacock. 
 
 "Think of your children. What could they do without
 
 1 86 Victoire. 
 
 you ? There is no one to need us, and if we die, may it be 
 together!" said Morna Avondale. 
 
 " We are not going to die here. The roof will neither 
 burn nor fall while Hope stands on it. Go, Mr. Peacock !" 
 I said. Mr. Peacock went, carrying Glory Ann down the 
 tottering ladder. He left George Washington on its topmost 
 round screaming, as if in his last agony: "Miss Hope, Miss 
 
 Hope, Miss Hope ! I won't live if you don't ; I'll be d d if 
 
 I will." 
 
 Morna came ; Hope came ; we stood upon the ladder together. 
 We had scarcely gained it when the tire, thick, gorgeous, 
 grand in its fury, swept over the entire roof, and sent a 
 thousand spears of forked flame up into the bloody air. 
 
 We felt the scorching heat in our faces. The ladder tot 
 tered under our feet ; bright threads'of fire curled around its 
 bars ; yet we passed down unharmed, and as we touched the 
 ground, a great shout went up to heaven from the vast crowd 
 which had seemed breathless in its silence a moment before. 
 
 George Washington rolled on the ground in a paroxysm of 
 joy, laughing, crying, shouting in the same breath ; Mrs. 
 Peacock stood amid her group of little Peacocks as if utterly 
 satisfied ; but Mr. Peacock, poor man, might have looked 
 happier. Shelter and food were proffered by a hundred 
 voices, -and only when I heard them did I begin to realize 
 how great had been our exposure on that fiercely cold night. 
 Mr. Peacock accepted the offer of a friend who lived near, and 
 there was nothing better that we could do than to go with 
 them and wait for the dawn. 
 
 It was deep morning when George Washington entered, 
 looking much the paler for the exertions of the night before. 
 
 " Mainni, I hope you'll be suited now; you've got your 
 name in the paper," he said, throwing her a morning journal. 
 She was half asleep when he came in, but quickly emerged 
 from her trance, and read aloud : 
 
 " A TENEMENT HOUSE in street was last night destroyed 
 
 by fire. How the fire originated is not known. The second 
 floor was occupied by three young ladies, designers by pro 
 fession, whose names we have not learned. They lost every 
 thing but the garments which they wore. The apartments 
 on the third floor were occupied by Mr. Peacock, liis wife, 
 and ten children. The entire family, as well as the lives of 
 the young ladies, were saved through the heroism of a lad of 
 twelve, the son of Mr. Peacock. The brave boy descended
 
 George Washington Peacock in a Fire. 187 
 
 from the third story by means of the eaves conductor, which 
 fortunately passed very near the window. He procured a lad 
 der which was secured in the rear of the burning building, and, 
 ascending to the roof, assisted in conveying his nine brothers 
 and sisters to the ground in safety. Mr. Peacock, who is a 
 worthy man, has lost everything but his family. We trust 
 that the Christian public will administer to their necessi 
 ties." 
 
 " Well, it's worth a fire any day to have such a notice of you 
 in the paper, and to have people what are somethin', speak 
 of you with such great esteem. I haint a doubt but I'll have 
 nicer things offered me now, than I had afore. That aint 
 sayin' as I shall take 'em, though. Serepty Ann Green that 
 was oughtn't to be takin' other folks' cast-offs. I allers knew 
 my name would get into print. George Washington, come 
 here and kiss your mother, you blessed boy." 
 
 " Mamm, I don't feel like kissin'," said George Washington, 
 in a much softer tone than usual, looking around with an 
 anxious, questioning look. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I knows who you're lookin' for. Allers thinkin' of 
 Miss Hope, as'if there wasn't nobody else in the world. 
 Well, Miss Hope is sleepin' safe and sound ; and I should 
 think that you'd be glad to let her rest, George Washing 
 ton." 
 
 In the meantime I had taken up the newspaper, as Mrs. 
 Peacock had read the only article which contained any interest 
 for her. I was looking over its columns in that listless, weary* 
 way which people have when they are preoccupied or troubled, 
 and so glance at the daily news to dissipate their irksome, 
 thought, knowing of course that it can contain nothing of 
 personal moment to them, and yet feeling a vague, undefined 
 hope that it may. I said to myself: " Well, we must find 
 other rooms, or else go back to the comfortable home," shud 
 dering at the simple thought. I turned to the advertisements 
 for " board" and " rooms to let." Ran through the whole 
 column, finding nothing satisfactory ; and at last came^ to the 
 advertisements, " personal." I liked to read them sometimes, 
 they contained such odd messages ; and so my eyes ran on 
 carelessly, wearily. Suddenly I started ; I shook in every nerve 
 as if I had received a galvanic shock. 
 
 " Mercy on us ! What's the matter ? You look as though 
 you were dead, only your eyes. I couldn't look so scared, if 
 the world fell to pieces," exclaimed Mrs. Peacock.
 
 i88 Victoire. 
 
 Did I really see it ? Did I read aright ? Yes, there it was, 
 in clear print before my eyes : 
 
 " VICTOIRE V : If you are in trouble or sorrow, re 
 member that you have one friend, who must remain your 
 friend while he lives. I know not your address, yet hope that 
 this will meet your eyes. 
 
 "HENRI R ." 
 
 HENRI ROCHELLE. 
 
 If I was in "trouble or sorrow," Henri Rochelle was the 
 very last person whom I wished to know it. Was I never to 
 escape him ? Was it impossible to elude his keen scent ? 
 Would he overtake me, confront me, hold me fast at last ? 
 These questions I asked as the newspaper hung in my nerve 
 less hand, while I marvelled over the message which it con 
 tained for me. Why had he waited until he thought that the 
 probabilities were all in favor of my being in "trouble or sor 
 row, before he had announced his continued interest in my 
 welfare ? Why was this man, of all others, the one to remind 
 me of my dependent and needy condition ? Why was he, 
 from whom I wished least to receive it, the first and only one 
 to offer me succor and consolation ? Was he to be cognizant 
 of all my misfortunes ? Was he in my destiny ? After all, 
 was his the soul towards which mine was tending the 
 elected haven into which the great tide of my being would 
 inevitably flow ? My fervid self, must it surge and surge 
 against this rock-bound man only to settle at last becalmed 
 and cold into the chill, deep reservoir of his unfathomed soul ? 
 A man of marked intellect, of rare culture, of family and of 
 fortune, why was I not in haste to leave my life of poverty 
 and obscurity, to become his dowered companion, his chosen 
 and cherished wife ? f was well aware I might look far and 
 wait long to find another man in all respects his peer. The 
 golden door of his mental palace seldom stood ajar, never 
 swung wide open to pilgrims and wayfarers. Only the in 
 vited dared to intrude, and only a few of the elected ones who 
 entered felt through every fibre of their being thoroughly 
 Avanned and welcomed. 
 
 Noble and good, why did this man repel ? Not because I
 
 Henri Rochelle. 189 
 
 doubted his nobleness; my faith in him had never wavered 
 for an instant. His seeming coldness I knew arose from 
 no real coldness of heart. Rich in his own self-sustaining 
 power, he had never realized the heart-poverty and want of 
 weaker, less self-reliant natures. Henri Rophelle was eclectic 
 by nature. Filled with a calm benevolence towards all 
 humanity, his personal affection was won by few, and these 
 most sacredly chosen. He could not lavish upon the many 
 the love which all his life he had garnered inviolate for one. 
 What a privilege to be that one ! Then why did I feel like 
 flying to the end of the earth to avoid him ? " Do you dislike 
 him ? Do you really dislike him ?" I asked suddenly of my 
 palpitating heart. 
 
 It started at the imperious, uncompromising question, but 
 answered quietly enough, No ! I do not dislike him ; perhaps 
 I even like him a little. I cannot quite forget how noble he 
 is, how kind, how true; His face with its clear cut, manly fea 
 tures, with its strong, calm meaning, often fills my thought, 
 if it does not warm my love. I esteem him, I admire him. 
 
 I yes, I think that I like him, but I do not love him. 
 
 His nature is positive to mine. I feel it as a strong force, but 
 it does not touch me soothingly. It does not subdue me, 
 melt me, win me, like that voice. Oh, why did you leave me, 
 lost voice ? Oh, why did you forsake me, celestial eyes, in 
 whose splendor the soul sat enshrined ! The voice of 
 Henri Rochelle does not penetrate to the soft spring-realm of 
 my being, whose pulses tingle with the delicious stir of youth's 
 enkindling ecstasy a realm dewy with sympathy, fragrant 
 with the bursting bloom of love ; but in the dry desert of the 
 brain he fans the flames of pride till they wax angry and hot, 
 calling all my nature to revolt. I can but turn in haughty 
 coldness from a proffered favor, when I read in the donor's 
 asserting eyes the satisfying thought : " I give more than you 
 can return." I will not accept a gift unless in my own way I 
 can return an equivalent. Ah, that is why I recoil from 
 Henri Rochelle. He ever seems to say : " I love you best of 
 all mortal creatures, yet I do not need you so much as you 
 need me. I possess all the qualities which you lack, the ones 
 which you most essentially need. I love you, I want you, but 
 I can live without you. You neither love me, nor want me, 
 yet you cannot live very easily without me. Disappointment 
 does not dilute one drop of my manhood. I am no less the 
 strong man, performing no less the strong man's work, because 
 Victoire chooses to say ' I do not love you.' All my wounded
 
 i go Victoire. 
 
 affection oozes away through the rock-cut channel of reason, 
 leaving my heart healed and whole. All my superfluous emo 
 tion flows out and is lost in the manifold avenues of manly 
 activity. When I rest from labor, in my moments of musing, 
 the thought will press in upon my heart : How much I love 
 her! bul^it is ever coupled with another I can live without 
 her, a not unhappy or inharmonious life. But she is in need 
 of me ; of my care, of my protection ; and she needs my guar 
 dianship not the less because she protests that she needs it 
 not at all. She is a woman ; I cannot forget the story of de 
 pendence which this fact tells; the unrest, the suppressed 
 power, the love, the yearning for sympathy, infinite, un 
 realized guerdons of the power and weakness of her sex. 
 Rebel she may, but her positive soul must live a negative, 
 life. She can paint her life into a picture ; she can sew, 
 with a burning thought inwrought in every stitch ; yet 
 she will come back to herself at last, and look aghast down 
 into the great void of her own being. She thinks that she is 
 wedded to art, poor child, as if a woman could live upon any 
 abstraction. Her nature is not half awake ; when it is tho 
 roughly aroused, when she feels within her the yearning heart 
 of womanhood ; when her time comes to love, when she longs 
 for human companionship, for human sympathy as a woman 
 can, we shall hear no more about art being her husband. She 
 dreams of fame ; but to one of her nature fame can never be 
 anything but a larger love ; and at last, if the world comes to 
 praise what her hands have wrought, she will turn away un 
 satisfied, feeling that the praise of many is naught to the love 
 of one. The cumulated tide of affection, pent so long, will 
 overflow at last and drown her woman's heart ; mine must 
 be the soul into which the sweet flood shall pour itself. Yes, 
 it is time to find .Victoire Vernoid ; may be she is humbled a 
 little now ; not too proud to confess herself a very woman, 
 needing both a husband and a home." 
 
 Then my heart answered very slowly : " She does not need 
 so much a shelter for her body as for her soul ; it is her poor 
 young heart that wants a home." You cannot give me that 
 home. Henri Rochelle, you shall not find me, I said, starting 
 in defiance, as if he stood before me. My voice rang cold, as 
 when in days gone I looked into his penetrative eye, and 
 said : " Monsieur Rochelle, I will not marry you ;" yet it 
 quivered, died with its own impotence, for it heard an an 
 swering whisper, silver-clear: "He is in your destiny. Of 
 what avail is it to fight against your fate ?"
 
 Henri Rochelle. 191 
 
 My voice aroused Mrs. Peacock, who had rocked herself 
 and Serepty Louizy to sleep in a little chair, whose placid 
 swaying movement made heavenly melody compared with her 
 own lost one of diabolical memory. I was obliged to the re 
 cent fire for burning up that chair. I had never listened to 
 it without a conviction that a little squeaking devil was im 
 prisoned in each rocker. 
 
 " Lor'," said Mrs. Peacock in her most drowsy tone, " was 
 you readin' or was you talkin' to yourself, Miss Victory ?" 
 
 " I was talking to myself." 
 
 "You warn't !" she said,. her eyes of skim-milk blue swim 
 ming in misty wonder. " Don't tell me such unlikely stuff. 
 Why when I was Serepty Ann Green of Greentown, my aunt 
 Jemimy Jane use't allers to say that if folks talked to their- 
 selves, jest as sure as they were talkin' they were crazy, or 
 goin' to be, which is jest the same." 
 
 " There are few people that have not a thread of insanity 
 running through some portion of their nature ; even you are 
 slightly crazy, Mrs. Peacock." 
 
 " Me ! me ! Mercy on us, when I was Serepty " 
 
 Here she was prevented from repeating the information 
 which I had ample reason to remember by this time (viz. 
 that she belonged to the Greens of Greentown) by the en 
 trance of Mr. Peacock, accompanied by a handsomely dressed, 
 sweet-faced, middle-aged lady. 
 
 Mr. Peacock had been seeking another tenement. " He had 
 succeeded in finding one which he hoped might do," he said. 
 He thought that "the sooner they got into it the better, all 
 round." The last remark was addressed especially and em 
 phatically to Mrs. Peacock, who looked as if it was all the 
 same to her easy soul if they never got into it. Indeed she 
 would have preferred visiting on to the end of her mortal 
 days. But Mr. Peacock, who had a " realizing sense " of 
 things, was eager to depart. Poor man, he was unwilling to 
 wear out his welcome. Although they had come into the 
 home of one of his own relatives, he was well aware that an 
 influx of eleven cousins at once was more than even a reason 
 able person could be cheerfully burdened with for any great 
 length of time. 
 
 Here the stranger lady remarked that " she was glad to 
 meet Mr. and Mrs. Peacock. She had read of their misfortune 
 in the morning paper, and started immediately to find them. 
 She was aware that the people who inhabited tenement-houses 
 were the innocent victims of a mercenary system ; that their
 
 192 Victoire. 
 
 lives were recklessly risked by avaricious men, who knew 
 when they built their wretched houses that if they ever caught 
 fire it would be impossible for the persons who lived in them 
 to escape. She had been in deep distress on account of the 
 great amount of suffering and death occasioned by fires during 
 the winter. She had done all in her power for the afflicted 
 ones. She should be happy, indeed she should be very happy, 
 if she could in any way relieve the necessities of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Peacock. And it would afford her especial pleasure to make 
 a present to the noble boy who had saved the lives of the 
 entire family." 
 
 George Washington was lying upon the lounge, his face 
 prone upon the cushion, where he had buried it in his disap 
 pointment at not finding Hope in the room, some hours before. 
 Whether asleep or awake was not known to the company. Cer 
 tainly he gave no visible token that the lady's kind compliment 
 had penetrated into either ear's tympanum. 
 
 " Oh, yes, mother's darlin' son ! My George Washington, you 
 mean ; that's him on the lounge. True enough he did save all 
 his family an' three young ladies besides ; that's one of 'em, 
 Miss Victory. But he showed who was nearest an' dearest 
 by savin' his mother an' this blessed derlin' baby fust," said 
 Mrs. Peacock, treating Serepty Louizy to an unpleasant and 
 unexpected leap in the air, in order to bring her into nearer 
 proximity to the stranger ; while the one-year-old young lady, 
 after her usual mode of asserting her identity, began to scream 
 in the lady's face. 
 
 " There ! there ! muzer's honey bee mustn't frighten the lady 
 with her music ; no she mustn't ! there, there !" and Mrs. Pea 
 cock fell back to a violent but quiet rocking, still musical com 
 pared to her own lost household bump and thump. 
 
 " Yes, he saved his mother and this darlin' baby fust. At 
 sech times natur' will have her way, an' show who's nearest 
 an' dearest." (At these words a spasmodic twitching of the 
 lounge-cushion proved conclusively to me that George Wash 
 ington was not as sound asleep as he might have been.) "I'm 
 sure you're a lady to remember my George Washington 
 yet 'taint no more than he deserves. You're a lady to re 
 member us in our misfortin'; and though I ses it myself, I 
 must say it, it ain't no more than we deserve. Folks allers 
 should be thought of in misfortin'. Not that we've a favor to 
 ask ; no, not a favor ; though I dusn't say we wouldn't accept 
 one. People that have done the world as many favors as the 
 Greens don't ou^ht to be afraid to take a favor in misfortin'.
 
 Henri Rochelle. 193 
 
 I knows I've everything to be thankful for, that all my fine 
 family is saved. If they had a burned I should have clean 
 died. All my nine children is asleep, muzer's dear lambs. I 
 must show them to the lady afore she goes. They is all asleep 
 but Serepty Louizy, muzer's honey bee, with her little music 
 box." 
 
 The lady's face now wore a surprised look, but she said : " I 
 shall consider it a privilege to restore to yourself and children 
 a few of the comforts which you have lost." 
 
 " Oh, yes, we've lost so many comforts, 'taint much use tryin' 
 to 'place 'em again. We don't ask it of nobody. I'm sure 
 I don't ask nobody to 'place my nice furnitur' that's burnt. 
 I'm sure I don't ask, yet it does seem as if I couldn't get on 
 Avith any that wasn't jest as nice. There's my beau'ful sofy 
 burned to a crisp, the beau'ful sofy I brought from my father's 
 coun . Oh, you don't know that I belong to the Greens 
 of ." 
 
 " D n it ! (There, I didn't mean to say it. I told her I 
 wouldn't.) Confound those Greens ! Mamm, I wish you'd 
 forget the name, so you couldn't never speak it again. The 
 Greens ain't no better than the Peacocks, not a hair. I 
 wouldn't give a cuss for the whole kit." 
 
 " George Washington, don't you see the lady ?" said Mrs. 
 Peacock, in a tone nearer consternation than I had ever heard 
 her speak in before. She had thought George Washington 
 asleep or she would not have dared to have referred to the 
 Greens, or her father's country-seat, and was utterly unpre 
 pared for such an unexpected torpedo explosion. There upon 
 the lounge sat George Washington, his black eyes looking as 
 if they would explode with rage ; every pugilistic hair on his 
 head standing erect, the berry on the tip of his nose so red it 
 seemed ready to fly in any direction. 
 
 " George Washington's just waked up. The fire has put 
 him out of his mind a little ;" his mother said apologetically to 
 the stranger. 
 
 " I'm right in my mind, or I wouldn't know that you is lyin'. 
 Mamm, what's the use of tellin' lies folks can look straight 
 through ? Anybody with two eyes in their head can see that 
 you never had a gran' sofy. What's the use o'tryin' to make 
 things out gran'er than they is ? Don't you think other folks 
 has eyes ? What's the use o' lyin'? You know you never had 
 a sofy worth sittin' on. You know the old shack you had 
 never saw your father's. Didn't I buy it at a Chatham Square 
 auction ? Didn't I give just fifty cents for the old skeleton 
 
 9
 
 194 Victoire. 
 
 what wasn't worth a picayune ? Didn't I earn the money 
 screechin' on Sunday ? I aint goin' to screech no more on Sun 
 day. Miss Hope says it's wicked, and if she says it is, it is. 
 And if it's wicked to screech, and if it's wicked to swear, it's 
 wicked to lie. It's wicked to call an old frame that hadn't a 
 spear of haircloth on it, nor a sign of a cushion but rags, a 
 beau'ful sofy ; 'sinuatin' you'd like the present of another jest 
 as beau'ful ; jest as if folks hadn't eyes !" 
 
 Having concluded his speech, George "Washington again 
 buried his face in the lounge-cushion. Mr. Peacock, unfortu 
 nate man, looked as if his trials were greater than he could 
 bear. Mrs. Peacock had relapsed into her usual stare of 
 serenity. 
 
 " Mother's darlin' son is out of his mind ; no wonder, after 
 that dreadful jump. The lady will excuse him, mother knows." 
 
 " Umph !" groaned George Washington from the depth of 
 the lounge-cushion. 
 
 The look of surprise on the lady's face by this time had 
 deepened into amazement. Evidently the Peacocks differed 
 slightly from any people whom she had ever met before. 
 
 "I hope that in time you will be able to procure another 
 sofa as good as the one which you have lost," she said, quietly ; 
 " but there are many things which at present you need much 
 more. I will send to your new address some bedding and 
 comfortable clothing for your children, and if you will give 
 me his measure, I will have a good new suit ordered for your 
 son. And will you take this little gift from me, my boy, for 
 being brave and noble ? I hope that you will read it, remem 
 ber it, and obey its precepts. Begin now to honor your 
 father and mother, that your days may be long in the land 
 which the Lord thy God giveth thee," said the lady, going to 
 George Washington, and taking from her muff a Bible bound 
 richly in embossed velvet. 
 
 There was a sensitive cord somewhere in George Wash 
 ington's soul which vibrated exquisitely to the sound of a 
 sweet voice, to the rhythmic flow of melodious syllables. He 
 was fascinated, subdued by the nameless charm outflowing 
 from an harmonious presence, and from gentle, high-bred 
 manners; yet in the midst of his very fascination the poor boy 
 felt wofully ashamed because conscious of an utter want of 
 these gracious gifts in himself. 
 
 He arose to his feet when the lady began to address him, 
 but when he saw the Bible, he hung his head in great con 
 fusion.
 
 Henri Rochelle. 
 
 " I don't deserve it ; I knows I doesn't !" he exclaimed. 
 *' I doesn't deserve any such handsum talk, nor no sich hand- 
 sum book. I'm a misrable chap, so I am. And I can't help 
 it, cause Mamm ses I'm marked, and I believes I is. O dear, 
 I'm such a mis-rab-ble chap !" Here the words began to blub 
 ber from his mouth, and the tears to bubble from his eyes, 
 and again he plunged his face into the lounge-cushion. 
 
 " If you are as good as you can be, praying and trying all 
 the time to be better, that is all that is required of you, my 
 child," said the sweet lady soothingly, as she laid the Bible 
 down by his side. Then remarking to Mrs. Peacock that the 
 bedding should be sent to their new abode before night, with 
 a gracious bow and winning smile, she gathered up her grace 
 ful robes and departed one of God's human angels, whose 
 lives of heavenly love save this city from the doom of Sodom. 
 
 She left a dreary blank in the room. Alas, when some 
 people go, what a great want they leave behind them ! A 
 dead silence followed her departure. Mrs. Peacock, holding 
 Serepty Louizy, swayed slowly back and forth, with her eyes 
 shut, while Mr. Peacock looked as afflicted as usual. 
 
 " George Washington, I wish you didn't sass your mother 
 afore folks," he said at last. 
 
 "I wish I didn't," sobbed George Washington from the 
 lounge-cushion. " And I wish that Mamm didn't make me so 
 blazin' mad, tellin' yarns that folks can see clean through that 
 they ain't true. 'Tain't no use." 
 
 " No, 'I wish you wouldn't make us all silly and ridiculous 
 afore folks, Miss Peacock," said her husband, deprecatingly. 
 Whatever the internal weaknesses of his family might be, Mr. 
 Peacock was too true a man to wish them to be made public. 
 
 " Lud !" said his wife, opening her eyes with peffect com 
 posure ; " if you don't talk as if you thought you was some 
 body, nobody will treat you as if you was somebody." 
 
 Before night we separated from the Peacocks. In parting, 
 Mrs. Peacock observed that she should still continue to neigh 
 bor; indeed she should. "A few blocks of houses wasn't 
 agoin' to keep her from neighborin' with ladies. There was 
 George Washington, we should probably see him every day ; 
 she didn't believe that he could live through a day without 
 seein' Miss Hope ;" adding, as her special private conviction, 
 which we "mustn't mention for the world, that the Sunday- 
 school was takin' effect, that George Washington was under 
 a mighty powerful conviction for his sins ; and, for her part, she 
 should pray hard that the burden might be removed."
 
 196 Victoire. 
 
 We went into a single room to which we had been directed 
 by Mr. Peacock. " It wasn't good enough for us," he said, 
 " but perhaps we could make it do until we could find a bet 
 ter." Alas ! we could no longer afford a better one. We car 
 ried nothing into this little room but ourselves. If the other 
 apartment had been plain, this was naked. The few articles 
 of home comfort which we had gathered about us, our entire 
 wardrobe, the new pictures, the white rose all had been 
 destroyed ; and yet the fierce winter was upon us. We 
 shrank from the thought of going into any new dreary board 
 ing-house in our bereft condition. Besides, "board" had 
 reached an almost fabulous price ; and the cheapest would be 
 a dearer mode of living than getting along in a single room 
 alone by ourselves. 
 
 My heart sank within me as I thought of my lost pictures 
 the portrait of my mother, the death scene at Les Delices, the 
 others almost as dear, still hanging unclaimed under the ara 
 besque arches of Mrs. Skinher's luxurious parlors. " Oh, shall I 
 ever get them back ; will they ever be mine again ?" I moan 
 ed, almost in despair. The hundred dollars which had been 
 deposited in the bank in the autumn, as so much towards their 
 redemption, had received no addition thus far during the win 
 ter, although it might very soon, if this calamitous fire had 
 not occurred. Our housekeeping outfit had cost something ; 
 and then, just as we were fairly settled, the employers of 
 Morna and Hope had said : " No more work until spring." 
 The city swarmed with hungry seamstresses. Hundreds were 
 working for a pittance which would not save them from death ; 
 hundreds more were besieging offices of law, their eyes wild 
 with watching, their voices dissolved in tears, imploring men 
 in power fb secure to them the meagre wages for toil, of which 
 they had been defrauded ; hundreds more were workless, 
 homeless, ready to die. The whole system of women-em 
 ployment was false, cruel, iniquitous. God never intended 
 that the needle should be an instrument of torture to woman. 
 Sewing is one of her most natural, genial, poetic employ 
 ments. Her most delicate fancies, her most gorgeous dreams, 
 her purest aspirations, her very might to do and suffer, she 
 has wrought into the garments which her hands have 
 fashioned. Ever since Eve stitched together the pretty fig- 
 leaf apron, women have taken to sewing as naturally as birds 
 to singing. Sewing is one of the sweetest symbols of her 
 femininity. It is the synonym of peace, of fireside chatter, of 
 evening quiet, of heart communion, and of household joy.
 
 Henri Rochelle. 197 
 
 The selfishness, the wickedness of her employers have made 
 sewing the dreadful thing it is ; changed, it into a sorrow, a 
 curse, a shame. 
 
 I could not be blind to all this truth, simply because my 
 personal experience had been a happy exception. When I 
 saw how women worked, and how they were paid, I was 
 amazed at my good fortune. I was paid according to the 
 value of my work paid as an artist. But alas ! Morna and 
 Hope were ground down to the lowest starvation prices. 
 Could I forget or grow indifferent to that fact ? Their work 
 growing less and less remunerative, at last had failed entirely. 
 Had they died in the eifort they could not have supported 
 themselves with their needle. 
 
 May this faint reflex of the life of three, bring you en rapport 
 with the thousands of orphaned and homeless girls, who in 
 every city and town in the land are striving to live by the 
 toil of their hands. If you could only probe down to the 
 buried heart-life of that thin, wan-faced young girl who 
 every day passes your door, you would find a story before 
 whose crimson coloring Victoire's words would show cold 
 and grey. " She is neatly dressed ; I think that she is well 
 off," you say : " She has all which in her condition of life 
 she can need or expect." She has all that she expects, but 
 not all that she needs. Because in barter for her bloom, for 
 the very aroma of her youth, she managed to buy for herself 
 through the dull, dragging year, food and shelter, don't say 
 that she has all that she needs. She needs love and beauty ; 
 she needs sunlight and joy. Perhaps she is cursed with a 
 hunger for the beautiful, and there is no sadder curse than to 
 be born with the finest susceptibility to its subtlest shades, 
 the most exquisite appreciation of its infinite delights, while 
 it lies for ever beyond your mortal reach. To have all your 
 nature in conflict with your fate, that is hard. Those frail 
 and fettered fingers can hardly wrest from the clenched fist 
 of fate the bread which perishes. Blessed is the man who 
 with words of manly kindness fills this fainting heart with 
 cheer, till summer rain, the songs of summer birds, the serene- 
 ness of summer sunlight fills its thirsting void with blessed 
 ness ; the man who, according to his ability, gives honorable 
 employment to the toiling women whom he knows ; saying 
 not, when the work is done : " There are your wages, just half 
 what I pay my men ; you are a woman, you know." 
 
 Blessed is the woman who stretches her fair jewelled hand 
 out into the cold air of the worjd, gently drawing into her
 
 198 Victoire. 
 
 sumptuous home a sad, solitary sister, whose only claim to 
 love is her humanity, the seal of her womanhood stamped ou 
 her white brow and in her beseeching eyes 
 
 " For a woman, poor or rich, 
 Despised or honored, is a human soul, 
 And what her soul is, that she is herself." 
 
 \ 
 
 Life, the present, the future, now thrust into my face every 
 incentive for effort, for unceasing toil. Now, if ever, must, 
 gold be wrung from the sterile veins of the passing days. 
 Once before 1 had scarcely rested or slept, as I painted away 
 my soul in a dream of beauty. But now, for something far 
 better than simply satisfying my selfish, beauty-loving heart, I 
 toiled, yet alas ! not long. My enfeebled constitution had 
 never regained its lost elasticity. The buoyancy of untouched 
 health, the exuberant vitality of an overflowing life, were no 
 longer mine. Exposure, anxiety, privation, found it not hard 
 to conquer. Bravely, hopefully, I battled with my foes, work 
 ing and saying : " To-morrow I shall feel better," until the anni 
 versary of my first sickness came ;" then, in obedience to some 
 mysterious law, nature sank in prostration, and disease again 
 struck "to the roots of life. One year before, the full flood of 
 being, suddenly rebuffed, rolled in upon my brain in torturing 
 madness ; but now, already so far spent, it only seemed to 
 sink quietly away. The deadly typhus flowed in my veins ; 
 surely I yielded to its power, sinking down, down, down. It 
 fills my memory, the shadow of a horrible dream. Oh, 
 those awful days ! famine as well as fever came into that 
 little chamber. Sickness brought to me its alleviation ; it be 
 numbed my senses to the woes around me. In my state of 
 semi-consciousness even the room itself seemed far away, and 
 yet I had a dim perception of all occurring. I could see 
 Morna place her finger on her lip, and with one look of her 
 great, sad eyes silence the voluble tongue of Mrs. Peacock, 
 who still persisted in "neighboring,'' and in coming to inquire 
 after "poor Miss Victory." I could see George Washington, 
 with shaking hand, lay down on the stand beside my bed some 
 little delicacy which I could not touch ; see hirn-look at Hope, 
 then depart in tiptoe silence, only to burst into a paroxysm 
 of boisterous wet-ping the moment he reached the outside of 
 the door. Morna and Hope ! One of their beloved faces 
 always hovered above me. Wrapped in shawls to keep 
 themselves from perishing, I saw them chafe and breathe 
 upon each other's hands, striving to warm the blue, frozen
 
 Henri Rochelle. 199 
 
 fingers before coming to perform some tender office of love 
 for me. In the hush of the night, when she fancied me asleep, 
 I could hear Morna moan low and long, as if the stifled agony 
 of her heart must have vent ; hear the drear silence broken by 
 Hope's whispered prayers : " Dear Saviour, spare our sister ! 
 Let the night pass. Give us the morning. We believe in 
 Thee, with all our heart." Even then I knew that I should 
 live. 
 
 Still I seemed to sink further and further away from life ; 
 seemed already enfolded in the apathy of death ; I moved 
 not, spoke not, yet knew all. Thus I opened my torpid eyes 
 one bitter morning. The frost-rime in pearly crystallizations 
 lay in thick embossage upon the little windows. There was 
 no warmth of fire, no token of breakfast ; the table with 
 snowy cloth, the aromatic coffee, the creamy rolls, sweet as 
 ambrosia in the mornings gone, were all wanting. Morna and 
 Hope, close together, crouched where there should have been, 
 a fire. 
 
 " Oh, Morna, that moan goes through my heart!" whispered 
 Hope. 
 
 " I can't help it ; it will come." 
 
 " Try to believe, Morna. God will take care of us to-day." 
 
 " I know that I am wicked. I am almost tired of hearing 
 you say that. If He is going to take care of us, I wish that 
 He would. The rent is due to-day, and faith won't keep that 
 dreadful agent from the door. He would not seem quite so 
 frightful if it were not for her. Oh, if she should die ! If 
 he should thrust us in the street." 
 
 " God won't let him do so, Morna." 
 
 " He has done so to others, he is so fierce." 
 
 At this moment there was a sound of heavy feet upon the 
 stairs, mingled with the thump of a ponderous cane, and 
 in an instant after, three peremptory raps, which seemed to 
 come from the hard head of that instrument, resounded on the 
 rattling pannels of the door. Morna opened it, and there 
 stood an elderly man with bristling hair and a blazing face. 
 He was half-intoxicated, and one of those whom liquor makes 
 a demon. 
 
 " Young woman, your rent is due, and I have come after 
 it." 
 
 "I am very sorry, for we have not got it. I would have 
 brought it to you if we had it." 
 
 " If you had it ! That is a pretty story. If you can't pay 
 your rent, what business have you to hire a room ?"
 
 2oo Victoire. 
 
 " You know we have been able to pay it until now. On 
 account of our sister's illness we have exhausted all that she 
 had saved, and we cannot get any work." 
 
 " Can't get any work ! that's a likely story. Go out to 
 service or to the poor-house, where you belong. But your 
 room or your rent I will have. Pretty set of tenants I have 
 to deal with ; no wonder times are hard." And he brought 
 down his cane upon the floor as if he wished to shiver the 
 whole house. 
 
 " No work and no money ! That's not to the point ! I want 
 your rent ! A shiftless set I have to deal with. I'll see the 
 poor commissioner. I'll have you taken to Blackwell's Island, 
 sick gal and all!" 
 
 " Please don't, don't speak so loud ; she is very, very ill," 
 implored Morna. 
 
 " Not so loud ? Speak like that to me, huzzy ?" he 
 shouted, lifting his gold-headed cane as if to strike her. 
 Morna quailed before him. But before he could utter 
 more, another step, a distinct, manly step, light, rebounding, 
 as if eager with expectation, was heard rapidly approaching ; 
 and in the rear another step, which I knew was George Wash 
 ington's. At these sounds the wolf at our door moved away, 
 growling loudly about the " county commissioner," " the 
 poor-house," and " to-morrow." 
 
 " Can I find Mademoiselle Vernoid here ?" asked a clear, sono 
 rous voice, which swept with an electric thrill through all my 
 wasted life, filling my veins with new vitality, kindling within 
 me at once terror, and shame, and joy bringing me back to a 
 keen realization of the past, the present, the future. It was 
 the voice of Henri Rochelle. 
 
 "Didn't I tell you you could find Miss Victory here ? Isn't 
 that her lyin' there, what looks as though she were dead ?" 
 said George Washington, respectfully, who by this time had 
 thrust himself in at the door. 
 
 Not a word was spoken as he came to my .side, and took 
 my wasted, lifeless hand in his. I felt a live, warm tear drop 
 on my cold forehead. Pride seemed dead. My lips were 
 unsealed. 
 
 *' Mon ami, man ami, 6tes-vous venu , ? " I whispered.
 
 Henri Roche lie's Ideal Woman. 201 
 
 HENRI KOCHELLES IDEAL WOMAN". 
 
 Henri Rochelle parted from me when not a tint had faded, 
 nor a petal fallen, nor a breath of perfume been drained away 
 from the unfolding blossom of my early youth. I left him 
 filled with presumptuous hope, believing without doubt that 
 fate would give me all that I asked ; that life would promptly 
 gratify my most exacting and imperious demands. I left him, 
 deriding with quiet arrogance his manly proffer of a house 
 hold woman's quiet lot. Zenobia would do something great. 
 She would create her own kingdom, an oasis amid the desert 
 of the world, fairer than Palmyra of old. And if ever one 
 reigned with her in this empire she declared it should be the 
 soul of her most sacred choice, of her maidenhood's first 
 consecrated love ; else would she live on, regnant, solitary, to 
 the end of her days. 
 
 Two years had scarcely passed, and Henri Rochelle crossed 
 the ocean to find Zenobia abject in chains ; not in the golden 
 fetters of a clement Aurelian, but in the death-linked chains 
 of two pitiless and ignoble conquerors Disease and Poverty. 
 All Zenobias wear chains at last. They bow their discrowned 
 heads above their fallen sceptres, and beweep the splendor of 
 their lost dominions ; or they hold out their slender wrists for 
 the gilded manacles of love, merging into subdued and wifely 
 women, seeking no more a worldly kingdom or a crown. But 
 few lie so utterly crushed under the heel of base-born des 
 pots as did this young throneless Zenobia on whom Henri 
 Rochelle now looked. She had been too much of a woman 
 after all, unaided, to wrest sceptre or empire from the grasp 
 of Destiny. 
 
 The untaught child of two years ago, where was she with 
 her wilful ways ? Where the glory of her sheeny hair ? The 
 scintillations of her prodigally proud eyes ? The haughty curl 
 of the vermiUion lips, which would curl in scorn lest they 
 should melt into tenderness the full veins flowing with 
 joyous life, the delicious curves, the budding bloom of dawn 
 ing youth where were they now? The short, clammy 
 curls clung close to the cold brow ; the eyes were dim with 
 suffering ; the white rigid lips seemed already humbled, stif 
 fened in death, even while they brokenly murmured : Mon 
 ami, mon ami, etes-vous venu ? 
 
 When I whispered these words Lucifer was as dead to me 
 as if he had never been born in the universe. All my girlish 
 
 9*
 
 2O2 Victoire. 
 
 defiance, all my garnered pride, were as if they had never 
 existed. 
 
 " Oui! Victoire, ma chere,je viens d? avoir soin de vous." 
 
 I heard these words of protective tenderness fall from the 
 lips of Henri Rochelle. Once they would have filled me with 
 resentment ; now they only brought back to my memory 
 suddenly, sweetly, an existence which seemed long departed. 
 Once more stood before me the brother of Beatrice, Frederick's 
 friend, my friend, whom neither coldness nor time had changed. 
 The narrow, frozen chamber stretched away into the wide 
 frescoed parlor of Les Delices; the icy winter air melted 
 to the softness of a fragrant August afternoon that after 
 noon when I sat by the open window, looking out upon 
 the guardian mountains, upon the cone-crested pines, upon 
 Frederick's grave, quiet under their tremulous shadow ; when 
 I sent back to the manly voice, as calmly kind to me then as 
 now, my girlish words of lofty scorning. I forgot the two long 
 years of life among strangers, in which I had learned, for the 
 first time, the dreariness and weariness of poverty and pain ; 
 forgot that Henri Rochelle had prophesied both my failure 
 and my fate ; forgot how I had shunned him, how I had tried 
 to hide myself away from his kindness ; forgot all, save that 
 this hour of extremity had restored to me a trusted friend. 
 
 Would time bring no revulsion ? A revulsion had always 
 followed my kindest thoughts for him. His manly care I 
 had met with rebellion ; his manly affection with cold rejec 
 tion. Whether I would do the same again, in that hour I 
 neither knew nor thought. If the old look of assurance still 
 radiated from his fine features, my dim eyes could not see it. 
 If the calm face still said : " You are mine," pride no longer 
 stood mailed, armed, declaring : " I am not." I was weak 
 and weary, nigh unto death ; the voice of old-time kindness 
 was passing sweet ; that was all I knew. 
 
 He sat down by my bedside and counted my faltering pulse 
 with the calmness of the practised physician. .He lifted the 
 sickly curls from my cold forehead with his moist, warm, 
 health-giving hand, and said : " My child, you are going to 
 get well." 
 
 At these words a placid gratitude diffused itself through 
 my dumb heart. I nestled my forehead closer to the electric 
 fingers, so soothing, so medicinal, so life-quickening seemed 
 their touch. 
 
 "Yes ! my little Victoire is going to get well and be herself 
 again. Let me see ; she is scarcely twenty," he said, as if to
 
 Henri Rochelle's Ideal Woman. 203 
 
 himself. " The precociously blossoming brain has drained the 
 juices of the slender spring-time stem. She needs dew, and 
 sunshine, and wooing air, to win her back to bloom. Only 
 twenty! a mere child in years. No; I shall not let the bud 
 wither away like a wasted flower." 
 
 He followed my asking eyes, which had wandered beseech 
 ingly to the remotest corner of the room, into which Morna 
 and Hope had shrunk away as if they deemed themselves 
 sad intruders. Henri Rochelle arose and went to them. He 
 took the hand of each, and said : " I am glad that Victoire 
 has found such sisters. You have shared your hard fate 
 together, poor children ; but there is a better fortune in store 
 for all of you ; you shall not be separated." (Already he had 
 commenced to plan for our future.) "My name is Rochelle. 
 I have been Victoire's friend for years. Her only brother 
 while he lived was my dearest companion." 
 
 " We thought that Mr. Rochelle had come," said Morna, 
 in alow tone, "because you look just as Victoire described 
 Mr. Rochelle." 
 
 " Indeed ! then she did talk of me," he said, with a smile. 
 
 " You must change physicians. I shall make you a doctor's 
 call to-morrow," he said, as he came back to my side, and 
 took my hand as if parting. 
 
 " Don't go ! don't go !" were the words which surged up 
 from my deepest heart ; but they did not reach the surface, 
 or dissolve themselves in sound. I knew that the sunny world 
 of France, which his coming had brought back to me, would 
 vanish with him through the. door ; that all he would leave 
 behind him would be the little frozen room, the sick, sad 
 faces, and sadder hearts ; yet the quick thought, " You have 
 no claim," would not let me say : " Don't go !" 
 
 He prepared medicine and told Morna when and how it 
 should be given. " It will stir her sluggish vitality," he said. 
 " It will give her new strength with which to seize life. Life has 
 well-nigh slipped away from her, but she will regain it in all 
 its beauty. Watch her well till to-morrow." With a kind 
 smile for Morna and Hope, with the healing hand again laid 
 lightly on my brow, as if in silent blessing, he departed. 
 
 Not by word, or look, or manner, had he given the slightest 
 token that he knew the room was without fire on that winter 
 day, almost without furniture. He did not wound one of the 
 sensitive hearts which throbbed within those dreary walls by 
 brusquely inquiring: " Do you need anything?" 
 
 Henri Rochelle, with his fine perception of refinement and
 
 204 Victoire. 
 
 sensibility in others, his innate, intuitive kindness, was never 
 in the minutest particular less than the gentleman. Had he 
 found us inside of palace walls, he might have greeted us with 
 the same sympathetic gentleness, but could not have covered 
 us with more thoughtful, delicate consideration. 
 
 He had gone but a little while when George Washington 
 Peacock stole quietly in (he had learned to walk without 
 making a noise), laden with good things, yet evidently only 
 oppressed by the burden of a profound secret. He was also 
 the herald of a ponderous load of coal, a portion of which 
 soon cast a ruddy glow upon the frosty walls. " That old 
 wolf ain't a comin' no more to knock his old stick at this door 
 as if he wanted to kill Miss Victory stun' dead. Pie ain't a 
 comin' no more to scare you and Miss Hope. I'm knowin' to 
 the fact," said George Washington. Yet no one asked him 
 how or why he knew the fact. 
 
 The morning brought my new physician, the after mornings 
 brought him, and day by day, slowly yet surely, I drew nearer 
 to health. Save in these daily brief professional calls we saw 
 nothing of Henry Rochelle. Promptly to the moment he 
 came, and as promptly went away. Without a breath of 
 vulgar hurry or bustle, he still appeared like one full of occu 
 pation, who had few minutes to give to pleasure, however 
 harmless. He often entered the room with a pre-occupied f 
 air, as if his thought was full ; then he stood before me the 
 very Henri Rochelle of lang syne cold, statuesque. I sus 
 pected that he had other patients, and therefore was not at 
 all surprised when he said one morning: "I have a very dan 
 gerous case upon my hands, which for the present claims my 
 undivided attention. I mention it because it is possible, barely 
 possible, that I may not be able to call on you to-morrow. 
 If not, you will remember the reason, Victoire. I like to 
 watch your daily progress, but my absence will not retard it, 
 as you are beyond danger of relapse." 
 
 The universe held no object which could make him forget 
 his duty. The tenderest instinct of his heart could not inter 
 fere with the business ot his brain. 
 
 In the meantime, comfort after comfort stole almost unawares 
 into our little chamber. No one seemed cognizant of our 
 wants ; yet they were all anticipated, supplied almost before 
 we were conscious that they existed. George Washington 
 Peacock still continued the silent bearer of dispatches, and 
 each time he appeared, seemed more burdened with the weight 
 of his secret. His oppressively conscious look said : " Do ask
 
 Henri Rochelle's Ideal Woman. 205 
 
 me who sent the gift ?" But no one asked. A painful, em 
 barrassing spell rested upon all. 
 
 But after weeks of silence, one morning I called George 
 Washington to my side and inquired : " Where did Mr. Ro- 
 chelle find you, George ?" 
 
 " He found me in the street ; there warn't nowhere else he 
 could find me." 
 
 " Tell me all about it, George ; will you ?" 
 
 " I ain't to tell some things. I ain't to say nothin' about 
 
 nothin'. I'll be , there ! I didn't say it ; did I, Miss 
 
 Victory ? Miss Hope, I didn't say it ! and I'll , there ! 
 
 I didn't say that, nuther, and I ain't never goin' to, that's what 
 I wanted to say." 
 
 "Tell me in few words as you can where Mr. Rochelle 
 first found you, that will be a good boy, George Washing 
 ton." 
 
 " I don't know nothin' about usin' few words. I use what 
 words come. I can't use no other. Don't no handsum' 
 
 words come to me, not a , there ! I didn't say that and 
 
 I won't say that ; I'll be . Oh, dear ! 'tain't much use 
 
 tryin'. I don't know why I was made such an ugly chap, when 
 no one else ain't. I never could make it clear why I had to 
 
 be marked wicked, anyhow. I'd like to know, I'll be . 
 
 Oh, there ! I didn't say it." 
 
 "Miss Victoire is very weak and can't listen long ; tell her 
 as soon as you can, George," said Morna kindly. 
 
 " Mr. Rochel' seed me in the street ; there warn't nowhere 
 else to see me. Wasn't I standin' in the city park afore the 
 City-Hall ? Wasn't I yellin' an' restin' from yellin' ? Didn't 
 I have a mighty batch of Times to sell ? Didn't I want to 
 sell 'em orful ? Didn't I want to buy some oranges for Miss 
 Victory, and give all the rest of the money to Miss Hope, 
 'cause I knowed she needed it ? Didn't I holler louder nor 
 ever I hollered afore : Morniri* Times ! 'rival of the Hung'ry ! 
 I know'd it wasn't a lie, but the truth. The Hung'ry had 
 come to port, and the truth helped me to holler louder. I 
 know'd Miss Victory needed the oranges, that all of yer need 
 ed the money ; that helped me to holler louder. 'Course I had 
 to rest, but when a lot of fine gentlemen kem along from the 
 post-office, didn't I put in like thunder ? Oh, how I hollered ! 
 an' when the gran'est gentleman of all kem along, didn't I 
 almost split my throat yellin' ' Morning Times, 'rival of the 
 Hung'ry !' 
 
 " I know'd he'd stop, 'fore he got up, and didn't he ? And
 
 206 Victoire. 
 
 wasn't, he Mr. Rochel, the finest gentleman in town ? An* 
 when I han'ed him the paper didn't he look straight at my 
 little finger, an' not at the paper at all ? And didn't the finger 
 have the ring on that Miss Victory gev' me for learnin' a 
 hundred verses in St. John ? 
 
 " ' Where did you get that ring ?' sez he. 
 
 " ' It was guv to me,' sez I. 
 
 " ' Who guv it to you ?' he said, quick as lightning. 
 
 " 'Miss Victory Verner,' sez I, ' the lovliest lady in the land, 
 but one : 'cause I 'membered how many times you said : 
 ' George Washington, you're a good boy,' jest the same as if you 
 didn't know I'm marked, for mamm sez I'm marked, and I be 
 lieves I is. It's so all-tired hard to be good, I'll be there! 
 
 I didn't say it ! but I did say Miss Victory is the lovliest lady 
 in the land but one, and bust out a bellerin'. I thought how 
 sick you were, Miss Victory; how like enough you'd die ; so I 
 bellered and bellered. And when he said, ' Will you show 
 me where she is ?' didn't I start as swift as ever I could, a 
 bellerin' an' bellerin', an' couldn't stop, an' didn't stop ? Didn't 
 a whole crowd come rushin' after, to see what in hell was the 
 matter ? Oh, dear ! I didn't mean to say it ; oh, dear ! 'taint no 
 use tryin' to leave the swearin' out, when the devil's in you. 
 But oh, Mr. Rochel haint got no devil in him. He's the finest 
 gentleman what draws the breath of life. Don't he pay me 
 for every step I take, when I don't want nothing, jist cause it'.s 
 him ? Ain't he gran' ? Ain't he splendid ? Haint I ben to his 
 rooms? Ain't they all crammed with books, and stuffed with 
 picturs ; an' all hung with velvet curtains the color of gold ? 
 Oh, if I could be just who I want to be, wouldn't I be ]Mr. 
 Rochel, an' wouldn't I (here he looked at Hope) 'Taint no 
 use sayin' nothin' about nothin'. " 
 
 " You have said enough, George, and said it as well as you 
 could ; that is being a good boy. Don't be discouraged, we 
 all like you," said Morna. 
 
 " Miss Hope don't care nothin' about me ; an' I wouldn't f 
 I was her, 'cause I ain't no such sort a chap she ought to like," 
 replied the boy mournfully. 
 
 The revulsion came came with the full consciousness, the 
 clear realization of my situation. Chagrin, shame, humiliation, 
 agony, smote my soul low at once. My calmness, resignation, 
 quiescence, had all been made of the torpor of disease. A 
 captive, helpless, almost senseless, was it strange that I had 
 been the passive recipient of his bounty ? Now the great
 
 Henri Rochelle's Ideal Woman. 207 
 
 flood of calm was surging with returning life. A second time 
 had life come back after having been swept almost hopelessly 
 away, but, in its return, where was the joyous rush, the elastic 
 rebound of its morning? Where was the glorious health, the 
 unquestioning faith in my own future, which made me so gaily 
 audacious when I first proclaimed: " Monsieur Rochelle, I will 
 not marry you ?" I knew nothing of life then of the life of 
 toil, and want, and weary waiting. Alas ! I knew something 
 of such a life now. Then all success had seemed possible to my 
 proud, un wounded nerves, to my believing brain, to my hila 
 rious heart. 
 
 Now I had learned that mine was not the strong, supple 
 muscle which sways and bends to the rough breath of life, but 
 the finer fibre which is bruised by its friction and broken 
 by its pressure. Yes, I knew now what I did not then, that a 
 brave will cannot always sustain a fainting body ; that it is 
 much easier to dream of working out a splendid destiny than 
 it is to do it, at least for a woman. Then, when I returned 
 the kindness of Henri Rochelle with haughty scorn, I had at 
 least this palliation, that personally I owed him nothing. But 
 now what did I not owe him ? Shelter, care, life, he had 
 given me; more numberless, nameless kindnesses he daily 
 poured into my life. How could I be unkind or ungrateful 
 now ? How could I ever repay him ? Ah, that was the humi 
 liating question ! In vain I consoled myself with the thought 
 that soon I should be able to go to work again. If I did, 
 years would pass before I could pay my heavily accumulated 
 debts ; and then how frail had become the tenure of my 
 health ; it had failed me utterly twice in the time of sorest 
 need ; how could I depend on it now for vigor to battle and 
 to conquer necessity ! Vainly pride writhed with the new 
 pain of its daily inflicted wounds ; vainly, as all my early 
 vaunting pressed back upon my memory. Oh, if it only had 
 been some one else, any one else, upon whom I had become 
 dependent ! Why had not destiny spared me this humi- 
 liati n ? His was a man's triumph, a man's every-day tri- 
 umpli. 
 
 How many, who watch a young girl to go forth alone to 
 meet the advancing host of life, to struggle, to conquer, to 
 bear off the palm of victory unaided, see her flag and faint 
 before the contest is half won ! She has a brave heart, a soar 
 ing soul ; but she has also the frail feminine fibre that was 
 made for peace, not for strife. The manly muscle must be 
 wedded to those quivering nerves, the manly blood must
 
 208 Victoire. 
 
 strike its vigor through those fainting pulses ; the manly arm 
 must lay the foundations of her earthly home, that she may 
 afterwards garland it with all the graces of her melodious 
 nature. 
 
 More than Henri Rochelle had ever prophesied of defeat 
 had come to me. On the borders of death I became con 
 scious of this fact, and, as I came slowly back to life, with 
 what an eager, jealous eye I watched his face, to see if it 
 gave token of his triumph. But no ; I never saw but one look 
 in his eyes as he turned them upon me a look of thoughtful, 
 almost anxious tenderness. Now I was apprised of all the 
 royal magnanimity of his manhood. In reply to my scornful 
 vaunting, he once uttered calm words of unvarnished truth ; 
 but he was incapable of exulting over^the fact that time had 
 proved him right and me wrong. He could never have uttered 
 the womanish words : " There, I told you so ! It's just as I 
 prophesied !" 
 
 Instead, he had never alluded to our past life. If the punc 
 tilious politeness of the stranger no longer characterized his 
 manner, neither did the familiarity of the intimate friend. By 
 no look, nor word, nor action did he claim any added defer 
 ence in return for the daily blessings with which he covered 
 us. He seemed to attach no importance whatever to what 
 he did, but to do it as a simple matter of course. If I failed 
 to find in his expressive eyes the old assertion : " You are 
 mine," it was because it was now fused into all his actions. I 
 was too weak to be an antagonist ; I was unequal to positive 
 rebellion ; there I lay, subjugated, helpless. There was 
 nothing in the wasted features, in the tremulous voice, to 
 call back to that good man's face the past look of certain pos 
 session. Yet I felt its existence none the less because it was 
 now invisible. It surrounded him like an atmosphere ; it per 
 vaded all he did ; yet in that intangible way which gave me 
 no right to seize it or resist it, although it sank into my 
 nature with the unerring force of conviction. 
 
 More, when I looked on him in a dim, mysterious sense, I 
 felt that I belonged to him. I sickened with the thought ; I 
 tried to banish it, stifle it, deaden it ; in silent anguish I prayed 
 to be delivered from it, yet in vain. I only looked into the 
 fkce of that calm, strong man, to feel that, at some time in the 
 history of our souls, my very being had been given to him as 
 his inalienable portion. Indistinct as a vaguely remembered 
 dream, it seemed to lie far back in my consciousness that time 
 in the past eternity when my soul was committed to kis keep-
 
 Henri Rochelle's Ideal Woman. 209 
 
 ing. I belonged to him ! Against this truth, dimly revealed 
 to me as it had ever been, I had so persistently rebelled. 
 I wished the privilege of seeking my own destiny.. I resisted 
 that which came to me unsought and undesired. 
 
 Still how immeasurable seemed the distance between us. 
 Could he ever draw me until I should stand by his side, on 
 that high isolated plane ? Could I pass into his sphere of 
 thought aud feeling, and live contented, happy ? My con 
 stant benefactor, my tried and tender friend, my soul melted 
 in gratitude while I thought of him ; but it was only grati 
 tude ; for when I remembered that already he had almost 
 won the right to triumph and take me, I grew rigid, stony. 
 I knew that the moment was near at hand when once more 
 he would talk to me calmly, kindly, of my future ; that he 
 patiently waited the'hour when I should have gained sufficient 
 strength to endure such a conversation without undue excite 
 ment. There was no danger of his being in haste. Henri 
 Rochelle never hurried. He was made in the image of God 
 in this respect as well as others. 
 
 My convalescence brought another cause of anxiety. Dur 
 ing my extreme illness, Morna had lost every personal con 
 sideration in her solicitude for "me; but with, my dawning 
 health came her reaction also. Sadder, more despairing than 
 ever grew the glorious eyes. 
 
 " This life of dependence must cease ; it is too dreadful," at 
 last she said. " It is not so distressing for you, Victoire ; 
 you are receiving kindness from a tried and honored friend 
 one whom you trust without fear, one who loves you. Your 
 gratitude will be to him a recompense ; and if it were not, 
 when you regain your health, you can repay him in hard 
 gold. It is very different with us. We have no prospect of 
 ever being able to repay him. We have no claim upon him ; 
 none. We are only here by sufferance. Mr. Rochelle is kind, 
 very kind ; it is not in his nature to be otherwise ; besides, he 
 never forgets that we are dear to you. But I cannot accept, 
 much less take advantage, of his generous kindness. You no 
 longer need constant nursing ; thus you won't think me ne 
 glectful if I go and see if it is possible to find employment ; 
 will you, dear ? There must be a change !" 
 
 " Yes, there must be a change !" I said, after her. My 
 feelings were so near akin to hers, I could not utter a word 
 of remonstrance. 
 
 She wheeled my couch to the window, a soft, soothing couch, 
 which entered the room unannounced and took up its abode
 
 2io Victoire. 
 
 with us without explanation. She hovered about me, caressing 
 my head, adjusting my pillows, performing numberless little 
 unnecessary attentions which only the most delicate thought, 
 the tenderest heart could devise, and all in the quiet, unde 
 monstrative manner so like her, lingering as if she longed to 
 coin an excuse to stay; linger-ing as if she dreaded nothing 
 so much as to depart, and yet suddenly wrenching herself 
 away at last. 
 
 " You know that I will come back as soon as I can," she 
 said, reopening the door after she had passed out, as if she 
 half reproached herself for going, yet knew not how to 
 remain. For an instant her eyes pervaded me with their 
 dewy, radiant mournfulness ; then the door closed softly (Mor- 
 na never slammed doors), and I listened sadly to the low 
 retreating fall of her little feet. 
 
 Hope had yielded to Morna's entreaties not to forget all 
 that she knew, and, until employment could be found, went 
 daily to glean what crums of knowledge she could find 
 
 at No. public school. I was left alone. There was a 
 
 pleasant stir of life in my veins new, low, and quiet. To be 
 sure I had nothing particular to live for ; the world did not 
 need me, I knew ; yet I liked to live, I was glad that I was 
 getting well. There is a delight in simple sensuous existence, 
 and we are never so conscious of it as when our senses are 
 just loosed from the festering chains of disease. The light 
 of day, the breath of nature, how deliciously they thrill along 
 our pain-quickened nerves ; how healingly, how lovingly they 
 kiss our wasted faces ! A resplendent March sun looked full 
 upon mine with the first touch of spring warmth in its glory. 
 I nestled in its radiance. I drank, and drank, yet felt that I 
 could not drink enough of its life-inspiring splendor. Quies 
 cently, dreamily, as invalids will, I watched the golden motes 
 dance in a shimmering shaft of light which smote my couch 
 through the broad interstice of a halt-open shutter. 
 
 I was employed in this wise when Henri Rochelle came to 
 make his morning call. Evidently at this time he was trou 
 bled by no very dangerous case. His mind, so often abstract 
 ed and absorbed, seemed not at all pre-occupied. Instead of 
 departing according to his custom as soon as his professional 
 questions were asked and answered, he sat down with an air 
 of ease and leisure which indicated that he did not intend to 
 trouble his watch-pocket for some time to come. Since the 
 morning in which he first beheld me, after our years of sepa 
 ration, he had never shown any warmer interest in me than a
 
 Henri Rochelle's Ideal Woman. 211 
 
 brother might have manifested ; he never had, by his manner, 
 made me feel that he was making me the special object of his 
 observation or thought. But now I was conscious that his 
 mind was concentrated upon me ; that he was thinking of me 
 alone, not of his patient, but of Victoire. I grew wretch 
 edly self-conscious and embarrassed. Although I had seen 
 him every day for weeks, for the first time I sat face to face, 
 thought to thought, with the Henri Rochelle of the past. 
 How I longed to bring back the half-slumbrous minute just 
 departed, in which I forgot that there was a Henri Rochelle, 
 or that aught existed in the universe save golden motes danc 
 ing in a sunbeam. 
 
 " You realize my hopes this morning, Victoire. For the 
 first time I see the decided improvement which I have so 
 much desired. You are almost well, child ; do you know it ? 
 Disease has left you. You only want revivifying. The soft 
 curves, the delicate bloom; will soon come back ; you are too 
 young to lose them. Let me see, it is March ; April, May, 
 June in June you will look like the little girl whom I knew 
 in France ; the very same. I have not quite known the Ame 
 rican Victoire," he said, in his calm, kind voice. 
 
 " I shall owe the change to you. You have saved my life, 
 Monsieur Rochelle. I am sure I am grateful. I hope that 
 I shall live to pay you, in part at least, the great debt I owe 
 you." 
 
 " I expect that you will live to pay me all that you owe me 
 and much more. Your gratitude is entirely too active. You 
 dwell upon it, and upon the great debt which you half fear 
 you may not be able to pay, till you manage to make a 
 little fever every day out of sheer anxiety. Your cheeks are 
 flushing now at the very thought. Don't disturb yourself. 
 You shall have all of your life to pay it in, and I shall ask no 
 interest." 
 
 " I don't like to think that I must be burdened with the 
 knowledge of a debt all my life. I want to be free to pour 
 out spontaneous gifts. It is unpleasant to feel that we owe 
 all that we can bestow, and more." 
 
 " You owe me nothing, Victoire ; nothing." 
 
 " Monsieur Rochelle, I owe more than I can ever repay ; 
 and the thought vexes me. I would rather owe any one than 
 you." 
 
 " I know that you would. But if you are to owe at all, 
 you had far better owe me than any one else." 
 
 " Why ?"
 
 212 Victoire. 
 
 "Because I am your only earthly protector. I only 
 reproach myself that I have not taken better care of you." 
 
 " I cannot imagine by what authority you reproach your 
 self. More than two years ago did I not tell you that 
 God was my protector, and that I did not want you to take 
 care of me ; that I could take care of myself, Monsieur Ko- 
 chelle ?" 
 
 " Yes, I remember all that you said to me, which by no 
 means lessened my responsibility. I could not endure the 
 thought of annoying you, or of being intrusive ; yet I have 
 never seen a moment, since Frederick died, when I have not 
 felt that your interest and happiness were, in a measure, com 
 mitted to my care, and must ever remain so, unless you chose 
 for yourself a nearer protector." 
 
 " Monsieur Rochelle, many women live and die who never 
 have any protector but God. If He designed that they 
 should have another, He would probably have given them 
 one. You speak as if a woman could not live unless there 
 lived a man to take care of her. Don't you think there are 
 women who can take care of themselves as well as if they 
 were men ?" 
 
 "A few, a very few, Victoire. The world imperatively 
 demands that all men should be masculine, and all women 
 feminine ; but nature, wilful and fitful, often sees fit to make 
 masculine women and feminine men. There are apparent 
 women who are intellectually men ; there are nominal men 
 who are inwardly women. For this reason, all along the path of 
 life, in the market, in the street, in the shop, the school, the 
 house, there are women who equal men in trade, in knowledge, 
 in capacity, and in the iron will which penetrates through the 
 world, crushing and driving down before it every object 
 which lies in its way. Such women stand on the same plateau 
 wkh men, grapple life and conquer it with a man's force and 
 a man's weapons. They are women, but not the normal 
 woman ; not the mother, sister, wife, whom man loves, serves, 
 protects ; not the serene neighbor by his side ; the benign, 
 beautiful spirit whom man worships as the visible incarnation 
 of his own highest spiritual self-hood ; the embodied symbol 
 of the holier life which will at last redeem him from depra 
 vity, and ally him to God." 
 
 " Will you go on, Monsieur Rochelle ? I like to hear you. 
 This lovely ideal woman of yours, is she incapable of taking 
 care of herself ? What if there is no manly arm upon which 
 she has a right to lean ?"
 
 Henri Rochelle's Ideal Woman. 213 
 
 " No, she is not incapable of taking care of herself ; she 
 will do so in a gentle, womanly way. But all my nature is 
 moved with pity when I see such a woman standing in the 
 world alone. If she is not less an intellectual, she is a more 
 affectional and spiritual being than man, and knows by 
 inspiration what he is taught by reason. Because the tex 
 ture of her brain is finer, her nerves more delicately strung, 
 her muscle more supple and yielding, her heart more 
 sensitive and tenderly emotional, is the reason why she is 
 jarred and rudely bruised by shocks which scarcely touch 
 him ; why she falls wounded in the brunt of the battle, while 
 he fights on, unwearied and unharmed. This is no ideal 
 woman, Victoire ; she is the God-made woman, the woman 
 of the household and of the heart. She is not depress 
 ed in the scale of being, because man stands as her de 
 fender in the great angry world. She knows that she has 
 not his physical power, his passion, his courage, his man 
 hood. She is content that he, the slave of necessity and 
 duty, finds in her his perpetual inspiration. She is to him 
 God's loveliest revelation. In her soul he finds transfigured 
 his purest desires, his most ineffable dreams. It is her life to 
 love and to bless ; in this life lies the charm which wins his 
 deathless worship. He has passion and intellect, yet he knows 
 that he lacks the pure spontaneous affection, the serene spiri 
 tual force of the fair woman by his side. For him the whole 
 world is gladder for the music of her voice. ' The common 
 air grows tonic with her presence.' He smoothes the rugged 
 life-path for her frailer feet. She brightens- life for him by 
 making a joyous home, peopling it with childish creatures ; 
 garlanding it with beauty, till every object blossoms in un- 
 imagined grace. I know that this woman often walks alone 
 through the world, with no one to stand between her and the 
 hardest necessity. For this reason I long to see her avenues 
 of employment widened, her sphere of mental and physical 
 activity enlarged, new employments and professions brought 
 within her reach, that, if her heart cannot have all the love 
 which it needs, at least life may be a little more to her than 
 one long want, one unending, inexorable, degrading task ; 
 that} if fate defrauds her of household joy and manly cherish 
 ing, still her existence may be filled with lofty endeavor and 
 noble success. It is the highest honor conferred upon man that 
 he may be the protector of such a woman. It is the purest 
 triumph of her being that she, of all created creatures, is the 
 object of his deathless love. Will you be this woman, Victoire ?"
 
 214 Victoire. 
 
 " That is impossible, because nature has not given me her 
 delectable graces." 
 
 " With all your proud rebellion, Victoire, you are a very 
 woman through and through. With all your high aspiring, 
 you would never burst a single barrier which nature or cus 
 tom has imposed upon your sex, in order to do something 
 great. There are women who will do so, but not you. You 
 are a luxuriant but delicate plant that can only strike root in 
 a genial soil. The quickening sun, the healing dew, the sum 
 mer rain must feed and nourish you, or your soul will never 
 emit its richest fragrance, or bear its most delicious fruit. 
 The hurricane would rend you. Life's wind and rain would 
 scathe, and dwarf, and deform you. You have genius, Vic 
 toire. You have its acute, subtle, susceptible organism ; and 
 just so far as your nature is finer and more sensitive than the 
 world's driving crowd, are you unfitted for positive contact 
 with it. You could exist, but scarcely live in the great world 
 of greed and gain. Harder natures would run against you, 
 chafe you, hurt you, sharpen you, till existence would grow 
 to be a torment. Talent, sturdy, material, practical talent, 
 daring and doing all things, delights to push its way hard- 
 fisted, barefaced through the blistering highway of the world ; 
 but genius effloresces in perfect flower only amid gracious 
 circumstances ; for its full development it needs sheltered 
 ways and gentle, tender influences. You need all this ; you 
 need a home and a protector, Victoire." 
 
 " You told me that long ago. I wish you would tell me 
 something new. I like your abstract discourse better than 
 your personal application, Mr. Rochelle." 
 
 " There, I like that touch of your old spirit ; now I know 
 that you are almost well. If I only tell you a few more times 
 that you need a protector, you will be perfectly restored. I 
 like a wilful woman, provided she is not stubborn. If she is 
 only wilful, she will contend a little while for her own way, 
 and then joy in following you out of pure contrition for her 
 waywardness. I have felt a tender solicitude for the pale, 
 quiet American Victoire, .but I cannot say that she charms 
 me more than the Victoire whom I knew in France, with her 
 lustrous eyes and Empress ways." 
 
 " When her Empress ways came in collision with your strong 
 will, you were not very much charmed with her ; were you, 
 Mr. Rocbelle ? 
 
 " Yes, she charmed me then ; but not so much as she 
 grieved me. I was not angry ; I did not blame her. I was
 
 Henri Rochelle's Ideal Woman. 215 
 
 sad when I thought of the long, hard lesson of life which she 
 had to learn. I was disappointed that I could not save her 
 from learning that lesson alone among strangers ; for myself, 
 I felt that I could afford to wait. I knew that her high, 
 delicately-strung soul needed only a little toning down to 
 emit a soft, steady flame of affection. I only feared that in 
 the fierce crucible of the world its fine temper would be de 
 stroyed ; that it would be crushed and broken. When I first 
 beheld you in this room, I feared that the work was ac 
 complished ; but with returning health I see that your soul 
 scintillates as finely as ever. As finely, yet a little more 
 softly ; the two years of actual life have tempered you quite 
 enough, my poor child." 
 
 " I don't like to have you call me * poor child ' in that pity 
 ing way. I don't want you to pity me in that sublime sort 
 of a tone, as if you .were Jove sitting on Olympus, and I a 
 wounded worm at your feet that you are sorry for because it 
 is hurt. I wish that you would stop pitying me, Monsieur 
 Rochelle." 
 
 "I am half sorry that I have vexed you, and only half sorry. 
 Anything to banish the sick, half dead American Victoire, 
 and bring back the radiant maiden whom I remember, and 
 can scarcely wait to see. There ! You are almost the same. 
 There is a pink tint on your cheek, like the blush on an ocean 
 shell. But those short, clustering curls make your head look 
 like a little boy's. I miss the long, flossy, flowing ones. Those 
 clinging, tendril-like curls were always to me the soft insignia 
 of your womanhood, which had a silent way of mocking your 
 proud Athena words. When they come back, you will be the 
 very little girl who used to sit in a distant corner of a Parisian 
 salon, sewing, sketching, and listening, while Frederick and 
 his friend talked." 
 
 " Listening ! I never listened. I could not have listened to 
 such tedious talk. I liked my own thoughts wonderfuHy 
 better. I thought you very tiresome, Monsieur Rochelle." 
 
 "Probably you thought right. It was a great slip of 
 memory for me to say that you listened. I know that you 
 never did. I recollect, too, that it was your perfect indif 
 ference which first interested and then charmed me. You 
 seemed joyously isolated and unconscious ; rare states for a 
 young girl. Had you been obtrusive and eager for discussion, 
 the charm would have been broken. I met ladies in fashion 
 able salons who could discuss the component parts of the blood 
 and bones like scientific savans ; feminine metaphysicians, who
 
 216 Victoire. 
 
 could pick human nature to pieces, thread by thread; but 
 there was no attractive electricity in their cold receptive 
 minds ; there was no warmth in their brilliancy. No man ' 
 ever loved a woman simply for her intellect, however rare. 
 Intellect, keen, cold, aggressive, antagonistic, is in itself 
 repellant ; it never kindles a warmer feeling than admiration. 
 But intellect, suffused with the warm life of the heart, carries 
 with it an irresistible fascination. An intellectual woman, 
 whose affections are as efflorescent as her brain, whose love 
 is as living and glowing as her thought, is the one of all others 
 who can till the nature of a large-souled man. A monotonous 
 spaniel-like creature, all affection and no brain, in time would 
 fill him with sickening satiety; but this enkindling creature 
 brings into his life endless variety and infinite love." 
 
 "Then, you think a woman's charm is personal ?" I asked. 
 
 " A woman's charm is always personal, never abstract or 
 intellectual. Not what she thinks, but what she is, makes her 
 lovely or unlovely, attractive or repelling. Man seeks in her 
 the highest object of personal love. It is her individuality, 
 the magnetism of her being, filling all the atmosphere which 
 she breathes with its subtle radiations, her own sacred self, 
 which wins. Thus in your silence you won me, Victoire. I 
 beheld in you my feminine counterpart ; in you found all that 
 my soul needed, yet had not. 
 
 " I have never told you why I was so long in seeking you," 
 he continued, as I slipped no words into the silence. " I 
 knew that time only could bring a change to your deter 
 minations. I knew also that I could not anticipate or hasten 
 that change. While you had means of support I resolved not 
 to intrude upon you ; but before you would have spent your 
 last remittance, I determined to sail for New York. The 
 sickness of my father, his subsequent death, delayed my 
 coming ; thus it was autumn before I reached America. I 
 
 went immediately to your address, place. ' Miss Ver- 
 
 noid had gone ; went in May ; didn't know where she went 
 to,' the lady of the house said. ' Miss Vernoid had been 
 unfortunate ; had had a long fit of sickness, which involved 
 her in debt. Miss Vernoid was proud, and probably did not 
 wish her friends to find her ; but it was the lady's opinion that 
 she needed to be taken care of by somebody.' I was leaving 
 in utter disappointment, when an Irish servant, who overheard 
 your name in the hall, cried out : ' Deed an' I am knowin' if 
 
 it's Miss Ver , I can't say it, ye're wanting. 'Deed I knows 
 
 where she is, the darlin' young leddy I nuisit with me o\\n
 
 Bel Eden. 217 
 
 hands.' 'Kate, be silent,' said the lady. But Kate did not 
 choose to be silent. She went on with a long story, and a 
 horrible one, too, I thought. I listened only till I could hear 
 the number of your new place of abode : ' A mighty shabby 
 place for the like of her, ye'll find it,' said Kate, as I departed. 
 I found it gloomy and shabby enough, but you were not there. 
 ' She and two other girls had gone to keepin' house, nobody 
 knew where,' was all that I could learn. I left the dark abode 
 wretched, full of apprehension. For the first time, it occurred 
 to me to advertise. I did so, and without avail. For months, 
 day and night, I sought you fruitlessly ; till Providence led me 
 across the path of the redoubtable George Washington Pea 
 cock, when I found you found you, and not too late to save 
 your life." 
 
 The manly voice was tremulous with suppressed emotion. 
 Its vibrations touched my heart ; the great tears dropped 
 upon my wasted fingers. " Your husband and home wait for 
 you, Victoire. Think of what I have said." 
 
 As he uttered these words Morna entered, looking pale and 
 weary. He arose and greeted her. He offered her his hand, 
 saying gently : " You have walked too far. I must begin to take 
 care of you. I can't have you exchange places with Victoire. 
 Don't take life too hard, my child. Life has a richer portion in 
 store for you." 
 
 The warm blood struck through the pallid cheek, as she 
 lifted her soul-eyes to his. 
 
 BEL EDEN. 
 
 " Henri Rochelle, if you still insist upon making me your 
 wedded wife, remember ttpon you must rest the responsibility 
 of the act and its consequences." 
 
 " I am' only too ready to accept the responsibility and con 
 sequences of making you my wife, Victoire." 
 
 " You know that never, by desire or deed, have I sought or 
 coveted that place ?" 
 
 " Yes, proud child, I know all that. If I had taken only a 
 superficial view of your character, or of your girlish refusal, 
 I should have felt that I compromised my manhood by my con 
 tinued importuning. But I looked below the surface of both. 
 In the likeness and unlikeness of our natures, in our opposite 
 temperaments, in the kinship of our tastes and aspirations, I 
 
 10
 
 218 Victoire. 
 
 see the elements which will be wrought by time into an in 
 dissoluble bond, making us in soul eternally one." 
 
 " I feel at present that we are decidedly two. How long a 
 space will time occupy in perfecting our spirit union, Mon 
 sieur a lifetime ?" 
 
 " No. Already I cleave to you as I never did to father or 
 mother. Even now you cannot well spare me out of your 
 life. You do not dislike me, Victoire ; no, you like me. If 
 you did not, I would not wish you to marry me until you did. 
 But as I told you long ago, for the passion-bloom of love I 
 can afford to wait." 
 
 It was the very same quietly assured tone which said years 
 before : " I can wait." Yet now it did not rasp or fret me, 
 for I had grown to a subtler appreciation of his nature, and 
 knew that his words were not the offering of presumption, but 
 of a deep insight into the soul. 
 
 Thus I believed as I said to him: "You are the most calmly 
 self-possessed person I ever knew. You measure time as God 
 measures it. One has only to take in the circle of your plans 
 and to listen to the tone in which you say : ' I can wait,' to 
 believe that your mortal life cannot be bounded by the little 
 arc of three-score years and ten. How long can you afford to 
 wait for love to flower in my heart for you ?" 
 
 " A lifetime, if it were necessary. Love is of everlasting 
 growth ; it never comes to full flower here ; in the coming 
 life it will develop glory which it can never do in this." 
 
 " Those sound like Frederick's words," I said. " He was 
 always talking in that far-off, heavenly way, which used to 
 thrill me with its sweetness while it filled me with torment, 
 because with all my trying I could not sympathize with its 
 abstract beauty. You, as well as he, are abstract, with this 
 difference, that he was spirituelle, while you are purely and 
 often repellingly intellectual. How* did you ever come to 
 love such a little earthworm as me ?" 
 
 " Because you are so earthly, or, in other words, so human, 
 is the very reason why I love you. In your profound capa 
 city for affection, in your eager hunger for beauty and happi 
 ness, lie half your charms," he answered. 
 
 " I am hungry for beauty and happiness. But if I could 
 win for my portion the beauty and happiness which I know 
 are possible on earth, I fear that I should never sigh for the 
 beauty or happiness of heaven, or pause to analyse what love 
 is like in the celestial kingdom. Do you know, after my long 
 banishment, as I again catch a glimpse of the green earth, I
 
 Bel Eden. 219 
 
 N 
 
 feel through all my being that I am as much in love with her 
 as ever. There is nothing I want so much this moment as to 
 go and touch my lips to those violets in the grass; to lay 
 my heart close to the heart of the budding earth, and feel 
 once more its deep, delicious throbs. I would like to thrust 
 my hand under the fragrant turf, into the moist soil, just to 
 feel the quickening life start through its teeming pores. I 
 have been so long imprisoned within dusty streets and mouldy 
 walls, I had ceased to realize, although I had not forgotten, 
 all that nature had been to me. Oh, how I want those flowers, 
 those anemones, mottling the grass with their white and rosy 
 bloom. They have stayed behind after all their mates-fcave 
 gone, just to see how May looks. I want to go and get them ; 
 I want to feel the healthful earth under my feet once more ; 
 it will give me back an old sensation so old that it will be 
 delightful as new." 
 
 " The horses can be stopped and you may go after them. 
 But I seriously object to your ' laying your heart on the heart 
 of the budding earth ;' it is altogether too damp. A poetic 
 idea, but, if made an act, it will give you a cold. You can't 
 afford to take a cold now, Victoire," said Henri Rochelle, the 
 literal philosopher. 
 
 "Do you think that I ever get up scenes to order, Mon 
 sieur ?" I asked. " A third person, a mere gazer-on, is as 
 much in the way when we talk with nature as when we con 
 verse with human beings. The unwelcomed third person is 
 the resisting medium which always disturbs the equilibrium 
 of the electrical currents flowing from soul to soul. Had I 
 thus suddenly opened my eyes upon nature alone, after my 
 long exile from her, I know not what crazy things I might 
 have done ; but in the presence of another I shall not make 
 myself absurd." 
 
 " You take everything too terribly in earnest. You have 
 made life so earnest, that it has become a pain, Victoire. But 
 you may have your anemones and violets. I am going after 
 those dandelions, spangling with gold the skirt of the hedge 
 yonder. I like dandelions," said Henri Rochelle, springing 
 from the carriage in which we were seated, and holding out his 
 hand for me. 
 
 " Take in long breaths of this May wind," he added ; " it 
 will exhilarate you more than the purest juice of the most 
 delicious grape." 
 
 So I stood on the fragrant sod, and drank until intoxicated, 
 the perfume, the dew, the sunshine. How long we had been
 
 220 Victoire. 
 
 strangers, the blossoming earth and I ! The greeting kiss of 
 the beloved one after a wintry absence could not have filled 
 me with a more delicious joy, than did the toying breath of 
 the southern wind. It was a morning in May, and there was 
 more of summer warmth in her smile than she often bestows 
 on the western world. The air distilled its vivific wine from 
 the earth's overflowing veins ; from quickened roots, and 
 swelling bulbs, and incense-dripping leaves; from myriads 
 of pink and milky blossoms, rippling through the open spaces 
 of the hills, flowing over the illimitable plains in undulating 
 oceans of new-born bloom. 
 
 We were on one of the loveliest of the many lovely roads 
 which lead to the garden-like country which environs New 
 York. We stood many feet above the ocean, and, as my eye 
 looked across the vast prospect, I saw for the first time "the 
 imperial plan on which nature laid out the site and surround 
 ings of the metropolis of the West. There stretched the city 
 along the distant shore, all its incongruities, its commercial 
 ugliness, its old-time shabbiness, its stark new splendor, merged 
 into one grand aerial outline, showing mellow through the 
 morning mist. 1 saw the dun steeple of St. Paul peer through 
 its umbrageous setting ; the aspiring spire of Trinity glitter 
 ing against the blue heaven ; the green reach of the Battery 
 stealing down to nestle against the cheek of the alluring sea. 
 A buoyant sheet of flame, the broad bay flickered in the 
 dazzling light and rosy shadow of the morning. Long Island 
 lifted up its palace-crowned terraces. Bedloe's Island gleamed 
 like an emerald set in a still more gleaming auricle. On 
 the thither side of the open door of the sea, Staten Island 
 soared towards the sky like a shrine, inviting the world's 
 wanderers here to rest to return thanks for their prosperous 
 voyages. 
 
 Far and near the wide waters were palpitant with human 
 life; cities of ships crowded against the sheltering shore. 
 Pennants rippled in the crystalline ether. Sails throbbed 
 against the near and farther heaven, white as the billowy 
 clouds which came down to greet them. Regnant steamers 
 sped through the gateway of the hemisphere, to and fro 
 from immemorial climes. I forgot the flowers in my hand 
 which I had just stolen from their grassy homes, while I 
 looked away upon one of the grandest sights which the earth 
 can show the bay of New York. 
 
 " What are you thinking about, Victoire ?" asked Henri 
 Rochelle.
 
 Bel Eden. 22 1 
 
 " I am thinking that I owe this enchanting sight to you. I 
 never realized before on what a magnificent scale nature dis 
 plays herself within sight of the brick walls of New York," 
 I said, as we re-entered the carriage. 
 
 Far behind were left the wooded shore of Hoboken, the 
 green heights of Weehawken, as we rode 1 slowly along the 
 castellated banks of the Hudson, America's classic river. 
 Her regal river, beside whose delicious waters genius loves 
 to abide and art to rear its palaces. The river of all times, 
 along whose shore will wander the pilgrim of the future to 
 worship beside crumbling shrines for ever, holy as the mortal 
 home of the immortal dead. Through the trees which inter 
 laced the road with their delicate tracery, we caught broad 
 gleams of the river. I saw the waters flash and trail along 
 their battlemented banks, in long reaches of quivering sun 
 shine ; saw the violet shadows which fell on their faces from 
 the depth of winged clouds ; saw them glide gracefully away 
 under cover of island and hill, close to green shores, out to 
 the beguiling ocean. Steamboats rode on with their convo 
 luted banners of smoke streaming far behind them. Sloops 
 bent and buoyed to the eddying breezes. Yachts with white 
 wings flashed hither and thither, or, lazy things, dozed with 
 the sleepy gales. 
 
 The magnificent landscape stretching along its banks dis 
 played the grandeur of nature with the esthetic culture of 
 art. Everywhere were seen the dawning signs of luxury which 
 mark the growth of a culminating civilization. Costly villas 
 stood in groves and gardens gazing from the spurs of the 
 embowered hills, or peering through the embrasures of the 
 valleys. Afar on stretched sylvan vistas, towns and vil 
 lages, church-tower and spire glittering against the distant 
 sky in the light of that resplendent morning. 
 
 " You accuse me of being abstract, Victoire," said Henri 
 Rochelle ; " but if I wander away in my words, you do in 
 your thoughts. You are an illusive creature ; you are as 
 subtle as light. When I think that I hold you fairly within 
 the arc of my thoughts, I look at you only to see that you 
 have slipped away out into a visionary realm, where I cannot 
 even .pursue you. For the last ten minutes you have been 
 looking into the distance as if you saw into futurity. You 
 have not even taken the trouble to deny my assertion that you 
 like me. Did you hear it, Victoire ?" 
 
 " Hear it ! Indeed I did. Why should I deny the truth ? 
 I came to the conclusion some time ago that I like you, Mon-
 
 222 Victoire. 
 
 sieur Rochelle. I liked you long ago as Beatrice's brother, 
 as Frederick's dearest friend. I like you now as my benefac 
 tor, and as the noblest man I know." 
 
 " I knew that you would own that you liked me at last. 
 Then, Victoire, why your persistent, I may say your almost 
 perverse refusal to marry me ?" 
 
 " Not because I do not like you at all, but because there 
 is a voice somewhere in my being which tells me that I do 
 not love you as I am capable of loving as I might love 
 another. I feel that I cannot admire you too much, nor 
 serve you too faithfully. From pure gratitude, I would wil 
 lingly sacrifice much joy out of my own life if, by so doing, 
 I might make yours more beautiful. But you sit apart in 
 your great wisdom, and goodness, and greatness. I cannot 
 reach you. I feel a great way off from you, even in my admi 
 ration and affection. If this chills me in the friend, it would 
 kill me in my husband. A maiden's loveless life at last grows 
 very dreary, but a frozen married one must be a million times 
 more dreary. I can bear the first. I should succumb to the 
 latter. Or if not, should make an exacting and tormenting 
 wife, let me warn you, Monsieur." 
 
 " You will make a sensible woman some time, Victoire, 
 though I confess you have never annoyed me except with 
 your incorrigible romance. You fill your talk with poetic 
 exaggerations. You even hint at the possibility of my killing 
 you with coldness. Am I a monster ?" 
 
 " No, you are a perfect gentleman." 
 
 " And you like me ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You like no man better ?" 
 
 " No. But think of my nun-like life. Besides Frederick, 
 you and Signer Orsino are the only men whom I have ever 
 known. Frederick was the object of my deepest, fondest 
 love. I see plainly now that I worshipped him with a pas 
 sionate and wild idolatry. Orsino won from me a most sym-- 
 pathetic and sisterly interest. You call out my unbounded 
 admiration, my profoundest gratitude, and a shy, fearful affec 
 tion which neither cheers nor fills me. Is this all that I am 
 callable of giving my husband? How do I know that there 
 is not a being in the world who would fill my nature and 
 absorb my life ? It would be dreadful " 
 
 " What would be dreadful, Victoire?" 
 
 " It would be dreadful, more dreadful than I dare to think, 
 after we were irrevocably married, to have another soul thrust
 
 Bel Eden. 223 
 
 itself between us ; to to wake to the consciousness that 
 another could be more to me than my own husband. God 
 save me from such a fate !" 
 
 " Victoire, you astonish me. I am amazed at such wild 
 words uttered with such prophetic unction. Do use your 
 reason, child ; then your imagination cannot fly off with you 
 into the region of obscure possibilities. Do you imagine that 
 people can have no control over their affections ? That they 
 must go wherever a mad passion leads them ? That will 
 and duty become null and void under the power of love, and 
 the promptings of temptation ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! I only mean thatneither will nor duty can make 
 love or kill it, although they can regulate its action. We 
 cannot decide how much or how little we will love some pei - - 
 sons. Our love is spontaneous and independent of our voli 
 tions. Our conduct, of course, can be subordinate to will 
 and duty. We cannot love people for what they are . to 
 others ; but for what they are to us, and for what we may be 
 to them. We only give to each one the exact measure which 
 they are constituted to create in us. We love another in just 
 the proportion in which that soul supplies the wants of our 
 own. The being who kindles and quickens our entire nature, 
 who first makes us conscious of a wealth of soul which we 
 dreamed not of possessing, in whose simple presence we are 
 pervaded with a heavenly satisfaction, a divine fusion of 
 spirit with spirit, that being is the one whom we will love 
 supremely ; the one who will absorb our nature, make our 
 life. Henri Rochelle, if I could only believe that you are 
 that one, this moment I would lay my hand in yours in token 
 of our eternal marriage. How can I believe that you are he, 
 when I do not feel it ? If, after marriage, I should meet 
 that being, what, what should I do ? Tell me, Henri Ro 
 chelle ?" ' 
 
 " Do ?" he said, looking at me with a perfectly quiet smile. 
 " You would do right, would you not, Victoire ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell what I should do. We can fancy ourselves 
 strong ; we cannot be sure until the test is applied. Our 
 nature is never gauged until a great temptation, like a galvanic 
 shock, touches with lightning our diseased spots and quivers 
 around the weak places of our souls. I do not pretend to 
 know myself, Monsieur Rochelle." 
 
 " Well, Victoire, I know you well enough to smile very 
 complacently over the future fiery trial your wild brain has 
 conjured up. We can imagine any absurdities if we choose to
 
 224 Victoire. 
 
 let our fancies run riot. I can even imagine myself loving 
 desperately some beautiful, improbable girl, afar down in the 
 future, although I verily believe that I found the only girl 
 whom I shall ever love years ago. You must pardon me 
 for being amused at that being whom you talk of as vehe 
 mently as if you saw him before your eyes. I assure you that 
 he does not make me jealous. Why should he ? You have 
 never manifested the proclivity common to young girls, of 
 falling in and out of love. I have no reason to apprehend 
 that you will suddenly become addicted to such a habit after 
 marriage. A sensitive conscience is among your prominent 
 attributes. If you had a husband, you would never forget 
 what you owed him." 
 
 " Never !" 
 
 " If you marry the one whom Heaven designed for you, 
 you will never wake up to find yourself mistaken, but will 
 come to the conclusion at last that in this, as in everything 
 else, your lot was wisely and kindly chosen. Pardon my con 
 tinued assurance, although I say that I believe myself to be 
 that one, as I believe that you are my Heaven-ordained and 
 consecrated wife. Victoire, with all our will, we cannot resist 
 our destiny ; it will triumph in spite of us." 
 
 Once these words would have filled me with rebellion, 
 would have made me lift up my eyes to his in haughty defi 
 ance. Now they only sank into my soul with the smiting 
 weight of a heavy sadness. It had been easy once to resist 
 the self-appointed, self-asserting guardian ; it was impossi 
 ble to be angry with the munificent, constant, tender friend. 
 Besides, I was too weak and weary to be proud, and too sin 
 cere to affect a loftiness which I could not feel. 
 
 " I would rather give the garnered love of my life to 
 you than to any one else in the world, if I could," I said. 
 
 " Thank you, Victoire, for those womanly words ; they are 
 the dawning promise of a blessed future. The tender woman 
 is fast taking the place of the vaunting girl." 
 
 " I like the girl best," I said, perversely. 
 
 " If you were a man you would love the woman. No 
 magnificence of spirit can atone for a lack of tenderness in 
 a woman. 
 
 " You concede much in acknowledging your desire to love 
 me. ' If you could,' you say. You demur on account of my 
 visionary rival, who at present only lives a very beautiful ideal 
 existence in your brain. I have no concern that he will live 
 anywhere else. As you become better acquainted with men, you
 
 Bel Eden. 225 
 
 will not find the great disparity among them which you 
 imagine. You will only discover in each individual a little 
 more or less of the same material. All, no matter what their 
 temperament, culture, or genius, radiate subtle antagonisms, 
 send out repellant forces, and one has only to come into 
 sufficiently intimate personal contact to feel their friction. 
 Two souls have never met in absolute equipoise since the aveng 
 ing cherub hung his flaming sword over the shut gate of 
 Eden. The jar of the dissonant world will cause occasional 
 vibrations. There are souls who move on together in beau 
 tiful harmony ; but their highest union is the gradual result 
 of assimilation and of growth. Its roots are mutual esteem, 
 confidence, sympathy ; its flower is affection, its fruit love. 
 We should cherish the pale flower in whose ovule lies the 
 quickening seed of the divine fruit. Already you have given 
 me this Alpine blossom, with the virgin snow of your heart 
 clinging to its delicate roots. With what interest I shall 
 watch the advancing summer ; watch the white flower expand 
 ing with its matron charm ; watch the delicious growing of the 
 fervid fruit ripening at its core. I can well afford to wait, 
 lingering only a tolerated'guest in the vestibule of your heart, 
 when I see that the season is not far distant when I may enter 
 in and partake of its most sacred sanctities. I can wait." 
 
 " Oh, you tire me out with your shades of analyses. You 
 dissect love, and me, and everything, just as you would a medi 
 cal subject. Ah, it is this which divides us, Henri Rochelle. 
 You think that all that is necessary to happiness in the begin 
 ning of marriage is a cool esteem, a dispassionate affection, 
 while love hovers doubtful, far off in the distance. How can I 
 know that I shall ever love you more than I do now ? I can 
 never be more sensible than I am at present that you are noble, 
 and true, and good, and grand. Oh, if I could be sure that *I 
 should grow to love you more ! My husband must be more 
 to me than my friend." 
 
 " In other words, Victoire, you wish to be violently in love 
 with the hero who is to become your husband. You have 
 even more than the usual share of girl-romance. Have you 
 yet to learn that the people who are the most wildly in love, 
 in the common acceptation of that word, are the very ones who 
 first become disgusted and weary of each other; because 
 their love is not founded in reason, nor in reciprocal quali 
 ties, but in infatuation, passion?" 
 
 " Oh, you misunderstand me. I mean no such love." 
 
 *' No, I do not misunderstand you. Your ideal is high, but 
 
 10*
 
 226 Victoire. 
 
 you ignore the path by which you must reach it. We must 
 wait for everything desirable. It is hard for you to wait for 
 anything, Victoire." 
 
 " I know it." 
 
 " Your mercurial temperament forces upon you strong 
 extremes of feeling, which at times amount to impetuous ex 
 aggerations. Two years ago you ignored your heart, and 
 seemed to think only of your head. Now you seem to have 
 forgotten that you have a head, and are entirely absorbed 
 with your heart." 
 
 I laughed at this picture of inconsistency. 
 
 " In all this conversation you have not once mentioned your 
 art ; two years ago you scarcely spoke of anything else. Then, 
 you worshipped Athena and despised Aphrodite. Now I 
 think you never knew that Athena existed, while you 
 quietly acknowledge your need of love and loving with all an 
 Aphrodite's tenderness." 
 
 I did not laugh now. These words struck me with a quick 
 pain, as they recalled all that had made art a thought so sacred 
 and yet so sad. . It had shrunken far down into the deepest 
 cavern of my soul, nestling there beside its one lonely secret, 
 beside its hidden, holy face. How could I, with sacrilegious 
 hand, drag it forth into the common daylight of common 
 words. 
 
 Henri Rochelle noticed the sudden shadow. He said : 
 
 " I have not been speaking derisively. I have not even in 
 my thought accused you of fickleness. Don't put on that sad 
 face over my words, child. You are to me this moment pre 
 cisely what you were two years ago. You were true to your 
 self then, and you are true now. I see the identical soul in 
 two different periods of its development. I knew then that 
 fto Grecian goddess had ever loved so tenderly, so holily, so en 
 tirely as would the Christian maiden when she waked to her 
 nature and its needs. But, because your heart is waking, 
 you must not imagine that your brain is dead. Some day 
 you will be suddenly astonished to find the Athena-head as 
 dominant as ever. Then the heart will have established its 
 empire, and when intellect and heart reign in concert, then I 
 shall see the harmonious and perfectly developed woman. 
 Nothing could be more irksome, more narrow, selfish, 
 and exacting, than a woman whose love is combined with 
 mental or moral weakness. I should make a very unsatisfac 
 tory husband to such a woman, or to any woman whose intel 
 lect hud not an object as well as her heart. No, I could
 
 Bel Eden. 227 
 
 never satisfy one who had nothing more substantial to live 
 upon than childish attentions and endless fondling, foolish 
 caresses. I should give ray wife substantial proof that my 
 highest love for woman I gave to her. Having established 
 that fact, I should not expect that she would demand a corro- 
 boration of it every hour in the day in the form of vapid 
 love-words or sentimental affectations of any sort. I should 
 not have time to bestow them, even if I had the disposition. 
 Before I was aware of it, I found myself involved in a large 
 medical practice. I brought with me letters of introduction 
 from the most distinguished medical men of Paris ; that fact, 
 with the more important one that in New York there is a 
 great demand for all Parisian articles, established me before I 
 had ever thought of displaying my ponderous college diplo 
 mas, or before I had concluded to remain in this country 
 after finding you. This large practice, which has so early 
 forced itself upon me, must of course absorb much of my 
 time and thought. I should not feel justified in taking to my 
 home a wife who had no mortal dependence but my society. 
 You, Victoire, have art. You said once that a portion of 
 your best years you wished to devote to art. I have ever 
 wished to increase your opportunities for culture. I wish to 
 perpetuate to you the ease and leisure which are indispensable 
 to the highest attainments, in either art or science. Will 
 you accept this ease and leisure, Victoire ? Will you embody 
 once more in divine forms the beautiful creations of your 
 soul and brain?" 
 
 " Ah, I hope that I may some day," I said, my heart sud 
 denly leaping at the thought, though my voice was choked 
 with gathering tears. 
 
 " I knew by your kindling eyes that all the old enthusiasm 
 still lives. It has been chilled and saddened, and no wonder. 
 It is a sorrowful sight to see necessity drag genius down from 
 her high vocation to do a menial's work for the sake of daily 
 bread. You will do yourself a great wrong if you continue 
 this when it is no longer necessary. You need not be less a 
 tender woman because you are an artist. Unless your intel 
 lect develops with your heart, your nature will be warped or 
 stunted. You, who will have the world of art and of letters in 
 addition to your husband, will be too completely absorbed to be 
 weakly, childish, as those women are who have nothing to 
 think of and nothing to do, and so diffuse their feeble faculties 
 between insipid loving, flirting, and fashion." 
 
 "You speak as if I had already uttered the irrevocable
 
 228 Victoire. 
 
 ' Yes,' " I said, taking in a long breath to free my voice of its 
 quivering vibrations, that it might sound tense and firm like 
 his. " From the beginning you have always talked as if I 
 belonged to you, till at last, in spite of myself I half feel that 
 I do. If fortune had not made me so greatly your debtor, I 
 should think that I had the right at least to feel more inde 
 pendent. I cannot forget my deep obligation to you. I am 
 melted at the thought of your long unchanging kindness. I 
 would gladly devote my life to you from pure gratitude if I 
 dared, if I only knew that till the end of life I could love 
 you above every human being. But I am afraid to marry 
 simply because I am grateful, or simply because I honor you, 
 or feel for you a very quiet affection. Perhaps it is all some 
 natures can give ; but if I love at all, I want to love a great 
 deal more." 
 
 " Marry me, Yictoire, because you honor me and feel for 
 me a quiet affection, but not because you are grateful. I 
 have done nothing but my duty ; nothing but what I would 
 do for any man or woman whom I had found in like affliction. 
 I have never sought to place you under personal obligations 
 to me, and I am unwilling that you should feel any. If you 
 insist upon pursuing your lonely life of toil, the indebtedness 
 which you involuntarily feel can be cancelled as a mere busi 
 ness matter. You can earn more than a woman's average 
 wages if you choose to bring your art down to a material 
 level and liave health to pursue it. I shall never take advan 
 tage of you and burden you with a load of hateful obligation. 
 For your own sake I shall allow you to pay me what you 
 fancy you owe me. I reverence the self-respect of a true 
 woman, which will never allow her to become the voluntary 
 recipient of favors from a man upon whom she feels that 
 she has no claim. I want no gratitude, Victoire. I am not 
 willing even to be thanked for doing my duty. Honor and 
 affection from you are all that I ask at present. You will live to 
 learn, my child, that they make the very warp and woof of 
 the marriage bond. 
 
 " It is not possible that you know any one to whom you 
 give more," he asked, abruptly, as if struck by a sudden 
 thought, turning his keen eye upon me in one scrutinizing 
 gaze. 
 
 " No," I answered, with a faltering voice. As I spake, that 
 one holy face rose from the deeps of my soul, and I shivered 
 while I saw it. If I should speak of him, Henri Rochelle 
 would think it one of my wildest hallucinations he would
 
 Bel Eden. u 229 
 
 smile at me with that quiet derisive smile. I could not tell 
 him ; no, I could not ! 
 
 " No, I do not know any one to love better ; I have only 
 feared that some time I might," I said aloud. 
 
 " Victoire, you have not a morbid, ill-regulated nature ; if 
 you had, I would attach some importance to your fears. 
 Honor and affection are strong enough to save you as long as 
 you live." 
 
 " Henri Rochelle, you have dropped a plummet far down 
 into my soul, but how do you know that there are not depths 
 below which you have not sounded ? Can a woman know 
 herself at twenty?" 
 
 " No, not if she is as unique as you are. You are an odd 
 creature," he answered, smiling a most undisturbed smile. 
 
 We were riding over one of the smoothest of roads at the 
 slowest of paces. Elms reared on either side of us their 
 grand corrugated pillars, their branches meeting high above 
 our heads, like the glorious light, inwoven dome of a gorgeous 
 minster. Birds singing amid the leafy, wavy glory; winds, 
 rippling along the tasselled boughs, sent down flutterings of 
 delicious sound low, flute-like, as would an organ if touched 
 by the fingers of a little child. Cottage, villa, and mansion 
 had been unheeded while we talked ; and we had passed far 
 into this matchless cathedral aisle before I became conscious 
 of its long reach of glimmering* sun and shadow, of its waving 
 incense, of its murmurous majesty. 
 
 "Do you admire this home, Victoire?" asked Henri Ro 
 chelle, as we paused before a delicately fretted iron gate, set 
 like an open screen of nchly-meshed lace in a deep hedge of 
 arbor-vitse; and he pointed past it to a villa which stood high 
 on a sunny slope beyond the trees. 
 
 "I have not seen anything so beautiful for a long, long 
 time ;" and with these words my heart wandered far away to 
 Les Delices. 
 
 " Nor I ; not in this country scarcely in any other. It is 
 so wondrously lovely, that without any authority beyond my 
 own I have named it J3el Eden. Truly it is Beautiful Eden. 
 The trail of the serpent can never darken its brightness." 
 /'Who lives here?" 
 
 "No one. It is an uninhabited Paradise. The old man 
 who takes care of the grounds lives in that cottage below 
 the hill. I learned from him that it is owned by a Southern 
 gentleman who built the house as the summer home of a deli 
 cate young wife. I believe that she died before it was com-
 
 230 Victoire. 
 
 pleted ; at any rate it has never been occupied. Still its 
 owner sees that everything about is kept in the most exqui 
 site order, and the grounds are open to the visits of strangers. 
 I often drive out here. It does me good to be reminded that, 
 sin-cursed as it is, the earth still holds such a spot as this. 
 Shall we go in ? There comes the gardener to unlock the 
 gate." 
 
 The old man advanced with a pleasant look of recognition 
 on his face, and at his touch the screen of massiv lace part 
 ed, and the broad serpentine avenue, with its flowery borders, 
 lay open to our horses' feet. It wandered in and out among 
 the trees, which threw over it the deep shadow of their imme 
 morial growth ; now running through rifts of glimmering 
 shadow, now resting in broad spots of flickering sunshine, till 
 alternating dusk, and dawn, and dazzling day chased each 
 other along this winding, loitering path. Low seats braided of 
 unctuous roots, of quaint gnarled boughs, stood in green niches 
 between the trees. Statues, softly revealed against the dark 
 foliage, peered from dim, unexpected vistas ; nymphs and 
 fawns, who stood transfixed in dumb delight to h'nd in this 
 utilitarian land in this late day a haunt as sylvan beau 
 tiful as their own lost Arcadia. The air distilled all subtle, 
 all undefinable aromas. Birds warbled their gala operas in 
 the sheltering depth of patriarchal boughs. The plash of 
 near fountains, the low gurgle of distant trickling waters, 
 the surge of the resonant river we heard as we emerged 
 into the broad sunshine and lifted our eyes to the home of 
 Bel Eden. 
 
 Unlike most American abodes, it did not offend with its 
 stark smartness, its vulgar newness, its flaring colors. It was 
 not an ugly excrescence, a deformity blotting the beauty of 
 that matchless landscape. It seemed a portion of its harmo 
 nious growth emerging from its deep bosom like its own 
 melodious trees ; a flower of indestructible beauty blossom 
 ing in stone. It suggested the airy elegance of an Italian 
 villa, with the warm comfort of an English home. Its low, 
 ork'l windows stole out into the flower-enamelled turf, hint 
 ing of broad sunny apartments and home-born joy within. It 
 had wide piazzas with sculptured pillars; it had drooping bal 
 conies, and fringe-like balustrades hung with net-work, ethereal 
 as the crystallizations of crusted frost. At one extremity a 
 tower, a massive pilaster, seemed to grow from the grass up 
 into the soft light, its pale stone merging almost imperceptibly 
 at last into the pale ether. Bas-reliefs encrusted its aerial
 
 Bel Eden. 231 
 
 tals, statues stood in its deep embrasures. Its""mullioned 
 windows of many-colored glass gleamed all aflame. Sap 
 phire, emerald, topaz burned in those diamond panes ; ruby 
 dripped through their brightness like wine-drops from over 
 brimmed goblets. 
 
 No redundant vines eclipsed this profuse flowering of art, 
 yet ivies hung their green embroidery of leaves over every 
 angle ; myrtles strewed purple stars along the pale stone 
 walls. No substantial element was wanting in this structure, 
 yet it seemed to pervade the mind with the indescribable 
 charm of the visionary palaces which rise by magic in our 
 dreams. The lawn, sloping away from its threshold, was 
 wide and sunny. In its midst a massive fountain tossed 
 into thf air its innumerable crystal jets. Their infinitesimal 
 bells stirred all the air with chimes, as they fell back in merry, 
 murmurous rings, or soft resounding plashes, upon the tessel 
 lated floor of their marble basin. This was girdled with 
 flowers gleaming in the turf pansies, hyacinths, daisies, ver 
 benas, heliotropes which spring's warm-lipped angels had 
 kissed into conscious life. Antique vases, tilled with trailing 
 plants, sent by their drifts of fragance, while all the air was 
 purpled with lilacs and perfumed with magnolias. Outside of 
 this riant beauty spread away the majestic background, the 
 gorgeous shadow of the scene. We looked away to the 
 shadowy arcades and leafy cloisters of venerable cathedral 
 trees. The dark dome of the larch, the majesty of the silex, 
 the breezy joy of the maple, the spirituel grace of the wil 
 low, the shivering sighs of the electric pines, all gladdened or 
 saddened the grounds of Bel Eden. A mad brook, dashing 
 through a deep yet sunny gorge on one side of the over 
 hanging lawn, rushed away to the river. Through the trees 
 we caught flashes of the Hudson, saw the rim of its dark-blue 
 highlands touch the sky, and saw in the distance in dim per 
 spective the great metropolis. 
 
 " I would like a studio in the highest chamber of that tow 
 er," I said, as we sat down in a sylvan seat beside a magnolia 
 tree white with blossoms. "The turret-chamber at Les De- 
 lices was mine from childhood ; I think that fact must have 
 given me such a proclivity for high nooks. I always feel as 
 if I were choking in a low room, and anywhere in the neigh 
 borhood of the ground." 
 
 " I have not told you, Victoire, that one charm Bel Eden 
 had for me, aside from its own marvellous beauty, is that, in 
 a remote way, it reminds me of Les Delices. Yet I cannot
 
 232 Victoire. 
 
 define the^esemblance. Do you perceive it ? What is it ?" 
 asked my friend. 
 
 " Yes, I perceive it, but did not speak of it, lest you should 
 call my imagination to an account. See ! That sculptured 
 fountain, with water gushing from its hundred marble lilies, is 
 modelled precisely like the one which frolics before the veran 
 da at Les Delices. That brook, too, breaking through the seam 
 of yonder hill, cooling the heart of that deep gorge, is certainly' 
 a distant cousin of the one which runs away from the cascade 
 and goes out to cheer the vineyard. But this house, this 
 marble dream, poor old Les Delices, with its scarlet turrets, 
 never thought of being so inspiredly beautiful. Bel den is 
 a poem ; it could only dawn upon the conception of a many- 
 Bided poet-soul ; it suggests all lovely, untenable thing% hints 
 at all that we dream of, yet never see." 
 
 We relapsed into a long silence, mesmerized by the subtle 
 magnetism of an all-diffusing beauty. 
 
 " Victoire, Frederick desired it ; he desired nothing more 
 for you, for me." 
 
 I started suddenly, recalled from the far-off countries of 
 thought. It was his own manly tone, deep, intense, almost sad. 
 
 As he spoke, two years dropped into chaos, and left me 
 standing by Frederick's side. It was not the memory, the 
 dead name of every day, that I had with me, but my living 
 brother. Yes, Frederick desired it! He loved this man, 
 he loved me; and although he had not influenced my 
 choice, yet he desired it ! My father, my mother, would 
 have chosen for me this sheltered lot. After all, why should I 
 persist in struggling with the world ? Its prizes were not 
 worth the winning. Why should I reject this noble man, 
 whom I revered and trusted, for the sake of an impossible 
 dream ? There was nothing in the world which I needed so 
 much as rest. Besides, he had said that I could make him 
 happy ; now I made no one happy." 
 
 " Why this impotent delaying of what must be ?" He spoke 
 these words with deep vibration in his voice, as if he felt the 
 shock of a smothered flood of emotion. He snatched my 
 hand. I had never seen in him anything so near like 
 impulse. 
 
 " Victoire, let us join hands now?, and walk the rest of our 
 life-way together. I love you." Never had such a thrill of 
 tenderness quivered through his voice to my heart before. 
 
 " Henri Rochelle, you are dear to me. I will marry you. 
 God pity and forgive me if I sin in saying so."
 
 A Marriage before the Last Chapter. 233 
 
 I spoke quickly, lest a great power within should snatch 
 back my words ere I should have power to utter them. 
 
 One seemed to stand before me whose deep eyes touched 
 my soul tilled it ! The air seemed instinct with his being ; 
 not Henry Rochelle, not Frederick it was the stranger of 
 Les Delices. 
 
 1 
 
 A MARRIAGE BEFORE THE LAST CHAPTER. 
 
 " Whom first we love, you know we seldom wed ; 
 
 Time rules us all ; and life indeed is not 
 The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead ; 
 And then, we women cannot choose our lot." 
 
 " I don't like Victoire." 
 
 Of course you don't. Who ever anticipated so pleasant 
 a catastrophe ! If she were not independent of your ' like,' 
 she would never have had the courage to tell a story which 
 proves her to be anything but an angel. 
 
 "I am ashamed of her," says a strong-minded woman of the 
 nineteenth century, who has devoted twenty of the best years 
 of her life to wrangling about the " woman question." " I 
 am disgusted with her weakness. She began- life well. She 
 might have wrought out for herself a splendid career. She 
 might have proved to the arrogant bipeds of the masculine 
 gender that, though they will not confess it, women can per 
 form wonders. But to succumb so early, to marry so soon, 
 to make herself a mere appendage, a perfect cipher to man, 
 and such a man one feeling so grand that he can scarcely 
 live. Now she is a hindrance to her sex. Just such women 
 forge our chains on tighter, and do their best to make us just 
 the slaves which we are. And she might have done such a 
 work ! Oh, I am disgusted with her, so I am." 
 
 My dear lady, I suppose I could not possibly make you 
 believe that there is not on earth a more miserable object 
 than a rebelliously ambitious woman. Not one more in need 
 of pity ; for, with all her devouring ambition, her towering 
 pride, with all her rebellious efforts to break the bands which 
 bind her, she can never escape the penalties of her human 
 condition. She has given herself up to a life of fever and 
 disappointment, whose inordinate hunger for applause, for 
 notoriety in the world of Art, Letters, Politics, or Fashion, 
 as crushed out the holier aspirations of the natural woman.
 
 234 Victoire. 
 
 Is it not an ignoble pursuit to seek in the benison of culture, 
 of genius, of beauty, not their own sacred uses or beautiful 
 ends, but the empty fame with which they may cover one 
 poor little name ? Fame is a goading word, hard, hollow. Is 
 it worth so much, the telling over of one's name from gene 
 ration to generation, if that be all ? The atoms of matter 
 which make our material body, ever changing, ever renewed, 
 will be transfigured eternally. Spirit will quicken spirit for 
 evermore. Thought, transfusing itself into thought, will live 
 long after each brain through which it passed is forgotten. 
 Is it not enough that we shall live thus through the infinite 
 ages ; that the circuit of the universe will be ours ? They who 
 have won the noblest immortality of earth, never sought it 
 in life. They consecrated their noblest faculties to the noblest 
 ends without a thought of reward. Fame was granted them, 
 not because they sought after it, but because it was deserved. 
 
 I had this satisfaction (so great a one to either woman 
 or man), he had chosen me for myself. I had nothing else 
 to give him. There were people who thought me very dis 
 agreeable, and they thought right. Mrs. Wiggins was one. 
 She hated me for my reticent hauteur, my dumb contempt 
 of her vicious hypocrisy. M. Petiman was one, my whilom 
 transient acquaintance, whom I had impressed as a most arro 
 gant and self-assuming young person, who dared to Cherish 
 a most unwarrantably high opinion both of her position and 
 powers, and to award to his insinuating, sycophantic sup 
 pleness all the disdain which it merited. Rev. Jonathan 
 Bunkum would have been one, if it had been possible for 
 that gentleman for the space of two consecutive minutes, to 
 have thought of any one but himself. Yet Henri Kochelle 
 had chosen me for what he believed that I might be to him. 
 Nothing does a woman's heart so importunately crave as the 
 knowledge that she is lovely at least to one. 
 
 The world is full of women who would gladly give all their 
 rich possessions in exchange for this one sweet assurance. 
 " Oh ! if I could only know that he loves me, only me," they 
 say ; " that I could be certain that the gilded accidents of 
 my lot have not ensnared him ; that he has not been dazzled 
 by the perishable baubles which make my surroundings, but 
 which can never add a single charm to the beauty of my soul !" 
 Alas ! many a girl blindly fancies that she has won a loyal, 
 manly heart, when in reality she receives only a body and :i 
 name in barter for her money. You may thank your golden 
 setting, the gorgeous background on which your tame colors
 
 A Marriage before the Last Chapter. 239 
 
 are embroidered, for your graceful husband and genial home. 
 You think all this was naught ; that it was only yourself who 
 won him ? Poor simpleton ; there is something pitiable in 
 your delusion ! 
 
 He tries to persuade himself of the same fact, that it is the 
 maiden, the maiden only, whom he seeks. He says : " To be 
 sure, her family influence would be of immense advantage to 
 me ; and her money yes, I need it in my business. Position ! 
 Well, a young man just beginning life always needs to be 
 strengthened in his position. To be able to refer (carelessly, 
 of course,) to Hon. Land Shark, M.C., Rt. Rev. Dr. Skin 
 Flint, D. D., LL.D., the poet Skim Milk, the universal traveller 
 and prospective millionaire, as my near relatives, would be no 
 drawback as the world goes. " I care nothing about them ; 
 of course not; I care only for Gilda. Gilda is a good girl. 
 Gilda is a stylish girl; she will set off an establishment well. 
 Not very handsome, to be sure ; not clever, people say ; but 
 what do people know about it ? Besides, what is more tire 
 some than a woman who knows too much ? I'm afraid of 
 clever women. Gilda is the one of all others whom I prefer 
 for my wife." 
 
 He utters the last words with a most impetuous emphasis, 
 as if to banish the young face already shaping itself in his 
 thought ; the very one which steals unbidden into his nightly 
 dreams. Pearla, the snow-drop, the pure pale blossom, bloom 
 ing in the snow of poverty, he sees her face, and his heart 
 suddenly leaps in a strange, sweet tumult. " Pearla ! Well 
 yes I could have loved her but it is out of the question. 
 She is poor ; so am I. Romance, sentiment, love, don't pay 
 as society stands. No ; they are all below par. Pearla, my 
 darling, I am not rich enough to marry you. I must forsake 
 and shun you from this very hour. I must be practical and 
 sensible. Gilda will do. On the whole, Gilda I prefer (for a 
 wife). Gilda is a good girl. She loves me desperately." 
 
 Is this life's greatest misery, its chillest, dreariest despair, 
 which falls on us some day with the consciousness that if for 
 tune had been kinder, if greater wealth had lent its glitter to 
 our surroundings, if more generous circumstances had enve 
 loped us with a beautifying halo, an artificial yet alluring 
 atmosphere, which mellows and goldens every object which 
 it enfolds, we should have been more earnestly sought, 
 more fairly judged, more tenderly dealt with by one from, 
 whom nature gave us the right to demand the rarest gifts of 
 friendship ? Then dawns life's first great consciousness of loss.
 
 236 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 Oh, awful, isolated sorrow ! Oh, endless, enveloping pain, 
 which can never be averted and never shared ! 
 
 Because no glamor hovered over us, because we sat in the 
 cold, alone with only our own spirit to make light and warmth 
 around us, we were left alone. The tender warmth of our single 
 heart could not reach this soul wrapped in so dense a cloud of 
 worldliness. We were mistaken. Brave heart, receive this 
 taunting truth with proud yet saddest seeming. Open the door 
 with regnant hand, with calmest unction bid it enter. Bid it 
 enter ; though you know that its steel will cut through your 
 tenderest fibre, though you know that it will stab and rend 
 you, still bid it enter ; it is the truth. Believe not the clinging 
 falsehoods which hang their pretty parasites about it ; they 
 are as false as they are beautiful. They whisper of an un 
 filled world lying far below the metallic mail which material 
 interest has forged about your friend. With honeyed words 
 they tell you that you, in your great need of love and bless 
 ing, could fill this world with the morning bloom of most deli 
 cious affection. Believe them not ; the brazen shield will 
 never be lifted that you may enter in. Of what account is 
 all your pent yet prodigal sweetness, all your seductive 
 magnetism, all your proud and pure aspiring, all your need 
 of love and loving, weighed in the balance with worldly inter 
 est, with the fawning flattery of the oily tongue, to this idol 
 of yours eager for place, emulous for power ? With this truth 
 rending your soul, you can live on. You can live on, though 
 disappointment deluge your summer world till not an olive 
 leaf is found in all the dreary waste for you. You can live 
 on patiently, calmly, till the tender hand of the pitying God 
 stretches down from the window of Heaven and draws you 
 up to rest in the great ark of His love. 
 
 Bury the beautiful friendship of yesterday, and go away 
 and leave it in its grave alone. Bury it ; leave it ; you can 
 live on. Its imploring eyes will look mournfully at you 
 through the door of the past ; its retributive face will haunt 
 your present and throw its baleful shadow between you and 
 every dawning joy ; yet remember it is only its ghost, not 
 the warm, living human thing, which you loved, and cherished. 
 Brave heart, you can live on ! 
 
 I was independent at least in this Henri Rochelle should 
 not continue to cover me with presents; I would accept 
 from him no bridal trousseau. I would earn ray own wed 
 ding-dress. I was almost well now, and felt quite able to 
 return to my accustomed tasks.
 
 A Marriage before the Last Chapter. 237 
 
 " Let me sketch designs for the most beautiful book yon 
 have. I cannot tell how beautiful I shall try to make them, 
 for it is the last work I shall do for you," I said to my dear, 
 honored employer, as I appeared before him after my long 
 absence. 
 
 " The last work ! Why, we have been waiting for you to 
 get well to do the prettiest job that we have had ordered for 
 a long time descriptive illustrations for a volume of choice 
 poems. I have more work saved for you, besides. What is 
 the matter ? Are you going to leave NewYork ?" 
 
 " No ; I am going to be married." 
 
 " Married ! Well, you take it very quietly. You tell it 
 in the same tone in which you might say ' I am going 
 to be buried.' I wish you a life of happiness," he said, 
 extending his hand. " Can't you sketch a little after you are 
 married ?" 
 
 " Yes, I can, to prove my gratitude to you ; but what 
 time I have for art I shall usually devote to painting. I 
 painted always until you gave me employment. Oh, how 
 kind you were ! You were a friend to me when I needed 
 one the most when I was sick and weary, homeless and 
 almost hopeless. You gave me work, and more, you gave 
 me kindness. I shall never forget you, never ; and I will 
 sketch for you, sometimes, if it will please you." 
 
 There was a tender light in the eyes which looked down 
 \\pon me ; very commonplace eyes most people would have 
 called them, but they were more than beautiful to me. 
 
 " God bless you, now and for evermore," he said. 
 
 He gave me the poems, which were to be embalmed in 
 rich-tinted paper, in rare setting of gold and velvet ; and 
 the very first one which I glanced at was Coleridge's " Ge- 
 nevieve :" 
 
 " I played a soft and doleful air, 
 
 I sang an old and moving story ; 
 An old, rude song, that suited well 
 
 That ruin, wild and hoary. 
 She listened with a flitting blush, 
 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 For well she knew I could not choose 
 
 But gaze upon her face." 
 
 Here was a perfect picture in melodious words. Could I 
 embody it as perfectly in melodious lines the "ruin, old 
 and hoary" the loving troubadour pElying his "soft and 
 doleful air" the maiden " with downcast eyes and modest
 
 t^8 Victoire. 
 
 grace ?" Well, I tried ; and, at least, thus I earned my bri 
 dal trousseau, my wedding dress. 
 
 My kind employer could not have expressed my mental 
 state more completely than in the words, " you take it quiet 
 ly." Quiet must follow a storm. I had resisted my destiny 
 so long, that, from the moment of accepting it, I sank down 
 in peace. Weary of the long struggle, I was glad passively 
 to rest. Yes, I was very quiet. I had accepted my lot, and 
 now seemed to expect nothing, to fear nothing. 
 
 " Sing it again, Morna ; do." 
 
 " Do you love it so much ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ! Then it is the last evening that we shall ever 
 sit together like this. Fill it full of song. I want the melody 
 of your voice woven with the last hours of my maiden life a 
 memory to carry with me to my grave." 
 
 She sang it again, that wonderfully sad sweet song of 
 George P. Morris : 
 
 " How we met and loved and parted, 
 
 None but God can ever know ; 
 How the pure and gentle-hearted, 
 
 Loved and perished years ago. 
 Hearts that truly love forget not 
 
 They're the same through weal or woe ; 
 And the sun of memory sets not, 
 
 In that grave of years ago." 
 
 It was a June twilight ; the breath of the month of rosea 
 stole in through -the open casement, kissing our foreheads, 
 toying with our hair. The entrancing days, the alluring 
 nights, so steeped in perfume, so redolent of bloom and 
 beauty, seemed made only for the richest sensuous life. 
 Sentient existence grew more misty and dreamlike with the 
 culminating, adolescent hours ; yet it seemed as if we could 
 not live enough in the delicious air of these young, perfect 
 days. We sat close together. Hope, on a low stool at my 
 feet, nestled her curls in my lap, folding one hand in her little 
 palm, while Morna held the other, as she sat by my side. 
 The next day I was to be married. Three snowy dresses ly 
 ing side by side, revealed themselves through the purpling 
 light and golden shadow of the hour. They were of pure, 
 sheer muslin, as softly meshed as the most fibrous threaded 
 lace. They were utterly unadorned, save with their o\vn 
 aerial ampleness, their misty, far-floating folds. They were 
 precisely alike, but ^ne was enveloped in a cloud of tulle. 
 This was my bridal-robe and veil. (I tell this in parenthesis
 
 A Marriage before the Last Chapter. 239 
 
 to my lady friends.) (I must make another parenthesis to 
 tell my lady friends that I was perfectly satisfied with my 
 wedding-dress.) It falls far below the standard of your aris 
 tocratic taste, no doubt, but I would not have exchanged it 
 for regal satin or crinkling brocade, in all their stately stiff 
 ness. Such are harmonious with grand parlors and state 
 occasions. But pure muslin, in its virgin transparency, is a 
 meet robe for the unsullied maiden when she yields up her 
 being to the love and keeping of another. Yes, I would have 
 chosen my marriage-robe amid a thousand rarer fabrics. It 
 needed nothing, I thought, but wreaths of living orange-blos 
 soms to make it perfect. Thus I saw it before my eyes, a drift 
 of snowy cloud, lying against the dimness my bridal dress ! 
 I had been gay all day rather, I had tried to be. A fitful, 
 wild sort of gaiety it was, I fancy. I talked all manner of 
 extravagant talk, which made Hope laugh her bird-laugh, 
 and Mprna gaze at me in the tenderest wonder. In short I 
 made most spasmodic efforts to keep from weeping, and suc 
 ceeded by rising to the opposite extreme. But now the day 
 was done. The pulses of the twilight throbbed against my 
 own ; I sat within the sphere of her magnetism ; what could 
 I do but yield myself to her soft, sad mood. Then this ten 
 der memorial song of Morris mad.e me sadder or was it the 
 music, so tremulously sweet ? or was it Morna's voice, in its 
 wondrous cadence of soul-melting melody ? You know that 
 I told you before that Morna's voice ever filled me with a 
 bliss that was half a pain ; that I loved it for all that it made 
 me forget, for all that it made me remember. She passed 
 from the simple song, to warble snatches from operas which 
 her teacher taught her long before. She had never sung them 
 to me, probably on account of the painful memories which 
 were linked with them. But now her soul seemed to break 
 away from the chain which bound and hurt it, and, like a bird 
 let loose from wiry prison out into the infinite liberty of space, 
 she seemed to dissolve herself in song. The little room swam 
 in a dilating sea of rapturous sound ; the warm air shivered 
 with the rapt vibrations, the mellifluous falls of most imploring, 
 most delicious melody. I listened entranced ; every nerve 
 drank all my soul drank, yet seemed not to overflow. This 
 was for me Morna's last, her richest gift, ere I passed from 
 her into a new life. She sang sweet airs from Norma, from 
 Lucrezia Borgia, from Lucia di Z,ammermoor, and at last 
 broke forth in the pathetic music of I Vespri Siciliani of 
 Verdi. It was the mournful strain of Arrigo, which he sang
 
 2:j.o Victoire. 
 
 after he had lost the love of the Duchess Elena, because he 
 had saved the life of Guido, the murderer of her brother, 
 who, alas ! was also the father of Arrigo. He had not been 
 able to destroy his father, even to fulfil the vow of Elena ; yet 
 he could not renounce her love. His imploring words to her, 
 Morna sang : 
 
 "Giorno di pianto, di fier dolorel 
 
 Mentre 1'amore sorrise a me. 
 H ciel dirado quel aogno aurato, 
 II cor piagato tutto perde I 
 Sovra il mio capo ; 
 II folgor scoppia 
 E in me raddoppia 
 
 L'atro dolor I 
 Nel tuo disprezzo : 
 
 Vivere, o cara, 
 'E pena amara 
 E morte al cor !" 
 
 
 
 She sang the reply of Elena, and, as she hovered before the 
 last four lines, she clasped my hand closer, and turned her 
 deep eyes full upon mine. All that I had ever imagined of 
 tenderness, all that I had ever dreamed of love, all that I had 
 ever conceived of a high immortal sadness I saw in those fa 
 thomless eyes, while her far vtuce hung pendulous above these 
 words:- 
 
 " S fido le folgori 
 
 Del rio destino, 
 Se ate vicino 
 Potro morir !" 
 
 Again she sang it, her hand still clasping mine, her deep eyes 
 melting into my soul : 
 
 "I defy the lightnings 
 Of my evil destiny, 
 If near to thee 
 I may die." 
 
 " If near to thee I may die !" The wondrous voice lingered 
 suspended over this line, yet melting it at last in melody, 
 which quivered through all my being, than which there will 
 be no sweeter note in all the symphonies of its future eter 
 nity. 
 
 The air was still tremulous with its music, when we heard 
 the well known step, not rapid, not slow easy, equable, with 
 that clear, decided rebound which indicated^power, character, 
 will ; the well known knock, not abrupt uor harsh ; not eager
 
 A Marriage before the Last Chapter. 241 
 
 nor presuming ; but deep, quiet, certain ; and in a moment 
 more Henri Rochelle sat by the open window before us. 
 
 "Is it possible ! Was that you who were singing just now, 
 Miss Avondale ?" he inquired of Morna. She seemed embar 
 rassed. 
 
 " Yes, it was Morna," I answered. " Did you never hear 
 her sing before ?" 
 
 " I was singing for Victoire ; it is our last evening to 
 gether, you know," she said, in a faltering voice, 
 
 " Yes, I know that it is your last evening together in this 
 little stifling chamber. But, Miss Avondale, you can become 
 a great prima donna, if you will. I have been patiently wait 
 ing for you to develop some great gift. I did not know 
 what it might be ; yet I have been expecting it every day. I 
 was sure of the great soul, but I knew nothing of the wonder 
 ful voice. It shall receive all the benefit of the highest cul 
 ture ; then it will be to you not only a fortune but a perpetual 
 
 joy-" 
 
 At these words Morna's fingers tightened about my hand 
 till it ached in their convulsed grasp. She breathed deep 
 and quick, yet said nothing. 
 
 " You speaU of this being your last evening with Victoire ; 
 it need not be unless you choose to be separated from her. 
 You remember that the first morning in which I saw you I 
 assured you that you should not be separated. Victoire's 
 home is yours as long .as it will add to your happiness to 
 share it ; and this child, I am sure we all need her" he said, 
 reaching down his hand to Hope, who now sat very erect on 
 her little stool, having been drawn up tTo that rather unnatu 
 ral position by her very active veneration for Mr. Rochelle. 
 She always sat before him as if he was a god. 
 
 " In the meantime you must have the best music masters 
 which the city will afford," he added, looking from Hope to 
 Morna. 
 
 She seemed to rally all her inward forces in one long 
 breath. 
 
 " Mr. Rochelle, how kind, how very kind you are ; I thank 
 you from my heart, but " 
 
 " You are such a kind young lady, I know that you will 
 excuse me from listening to a formidable array of objections, 
 when I can assure you that I can anticipate them all. I have 
 become somewhat acquainted with young ladies' objections," 
 he said, in a slightly ironical tone. " There is a world of pru 
 dence and girlish foresight in that solemn 'but.' I honor 
 
 11
 
 242 Victoire. 
 
 you for it, but do not accept it, Miss Avondale. It means 
 simply this: You feel that you cannot accept favors from 
 one who is under no obligation to confer them ; favors which 
 you fear that you can never reciprocate. Now I offer you no 
 favors, but will make a business arrangment. You need ac 
 cept nothing which you cannot pay back with interest. You 
 surely will not refuse to fit yourself for a large and beautiful 
 sphere? You will not perish over your needle while you 
 carry a whole bank in your throat from which you have 
 never drawn a single cent? You will not choose a dwarfed 
 and smothered life, when a glorious yet womanly career is 
 open to you ; will you, Miss Avondale ?" 
 
 Morna could not speak. The fulfilment of her dearest 
 wishes, the fruition of her long-cherished yet most hopeless 
 desires, seemed to have come to her so suddenly from such an 
 unexpected source that she was stunned with the great joy. 
 
 " I have wished, prayed for it so much, it seems as if it 
 could not, could not be," at last she murmured. 
 
 "I think that it can be, and very easily indeed, without the 
 slightest inconvenience to any one," he answered quietly. 
 
 Hope was lifted above her veneration by her admiration and 
 joy. She seemed to have arisen unconsciously, and, standing 
 before him, she exclaimed : "I knew that something beautiful 
 would come to Morna ; but I did not know that God would 
 send it by you. Oh, how good you are, Mr. Rochelle !" 
 
 " Victoire says that I am tiresomely good. That is an 
 adjective which is appropriated exclusively by stupid people ; 
 did you know it, Mademoiselle ?" he answered, smiling on her 
 kindly. 
 
 Henri Rochelle attached no merit whatever to the fact of 
 his doing his duty. The noblest acts of his noble life to him 
 were only duty. He performed them cheerfully, gladly ; but 
 sought not, did not even wish praise. " Why should a man 
 be praised for doing his duty ?" 
 
 The lamps in the streets were lighted now. One before the 
 house filled the room with flickering golden light. 
 
 "June! My prophecy is fulfilled. Victoire, you are the 
 very little girl whom I knew in France. I should not think 
 that you had ever thought of being sick ; nothing ever made 
 you sick but unrest," said Henri Rochelle, looking at me now 
 through the soft radiance. u No sooner did yon acquiesce 
 with your fate and enter into an atmosphere of quiet, than all 
 your lost bloom stole back unawares. I gave these to Beatrice 
 once ; she often wore them for my sake. Now they are yours.
 
 A Marriage before the Last Chapter. 243 
 
 Will you wear them to-morrow ?" he asked, in a gentle voice, 
 as he rose and placed in my hand a small, gold-fretted ivory 
 casket. Already it seemed natural to say " Yes," when he 
 wished it. " To-morrow !" he said, emphatically, as he stood 
 in the open door, after having uttered his adieu. " To 
 morrow !" 
 
 " To-morrow !" Yes, it came, as all to-morrows come, the 
 most dreaded, the most longed-for, if we only wait long 
 enough. Living orange blossoms came, too, another gift 
 from him. Morna twined them around my head, festooned 
 them around the flowing folds of my misty robe. I wore the 
 casket's treasures a necklace and bracelets of pearls and 
 stood within the veil which fell around me, an enveloping filmy 
 cloud. (This is all in parenthesis for my lady friends.) 
 
 In one of the tree-shaded streets of the metropolis there 
 stands a chapel which shall here be nameless. It is filled with 
 a reverential grace, sacred, solemn as the grand Te Deum ; 
 sweetly worshipful as its own Sicilian vesper hymn, which 
 through its vibrating arches quivers up to the heart of the 
 all-loving Father. 
 
 The afternoon of that " to-morrow" was touched with the 
 almost imperceptible shadow of the advancing evening; its 
 golden glow was just beginning to fuse itfcelf into the blue 
 ether, when a single carriage paused here, and a very small 
 bridal party passed into this chapel. Before its altar I took 
 the vow to love, honor, and obey the man who stood by my 
 side. This had seemed impossible once. It seemed not at all 
 impossible now. Because I felt that the vow was as solemn 
 as death, I as sincerely and solemnly vowed to keep it. It 
 would not be hard to do so ; I thought now all my will had 
 submitted to its master. Thus in the usual commonplace 
 way, did Victoire Vernoid merge into Madame Rochelle. 
 Of the latter person you will care to hear no more, if you 
 are one of that large number of persons who think that all 
 the charm of a woman's individual life- is lost the moment 
 she is married. Then of course this story is not for you, else 
 fthe wedding would have been deferred to the last chapter.
 
 244 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 A NEW LIFE JUST BEGUN. 
 
 " Mrs. Rochelle, Mrs. Skinher." 
 
 " I am glad to see you looking so well, Mrs. Ro chette," 
 said my former hostess, with a lingering, questioning emphasis 
 on my new name, which had just fallen from the lips of Henri. 
 
 To some ears there is a potent dignity in the word " Mrs." 
 which the unprotected " Miss" never embodies. To the worldly 
 mind "Mrs." conveys the idea of an establishment, of a defined 
 position, of possession and power ; while " Miss" is only a 
 
 Sretty appendage to papa, a waif or a cipher in society, 
 udi/ing by her tone and manner of address, Mrs. Skinher 
 considered Mrs. Rochelle a much more important personage 
 tli:m Miss Vernoid had ever been. "But she would have 
 thought that Miss Vernoid would have stayed Miss Vernoid to 
 the end of her days for all of ever finding such a husband. 
 He was vastly too clever for such a ne'er-do-well Miss, who, 
 without doubt, would bring him to poverty unless he kept a 
 sharp look-out, which she guessed he would do, for Mr. Ro 
 chelle was decidedly to her taste. Such a towering, command 
 ing featured man, how did she ever get him ?" 
 
 All these conclusions and questions seemed to look from 
 Mrs. Skinner's keen, business-eyes, as she turned them with 
 an admiring gaze upon Henri. She had a sympathetic appre 
 ciation for very masculine men. Nature had perpetrated a 
 blunder in not allowing her to be such a man herself, she 
 thought. She had ntjver been quite resigned to the mistake. 
 She was sure that if she had not been trammelled by the 
 restrictions of her miserable sex, she would have been worth 
 millions instead of thousands. She did not over-rate her 
 self when she said: "I have as clear a judgment, I can 
 see as far into business, I can make as good a bargain as any* 
 man !" 
 
 Mrs. Skinher had reached that age when a year, or two, or 
 three, make no difference in looks. She did not seem one 
 minute older than when I parted with her one year before. 
 Her gorgeous robe de matin was just as stylish ; the roses in 
 her moming coiffure just as conscious ; her autumn cheek 
 just as robu>t and ruddy ; the curls which fell around it more 
 glossy ami alnmdant. I knew those curls ; they were mine; 
 and I frit very much like twitching them out of the blonde 
 lace which rested above them. 
 The desire sharpened my voice a little, perhaps, when I
 
 A New Life Just Begun. 245 
 
 disturbed the admiring gaze which she was bestowing upon 
 Mr. Rochelle, by saying : " Mrs. Skinher, we have come after 
 my pictures." My pictures ! Yes, mine. I had never for a 
 moment thought of them as the property of another, although 
 more than a year had gone by since I looked at them last. I 
 was so eager for them, I wanted to see them so much, now 
 that they were so near my sight, there must have been a quick 
 vibration of impatience in my voice as I spoke, but there was 
 no triumph. There had been an anticipation of triumph, 
 almost as sweet as the triumph itself, which filled my heart 
 when I gazed at them in parting. Then the thought that I 
 should go forth and earn money to redeem them quickened 
 my enfeebled pulses and gave new vigor to my wasted limbs. 
 I had even been foolish enough to imagine the exquisite 
 delight of the real triumph, when I should place within Mrs. 
 Skinher's rotund palm the money my own hands had earned, 
 saying : " Mrs. Skinher, I want my pictures." A delight which 
 would be enhanced by that lady's well-remembered assurance : 
 " You will never earn money to redeem them." 
 
 I had not earned the money to redeem them. Therefore I felt 
 no triumph ; I was only filled with a great impatience, an impetu 
 ous yeaniing for my treasures. Yet I felt no humiliation, no 
 shame. Howcouldl? The money in my hand had not been doled 
 out to me with niggardly reluctance ; it had not been offered 
 me with the condescending munificence which would have 
 made me spurn it. It had stolen into my purse unawares, as 
 other gifts had stolen around me, as if they belonged to me 
 and had. never belonged to another. But when Henri said : 
 " Victoire, you must go for your pictures ; it is a shame that 
 that woman has had them so long," my heart was touched 
 with this new proof of his delicate, ever-thoughtful kindness. 
 
 Mrs. Skinher started at my abrupt assei'tion : " Mrs. Skinher, 
 I must have my pictures, every one. Here is all that I owe 
 you." 
 
 She grew very red ; that is, the claret in her cheeks saw fit to 
 rush out to the tip of her nose and up to the roots of her 
 hair. 
 
 " The pictures are all in the back-parlor all but one that 
 I sold. You see that this parlor has been newly frescoed, and 
 the design of the mouldings altered. Your large painting did 
 not harmonize at all with the room after the change; the 
 walls were too gay for such a richly-colored picture ; so I 
 sold it. Of course I knew that the picture would never be 
 redeemed ; that is, if its redemption depended upon you earn-
 
 246 Victoire. 
 
 ing the money. Besides, how did I know but that vou were 
 dead ?" 
 
 " I think that the picture would havelboen redeemed, even 
 if its redemption had depended upon Mrs. Rochelle," said 
 Henri, in his coolest, calmest tone. " Mrs. Rochelle is capable 
 of earning money if necessary. Mrs. Rochelle had money 
 enough saved from her earnings to redeem this picture at 
 one time, and it was swept away by sickness. All are liable 
 to misfortune, you should remember, Madame." 
 
 What a new thing it was to have some one sitting by, 
 defending me in my weakest points in that quiet, assured tone 
 which would admit of no gainsaying ! I had never dreamed 
 how delightful it would be to be thus defended, how very 
 soothing to one's jarred self-love. 
 
 " I do not pretend to say what Mrs. Rochelle is ' capable' 
 of doing," said Mrs. Skinher, in her keenest metallic tone ; 
 " I only know what she did / that she did absolutely nothing 
 while she resided here, although time proved that there was 
 need enough of her doing, for she left, over three hundred and 
 fifty dollars in my debt." 
 
 " Not if she left all her pictures with you. I know some 
 thing of the value of paintings, Madame. The pictures which 
 Mrs. Rochelle brought to America, at the lowest estimate, 
 were worth two thousand dollars ; and they did not include 
 the one which you have sold." 
 
 The claret which had receded from the end of Mrs. Skin- 
 her's nose now rushed back with accelerated violence. She 
 evidently did not relish the idea of Mr. Rochelle's knowledge 
 of the value of paintings, and was slightly confused in spite of 
 herself. 
 
 " It is immaterial how valuable they were to you ; they were 
 not worth two hundred dollars to me. Give me the money 
 due to me and you are welcome to them," she said. 
 
 " You had no right to sell my picture, Mrs. Skinher," I said 
 in a voice choking with tears. I was absorbed with my loss. 
 After such waiting and longing ; after all, I had lost it, my idol 
 picture. 
 
 " Right ?" said this estimable lady of the genteel boarding- 
 house. " Right ! Why hadn't I a right ? You prove your 
 ignorance of business and of law to make such an assertion, 
 
 Mi->s Mrs. Rochelle. I entered into no written contract ; 
 
 I 1U not even bind myself by a verbal promise to keep the 
 pictures for any given time. Yet here I have had my house 
 cumbered with them for over a year, and have sold but one
 
 A New Life Just Begun. 247 
 
 and that a great big thing which I could not possibly have in 
 the way any longer. You can bring no prosecution against 
 me for that act, I am certain. Of course I will allow for it." 
 
 " No allowance can atone for its loss to me, Mrs. Skinher," 
 I replied, utterly unconsoled. 
 
 " I would rather have a hundred dollars in my hand than a 
 picture in my way any time. I suppose that you will have 
 nothing to do now but to paint such pictures all the time. If 
 you please you can paint it over again." 
 
 " I can never paint it again," I said, sadder still. 
 
 " That is no concern of mine. I should not have made a 
 contract to have kept it as security beyond a year. But you 
 proved your incapacity by not even asking me to keep the 
 picture a certain time. In poetry, I believe (though I never 
 read it), people leave things to be taken for granted ; in 
 business, never. Everything there must be in black and white. 
 You may be thankful that I have not sold all your pictures, 
 Miss Mrs. Rochelle." 
 
 " The least reparation which one lady can make to another 
 for an injury which cannot be repaired, is to manifest regret, 
 however slight. 1 do not wish to hear such harsh tones or 
 language addressed to my wife," said Henri, with all the sensi 
 tive dignity of the newly-made husband. 
 
 I turned my face towards him in spontaneous gratitude. 
 Mrs. Skinher had made me feel as she had done many times 
 before, that I was absolutely inefficient and good for nothing. 
 Oh, how pleasant to have some one to take one's part, I 
 thought. 
 
 Mrs. Skinher looked up angrily, yet said nothing. She saw 
 that Mr. Rochelle was a gentleman not to be trifled with. 
 Besides, she had another reason for keeping quiet. 
 
 " I received one hundred dollars for the painting ; you are 
 welcome to it, and to the remaining pictures as soon as you 
 choose to call for them," she said with marked dignity, count 
 ing the above-named sum from the gold which I had laid on 
 the marble table beside her. 
 
 " Did you receive only one hundred dollars for it, Madame ?" 
 asked Henri. 
 
 " I received one hundred dollars for it, sir," she said, look 
 ing into the distance. 
 
 "I think that you received more for it, Mrs. Skinher." 
 
 " Do you consider it gentlemanly to call a lady's word in 
 question ? You have no right to accuse me of receiving more. 
 I shall not condescend to deny it, as you doubted me in the
 
 248 Victoire. 
 
 beginning," she said, haughtily, looking towards him now. His 
 arched eyebrow was drawn down, and from under its shadow 
 the penetrative eye of the man well acquainted with the world 
 looked into the eye of the woman who knew it equally 
 well. 
 
 " If you wish more money for it, fifty dollars is no object 
 with me, though it may be with yow," she said, endeavoring 
 to hide her annoyance with a sneer, and hastily thrusting 
 another little pile of gold towards him with her hand. "I 
 can afford to give much more than I received for it," she 
 added, with great emphasis on the word " afford." 
 
 " I shall not accept the fifty dollars, and I wish no further 
 conversation. I only wish you to know that I believe, from 
 the very look on your face, that you received more than one 
 hundred and fifty dollars for that painting." 
 
 " I am not going to be insulted in my own house," said Mrs. 
 Skinher, rising with an air of state, waving her "hand regally 
 towards the door. But the gentleman before her was not one 
 to be at all perturbed by a few lofty lady airs, even though 
 they proceeded from so august a personage as the very genteel 
 mistress of a very genteel boarding-house. He took no notice 
 of her manner whatever, but coolly asked : 
 
 " Do you object to giving the name of the person who 
 bought it ? If possible, I wish to purchase the picture." 
 
 " The name I have forgotten ; the gentleman was proprietor 
 of a gallery of paintings. I doubt if he would sell it ; he 
 wished it to give variety to his collection, he said." 
 
 " Is it an art-gallery in the city ?" 
 
 " It may be. I believe that it is." 
 
 " Very well, I can find it, then." 
 
 She looked more thoroughly annoyed than she had done at 
 all. " You must excuse me ; I have an engagement," she 
 said, looking at her gold watch. " Be so kind as1o have your 
 pictures removed as soon as possible." 
 
 But we were not quite ready to go. 
 
 " Does Kate live with you still ?" I inquired. 
 
 She does." 
 
 " Can I see her, Mrs. Skinher ?" 
 
 " She is busy ; the house is fall." 
 
 " I told Kate once that if ever I had a home I should be 
 glad to have her share it. Now I have come to ask her to go 
 to it. You know that Kate was very kind to me once ?" 
 
 " Kate kind to you! A pretty story. She only obeyed my 
 orders, yet I never received as much as a thank you. "l don't
 
 A New Life Just Begun. 249 
 
 know but that you think it good manners to come and tell a 
 lady to her face that you intend to persuade her servant to 
 leave her, but I consider it very ill-bred the height of ill- 
 breeding." 
 
 " I certainly should not do so under ordinary circumstances, 
 Mrs. Skinher. I am sorry to do so now, if you are so much 
 attached to Kate ; yet I, too, am attached to her, and feel that 
 I must give her an opportunity to make a choice," I said. 
 
 " Attached to her !" said Mrs. Skinher, in great disgust. 
 " As if it were possible for a lady to have any personal 
 attachment to an Irish servant. No ; Kate is lazy, saucy, 
 and troublesome. Yet she is just as good as any of her class, 
 and I don't wish the bother of making a change ; though I 
 dare say if I had time I should find some one who would do 
 more work and give me less impudence." 
 
 " I will engage to find you a good servant to take her place 
 if she leaves you ; but I feel that I must see her." 
 
 " You find me a servant ! I assure you that I am quite 
 equal to attending to my own affairs. I would trust no one 
 to select a servant for me. I know the very minute I look 
 into a girl's face if she is a thief, and just what she is. A 
 dreamy, sentimental person like you would never know. It 
 requires common sense to select a servant. If you wish to 
 see Kate, you can go through the rooms until you find her. 
 But I doubt if the ladies will think it agreeable to have a 
 stranger intruding into their apartments." 
 
 Of course to see Kate under such circumstances was out of 
 the question. We must devise some other way to reach her. 
 With a good morning, and with an assurance from Henri 
 that the pictures should be sent for before evening, we arose 
 to depart. 
 
 Kate was one of those acute-eared chamber-maids who 
 seldom fail to hear the ringing of the door bell, neither was 
 she without a proper degree of feminine curiosity concerning 
 the human beings whom black-faced, white-vested Nick ushered 
 in and out. For example, if she happened to be at the head 
 of the staircase at the right moment, she would poise herself 
 against her broom-handle, and look down, " jist to see if the 
 lady's driss was ilegant, or the gintleman's moosetush was fit 
 to be sane." Kate was also one of those opportune chamber 
 maids who knew how to happen on the stairs at the exact 
 minute when some one was issuing from the parlor, provided 
 in their entree they had aroused sufficient interest to induce her 
 to take cognizance of their departure. On this morning she 
 
 11*
 
 Victoire. 
 
 had just caught a glimpse of Henri as we disappeared into 
 the parlor ; and as she was " sure that she had seen this gintle- 
 man before," she waited his second appearance, that she might 
 compose her mind by assuring it " when and where." 
 
 Slowly descending the broad stairs, bearing in conscious 
 state the badges of her office broom, duster, and dust-pan 
 came Kate, just as we passed into the hall. Suddenly broom, 
 duster, and dust-pan fell with a great clatter, hitting the 
 enamelled balusters, and dropping with a sharp reverberation 
 upon the floor of the basement far below. 
 
 " Kate, you are the torment of my life. Yon shall pay for 
 breaking that new enamel," exclaimed Mrs. Skinher, rushing 
 away to ascertain the precise amount of damages done. But 
 Kate did not hear her in her rapid descent and eager call. 
 
 " Oh, me darlint young leddy, is it ye ! The very young 
 leddy who I nursit wid me own hands, lookin' like a princess. 
 Sure, an' I al'us said ye was born to good fortin', though ye'r 
 own nus said ye was horned crazy." 
 
 By this time Kate had reached us ; and although she 
 looked slightly abashed at my companion, her embarrassment 
 was not sufficient to arrest the motion of her tongue for a 
 longer space than to take a single breath ; then she went on, 
 looking straight at me with the most devouring delight : 
 
 " Sure, an' the gran' gintleman's foun' ye. I know'd he 
 wud, though 'twas more nor I cud do. Faith, upon me wurd, 
 it is the truth. I've bin huntin' an' huntin', and 'twas all no 
 use. Didn't I go mesel' to the graveyard across the river, 
 fearin' they had .hurried ye beside o' y'er owld nus. Pace to 
 her sowl. But no ; it wasn't ther' that ye wus. Thin I was 
 in thruble, not knowin' what hard fortin' had befallen ye. 
 Long enuf afore I wint to the hathenish place wher' ye got 
 board, an' they sed ye'd gone, they know'd notbin' wher'. 
 Thin I spake me mind, I did. I tould thim to thar' face, 
 'twas a burnin' shame that my young missus, the lady what 
 I nursit wid me own hands, had iver lived in such a din of 
 S;it:m. Thin, that big, big red-headed thing said it was good 
 emit', an' too good, an' I felt like pullin' all the blazin' hairs 
 out by the ruts, bad luck to the like of her ! Faith, I am 
 afeared me bad temper wud make me struck her, if I hadn't 
 thought of ye. Dade, it's a great shame that the like of ye 
 iver had to sit afore the face of that freckled-faced spalpeen, 
 That gloomy hole of a house was enuf to make your heart as 
 black as a pot ! " 
 
 44 Well, Kate, I am going to have a pleasant home now.
 
 A New Life Just Begun. . 251 
 
 And you know that I promised you once that if I ever had 
 one, I should ask you to come and live with me. Do you 
 want to go?" 
 
 " Why wudn't I ? It's afthur bein' time that ye had a 
 dacent ruf to kiver ye'r young head. An' if you've got a 
 gran' house at last, I'm the gel that wud like to see it. I 
 know'd good enuf ye wus borned to good fortin', but it was 
 the feelin' I had that some other sowl wud bring ye the luck. 
 Well enuf I know'd that no sich hands as yourn could iver 
 dig money enuf to buy a big house, if they do say that it 
 sprouts in the streets of Amereky thick as the potaties blos 
 som in the fields at home. Wan't me own faythur a well- 
 to-do ?" 
 
 " Yes, your father must have been a good man , but I 
 ' haven't told you yet that this gentleman is my husband. He 
 will be very good to you, Kate." 
 
 " Yer honor !" said Kate, dropping a low courtesy, " an' 
 will ye be good enuff to pardon me gibgabblin'. Joy at 
 seein' the young missus hus set me tongue a-runin', and there 
 be'n't no stoppin' it. Upon me wurred, sir, it is the truth ; I 
 am very, very fond~of the young leddy." 
 
 " I see that you are," said Henri, smiling. 
 
 " An' if yer honor will let the like of me say it, I must say 
 to ye'r honor, I know'd the minut' I set my eyes on ye'r 
 honor, when ye kem afore, askin' so throbbled-like for the 
 young leddy what I nursit wid my own hands, that ye it wud 
 
 be what wud bring luck to Miss , faith ; an' I can't say 
 
 yit yer outlandish name. I hope now, Miss, ye's got a name 
 that mesel' can spake ?" 
 
 " My name is Rochelle." 
 
 " Ro-Ro-Ro-shall. Faith, it's no better nor tother ! A 
 great misfortin' is it, Miss, ye's got sich outlandish names ; 
 no common folks can spake 'em. How is ye'r servants to 
 trate ye wid respect when they can't say ye'r name, to save 
 their sowls. ? I'm glad me name is Murphy ; that's a name what 
 folks can spake." 
 
 " Kate, you've lost just two weeks' wages. Go and look 
 at that broken cornice. Another time, perhaps you'll hold 
 your dust-pan in your hand, where it belongs, and not send it 
 flying down two flights of stairs," said Mrs. Skinher, as she 
 returned from her explorations. 
 
 " As ef I cared if 'twus two months' wages. I'd drop the 
 dust-pan out of me hand the very nixt minnit, if I seed me 
 young missus a-comin', what I thought was dead an' burrid,
 
 Victoire. 
 
 an' gone to heaven. Here she is alive an' well, an' lookin' 
 like a princiss, thanks be to God ! An' aint mesel' agoin' to 
 live with thira what I likes, an' thim what likes me ? As if 
 I cared for your two weeks' wages !" 
 
 " Give me no impudence, Kate. If you are going to live 
 with this woman, go out of my house this moment. But 
 remember you have lost two weeks' wages." 
 
 Kate took no notice of this command to leave, for she was 
 only waiting to exclaim : " Indade, upon me word, Miss, it is 
 the truth, an' the whole truth, joy at seein' ye, made me for 
 get to tell it afore, but I'se got a packet for ye ; I has, with 
 a furrin mark on it. I tuk it to that gloomy hole of a house 
 that was niver fit for the like of ye, an' as it wasn't there that 
 ye was, what in the world was I to do wid it, but to keep it 
 till I know'd for shure if ye was alive or dead, or gone to 
 heaven ?" 
 
 " It must be from Orsini," I said. " Bring it to me, Kate, 
 as quick as you can." 
 
 Kate went immediately after it, and Mrs. Skinher embraced 
 the brief moments of her absence to express her final opinion 
 of my character. 
 
 " I feel it to be my duty," she began, " to tell you just 
 what I think of you. You are a person who would never 
 know your faults if you were not told of them. Never ! It 
 is my duty to tell you, and I will do my duty." (Oh ! how 
 some people love to do their duty in certain states of temper.) 
 " Miss Madame Rochelle, you are a very troublesome person. 
 Five hundred dollars would not pay for the trouble which you 
 have made me. I always had my suspicions that you were the 
 cause of Signor Orsino going off as he did. Yes ; I had my 
 suspicions, and I expressed them at the table, that Signor 
 Orsino would never have gone to Italy if it had not been for 
 you. A better boarder I never had. He was good pay, 
 excellent pay ; he always paid his bills the first day they were 
 due. And you was the cause of my losing him as good a 
 boarder as I ever had. You caused the death of my cook 
 the best cook I ever had. She would not have died if you 
 had not taken it into your head to have gone crazy. And 
 now, as if you had not done mischief enough, you have come 
 to coax away my chamber-maid the best chamber-girl I ever 
 had. She has got a saucy tongue, but she wouldn't have so 
 inm-h time to use it if she was not so spry when she does 
 work ; though she is a lazy thing. Now you have come after 
 her. You are a very selfish person. It is my duty to tell
 
 A New Life Just Begun. 253 
 
 you so. Five hundred dollars wouldn't pay for the trouble 
 which you have made." 
 
 " I allus said ye know'd that I did the work of two 
 common gels," said Kate, triumphantly. She had heard Mrs. 
 Skinner's estimate of her spryness while descending the stairs 
 bonnet, shawl, and package in hand. 
 
 I had no fault to find with Mrs. Skinher's picture, being too 
 much engaged in the thought of the advancing package. Henri 
 evidently deemed the tirade beneath his notice ; therefore 
 the charming woman who delivered it, having " done her 
 duty," walked away with becoming dignity. 
 
 I have not spoken to you of Orsino this long time, but 
 I had not forgotten him. His amulet had hung upon my 
 neck and fluttered on my heart through all my changing 
 fortunes. There was an hour, when want and death drew 
 near, in which I feared that I must part with it. Then I 
 watched for an opportunity to slip it into George Peacock's 
 hand and to whisper : " Go buy fire and bread, lest my dar 
 lings perish." I had been spared the sacrifice. Often I had 
 looked at the little cross with its crown of pearls, and yearned 
 for tidings of my friend. Had his prayer been granted, had 
 he died for Italy, and thus been spared the woe of living to 
 see her still in chains ? 
 
 I knew not, for although I had sent him my address at the 
 " comfortable home," I had received no tidings since his first 
 letter.' I was never one of those sublimely indifferent persons 
 who can carry an unopened letter ip their pocket for any 
 number of hours, or let it lie before their eyes with the seal 
 untouched, as if it was all the same whether they read it 
 to-day or next week. If a letter is disagreeable, I wish the 
 felicity of seeing it burn to dust in less than five minutes ; if 
 it is one of those which few can write, but which many love 
 to receive, I cannot too quickly fold it with my heart's trea 
 sures. I did not wait to pass out from the slightly ungenial 
 atmosphere of Mrs. Skinher's hall to open the package which 
 Kate placed in my hands. I saw at a glance that it was not 
 Orsino's handwriting which traced the cover. I opened it, 
 and, ere I was aware, from its folds of silken paper a tress 
 of hair floated noiselessly to my feet, and with it a chain of 
 gold fell with a quick vibration outside the velvet carpet on 
 the hard enamel of the stairs. It was Orsino's amulet. I 
 stooped and picked it up ; its sword, its laurel-wreath were 
 broken. I found in the package the leaves of Orsino 5 ^ jour 
 nal closed by a strange hand, which recorded that Angelo
 
 254 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 Orsino, his beloved friend, died pouring out his blood for 
 the liberty of Rome ; that he obeyed his dying wish in send 
 ing this memorial to the Signora in a distant land 1 Here, at 
 the foot of the staircase on which we had exchanged our first 
 glances of pleasant recognition, where his beautiful smile had 
 first hung its light in my lonely life, I read the record of his 
 death. 
 
 I read no more. These last leaves of his life must be perus 
 ed in more sacred hours, I said, as I laid in their folds again 
 the broken amulet and tress of faded hair. Henri, in a quiet 
 tone, was giving directions to Kate about a certain train of 
 cars about the station where a carriage would wait her 
 arrival. I did not know what he meant, and did not ask. I 
 only knew that Kate was to come to us that morning, and 
 with this satisfactory knowledge we departed the loss of 
 my picture forgotten in the loss of my friend. 
 
 The three weeks which had passed since our marriage we 
 had spent in a Southern city. Morna and Hope had accom 
 panied us, for the first time in their lives catching a glimpse 
 of the grand country lying outside of their native metropolis. 
 We had returned to New York the evening before, when 
 Henri said : " To-morrow we will go to our home." In what 
 portion of the city that home was to be I had not even 
 inquired. I did not seem to care much, now that Morna 
 had certainly assured me that she could not share it with me. 
 
 " Victoire, it is not best," she said, with deep emphasis ; and 
 when Morna said anything was not best, I always believed 
 that it was not. 
 
 " You must remember," she said, " that ease and luxury are 
 not portions of my natural heritage. I do not want them, at 
 least until I have earned the right to enjoy them. Long 
 privation has created in me so keen a taste for forbidden joy 
 that I fear, if I should come into sudden possession of it, I 
 should become intoxicated. Leisure, beauty, music, would 
 enervate me. I should yield to them unconsciously until lost 
 in a delicious delirium. Yet I should some day wake to the 
 consciousness that I had no right to this gorgeous life, no 
 right to this unchecked leisure, to this yielding up of the soul' 
 to all that it thirsts for most, because it would not be mine 
 but the property of another. Yet that knowledge would not 
 bring back the patience and power to perform my old hated 
 tasks. No, Victoire, I must content myself with what I can 
 i';irn. What I toil for is mine, but nothing more. Besides, it 
 is not best."
 
 A New Life Just Begun. 255 
 
 She spoke as if her mind was conscious of a distinct reason 
 why it was not best. 
 
 " I know," she went on to say, " that I should not be 
 justified in utterly refusing Mr. Rochelle's kindness, much as 
 it pains me to accept it. He says that if I will 'devote myself 
 to music this summer, by autumn I can secure a situation in 
 a church or cathedral choir. Besides, perhaps, I might then 
 obtain a music class ; and by another spring 1 should be 
 able to pay all that he will loan me in order to secure my 
 teacher. In the meantime I can sew enough to pay for 
 my board during the summer. I am so anxious for Hope's 
 future, for her sake I waive all feelings of pride. It seems 
 as if I had never wanted anything in the world so much as 
 to have that child educated. If culture can be added to her 
 natural graces I feel assured that her lot in life will be a beau 
 tiful one. For this reason, Mr. Rochelle's offer to adopt and 
 educate her seems like a proposition from Heaven. I dare not 
 utterly refuse it. At least we will share her together, Victoire. 
 And my joy, my holiday delight, will be to come and see you 
 sometimes in your home. What a bliss it will be ! Victoire, 
 you ought to be happy, very happy ; saved and sheltered as 
 you are in the love of such a man so noble, so manly, so 
 strong. These are the qualities in man which arouse the high 
 est worship of a woman." 
 
 I had heard my friend praised many times ; never before, 
 my husband. I recognised a difference. With a real thrill 
 of womanly feeling I said : " Morna, he is splendid." 
 
 Thus it was concluded, and after her certain assurance, I 
 knew that a whole torrent of feminine entreaties of: " Oh, do, 
 Morna ;" and " I should think you might, Morna ;" and " How 
 cruel you are, Morna," could not wash away that little sen 
 tence : " Victoire, it is not best." 
 
 Nick had opened the door for us, and I had passed down 
 the marble steps of Mrs. Skinher's mansion for the last time, 
 not much as I tottered down them one year before, carrying 
 nothing with me out into the world but my sick body, my 
 sad heart, and my " dead Christ." As we entered the car 
 riage Henri said : 
 
 " We will devote to-morrow to a search for that lost paint 
 ing. The art-galleries of New York are not so numerous nor 
 so extensive but that it can be found, if in any of them ; but 
 now we will go home." 
 
 I expected that the carriage would stop before one of 
 the innumerable bouses "all alike in a row." But no, it
 
 2 5 6 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 rolled by all, till at last the city itself was passed. Then I 
 said : 
 
 "Why, we are on the road which we took when we went 
 to Bel Eden." 
 
 " We are going to Bel Eden, now," said Henri. 
 
 " What, for a drive ?" 
 
 " Yes, and for a rest at the end of it. Bel Eden is our 
 home, Victoire." 
 
 " Our home ! I thought that you said it was the property 
 of a Southern gentleman." 
 
 " So it was at that time. But I said nothing of what was 
 equally true, that it was then in the hands of his agent for 
 sale. I wanted to be sure that you would like it for a home 
 before I purchased it." 
 
 I was quite unprepared for this last gift of fortune. 
 
 " Why are you so quiet ?" asked Henri. 
 
 " Everything seems so strange. I can't make it seem that 
 we are going to live at Bel Eden. I don't like to have my 
 life seem so like a story. I am afraid that it will slip away 
 from me before I know it." 
 
 " I should think that you had had reality enough to make the 
 story -part pleasant by way of variety. But will this make it 
 seem any more like a fact ? Here is a deed of Bel Eden 
 made out in your name my bridal gift to my wife." 
 
 " Why did you choose one so magnificent ? You know 
 that it is not at all in keeping with me. I never dreamed 
 that you were such a Midas." 
 
 " I am no Midas. I have no ambition to change your life 
 into gold. But perhaps you remember that I told you on 
 this very road that I should give my wife substantial proof 
 that I loved her above all women. This is my first proof to 
 you, Victoire. Besides, Bel Eden is a capital investment. 
 It is excellent property." 
 
 " Is it ?" 
 
 ** Yes ; I made up my mind fcom the first moment I saw it 
 to buy it if possible. How full of wonder you look, child. I 
 know you have thought that my profession was my only de 
 pendence. This has made you magnify the generosity of my 
 deeds a hundredfold. The truth is, I am rich. I inherited 
 all of my mother's fortune, which has been accumulating since 
 my infancy, when she died. Beatrice's portion came to me. 
 autumn my father died and left me the money which 
 he had hoarded through a long life, my step-mother having 
 enough of her o\vu. Now if I have tried to diffuse a little of
 
 A New Life Just Begun. 257 
 
 the treasure which I had no use for into three other lives 
 which needed light and warmth very much, it is no proof at 
 all that I am a very munificent fellow. If I could have done 
 a great deal more, it would have been only my duty. You 
 must wait until people deny themselves to do a kind deed, 
 before you talk of generosity, Victoire. You have an exam 
 ple in Morna. She is as unselfish as she is gifted." 
 
 " Oh, how glad I am that you like Morna," I said, my heart 
 yearning towards my friend with that great love which she 
 had created in me. 
 
 The road to Bel Eden did not seem nearly as long as when 
 we rode over it before. With eager eyes I watched for the 
 first glimpse of my home, wondering if it could seem as beau 
 tiful as when I looked at it with the eyes of a stranger. 
 Before we entered 'the arcade of roadside elms I caught a 
 gleam of the glowing windows of its tower, overlooking the 
 high sunny slope on which it stood, and, as we drew nearer, 
 saw its pale walls showing softly through the openings of 
 the trees. 
 
 The gate was opened by the same old man who admitted us 
 before, and there was a world of welcome in his pleasant face. 
 The trees now wore the wondrous garniture of June. Dense, 
 gorgeous, richly veined, filled with the fulness of life, they 
 waved over us their pendulous panoplies. Bel Eden had put 
 on a warmer bloom, a deeper, riper loveliness since we saw it 
 last. As we emerged into its free space, all the air was 
 flushed with roses, distilling attar from their white and crim 
 son hearts, till the world seemed rife with their wandering 
 odors. There, leaning against the vine-hung arches of the 
 portico beneath the tower in their white flowing robes, stood 
 Morna and Hope Hope, the promise of her budding beauty 
 enfolding her like a mystic glory ; Morna, with all the tense 
 lines of pain fading away from her gentle mouth, the dark 
 braids of her hair shining against the ivy leaves on which 
 they rested, her large, lustrous eyes sending out the radiance 
 of a larger love, dewy, tender as the beautiful orbs in which 
 it shone. They were there to welcome me to my new 
 home. 
 
 Amid this unexpected yet joyful greeting, I was made 
 aware of still another presence by a very queer sound bearing 
 some resemblance both to a chuckle and a grunt. Looking, 
 I saw a ponderous object dressed in white jacket and trowsers, 
 rolling over, and over, and over in the sunny grass, and I had 
 only to look to discover that it was George Washington Pea-
 
 258 Victoire. 
 
 cock. At the question, " How are you, George ?" he turned 
 a somerset which brought him blank before me. 
 
 " Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear ! Miss Victory, I can't say 
 nothin' about nothin'," and with these words again he plunged 
 into the grass with as much vehemence as I had once seen 
 him plunge into a lounge-cushion, beginning to roll with 
 great violence, as if it was the only possible way by which he 
 could give adequate expression to his superfluous emotion. 
 
 " I am very glad to see you, George Washington. Wh;it 
 do you want to say ?" I asked, laughing, as I saw the white 
 mass rolling down the slope of bright turf. In a moment more 
 he brought himself up again before me. 
 
 " Oh, dear, Miss Victory, I'll be i I aint never goin' to 
 swear no more. But I feel as if I was a bustin', an' I must 
 shout glory or I shall swear when I don't want to, for I must 
 say somethin'. What is a feller gwiiie to do when he feels 
 hisself a bustin' ?" 
 
 " Sing, George Washington." 
 
 " I can't sing ; 'taint no use tryin'. But I can yell an' I can 
 tumble. An' 1 never had no such place as this to tumble in 
 afore," he said, plunging again into the turf, and rolling down 
 the sunny slope, bringing himself up the third time to exclaim : 
 " Well, I never read nothin' like it in no story-book. I 
 didn't 'spose there ever was nothin' like it, as you should come 
 an' live with Mr. Rochel' in a handsum meetin' house, with 
 the steeple a shinin' at the top like blazes. I didn't spose as I 
 should ever see Miss Hope a standin' in the door, lookin' like 
 :iii :mgel in a white frock. There never was nothin' like it in 
 all the story-books as I ever read, in the Pirate of the Pacific 
 nor nothin' ; as I should come an' live with you an' Mr. Ro 
 chel' an' b^ made a decent chap of. Oh, I never thought 
 
 notliin' so good could come to me, I'll be Oh, ^ didn't say 
 
 it. I can't say nothin' about nothin'. I am a bustin' !" And 
 again the half-frantic boy rolled off in the grass, Henri calling 
 out: 
 
 " Roll away, my boy, until you feel easier." 
 
 The next morning the search for the lost painting com 
 menced. The art gallery in which it had been placed was 
 easily found; but, alas! it was not there. The director, the 
 gi-ntli'mati who purchased it of Mrs. Skinher, informed us 
 th:it he had sold it more than a month before for a thousand 
 dollars ; als > that he bought it of Mrs. Skinher for five hundred. 
 He said thit the picture had attracted much attention on 
 account of its marked individuality ; that it had been sharply
 
 Life. 259 
 
 criticised and enthusiastically praised ; that only one verdict 
 had been pronounced upon the living inspiration of the faces 
 in the group, which all critics acknowledged remarkable for 
 power and beauty. Its present proprietor purchased it for his 
 own house ; whether he intended to reside in this city or not 
 the director did not know. The painting was sent to the 
 
 Hotel St. . The gentleman's name was Moucrieffe. 
 
 Amid the many unsatisfactory items which we gathered we 
 found the very satisfactory one, that, in the amount paid Mrs. 
 Skinher for this picture, she had received an equivalent for the 
 five hundred dollars' worth of trouble which I had unfortu 
 nately made her in causing the death of her cook and the loss 
 of her chamber-maid. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Life had come to me. I had accepted it not as the reali 
 zation of the ideal life which I had dreamed of, but still 
 as a life rich beyond my deserving. Whose actual life is 
 ever just the thing which once they imagined that it might 
 be ? Even if its colors are gorgeous as those which fancy 
 painted, still they are different. The life of fact is never the 
 fulfilment of the life of dreams. Life had come and lavished 
 upon me treasures which I had never sought ; should I murmur 
 because it retained a single gift, even though that was the one 
 which I most fervently desired ? Life could not be all love 
 nor all happiness. Labor, and discipline, and growth were a 
 part of life. There were victories to be won over ourselves ; 
 there was good to be done and to be attained. There was a 
 lite which transcended all personal desire ; which included an 
 abnegation of self and devotion to the happiness of others. 
 I would live this life. It was very selfish to be so eager for 
 happiness, to spend one's days longing for that grand ideal of 
 personal satisfaction which we may find in heaven but never 
 on earth. God had given me much to live for now ; every 
 day, from a full heart, I thanked Him for it. I honored and 
 revered my husband. I regarded him with a yearning, wist 
 ful affection. The sweetest pleasure I had was in consulting 
 his tastes and anticipating his wishes. How I wished that he 
 needed me a little more. I was glad that he was so self- 
 poised and strong ; that his life was so complete ; and yet 
 if he had only needed me a little more ! Surely the wells of
 
 260 Victoire. 
 
 love in my being had never been sounded ; my power of 
 devotion longed for an object to call it out to the utmost. 
 Yet those were pleasant times, when I drove down through 
 the aisle of cathedral elms to meet him each evening as he 
 came from the city. Sometimes Morna was there, and Hope 
 came from school, and we had laughter and songs, and walks 
 and stories. Yes, those were happy times. There was good 
 to be done, and enough of it. My life need not grow morbid 
 from inaction. There was Moma and Hope to live for ; their 
 future to wait for. There was Kate Murphy to be civilized. 
 There was George Washington Peacock. To be sure I could 
 not change the end of his nose. I could not chisel it till it 
 assumed a more classic outline. But I could teach him Eng 
 lish grammar, that the poor boy's bound soul might utter his 
 native tongue with less physical wear and tear to himself. 
 Yes, there was good enough to be done. Did not a great 
 Babylon of sjn and sorrow lie just beyoud the precincts of 
 Bel Eden ? While there was so much misery to be healed, 
 should a woman complain that her life could find no great 
 object? Could she be justified in making her own selfish 
 heart-wants the centre ot her universe ? 
 
 I commenced Morna's portrait. Twice a week she came 
 and sat before me. In trying to embody that tragic yet 
 magnificent face, I found food for my enthusiasm and full 
 employment for my faculties. Art was again an inspiration 
 as vivid and pervading as when I painted out my first dream 
 in Mrs. Skinher's attic chamber. Thus life had come ; had 
 given me so much ; how could I ever be dissatisfied or selfishly 
 crave another joy to be added to my portion? 
 
 It was June. I had been married two years. I was sitting 
 in the room which once I had playfully wished for my studio 
 the highest chamber in the tower overlooking the grounds of 
 Bel Eden, the Hudson, the blue precipitous palisades, the 
 di>tant city. It was my studio, in its appointments looking 
 like hundreds of other studios which may be seen in the world. 
 There, beneath the skylight, stood the easel with its unfinished 
 picture. This, most people would have thought, a study, 
 an ideal face. They could scarcely imagine a human one so 
 surpassingly lovely that it could claim to be its original. This 
 picture was to go forth to the world ht-aring the name of 
 H.-l.r, yd it \\:is M-.iively an idealized portrait of Hope. 
 Then, besides, here were the busts and pictures which find 
 their way into almost every studio, besides some which never
 
 Life. 261 
 
 fovmd their way into any but this one. Opposite each other 
 hung the portraits of my father and mother ; while near, 
 gazing into each other's eyes, were the faces of Frederick and 
 Beatrice. Sacred faces, sacredly cherished, lavishly loved, I 
 wanted them where I could look up to them always for 
 benediction, for inspiration. These were the woman's idols, 
 reigning supreme amid all the artist's treasures. Yet the 
 latter were scattered around with almost prodigal profusion. 
 Here was Aphrodite's little foot, which might just as well 
 have been called Morna's, modelled in marble. Here was the 
 august bust of Athena, on whose royal face I looked with 
 ever-kindling admiration, and sometimes with a sigh. I could 
 never be Athena now. 
 
 A part, on their sculptured brackets, gazing upon each 
 other in conscious emulation, stood the Apollo Belvidere in 
 the glory of his manful beauty, and the Venus of Milo in the 
 pomp of her sumptuous womanhood. Here, as a matter of 
 course, was Raphael's Madonna beside Raphael's own still 
 diviner face. Here, too, Correggio's Christ, which you 
 know had followed me through many sunless spots, ere it 
 reached a resting-place as harmonious and hallowed as this. 
 Pictures in every stage of development, from the aerial out 
 line to the full, warm-tinted form, the softly shaded land 
 scapes were carelessly grouped about the room. Embedded 
 in the mossy carpet, they leaned against the walls, some half- 
 revealing themselves as they peered out from behind others ; 
 and some, hiding their faces entirely, showing instead blanks 
 of grey canvas. The braided beryline and ruby light stream 
 ing from the gorgeous window, was attempered by deep folds 
 of drapery. But one stood wide open now, in which I sat 
 in a low seat, my feet resting on the lace-like balcony into 
 which all the windows opened. I often sat here at this hour, 
 just as the day was going to look out on one of the grandest 
 amphitheatres of beauty which ever stretched away before 
 human sight. But now I did not see the sunset crimsoning 
 the white clouds or the emerald hills ; I did not see the glim 
 mering city or the gleaming river. I did not watch the 
 golden and purple shadows flit through the shimmering trees, 
 nor the fountain scattering about its lavish diamonds ; nor 
 think of the gay congregations of flowers sending up to me 
 their evening oblation of perfume. I neither saw nor thought 
 of the objects which had grown to be a part of my daily life, 
 for I was absorbed in a letter which I was reading, and these 
 are a portion of the words which it contained :
 
 262 Victoire. 
 
 " I ara not able to banish your Niobe, although I have 
 endeavored to do so. Niobe is more the embodiment of a 
 spirit than of a mere face. The features are noble, the eyes 
 glorious ; so are the eyes and features of other pictures, which 
 possess for me no such charm. It is the spirit radiating from 
 every line,which arrests and fascinates so many beholders. 
 
 "You have-caught the essence of a beautiful soul and ren 
 dered it palpable in an immortal form. Yet Niobe embodies 
 a divine beauty which can never be resolved into mere color 
 or lines. It emanates from her, it hovers over her, a glory 
 which can be felt yet never described ; if it were possible to 
 portray it by any material symbol, it could not be the purely 
 spiritual effluence which it is. To suggest the perfect, ever 
 more hovering beyond, is the highest revelation of the highest 
 art. Your critics say that Niobe lacks the grandest linea 
 ments of a tragic face, and that her form is wanting in ma 
 jesty. This is true, perhaps, if she is judged solely as the 
 representative of the ancient idea. To me she is not so much 
 the embodied type of a mythic goddess, as she is the Niobe 
 of your own conception, the mortal woman of to-day, whom 
 sorrow has transfigured into something divine without robbing 
 her of one of her sweet, womanly attributes. I judge that you 
 are still young" from the sympathetic, lingering touch you have 
 given to the lines of youth which woe has not swept from your 
 Niobe's face. Yes, I think that you are young as years are 
 told, yet how much you must have lived in your earthly so 
 journ; how wide a scope you must have encompassed in your 
 range of thought, of aspiration, of sympathy, before you could 
 embody such a soul as this ! Through your Niobe you draw 
 near to me, breathing of a royal yet saddened womanhood, 
 with distant, mystic suggestions of that magnetic sympathy 
 through which these thoughts will from me to you vibrate 
 without a thrill of dissonance. 
 
 " As deep calleth unto deep, so does soul answer unto soul. 
 The great flood of ocean, as it rolls under the influence of 
 countless stars in their far blue homes, together with all the 
 moving and blending forces of universal creation, proclaim a 
 correspondent chain of cognate elements in the spiritual world. 
 Sympathy is produced through the medium of organic impres 
 sions, but absolute friendship may grow out of the veriest 
 abstractions. Do you not believe that the contemplation of 
 the good, the beautiful, in every form, seems doubly beauti 
 ful when shared even in thought by another who can sympa 
 thize to the utmost in our exquisite enjoyment of them ? I
 
 Life. 263 
 
 "believe also that when another has appealed to that which is 
 highest in our nature, it is a joy to answer that appeal. That 
 when another has embodied our own highest spiritual concep 
 tions, whether in form, in color, or in words embodied that 
 which we have always felt, yet never had the power to ex 
 press the least return that we can make is to tell that soul 
 what it has done for us. 
 
 " As I reverently fear God, in whom all my hopes are cen 
 tered, I do solemnly declare that these are my motives for 
 addressing you. Here I trace an ineffaceable record of my 
 gratitude for the lovely vision you have given me of a rare, 
 human, glorified womanhood. I confess that if Niobe was 
 not more to me than a picture, she would not have called forth 
 all that I have said. She brings back to me more palpably 
 than I dare think one who has made the sweetness and the 
 sadness of my mortal life. I do not deny that I deeply desire 
 an interchange of sentiment with the soul which gave her 
 birth. There is nothing on earth so calculated to refine and 
 elevate the mind of man as a frank, open, sincere interchange of 
 thought, with a pure, gifted, Christian woman. It is the alem 
 bic through which the holiest friendship distils its sweets. 
 
 " Thus, while I beg your pardon for introducing myself to 
 you unannounced, I shall never cease to cherish a grateful 
 recollection of your goodness, should I be so fortunate as to 
 win a reply. 
 
 " Respectfully yours, 
 
 " PAUL AMBROSE MOTSTCRIEFFE. 
 
 " No Place, New York, June ,18 ." 
 
 I read this letter through once, twice, thrice ; then I held 
 it before me to see how far I might judge of the writer's indi 
 viduality by this embodied expression of his mind. It was 
 written on full-sized letter-paper, unmarred by " rules," pure, 
 fine, glossy as satin. The chirography, devoid of all preten 
 sion, was remarkable for elegance. It displayed no vulgar 
 flourishes, no writing-master precision, no nervous quirks, no 
 ambitious ascension, no sharp plunges of lines in a downward 
 direction. Every letter stood bold in the masculine vigor of 
 its form ; yet delicate, almost feminine in its shading, as if 
 traced by a light, fastidious hand. There were no words 
 erased, no words left out to be hoisted in untimely haste upon 
 the shoulders of their fellows over the pinnacle of a tottering 
 caret. There was nothing cramped, contracted, hurried. The 
 full, clear lines, encircled by their broad, snowy margin, sug-
 
 264 Victoire. 
 
 gested only strength and harmony, beautiful freedom, infi 
 nite grace. 
 
 Letters written amid the hurry of business, beneath a pres 
 sure of care, in moments of exhaustion or pain, cannot be 
 regarded as fair representatives of their writers. But when 
 an individual in an hour of leisure, with perfect deliberation, 
 sits down to record for you a pure expression of thought 
 or feeling, you may accept that letter as the synonym of its 
 author. As you open it, you will inhale the very atmosphere 
 of attraction or repulsion which you are conscious of in the 
 living presence. It is instinct with a single personality. As 
 in action, here character publishes itself unawares ; you can 
 detect it in the texture of the paper, in the hue of the ink, in 
 the distorted angles, or melodious curves of the letters. The 
 idiosyncrasies' of character will stamp the visible lines no less 
 than the invisible thought which they breathe to you. The 
 seal of the soul from which it emanated was on the letter 
 which I held in my hand, and I felt drawn within the sphere 
 of its alluring attraction. Its simple mechanical beauty satis 
 fied my aesthetic sense. Its delicate words of prodigal praise 
 satisfied my love of approbation. Its spiritual conception of 
 Niobe satisfied a love higher than my self-love could be, my 
 love for Morna for Niobe was only a slightly idealized por 
 trait of Morna. I had not created the soul of my Niobe, 
 but only embodied it as I recognised it in my living friend. 
 
 It had become no unusual occurrence to receive letters from 
 persons whom I had never met. Since the advent of Niobe 
 into the world of art, notes of compliment, notes of inquiry, 
 every day found their way to Bel Eden. Henri brought my 
 letters from the city every evening, and had handed me this 
 about an hour before, with the remark : 
 
 " This must be another letter from one of your Niobe wor 
 shippers." 
 
 I pausedbeside him for a moment, and we looked together 
 at the seal upon the envelope (the only ostentatious mark 
 about it) which displayed in clear outline a crest and coat 
 of arms. 
 
 " Well, little girl, run and read it. Doubtless it is full of 
 pleasant things. You may tell me all about them some time, 
 but I am very busy now," said Henri, kindly, but with his 
 most preoccupied air. He passed into his study, and I, left 
 alone, went to read my letter in the silence of my sanc 
 tuary. 
 
 I did not expect to be especially interested, but was thank-
 
 Life. 265 
 
 ful for a little variety to occupy my thought, and to keep me 
 from feeling lonely. But from the moment my eye rested on 
 that beautiful page, my heart absorbed its words with a new, 
 strange interest. 
 
 At last with the thought, " Perhaps Henri is not busy 
 now," I arose with my open letter and went to read it with 
 him. His study was the room beneath mine. Pause a moment 
 on the threshold with me, and say if you think that there could 
 be a lovelier bijou of a study in all the land. Every side was 
 lined with alcoves filled with books, whose harmonious binding 
 and classic arrangement could not fail to satisfy the most 
 artistic eye. The gothic cornices of carved rosewood were 
 surmounted with busts suggestive of the character of the 
 books below. Homer and Dante, Shakespeare and Corneille, 
 looked down upon the poets' alcove. Herodotus and Xeno- 
 phon, with Gibbon and Macaulay, reigned in silent state above 
 the arch of history. Thus above their own peculiar realm, 
 many kings of ancient and modern science sat enthroned in 
 white and silent majesty. In the embrasures between the 
 alcoves were set the stained windows, filling the room with 
 floating lights, crossing each other with violet and golden 
 hues. There were only two pictures in the room, one a full 
 length portrait of Victoire, with free hair and student's dress, 
 painted by her beloved master, M. Savonne, purchased of him 
 by Henri Rochelle after her departure from Paris. The other 
 was a magnificent portrait of Hem-i Rochelle himself, in all 
 the high, cold beauty of his statuesque manhood. The velvet 
 carpet was sown with moss roses, the ebony table in the cen 
 tre of the room was crowded with books and folios, present 
 ing that disarranged appearance which is the perfection of 
 arrangement to the student's eye. Beside its gold-mounted 
 esci'itoire stood an alabaster vase filled with white and crimson 
 flowers, which I had gathered that evening in anticipation of 
 their master. And now beside them, in easy undress, in 
 a deep library chair, sat that master, absorbed in a ponder 
 ous folio. He was so much absorbed that he did not hear me 
 as I paused on the threshold, did not notice me as I passed 
 softly by him and went and stood in an open window di 
 rectly beneath the one in which I had sat above, and, like 
 that, opening into a hanging balcony. He was reading, and 
 I listened : 
 
 " They differ from the optic ganglia of birds and the lower 
 vertebrata, being divided by a transverse furrow into anterior 
 
 12
 
 266 Victoire. 
 
 and posterior eminences, whence they are known as the cor 
 pora quadragemina. The auditory ganglia are lodged in the 
 substance of the medulla oblongata, forming the gray nuclei 
 of the strands termed the posterior pyramids; and similar 
 nuclei in the restiform bodies, are the ganglionic centres of 
 the glosso-pharyngeal nerves, and perhaps minister to the 
 sense of taste." 
 
 Here the fluttering of the open letter in my hand, stirred 
 by a passing breeze, arrested his attention. Turning and 
 seeing me, he said : 
 
 " Ah, Victoire, is that you ! Some other time, child, I 
 shall be very glad to see you. You know that I told you 
 I was busy. I am very busy still. To-morrow I lecture 
 before the Medical College." 
 
 " I only came down to read this letter with you. It is 
 different from the other letters which I have received ; I would 
 like your opinion of it," I said. 
 
 "What letter ? Oh, the one I brought. "Well, it praises 
 Niobe, does it not ? I am sure that it ought to praise. 
 When I have an. hour of leisure I will attend to it; but I 
 cannot be interrupted now." 
 
 " I am sorry that I have disturbed you ; I did not mean 
 to, Henri," I said, softly retracing my steps towards the 
 door. 
 
 " I know that you did not mean to ; you are too good a 
 little girl for that. Yet I must tell you, Victoire, that you 
 do disturb me often by coming into the study when I am so 
 completely occupied. It is becoming a habit, or I should not 
 speak of it. I know that you do not wish to confirm a 
 habit which would render you annoying to me. I enjoy 
 your society more than anything else in the world ; but I 
 must not allow my fondness for it to interfere with my duty ; 
 if I did I should be unfitted for my work in the world. Here 
 after when I shut myself in here you must fancy that ' no 
 admittance' is written on the door, even for you. When I 
 have leisure to chat with you I shall always climb to your 
 eyrie, or make my appearance in the parlor below." 
 
 " Forgive me, Henri," were the words which rose to my 
 lips ; but as I looked towards him I saw that he was already 
 engrossed in the scroll before him. 
 
 1 stole quietly down the stairs, out into the open vestibule 
 of the tower. It looked very pleasant, with its floor of tesse- 
 lated marble, with the rich ivies clustering around its massive
 
 Life. 267 
 
 arches. I sat down on the threshold. Serene was the 
 evening, lovely the scene before me ; yet I buried my face in 
 my hands. My heart swelled as if it must burst into an agony 
 of weeping. Yet I did not. "Was he not in the room just 
 above me ? He should not be disturbed again by me sitting 
 down there crying like a homeless child. 
 
 I had disturbed him with my presence. I had disturbed 
 him many times so many times that at last he had been obliged 
 to tell me of it. I could fill the day with employment ; but 
 in the evening I wanted some one to talk with, some one to 
 talk with me. I had sought my husband, and had made my 
 self troublesome. Was he cruel ? No, he was not even 
 unkind. The words sounded harsh, yet the tone was 
 pleasant. He was thinking only of his obligations, not of 
 wounding me. He would be astonished if he knew that he 
 had hurt me, and would see no reason whatever for my feeling 
 hui't. If his duty as a man in the woi'ld was not fulfilled, the 
 world would not excuse him. He knew that, and acted 
 accordingly. I honored him the more for it. Could I respect 
 a man who was careless of his obligations? How many he 
 had ! How much he was sought, how much honored, how 
 much good he did ! I ought to have been more careful and 
 never have interrupted him, and yet I had ; I had obliged him 
 to speak to me. I was banished from his study. He would 
 not think of it when next he saw me, but I should think of 
 nothing else. He was as kind to me as on the first day of our 
 marriage, yet how little I saw of him now. He probably was 
 scarcely aware how completely he was absorbed with public 
 duties, how rare were his moments of leisure. This accumula 
 tion of responsibility had been so gradual in its growth that 
 it fairly devolved upon him before he knew it. He had never 
 sought it, yet if he had chosen, perhaps he would not have 
 avoided it. His executive genius craved full occupation. He 
 was one to whom great responsibilities came, he had so much 
 capacity to bear them with honor to himself and benefit to 
 others. 
 
 Still he must have thought of these things, for once he said : 
 " Victoire, it is very fortunate that you are interested in art, 
 or you would be singing the song of the neglected wife. I 
 never intended that medical practice should absorb quite so 
 much of my life. But I must do a man's work while I am in 
 my prime." In these words he had only said what thousands 
 of men say. No man who loves his wife intends to neglect 
 her; he would shrink from the thought. He only intends to
 
 268 Victoire. 
 
 do his man's work well, to sustain and strengthen the respec 
 tability of his family, to contend for life's prizes proudly among 
 his peers. High, manly impulses are these, and he does not 
 forget that all the glory which he can win will reflect its 
 lustre upon her. But neglect is of slow, insidious growth. 
 Care, business, the world, are very aggressive. They choke 
 the springs of affection till the heart grows as dry as dust. Ere 
 he is aware, the sweetnesses of life are gone. Loving words and 
 smiles, those tender charities of home, whose fragrance used 
 to go with him out into the world, perfuming all his toil, are 
 dead ; they died he does not know when ; he does not even 
 know when life became the metallic, grinding thing that it is. 
 He only knows that now he has no time for anything but 
 work. Is he not spending his life for his wife and children ? 
 Would he not die for them? Who is better supported or 
 more handsomely dressed ? What more can a woman ask ? 
 Henri Rochelle had fulfilled his word. Every day he gave 
 substantial proof that he loved his wife above all women. He 
 had established that fact by actions ; therefore words were 
 unnecessary. In the first letter which he wrote me, did he 
 not inform me that he could live his love, but could not tell 
 it ? A life was a nobler expression of a great sentiment than 
 language. Each soul, restricted by its own nature, can only 
 express itself as that nature allows; therefore every soul's 
 expression is partial. Henri Rochelle attested his devotion 
 by magnanimity and munificent deeds. Why did I not 
 accept the beautiful fact of his love, proven in his own way, 
 without pining for the demonstrations of weaker souls, the 
 hourly tenderness of life ? Had he not given me Bel Eden 
 Bel Eden with its lavish wealth, its luxurious beauty ? Had 
 he not given me Zenaide, my gentle spirited beautiful horse; 
 my dear dumb friend, my daily companion? The little 
 pinnace, with flashing oars and fluttering sails throbbing 
 now on the blue waters just below the grounds of Bel Eden, 
 he had built for me, and would call it nothing but " Victoire," 
 though I wanted to name it " Hope." Did he not give me 
 culture, ease, luxury, beauty, everything but Uis daily self? 
 Everything but the divine communion which I dreamed of, 
 the oneship of spirit which I sighed for most. I spurned his 
 love once. I proudly told him that I desired only art for my 
 husband. He was avenged now, yet did not know it. Should 
 I apprise him of his triumph ? Should I tell him that I 
 wanted nothing so much now as that he should let me love 
 him, and lavish upon him all the rising tenderness of my soul.
 
 Life. 269 
 
 Yes, I was willing to accord him the triumph. I knew that 
 he would not spurn me ; he would accept it rather, and say 
 that such tenderness was beautiful in me, a woman ; and yet 
 I could not tell him, I could not offer it, because he did not 
 need it. Calmly writing the medical thesis above me, how 
 little that strong man knew of the poor child who sat below in 
 her great loneliness and want. 
 
 I lifted my face from my hands and looked around. Never 
 had Bel Eden seemed to me so lovely, so soft, so silent. The 
 evening was steeped in calm. The trees stood motionless. 
 Even the quivering needles of the pines were at rest. The 
 bare hearts of the roses were stirless, waiting for the dew. 
 The only sound which stirred the silence was the dreamy 
 lapse of the fountain murmuring amid the flowers. I looked 
 away to a marble cross which shone white beneath the shadow 
 of a cluster of pines. It was my fancy to place it there, 
 bearing the names of Frederick and Beatrice ; and now I, 
 who had always loved the world so well, looked at it, and 
 wondered if it would not be sweeter, after all, like them to be 
 quiet and at rest. Once I had been mad with my love of 
 beauty. Perfection in form and color satisfied my unawakeued 
 nature. Now the eye, satisfied with beauty, mocked the 
 craving, hungry heart. Once I had dreamed of fame ; had 
 dreamed that there was something grand in doing wondrous 
 deeds, and then listening to " the nations praise them afar 
 off." What did I care for fame now ! Nothing. What to 
 me the acclaim of the distant multitudes, even if I could 
 win it ? What if people would visit my grave, or the 
 house that I had lived in, or cover my memory with praises 
 after I was dead ? Was such mocking oblation worth the 
 gnawing pain of a starved, human existence ? Could it 
 atone for a mortal life barren, solitary, sorrowful ? No ; 
 what I craved was fulness of being, a personal life, melo 
 dious, complete. After all, mine was not a self-abnegating 
 nature. I loved to see others happy ; I loved to make them 
 so ; but I loved also to be happy myself. My soul's hunger 
 was not easily appeased, and was only quelled for a season, the 
 more imperiously to assert itself. No wild, worshipping passion 
 my nature craved. It only asked for one to fill its great world of 
 affection ; for a single being and that being mine by every holy 
 tie, on whom I might pour the flood of tenderness, pent and 
 moaning in my heart. It is a false idea that a woman's great 
 want in life is only to win, selfishly to absorb love. She does 
 not ask to be the object of an overmastering passion so much
 
 2 7 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 as she craves an object which she herself may worship. Her 
 sublimest conceptions of an infinite God, her tendered love for 
 a God jnade manifest in the flesh, cannot absorb her utterly. 
 Her human affections must have human objects, and if every 
 tendril of love clings to its legitimate support, her whole 
 being expands in symmetrical grace. But if life defrauds her 
 affections of their natural aliment, the womanly nature becomes 
 distorted. One faculty is sure to grow out of all harmonious 
 proportion, and live by devouring the rest; or all dwindle 
 and die together. A woman's soul is burdened with love and 
 reverence; 'it is her nature to lay these costly offerings at the 
 feet of man. The grandest work of God, he ever wins her 
 worship ; she only asks him to be worthy of it. 
 
 "This isolation, this solitude of soul, is it ever to be my 
 portion ?" I said, looking still towards the white cross under 
 the pines. I felt alone. I was alone. Hope was in Paris. The 
 schools in New York were doubtless just as good, but Henri 
 wished her to have advantages of the institution and instructor 
 under whose shadow Beatrice was educated. Six months had 
 passed since she went away, and now all that I had of her 
 was in her tender letters. Morna, Morna Avondale, the gifted 
 cantatrice, the great soul-singer, my best loved friend, whose 
 praises were now on many tongues, was in the city. She did 
 not neglect me, but she was not here now. I must do some 
 thing to forget myself. Should George Peacock saddle Ze- 
 naide? No, I did not want to go and ride alone. Should he 
 go to the boat with me ? I could help to row it myself. No, 
 it would be no pleasure to sail alone. I thought of Hebe on 
 the easel. It was too dark to paint. Art was a beautiful 
 phase in my life, but I could not live on art. Once I thought 
 that I could ; but I was mistaken. There were two things 
 which I could do immediately. I could take a book or I 
 could go to bed. I chose to do the former. I read the letter 
 in my hand again, and resolved to answer it. Then 1 went 
 into the parlor, and sat down by a soft light, and took up a 
 new number of the best magazine of the day. I opened upon 
 a story of Italian life, and was very soon impressed by the 
 rich versatility of its style. It was terse and masculine ; it 
 was humorous and witty ; it was tender and poetic. 
 
 The story is nothing- to you ; but these words which I found 
 in it were much to me : 
 
 "All meet some time in their life a being who above all 
 others has the power to quicken their nature, to absorb their
 
 Life. 271 
 
 soul. No eyes can ever burn so deep into the heart as did 
 those eyes, those deep, lambent, electric eyes. No voice can 
 ever move us as did that voice, whose modulated melody 
 caused the pulses of joy to tremble till they overflowed. No 
 words can ever move us as did those words, which gave to the 
 care-covered present the purple glory of the future a future 
 more gorgeous to our love-awakened eyes than the fabled 
 splendor of the Pagan's Elysium, or the golden brilliance of 
 the Christian's Paradise. 
 
 " The hours are lightning-winged which give us such, com 
 munion. Fate tears the idol from our arms. Our paths 
 diverge, seldom if ever to cross again in the labyrinths of life. 
 
 "With weary feet, with wearier hearts sometimes, we 
 thread our way through the mazes of the world. Gentle 
 hands are pressed within our own. Tender eyes meet ours 
 in love. We cherish a soothing, a beautiful affection for the 
 beings who walk by our side ; an affection which elevates our 
 nature if it does not satisfy our heart. Yet there are moments 
 when we know that we are alone. With the ones who love 
 
 us best we are alone, sighing for the unattainable, the lost. 
 ******** 
 
 " Only a face ! Why had it the power to move me so ? 
 Those eyes met mine in a single gaze, yet in that the sweetest 
 mystery of life was told. No one told your story, yet in your 
 eyes' ineffable softness I foreread a history and a prophecy. 
 Faces more beautiful I had seen before ; fairer faces I have 
 gazed upon since. Seductive eyes have cast upon me their 
 spell ; eyes luminous with thought, eyes scintillant with 
 genius, eyes melting in love, have awakened for me their 
 varied enchantment. I acknowledged their witchery, yet 
 sighed for the eyes which quickened first the pulses of my 
 heart. Where are you, tender eyes? Where are you, lost 
 face ? I have sought you long, wearily, fruitlessly ! In 
 your own bright land where beauty abides, where sublimity 
 ban made for itself a perpetual home ; in the strife of cities, 
 amid the surging sea of passing faces, I have searched for you, 
 yet found not my lost vision. 
 
 " In solitary gardens, where the wind sweeps through the 
 pines like the thrilling garments of ghosts ; on silent seas 
 and forsaken shores ; on awful mountain tops where the sun 
 smites the face of the falling avalanche ; amid burning, home 
 less deserts ; in the trance of calm nights, when I have looked 
 into the faces of the isolated stars, and felt all the solitude of 
 eoul which can appal a man ; amid the splendor of festivals,
 
 272 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 when mirth and music taunted me with the joy I had not 
 found ; I have thought of you. An abiding, an absorbing 
 thought, a perpetual inspiration, a haunting memory, sorrow 
 ful yet tenderly sweet, art thou to me, lost face !" 
 
 Who uttered those words ? I would know. 
 
 Life had come to Henri Rochelle, had given him all that he 
 asked, and he was satisfied. All of this world's prizes which he 
 ever had sought were his. He was admired for his talents, dis 
 tinguished for his high scientific attainments, sought and honored 
 for his wealth and position, married to the only woman whom 
 he had ever taken the trouble to seek. Beneath that full, active, 
 outward life the current of his inner being moved deep and 
 strong,freighted so heavily with content that it stood almost still. 
 He stood in the midsummer of his years, and the future held 
 no richer, riper joy than that which he tasted now. It was 
 not a foaming, flashing, intoxicating beaker ; it was a calm, 
 overflowing, sating draught of which he drank. I drank from 
 the same cup and was not satisfied. 
 
 We cannot anticipate the stages of our being. "We cannot 
 anticipate the seasons of our development. In the exuberant 
 life of spring we look in vain for the calm fulness of summer. 
 In the ripe glory of summer we seek, yet find not, the soft 
 serenity of autumn. Henri Rochelle had passed the fierce 
 fever of the earlier noon of being; the unshadowed yet 
 slightly attempered glory which belongs to the later hour 
 of life's meridian was his. The exultant pulses of the morn 
 ing were mine. Life overflowed within me. With culminating 
 force it surged through my soul, till it was surcharged with a 
 power which had no outlet and no object. The heavy pressure 
 of the outward calm which surrounded me repressed, yet 
 could not stifle, the importunate life within. One looking :it 
 the surface (and how few look below) would have exclaimed : 
 " How fortunate ! The young aspirant of Mrs. Skinher's 
 attic, the sick orphan of the * comfortable home,' the poor, 
 
 toiling designer of street, now the loved and honored 
 
 wife of a rich and noble man ; how fortunate !" Remember, 
 good fortune does not consist in the multitude of our posses 
 sions, but in the possession of the thing which our heart 
 needs the most. And now with all my strivings after an imper 
 sonal life, a life which was to find its fruition outside of its 
 own needs, there were moments when I was only conscious 
 what a weary thing it was, this constant effort to drag the 
 tenacious heart up to a level of passivity where it could
 
 Life. 
 
 273 
 
 never be importuned by its own inherent wants. I had read 
 of consecrated, holy souls, whose whole life had been a 
 struggle to annihilate will and desire; who believed that 
 existence, to be perfect, must be an utter negation ! What 
 a grand idea was that of utter self-renunciation ! Where 
 the soul sought nothing, asked nothing, but the presence of 
 God ; where, amid all the temptations of the world, it sat in 
 perfect quietude, waiting for the illumination of the Divine 
 glory. I had read of many, but had never known -but one 
 soul who reached this state of unearthly resignation, this 
 face-to-face communion with Deity ; and that was my pure 
 and Christian mother. I took from their resting-places the 
 books which she used to read, traced on every page by her 
 delicate hand. What consolation, what help it would be, to 
 pause at these landmarks of the soul, where the being who 
 gave me birth had rested before me for strength and comfort. 
 I carried them to my room, and after that found my daily 
 companions among the old quietists. The inspired utter 
 ances of Francis De Sales and Thomas a Kempis, of Madame 
 Guyon and Catherine Adorna ; the holy words of the holy 
 Fenelon ; the aspirations of the sublime but dreary Pascal ; 
 all wooed me towards a higher life, which until now I had 
 never wished to enter. They had loved the world, yet in its 
 fulness they relinquished it. They had been crucified to the 
 pomp and glory of life, that they might only live in Christ. 
 Could I ever reach that altitude of negation where I should 
 desire nothing save only that the will of God should be done 
 in me and by me ? 
 
 There are two eras in a woman's life when she turns to 
 Thomas a Kempis as she turns to her Bible. The first is at 
 the dawn of her religious life, which usually is also the dawn 
 of her womanhood ; when she loves the beautiful world in 
 which she finds herself ; yet in a dim, confused way feels that 
 it is her duty to renounce it. She is eager to taste life's 
 ungathered joys, yet in her very eagerness is born the fear 
 that they will mock her taste and fail to satisfy her hunger. 
 Thus she turns to the great teachers of renunciation that 
 she may begin early to cultivate a desire for immortal 
 food. When she has drained her life-cup to the lees ; when 
 she knows all its sweetness and its bitterness ; wnen she 
 has gauged the world and found it wanting; when above 
 the grey waste of experience rises the serene sun of the spi 
 ritual life which will never know a setting, then she comes 
 once more to her holy teachers, never more to forsake them ; 
 
 12*
 
 274 Victoire. 
 
 for the world is no longer before her but behind her, and 
 henceforth her guides will go with her, hand in hand, to the 
 very gate of the celestial city. Life had just come ; I had 
 scarcely tasted it, yet I knew it was going to mock me. I 
 should be compelled to learn it at last. I would begin 
 now to teach my self-asserting soul the sublime lesson of abne 
 gation. Thomas a Kempis touched me more nearly than all 
 the rest of my teachers. His were the utterances of a soul 
 purified in the world's fierce crucible, not the enthusiastic 
 rhapsodies of a religious dreamer giving rules for overcom 
 ing temptations which he had never felt. He sounded the 
 depth of human experience before he uttered the oracles 
 which appeal to the universal soul. I pored over the words ; 
 I came to them for wisdom and guidance. I felt that it was 
 the truth when he said : 
 
 " Know that the love of thyself doth hurt thee more than 
 anything in the world, ff thou seekest this or that, would'st 
 be here or there to enjoy thine own pleasure, thou shalt never 
 be quiet or free from care ; for in everything somewhat will 
 be wanting, and in every place there will be some that will 
 cross thee." 
 
 Yet there were hours when I was filled with doubts regard 
 ing this life of the mystics. Was it the holiest life, after all ? 
 Was it quite noble to ignore the world in which God had 
 placed us, to shut ourselves away from the temptations by 
 which He had surrounded us, to forsake the untaught and 
 sorrowing masses of humanity, simply that we might live an 
 ascetic life of rapt contemplation and holy joy ? Had we 
 any right to abuse the very natures which He had given us ? 
 to allow the noblest faculties with which He had endowed 
 us to fall into disuse ? Would not our nature approximate 
 nearer to its pristine glory, by allowing it to grow to sym 
 metrical expansion, rather than by a lifelong effort to crush 
 and kill it ? Did not every soul have need of its fellows ? 
 Was it not the highest use of our gifts to use them for the 
 benefit of others ? Could we not glorify God more by living 
 a simple, sincere, consecrated life in the world, amid its pomp, 
 and glory, and beauty, rather than by fleeing from it to 
 spend our days in pious meditations where we could never be 
 touched by temptation nor delivered from evil ? 
 
 Alas, for the earth-child! there were moments when the 
 sublime philosophy of religion went down before the personal 
 want of one young, eager heart. Moments when her grand
 
 Life. 27 f 
 
 ideal of a grander life shifted far out of sight. She only 
 knew that she was very tired trying to be wise and good. 
 She only felt that her youth was swiftly passing without 
 paying to her its full value. She was conscious of some 
 thing which she had missed ; of something hoped for which 
 she had not found. She could not define it, yet she was 
 very sure that life held in reserve from her a depth of life 
 which she had never attained. Why, after receiving the let 
 ter regarding Niobe which she has recorded for you, did she 
 pore over the words of Thomas a Kempis and Madame Guyon 
 with renewed assiduity ? Was it not because she detected 
 her heart recurring to that letter with a thrill of pleasure ? 
 Was it not because its subtle suggestion of a distant yet deli 
 cious sympathy was answered by a tone in her own soul 
 which she thought it wise to silence before it grew more dis 
 tinct ? Not that she was conscious of anything sinful in that 
 tone. Oh, no ; but had she not vowed before God to ask for 
 nothing but what He had given her, to desire nothing beyond 
 the rich gifts which He had bestowed ? She was grateful that 
 He had allowed this distant soul to send her these kind and 
 beautiful words, but it was enough to be grateful without 
 thinking of them so often with an ever-recurring, lingering 
 delight. Certainly it had not been her weakness to place an 
 undue estimate upon the mere words of compliment. She 
 was well aware of their cheap average value. She had not 
 forgotten that when she needed fume and friends to help her 
 earn her daily bread they were far away. Both had come 
 now, for she no longer needed them. She was not wholly 
 indifferent to praise no one is. But the admiration of 
 strangers had ever been to her what music is in a foreign 
 tongue pleasant to the ear, but cold to the heart. Of the 
 many letters which she received this one alone reached her 
 soul ; from her soul she answered it thus : 
 
 " Your words have reached me, and I write to tell you that 
 I am grateful for them. You place undue estimate upon my 
 powers, yet do not overrate Niobe, which is the portrait of 
 the most glorious woman I ever knew. I cannot answer all 
 your letter. It is not my mission to write to embody life in 
 words, but to live what others interpret. In sensuous images, 
 in harmonious colors, I strive vainly to portray the revela 
 tions of beauty which have been made known to me since 
 my earliest consciousness. Like all souls, mine lives but par 
 tially revealed. It can lay hold of no visible symbol by
 
 276 Victoire. 
 
 which to express its own awful significance. Your words 
 utter what I have many times thought and felt ; for this I 
 thank you." 
 
 I asked for no further communication, yet I discovered my- 
 self wishing for one. For this inordinate, desire I devoted an 
 extra hour to Thomas a Kempis. I could not divest myself 
 of the impression, although I could give no reason for it, that 
 the author of the Niobe letter and the Italian story were one. 
 One individuality appealed to me through both. I suddenly 
 recollected one day, although in the two years' interval it 
 had passed from my memory, that " Moncrieffe" was the name 
 which the director of the art gallery gave as belonging to 
 the purchaser of my lost painting. Could it be the same 
 one ? What chain of coincidents, what life-links were here ? 
 When I told Henri that it must be the same person who 
 bought my picture, he smiled and said : " Very unlikely. 
 There are a thousand Moncrieffes. You would die, Victoire, 
 if you could not conjure up a little romance." 
 
 In the meantime Niobe continued to attract still greater 
 attention. In its creation fame had not been an end, yet it 
 brought me fame and an acknowledged position in the world 
 of art. It was made the subject of elaborate critiques ; it was 
 warmly praised and sharply blamed. It was engraved and 
 found its way into the windows of picture-stores, and into the 
 pages of art-journals. The public was not slow to recognise 
 its marked and mysterious resemblance to Miss Avondale, yet 
 very few imagined that it was an actual portrait. To me all 
 the praise awarded it seemed only so much homage to Morna. 
 It was Morna that people saw, recognised, and worshipped. 
 In this fact my fondest wishes were realized. Niobe was a 
 work of love, and she brought me love's reward. No one 
 could look into Morna's living face without feeling its power. 
 And here from the canvas looked Morna; here was the rapt 
 brow, the electric eyes, radiating all the magnetism of a liv 
 ing soul. It was not a dead picture but a breathing woman ; 
 a magnificent, a royal woman. Henri was proud of Niobe. 
 lie was not one of those little-souled men who considered all 
 ]>raisi' awarded to the wife as so much stolen from themselves. 
 He \\ It fully equal to sustaining the dignity of his manhood, 
 even if his wife did paint pictures while he did not. To 
 him she was his " own Victoire," his " good little girl ;" if 
 the public chose to praise Madame Rochelle, he had no 
 objections.
 
 Strange Events. 277 
 
 "THINGS WHAT HAPPENS ARK STRANGER NOR ALL THE 
 NOVELS." Mrs. Peacock. 
 
 We talk of the solitude of nature. Is it ever solitary ? 
 Never are we less alone than when we enter her domain. 
 Never is life so busy within us as when we commune with 
 her in silence. Nature has passions, moods, tears, and smiles. 
 She appeals to us like a human soul. Not only the cultivated 
 and gifted, but the rude and untaught find solace in her pre 
 sence. Few but at some moment in their life have found 
 consolation in a flower, companionship in the stars, and 
 a refrain of melody in wind and waves. Yet it is our 
 humanity, the bond of human sympathy, which allies us 
 most closely to her heart. We stand beside the sonorous 
 sea, and every wave that comes up and kisses our feet 
 calls for one who stood beside us when once we stood 
 there. We look into the significant eyes of the stars, 
 feeling that if one other pair of eyes could gaze up with us 
 they would give even to them a deeper glory. Why 
 does the world hold some spots so inconceivably dear? 
 Not because their sunlight is rarer, their flowers sweeter, 
 their air more enticing, but because every object which they 
 unfold is linked with the memory of one human presence, 
 for whose loss no charm of nature can atone. 
 
 But what was the thrall which bound my heart so closely 
 to Bel Eden ? No vanished face haunted me at every turn. 
 No tender memory of the long-buried past was linked with 
 this spot. Life had never given me here more joy than she 
 gave me now. Yet never had I seemed so near to those 
 whom I had loved and lost as when I gave up my being to 
 the rapture of solitude in the hush of this Edenized retreat. 
 Never before had nature wooed me with so irresistible a 
 voice; never before had I felt my love for her so divine a 
 passion in my heart. Bel Eden had never been an alien spot 
 to me. From the first moment in which I had gazed on its 
 beauty I felt as if I had known and loved it always. I 
 accounted for this sense of kinship in the fact that in many 
 ways it reminded me of Les Delices, or rather in a dim, unac 
 countable way seemed connected with it. I had no power 
 to analyse this association, and so resolved it back to my 
 imagination. Reason compelled me to do this, for my intui 
 tion of a relationship between them far transcended the points 
 of resemblance which actually existed between these beautiful 
 homes separated by so many miles of land and ocean.
 
 Victoire. 
 
 Day after day I wandered through the haunts of Bel Eden, 
 through its flowery paths, its deep glens, its broad tree- 
 domed vistas ; rested beside the mimic lakes asleep amid its 
 hills; followed the windings of the mountain brook, ever 
 losing, ever finding its garrulous way through the ravine to the 
 river. I leaned upon the bough-woven bridges which spanned 
 it beneath the dense trees, and listened to its waters trickling 
 through the intricate vines and close-meshed leaves which 
 laced it; listened while they gurgled through their pebbly 
 passes and poured their quivering crystal over the grass- 
 rirnmed rocky ledges. I listened to the melody thrilling the 
 green interwoven arches, the rifted sun-flecked domes of 
 garniture above me; and all that I saw and heard filled me 
 with a love profound as my being. Yet below it, more per 
 vading, thrilled the memory of the human voices of those 
 cherished ones who even now made all the light, and beauty, 
 and music of the world doubly dear to me. My father and 
 mother, Frederick and Beatrice, seemed to walk unseen by 
 my side, living, loving, and at home. If my father and mother 
 could have lived, how large a space. they would have filled in 
 the now unfilled world of my human love. If my brother 
 and sister could have existed on, in mortal form, what 
 would they not have been to me now, in the beautiful expan 
 sion of their divinely-wedded manhood and womanhood ! 
 Without lather, mother, brother, sister, or child, held to the 
 earth by a single link in the great chain of affection which so 
 early began to draw me heavenward, it was not unnatural that 
 in that single tie my bereft heart should seek satisfaction for 
 all that it had lost. But one presence haunted me at Bel 
 Eden which I wished to banish, which I did banish, only to 
 behold it again at the least anticipated moment. There were 
 spots in this ground which seemed pervaded with the per 
 sonality of that one who once made so deep an impres 
 sion on my life. Could I have believed it possible that 
 he had ever been here, then this consciousness would have 
 been no mystery. I knew that in every spot where a soul 
 has lived its effluence lingers long after it has passed away. 
 We enter a chamber in which a dear one left us for the spirit 
 life; years after, and every lost sensation, the very breath of 
 the dying one, again pervades us. From the mouldy ruins 
 of exhumed cities the seemingly extinct life of lost epochs 
 and Imrk'ij races thrills the sensitive sense of the denizen of 
 to-day. Who dares to measure the space which may be impreg 
 nated by a single spirit ? I was half startled at the subtle
 
 Strange Events. 279 
 
 acuteness of my own psychometric sense. I had never 
 sought nor cultivated the soul-measuring, soul-discerning 
 faculty the lightning perception, the piercing intuition, pene 
 trating to the finest fibres of hearts which I did not care to 
 know or to analyse. I knew not whence it came, this 
 mysterious inner vision, which at times made me so vividly 
 cognizant of lives far separated from mine, which seemed to 
 bring so near to me the inmost experience of souls far distant 
 with whom, unconsciously, I had entered into some dim, 
 impalpable relationship. The exquisite sensibility of organism 
 which made me conscious of the most secret emanation from 
 the souls whose atmosphere I breathed, was in itself a pain. 
 
 For the involuntary radiations which proceed from every 
 soul establish its essential nature beyond all cavil. Vainly it 
 attempts to hide itself in borrowed garb of words or actions; 
 the silence underlying all is more significant than any guise or 
 utterance can be. It is the very breath of the soul ; it sheathes 
 it like an atmosphere ; and you breathe it to feel what the very 
 essence of that soul is. Your unspoken thought, your sup 
 pressed emotion, your secret antagonisms, not only change the 
 hue of your cheek and vary the expression of your eye 
 they glance from you an invisible emanation, filling all the 
 air around you with electric revelations. If I could have 
 believed that the stranger of Les Delices had ever inhabited 
 Bel Eden, I should have been at no loss to have understood 
 the irrepressible psychometrical impression which I felt at 
 times of the lingering effluence of his vanished presence. 
 But I had every reason to believe that he had never entered 
 this retreat. Thus my ever-recurring intuitions were resolved 
 back to an over-active imagination as their source ; as we are 
 ever ready to say of our highest conviction : " It is all imagi 
 nation." I avoided entering the retreats where I felt this 
 consciousness most vividly. I banished as far as possible this 
 lost being from my heart. His memory might rise unbidden, 
 but it was never welcomed, never cherished. Once he had 
 been to me a vague and beautiful dream ; but I was well 
 aware that I had no right to think of him now. I was sure 
 that it would be for my happiness to banish him utterly from 
 my thought. 
 
 Strange to say, in proportion as the world praised Niobe, 
 my heart longed for the lost painting of Les Delices. Years 
 had parsed since last I saw it ; how I yearned to behold it 
 now ! The first-born of my soul, the child of purest love, was not 
 its being bought at the great price of human joy and suffering ?
 
 280 Victoire. 
 
 Where now was its resting-place in the wide world ! It was 
 the work of a dreamer, and all the faults of youth were in it. 
 Perhaps the strong outline, the touch of conscious, assured 
 power were wanting. I did not know ; I only knew that it 
 held the faces of the beings who filled my dreams, the beings 
 who loved me before the fingers of life had touched me cold 
 with care, and want, and sorrow. I knew that the opaline 
 glory which hovers in the eyes of youth, transfiguring all things 
 in its evanescent lustre, imparted to it a celestial radiance. It did 
 not belong to my present life ; it was the revelation of a past 
 existence; it held the eyes which once made all the glory of 
 my world. Why had it been snatched from me so utterly, 
 BO irrevocably ? At an early day Henri made every effort to 
 find its purchaser, but with no success. He went to the Hotel 
 
 St. , only to learn that Mr. Moncrieffe was not a resident 
 
 of the city ; that he had sailed for Europe weeks before ; and 
 in the two years which had intervened we had heard nothing 
 of the gentleman. When I recollected the name as identical 
 with that of the person who had addressed me respecting 
 Niobe, my first impulse was to write and ask if he knew aught 
 of my lost picture. But the very decided doubt which Henri 
 cast upon my surmise deterred me from doing so. Probably 
 I was very romantic and foolish in my fancies. It was always 
 best to be guided by a man's judgment rather than by intui 
 tions for which you could give no reason at all. If Ambrose 
 Moncrieffe had ever seen my first picture he would have 
 detected a relationship between it and Niobe. Even if he 
 had not known the name of the artist would he not have 
 discovered that one individuality asserted itself in the lines 
 and colors of each ? Would he not have mentioned this 
 picture if he had it in his possession. It seemed to me that he 
 would. So, with my oft-recurring impulse to speak of it to him, 
 
 I said nulling at all. My forbidden desire was most unex 
 pectedly gratified one day by the appearance of another white 
 envelope bearing a crested seal, sent in reply to my brief note. 
 
 There was a tremor in my hand, a tumult, then a stifling 
 sensation at my heart as I opened this letter proof that the 
 soul who sent it moved me as powerfully as could any thought 
 which it contained. It was much shorter than the former letter 
 
 I 1 .u-ed by the same hand. It contained a few gracefully express 
 ed thanks for my gracious reply. It stated that the writer was 
 not conscious of possessing any literary ambition or any 
 desire to become a critic of high art or distressing ambition 
 of any sort. He feared that he was a selfish fellow, and liked
 
 Strange Events. 281 
 
 nothing so much as to be pleased. At least he knew that he 
 was pleased with all the great thoughts of the day, whether 
 embodied in form, in words, or deeds. And that he should 
 be still more pleased if he could enjoy a sincere, spon 
 taneous interchange of opinion and criticism with one equally 
 interested in them one who, in addition to culture, possessed 
 a more divining insight, a more spiritual intuition of truth and 
 beauty than could possibly belong to himself. Would Madame 
 Rochelle deem it an unpardonable intrusion if he should 
 occasionally address to her a letter concerning some sub 
 ject of interest in the world of art or letters ? Would it 
 be too great a tax upon her generosity or time to ask for an 
 occasional reply, when for so doing he could offer her no 
 equivalent of pleasure ? Again he asked pardon for his outre 
 mode of introducing himself, and referred to Mr. Van Ostrand, 
 a well-known gentleman of high position, an intimate acquaint 
 ance of Henri's, for any information which Madame Rochelle 
 or her friends might desire concerning his social standing and 
 personal character. 
 
 Henri read this letter through deliberately, and touching 
 the end of my chin with it, said : 
 
 " How will you like aesthetic letter-writing, Victoire ?" 
 
 " I could not write esthetic letters if I tried," I answered. 
 " But what do you think of the writer of this ?" 
 
 " Think ? Why I think he is a gentleman of elegant lei 
 sure, who feels entirely uplifted above all vulgar ambitions ; 
 who, nevertheless, is burdened with many positive thoughts 
 and opinions of his own for which he desires an exclusive 
 yet graceful avenue of expression. Doubtless he intends you 
 a great honor when he elects you as the chosen recipient of his 
 pet ideas. To judge by his hand-writing, I should say that ho 
 was a person of the finest cultivation ;" and Henri again 
 opened the elegant letter and glanced over the masouline yet 
 femininely graceful chirography. , 
 
 " Moncrieffe ? Well, now, I recollect that Van Ostrand 
 did speak of a Mr. Moncrieife, a friend of his, who was going 
 to spend the summer in town," he added. 
 
 " What else did he say about him ?" 
 
 " Nothing that I remember. He spoke of him casually 
 in connexion with something else." 
 
 " Shall I answer this letter, Henri ?" I asked. 
 
 " Certainly ; it is entitled to a reply of some sort. Inform 
 him that if he chooses to propound subjects of general im 
 portance and interest for your observation, you will reply
 
 282 Victoire. 
 
 to the best of your ability. It would really be of advantage to 
 you, Victoire, in assisting you to think cfearly and to express 
 your thoughts with perspicuity. Still, you must be careful 
 and not allow it to take too much time from your painting ; 
 you know not writing, but painting, is your forte. And I 
 am sure a man should have business more important to attend 
 to than the writing of elaborate private critiques to a lady 
 whom he has never seen. On the whole, I think that you 
 had better wait until I ask Van Ostrand something more 
 about this Mr. Moncrieife." 
 
 And with these words Mr. Moncrieffe passed entirely out 
 of his mind, not to enter it again for at least the space of a 
 week. At that distance from the time when he last spoke of 
 him, as we sat one evening at our little tea-table which stood 
 on the turf outside of the oriel windows of the dining-room, 
 Henri said : " Van Ostrand was in the office to-day, and I 
 made some inquiries respecting that Mr. Moncrieffe. He 
 informed me that when he first knew Moncrieffe he was the 
 most gifted and brilliant man of his acquaintance ; that he 
 has ever been a man of the strictest honor ; that, he possesses 
 all sorts of accomplishments and graces, and has such a gene 
 rous and genial nature that it is impossible to know him and 
 not like him. He says he has but one fault, and that is, that 
 though there never was a man of his years who had more 
 promising political prospects, since the death of his wife 
 he seems to have lost all personal ambition, and is too indo 
 lent or too indifferent to use his splendid talents for any defi 
 nite end." 
 
 "I am sure it is not a fault to be affected by the death 
 of his wife. I couldn't respect a man who was not," I 
 replied. 
 
 14 That is a woman's view. A man can mourn his wife 
 sincerely, and yet not give himself up to inanity. If he is in 
 sorrow, that is in itself a sufficient reason why he should give 
 full employment to his faculties to keep his nature from 
 growing unhealthy." 
 
 " Well, it seems to me that most men are too busy and in 
 too great a hurry to give much time to either love or grief. 
 I am sure it is beautiful to find an exception." 
 
 " More romance," said Henri, looking amused. " How the 
 hard kernel of truth does hurt your tender soul, Victoire. 
 What do you say to the fact that there are men in the world 
 who do not love their wives very much while they live, nor 
 mourn them very deeply when they die ? To be sure, they
 
 Strange Events. 283 
 
 do not really want them to die. But when the transient emo 
 tion incident to the funeral is over, and they are all ready to 
 begin a new life and marry a new wife, to say the least they 
 are not very miserable." 
 
 " Well, I think such men are monsters." 
 
 " Oh, no ; they are not. They are only human. Don't 
 you know that if a woman chooses, she can make herself not 
 only very tedious, but very odious ? After the course of dis 
 cipline some poor fellows go through, I don't blame them for 
 feeling relieved when it is ended. Yet I can understand how 
 a wife may die, and the husband feel as if the light of the 
 world had gone with her. Here is a very clever fellow who, 
 it seems, has found nothing to live for since he buried his love ; 
 which, after all, is very foolish. His trouble does not relieve 
 him of a man's duty or responsibility. Answer his letters by 
 all means, Victoire ; and in an impersonal, womanly way, 
 kindle his ambition and rouse him to be a man again in the 
 world. It may be graceful for ladies, but I have no patience 
 with men who have nothing to do." 
 
 "Then you really wish me to answer his letters, Henri?" 
 
 " Yes, provided it does not take too much time. Be sure 
 and write simply and naturally, just as if you were talking. 
 Don't indulge in one of those pretty affectations which are 
 always tempting women to be a little less or more, or a little 
 different from their real selves. Eschew all mere fine writing. 
 Ornate composition in a letter is absurd. Though you are 
 writing to a polished scholar, be content to be your sincere, 
 ungarnished self; if you attempt to be more, you will do 
 yourself injustice. As far as you can, embody your soul in 
 words; be yourself, and only yourself. Van Ostrand has 
 really interested me in this Mr. Moncrieffe. I mean to call 
 on him when I find time." 
 
 Thus this new, unsought correspondence became a fact. 
 Letters, snowy- vested messengers of sweet tidings, their white 
 palms tilled with purest benedictions, stole to me noiselessly 
 acruss the miles. They were esthetic, philosophical, poetical, 
 religious, with unexpected rays of humor glancing here and 
 there with a playful, lambent light. They were rich in thought 
 and expression ; full of the experiences of the visible and of 
 the invisible life. Lymphatic people would have called them 
 extraordinary ; prosaic people would have called them trans 
 cendental ; people of cultivated and gifted intellect would 
 have called them beautiful. Had they been printed just as 
 they were written, they would have attracted attention as
 
 284 Victoire. 
 
 critiques and essays remarkable for subtleness, vividness, 
 terseness, and power, which was increased by the fact that 
 they were written to a single person instead of a vague gene 
 ral public. These papers (for they could scarcely be called 
 letters), with their replies, passing between two persons per 
 sonally unacquainted, encroached upon the individual life of 
 neither. From their advent to their close they remained pure 
 utterances of impersonal thought. They neither invited nor 
 offered private confidences. It seemed sufficient to Mr. Mon- 
 crieffe that there was a soul to whom he could speak of topics 
 which interested him without intruding upon that soul's per 
 sonality. He verified his former assertion that " absolute 
 friendship may grow out of J;he veriest abstractions." He 
 took no cognizance of me as a person. He never intimated a 
 desire to meet me, nor hinted that such an event was possi 
 ble in the future. 
 
 And yet it was the personality emanating from these letters 
 which charmed me. Something proibunder than all their 
 words the soul below them moved me with a mysterious 
 power. In the purity and grace of the language lay its lasci- 
 riation. If it had been less elevated, to me it would have 
 been less dangerous. And yet it was not the words which 
 might have been written to a hundred as well as to me, it was 
 the impalpable effluence which no words could explain, per 
 vading, flowing from every letter, which quickened so my 
 heart. I knew the day of their coming by the restlessness, 
 sweet to pain, the eager, irrepressible, expectant longing and 
 looking which were their sure precursors. Then I knew the 
 white dove was drawing near my ark, bearing both the olive 
 and the myrtle. One day I awoke as from a dream. I sud 
 denly awoke to the utter consciousness of all that these let 
 ters were to me. They were companionship, they were inspi 
 ration ibr my thought, aliment for my soul, a cherished, a 
 beloved presence. I knew that they were all this, and the 
 knowledge frightened me. I took them all from their sacred 
 drawer; I placed them in an envelope with a few lines ad 
 dressed to their author, thanking him for the pleasure which 
 they afforded me, yet informing him that I could no longer 
 continue the correspondence. He might burn or preserve my 
 few poor epistles as he chose. His deserved a better fate ; 
 they should enrich many hearts instead of one. I had not 
 intended to bring the correspondence to BO abrupt a close, 
 but other duties rendered it impossible that it should be con 
 tinued. Having indited ami directed this hurried communi-
 
 Strange Events. 285 
 
 cation, I dispatched George Washington Peacock to the city 
 with it immediately ; I would not allow it to remain until the 
 next morning, lest I should persuade myself to change my 
 mind, which I was certain was not best. -This solemn duty 
 performed, I surrendered myself up to Thomas a Kempis and 
 the Sermon on the Mount. I knew that all of resignation, 
 was in the first, all of religion in the latter. But the holiest 
 instruction of man, the sublimest utterance of a God, failed 
 to banish utterly from my heart a sense of loss. I had simply 
 done right, and was ashamed that this thought did not make 
 me happier. I was thankful that the letters were gone. I 
 was unwilling to receive any more and yet, and yet there 
 was no denying it, I was almost miserable over the fact. 
 What an exaggerated nature was mine, which for such an 
 immaterial loss made me feel that the light which marked 
 the path of my spirit was suddenly withdrawn and my 
 nature left in darkness. The task, yesterday so grand in 
 promise of fulfilment, to-day seemed promiseless. The new 
 glory which had baptized my being was suddenly quenched ; 
 but weariness, satiety, loneliness were old acquaintances ; I 
 must accept their daily company and be resigned, if not hap 
 py. Yes, one thing in the universe I must do I must do 
 right. 
 
 The day was far spent when I left my teachers and went and 
 mounted Zenaide to go to the depot to meet Henri. Every 
 afternoon George Peacock rode Pontiff to await his master. 
 I usually accompanied him, telling him many things wHbich he 
 liked to know, as we sauntered leisurely down the shady road. 
 But I was in no mood to impart wisdom this afternoon ; thus 
 upon his return from the city I had sent him off alone, to 
 follow at my leisure. I made a necklace for Zenaide of 
 crimson, golden, and opal dahlias. I hung it around her 
 proudly arching, glossy neck. I rubbed my cheek against 
 hers, and told her she was the best and most beautiful horse 
 in all the world ; that I should die without her. For all this 
 extravagant nonsense she rewarded me with the loving light 
 of her great, gentle, gazelle eyes ; and thus with the most per 
 fect sympathy established between us, we went together down 
 the shadowy avenue. It was an August afternoon ; ineffable 
 was its. beauty, medicinal its enchantment. I had scarcely 
 realized that summer had come, and here it was August. 1 
 love all the months as I love my friends ; each for its own 
 personality, its distinct individual charm ; and for me the 
 mouth of August has a peculiar fascination. It seems as if
 
 286 Victoire. 
 
 in this matchless month nature, having brought the year to its 
 prime, pauses entranced above her own work, saying : " It is 
 perfect." August is to the year what the first hour past 
 meridian is to the day ; the noon's fulness of splendor is scarce 
 one shade abated, yet the moment breathes forth a softness 
 which the noon had not. We rest in the first glory of the 
 afternoon, ripe, tender, delicious, ere the chill of twilight has 
 made us shiver, or a deepening shadow on the golden horizon 
 warns us of the advancing night. September, the Ceres of 
 the year, fills our hands with luscious treasures, but her cheek 
 is beautiful with hectics ; the scarlet ring upon her brow is the 
 coronal of death ; I cherish for her the sad, regretful affection 
 which I feel for a friend who is about to die. I love August 
 as I love a perfected soul, who will stay with me for a little 
 while, pouring out its opulent life to fill up the scanty measure 
 of my own. I know this rich soul must soon pass beyond my 
 sight ; but it will pass in the full flush of its prime ; there will 
 be no token of decay, no struggle of dissolving nature to 
 make me sorrowful. In the joyance of the moment I say : 
 " Pour out, pour out, still more of your wine, ripe 
 heart !" 
 
 " 'Tis life whereof my nerves are scant ; 
 'Tis life, not death, for which I pant." 
 
 I shall be for ever richer for having partaken of your fulness. 
 Thus I yielded to the sway of this imperial month as I passed 
 out into her presence. No longer the virgin blossoms of the 
 spring looked up from the turf with their half-veiled eyes. 
 Even the amorous tulip and ardent rose had departed, and 
 instead the matron flowers of the later summer stood around 
 me, stately, sturdy, self-conscious in their pride. The leaves 
 on the great boughs above me no longer pattered their tiny 
 palms in the ecstasy of newly quickened life ; heavy, glossy, 
 darkly veined, they drooped in equipoise, or, slowly swaying 
 to and fro, their dreamy murmur made a part of the calm 
 content of the hour. Beneath this rare sky, in this divine air, 
 it seemed easy to forget life's trivialitiesall the littleness of 
 human care, all the wearing selfishness of self, all the assertion 
 of personal need, which impels every poor heart to make 
 itself the centre of a world. But it is ordained that we shall 
 never catch more than a glimpse of heaven on this side of the 
 grave. And as I passed out from the blessing of the patriarchal 
 trees iuto the common air, and saw just before me the stark
 
 Strange Events. 287 
 
 roof of an unpoetical railroad depot, I fell from my lofty 
 impersonal contemplation of the universal, to the low level, 
 the narrow life of one little human creature. 
 
 Why should the sight of that grizzly station perturb me 
 now, when I beheld the same material object every day ? 
 Why should I feel that anxious fluttering about my heart at 
 the thought of meeting my husband, when I came here to 
 meet him every evening ? I was not afraid that he would 
 meet me with a frown. Henri Rochelle never frowned, at 
 least on me. I did not anticipate a lecture ; for although he 
 delivered many scientific lectures, he did not lecture his wife. 
 Sometimes I wished that he would. I fancied that a sound 
 orthodox, conjugal scolding for one or more of my nume 
 rous faults would be preferable to an obliviousness of my 
 existence. For the last few weeks I had heard of nothing 
 but " medical councils" and consultations ; of " dangerous 
 cases" and " surgical operations." Precious human lives, the 
 happiness of human homes and hearts, hung suspended on his 
 skill. He was equal to the trust ; he was worthy of it, for he 
 thought of nothing else. He was busy in the city, or he was 
 shut in his study, or he rode by my side, or sat at the table, 
 perfectly pre-occupied with the momentous issues which absorb 
 ed his mind. I thought of their importance, and uttered no 
 complaint. What if I had to cut off people's limbs, and pre 
 scribe for their miserable stomachs, and keep them from dying 
 in spite of all their persistent abuse of their functions ? I 
 probably should not be wise and silent, but cross and utterly 
 overwhelmed with my tremendous task. Henri Rochelle was 
 perfectly excusable for forgetting for the present that he had 
 a wife, when he had so much of greater importance to think 
 of. She was sure that as soon as he had leisure he would be 
 as kind and thoughtful of her as ever. She only felt that she 
 was very selfish not to be absorbed as he was in doing good. 
 He had manifested a cognizance of my being the day before, 
 by asking me to visit some poor patients of his in town, and 
 curry to them articles necessary to their comfort, for which 
 privilege I was exceedingly grateful, it was such an exquisite 
 pleasure to feel that I was of any service to him or to the 
 needy. If he thought of me at all during those days of exces 
 sive care, it was only to conclude that I was absorbed in art 
 and my beautiful home ; that my little world was complete in 
 its fulness of blessing. He did not give me the credit of 
 being half as foolish as I was. " Why is laid upon me the 
 burden of so many wants ? Why must I suffer the penalties
 
 288 Victoire. 
 
 of an unsatisfied nature, while he is so calmly poised, so 'wise, 
 so satisfied, so symmetrically developed, so happy in being and 
 doing good?" I said half bitterly as I drew near the railroad 
 station, with the sickening anxiety still creeping through my 
 'heart. It was only the womanish anxiety lest Henri should 
 be as silent and absorbed as usual. I wanted company this 
 evening. I wanted to forget those letters. 
 
 Presently the cars came shrieking up ; the great engine, 
 with its burning, cyclopean eye, reminding me as forcibly as 
 ever of the dear old devil. 
 
 In a moment more proud Pontiff was prancing, wheeling, 
 arching his lustrous coal-black neck as demonstrations of 
 delight at the presence of his master. Henri sprang into 
 the saddle, and we cantered away to the elm road. We came 
 into its shadow at a quiet pace, and had scarcely entered it 
 when Pontiff with a graceful curve wheeled close to the side 
 of rny gentle Zenaide ; his tall rider, like a gallant knight, bent 
 down .and kissed the forehead of Victoire. 
 
 " Ma bonne, ma belle" he said, smiling, his clear eyes over 
 flowing with a lambent light. " Six patients, serious cases, 
 fairly off my hands to-day. I feel as if I had a right to a 
 little leisure. Let me see ; it is a week, is it not, since I 
 talked much ?" 
 
 "A week! Why, Henri, it is certainly three since you 
 have uttered a word more than necessity compelled you to 
 speak." 
 
 " Indeed ! But you have been enjoying yourself during 
 all that time ; haven't you ? How does the new picture 
 progress ?" 
 
 " Oh, how can I tell, when there is no one to look at it and" 
 tell me how I am getting along !" 
 
 "You should have an opinion of your works, independent 
 of other people's judgment. But I'll go up to your bird's 
 nest after tea and tell you what I think of it. "It really seems 
 very pleasant to feel that I have a right to give a whole 
 
 " When I have time to think about it, I find that I am as 
 much in love with you as ever," he said, slowly, looking 
 down into my face with a long, lingering smile, beautiful as 
 rare. 
 
 Beneath the Alps there are sheltered valleys, and there are
 
 Strange Events. 289 
 
 no lovelier in all the world. There is no music sweeter than 
 the tinkling of the tiny bells on the neck of their June ; nothing 
 softer than their verdure ; nothing more fragrant than their 
 thyme ; nothing more spontaneous than their flowers, spring 
 ing under the everlasting snow. Thus, through knowing him, 
 I found that there was a sunny summer valley far below the 
 heights of Henri Rochelle's nature. All the more enticing it 
 was from the contrast with the glaciers which made winter 
 above it. It was full of dew, and sunshine, and quiet blooms ; 
 full of all pleasant summer sounds. Whenever I looked down 
 into this valley a whole heaven of possible happiness opened 
 before me. But just as I fancied myself entering it to go out 
 no more for ever, the Alpine brain would drop its avalanche 
 of business, and bury all this fair valley from my sight. 
 Wearier were the dull, grey days which came after, for the 
 brief gleam which I caught of the buried valley. It did not 
 take so much after all to make me happy. I had forgotten the 
 letters. I did not want more joy than this moment by his side 
 gave me. 
 
 " Who do you think called on me this afternoon ?" asked 
 Henri, in an arch tone. 
 
 " Some one whom I know ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Morna ?" 
 
 " No. Who but your friend Mr. Moncrieffe. You know 
 him pretty well, do you not, although you have not seen him ?" 
 
 How I started at that name. 
 
 " Why in the Avorld did you send back his letters this 
 morning, telling him that your duties interfered with the 
 continuance of the correspondence ? I laughed at that freak. 
 I was not aware before that my wife was so heavily oppressed 
 with duties that she could not attend to a much smaller num 
 ber of correspondents than women usually have. What put 
 that notion into your head, Victoire ?" 
 
 " Why, did you not tell me not to allow it to take too much 
 of my time ? I found that it did take too much time, and too 
 much thought, also. It seemed to me best to discontinue it 
 immediately." 
 
 " Rather more prompt than graceful, Victoire. You are 
 not usually so brusque. However, Mr. Moncrieffe has made 
 me the bearer of his thanks and regrets ; his thanks for the 
 honor which you have done him, his regrets that your kind 
 ness in his behalf has incommoded yourself. He is an 
 enthusiast over your Niobe would like to purchase it ?" 
 
 13
 
 2QO 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 " How did lie happen to call on you, Henri ?" 
 
 " He called with Mr. Van Ostrand, who promised to intro 
 duce him some time ago." 
 
 "Did you like him?" 
 
 " Very much. Better than I usually like persons at first 
 sight. He is all, and more, than Van Ostrand represented 
 him to be. I am sorry that he is going away ; I invited him 
 to visit us when he returns from the South. But I have 
 something very odd to tell you. Odd enough, I think, to 
 satisfy your romance-loving ears. It was Mr. Moncrieffe who 
 built Bel Eden !" 
 
 " Built Bel Eden !" I said, slowly after him. 
 
 " Yes, he it was who built Bel Eden, before the death of 
 his young wife." 
 
 " Did he know that his letters to me came to Bel Eden ?" 
 
 " No, because they were sent to onr New York address." 
 
 " Didn't he remember that you had bought Bel Eden ?" 
 
 " He knew nothing about it until Mr. Van Ostrand told him 
 a few days since." 
 
 " Why, how could that happen ?" 
 
 " Just a? other things happen. I purchased Bel Eden of 
 Mr. Moncrieffe's agent, not of himself. As long as he received 
 the money he did not trouble himself about the name or the 
 person." 
 
 " I agree with Mrs Peacock," I said, " that things what 
 happens are queerer nor all the novels." 
 
 By this time we had reached Bel Eden gate. 
 
 AMBROSE MONCRIKFFK 
 
 It was October now. It dawned a golden and azure day 
 as lustrous a day as ever dropped through the fingers of Time 
 to enrich the life of mortals. It was one of those celestial 
 days when the year's summer steals back from its thither 
 march to smile once more on the world ere she leaves it for 
 ever. The trees stood bare, save here and there a solitary 
 leaf quivered on some tremulous spray. In and out through 
 the naked branches stole the odorous south wind, with a 
 pleasant sound like the rustle of silken garments. It stirred 
 the drifts of crimson and yellow leaves which nestled together 
 in the broad walks, in the hollows of the trees, and the dimples 
 of the bills. A few untimely flowers, which the loving sun
 
 Ambrose Moncrieffe. 291 
 
 had wooed into tardy life, stood like lonely watchers amid 
 the frost-scathed parterres, sole relics of their vanished 
 splendor. A few scarlet asters, with here and there a mourn 
 ful dahlia, looked down from their blackened stalks upon the 
 dead forms of their beautiful race, the sisterhood of summer 
 flowers who died with the summer weather. The squirrels 
 leaping from bough to bough with quick vibration, rustling 
 the fallen leaves as they ran over them and peered through 
 them ; the patter of falling nuts, the plaining of doves in 
 their lofty cotes, the trill of the cricket, the fall and flow of 
 waters, made the symphony of the hour. Faint odors stole 
 out from the sun-warmed grass, from beds of russet clover, 
 till the atmosphere was full of perfume sweet enough to have 
 fallen from the censers of the angels. A veil of amber haze 
 hung over the face of the sun. The world stood transfigured 
 in golden light, and the serenity of the hour seemed to fore 
 shadow the serenity of Paradise. 
 
 Strange it is that such halcyon days should bring us the 
 least of rest. There is a soul in the day which touches the 
 soul within us, saying : "Thou art a prisoner." Then more 
 than ever we feel the chafing of our chains, and beat our wings 
 against our prison bars in wild unrest. Vain and vague are 
 the longings which possess us for knowledge, joy, love deeper, 
 higher, purer than we have ever found. In all that we see 
 we feel that there is a deeper significance than we can under 
 stand. We are baffled. VVe long to find the life within life. 
 It is the Immortal restless within us the soul yearning 
 towards the infinite soul from whence it came. 
 
 I gathered the last flowers to save them from the frost 
 which I knew would fall that night from the " clear, cold 
 heaven." Mingling them with fragrant geraniums from the 
 conservatory, I filled the alabaster vases in the parlors. I re 
 arranged the folds of every curtain ; I placed and replaced 
 vases, statuettes, and pictures ; I could not have given to the 
 rooms a more hai'monious arrangement, and at last stood to 
 behold the effect. The massive curtains of crimson velvet 
 looped from drapery of gorgeous lace, the paintings, the 
 blossom-tinted walls, the calm-faced statues, the sculptured 
 vases with their living flowers, the carpet with its deep-glow 
 ing hues, the rare couches breathing luxury and repose, the 
 soft tender light pervading every object all were parts of a 
 beautiful picture. 
 
 In honor of that untimely summer day I had arrayed my 
 self in white ; the only remainder of the season was the
 
 292 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 crimson scarf which I wore about my snoulders. Having 
 completed my tasks, I went out into the garden, directing my 
 steps towards the park ; it was sacrilege to spend such a day 
 in the house; besides, its rapt air had pervaded me with a 
 strange restlessness which made quiet impossible. I walked 
 through the fallen leaves till I came to a flight of steps lead 
 ing down the ravine. I descended until I reached the bridge 
 which spanned the brook, a favorite haunt, yet I rarely visited 
 it. I leaned over the rude balustrade and looked down into 
 the sunken stream, now nearly choked with leaves -fallen from 
 the overhanging trees. What ailed me? There had been 
 preparation in my movements. There was a tremor in my 
 frame, half pleasure, half pain, half expectation, half dread, 
 such as fills us on the eve of the approach of an illustrious 
 stranger. Some one was coming, yet no one had been 
 announced. Some one was coming ! yet, what of that ? 
 m my strangers visited Bel Eden. Some one is coming ! yet 
 who can it be to give me this throbbing heart ? I asked, 
 laughing, yet ashamed of my own folly. The water sing 
 ing through the leaves mesmerized me into quiet, from 
 which I was aroused by Kate's heavy tread ancl asthmatic 
 breath : 
 
 " 'Dade, here's a card for ye, an' as fine a lookin' gintleman 
 behind it as iver ye see," she exclaimed, as she came panting 
 down the steps. 
 
 I took the card from her hand and read : " Ambrose Mon 
 crieffe." 
 
 I pressed my hand upon my heart, in whose one convulsive 
 leap there was more terror than pleasure. Yet what was there 
 to be so moved about ? Only a gentleman in the parlor. 
 Many gentlemen had sat in the parlor before, and stupid 
 enough had I found them about as interesting as so many 
 stones. Mr. Moncrieffe might be equally entertaining. 
 
 Thus hushing my heart, I ascended the stairs from the 
 ravine to the lull top. Under the trees, through the leaves, 
 again to the garden, to the house. I ascended the steps of the 
 piazza and stood within the drapery of the open window. A 
 man with folded arms stood looking at a copy of Niobe. He 
 turned, and I stood eye to eye with. Ambrose Moncrieffe, the 
 >ti-.-inger of Les Delices. 
 
 " Stranger" I called him ; there could be no greater mis 
 nomer. That moment I felt as if I had known him all my 
 life, :md from the deep eyes which were fixed upon me I felt 
 that tew of the secrets of my heart could be hid. We stood
 
 Ambrose MoncriefFe. 293 
 
 for a moment and looked at each other, and in that look the 
 dreams of two lives were fused into one. 
 
 " I have been searching for you a long time," he said, qui 
 etly, extending his hand and leading me to a seat. " I have 
 not been so much of a dreamer as I feared," he added. " Now 
 I know to be true what I have long believed, that soul may 
 recognise soul even before they meet in bodily form; that 
 souls separated by a thousand barriers yet act and react 
 upon each other ; that beings who seem far distant from us 
 sometimes exert a deeper influence* over our lives than 
 the companions who walked by our side. You remember 
 me !" 
 
 Remember him ? As he asked the question I felt that we 
 had never been divided"; it was the very face, the very voice 
 which through all those years I had scarcely ceased for a 
 moment to see and hear. Having pervaded my being once, 
 they had never left it. When I feared that it was a dream, it 
 was the pulsations of a warm, living, human heart which I had 
 felt and responded to. And he had remembered me. I 
 had never dreamed, never hoped for such a remembrance. 
 Yet how natural it all seemed, as if it never could have been 
 any different ; as if we had always sustained the same rela 
 tionship to each other which we held now ; as if there was 
 no dream about it save the long separation. Again I looked 
 into the face which looked down into mine. That face was 
 very quiet, yet a deep pallor swept from the dark hair to the 
 darker beard. This face had the ever-varying eyes which I 
 love eyes which can scintillate the keenest lightnings, or 
 grow tender and dewy as a little child's. 
 
 "Your eyes are full of inquiry," he said, smiling. 
 
 " Yes, I would like to know everything about you ; you 
 have been a vision long enough." 
 
 " Everything, I fear, will be very tiresome ; yet I can tell 
 you." 
 
 As he uttered these words I drew back into the cushions 
 of my chair to listen and to look. To look ! Could I look 
 enough at this face ? The very face, the planetary eyes which 
 through so many years had haunted me unbidden. This face 
 which I had seen but once before, yet which had remained 
 with me always. 
 
 I felt my eye-lids droop beneath the deep half-mournful 
 gaze which was bent upon me. I felt my heart still tremble 
 to the music of that voice. Yet while I looked and listened, 
 I seemed to be in a vision no less now than then.
 
 294 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 Thus we sat for a moment in silence, when I asked 
 again : 
 
 Will you tell me all ?" 
 
 "To tell you all," he answered, " I should have to tell yon 
 my life, and you know when one tells their own story they 
 are always tedious." 
 
 " You will not be tedious to me if you tell me the whole 
 story of your life. I shall hardly be satisfied with less," t 
 answered, retreating still further into the cushions and half 
 closing my eyes while he began : 
 
 " You know," he said, " that I am of Southern birth. I 
 was born in Virginia. My mother died when I was a little 
 boy, and I was hardly twenty-one when I was called to the 
 death-bed of my father. This was a terrible stroke to me, 
 for, as I was an only child and he a man in the prime of life, 
 he had been to me both brother and father. I had just com 
 pleted my studies at the University of Virginia, was full of 
 hopes and projects, every one of which he was to share, 
 when every brilliant prospect seemed cut off by his death. I 
 had a cousin six years younger than myself, the only remain 
 ing child o.f my father's only sister, and she, with me, was the 
 heir to my paternal grandfather's estate. She was an orphan, 
 and shared with me my father's affections. We had grown 
 up from childhood together, and I loved her as a sister. In 
 my father's last conversation he revealed a plan concerning 
 my cousin Lila and myself which he said he had cherished for 
 years. Had he lived, he should have trusted to time to have 
 wrought its fulfilment ; now he trusted it to my filial love 
 and obedience. He wished me to marry my cousin Lila. She 
 was dear to him as a daughter; he wished to feel that her 
 future was provided for and the estate preserved in the fami 
 ly. It had belonged to the Moncrieffes for more than a 
 hundred years, and he could not bear to*have it divided with 
 a stranger. lie did not wish the marriage to take place 
 immediately. Lila was too young, and I had not seen enough 
 of the world. He wished me to spend the two next years 
 at the University of Heidelberg, two more in foreign travel, 
 and then return for my bride. In the meantime Lila was to 
 remain closely immured in a girls' boarding-school. In all 
 my lite I had never disobeyed my father. I could not 
 do it now. It was no time to express individual wishes, if I 
 had any, which I did not. I only knew that I was listening 
 to my father's dying request, and' that I wi>hed to fulfil it, 
 and that I liked Lila better than any otfier little girl that I
 
 Ambrose Moncrieffe. 295 
 
 knew. Placing my hand within his, already stiffening in 
 death, I solemnly promised to obey his dying wishes in every 
 respect. After his obsequies, after I had seen my father laid 
 upon a stone shelf in the great cold vault of the MoncrieffVs 
 I took my little cousin my incipient wife to the fashionable 
 school designated by my father in which she was to be manu 
 factured into the accomplished young lady. Very soon after 
 I sailed for Europe, and the next two years were spent at 
 Heidelberg. I believe that the roistering German students 
 called me ' a good fellow,' although I never succeeded in turn 
 ing myself into a beer-barrel, and never fought a duel with 
 small swords. 
 
 " All men have their poetic age ; some when they are 
 boys, and some later, much later in life; men who never 
 dreamed for a moment that existence could write itself in 
 anything for them but tame prose to the end, suddenly find 
 it breaking into melodious rhythm. Life merges into a poem 
 unawares, one no less sweet because measured by heart-throbs 
 instead of rhyme. My poetic life began at Heidelberg. You 
 remember how Bulwer introduces this loveliest of German 
 towns in his Pilgrims of the Rhine. ' In the haunted valley 
 of the Neckar, the most crystal of rivers, stands the town of 
 Heidelberg ?' Well, it was a ' haunted' valley to me ; here I 
 first became pervaded with the love and sense of beauty. I 
 was steeped in that divine indolence which asks for no other 
 heaven than to be left alone to drink the wine of its own 
 thought. Hour after hour used to pass and leave me stretch 
 ed in the afternoon summer sun under the lightning-smitten 
 arches of the castle of Charlemagne. Yes, I wasted hours, 
 as all sensible people will say, doing nothing in the world but 
 gazing down into the antique streets of the town upon the 
 spacious plain, following the white sails upon the Neckar 
 until they reached the farther sky. And I devoted more 
 time still to lying beneath the mouldering walls ; pacing 
 the feudal ramparts, gazing at the architecture of many 
 ages blended into one stupendous ruin. For the first time 
 in my life I had the opportunity to meditate over the relics 
 of discrowned empire and buried epochs. The grandeur of 
 their past compared with the melancholy majesty of their pre 
 sent both oppressed arid appalled me, when I allowed myself 
 to meditate upon their history as the symbol of all human 
 power and magnificence which was not very often. I was 
 too young to be melancholy, too lazy to be profound. 
 
 " Well, when I left Heidelberg I followed in the track of com-
 
 296 Victoire. 
 
 mon tourists. I sauntered about Rome, stood in the palace of 
 the Caesars, tired myself to the verge of death roaming umi<l 
 the dreary splendors of the Vatican ; caught a shocking cold in 
 the Catacombs, and drank in enough malaria on the Campagna 
 to keep me well saturated with poison for two months, during 
 which time I enjoyed the variety of lying in an old Roman 
 palace prostrate with fever. My first exploit on recovering 
 was to scale Mount Vesuvius, lose one of my boots in the 
 crater, and melt the sole of the other in the burning core of 
 this eruptive mount. After I recovered from the effect of this 
 scorching I sailed for Greece, and of course was disgusted 
 because I found ' living Greece no more.' Then I floated 
 down the Nile. Wondrous was that Nile-life with its mono 
 tonous days and constellated nights, when the planets hung 
 low in the silence above me, great scintillant globes of flame ; 
 when the days and nights blended in an endless dream, and 
 the vast world with its toiling generations seemed a far-off, 
 dimly remembered phantom ; and yet I was fleeced so fero 
 ciously by the i-ascally Arabs, that at last I was thankful to 
 get back to noise and civilization. 
 
 "Then I resolved to leave the highways of travel and to 
 wander about in the world's demesne wherever circumstances 
 or fancy led me. Thus I made my way through the most 
 inaccessible portions of Switzerland ; travelled through the 
 most glorious portions of Spain on a mule's back, aad at last 
 found myself in the valley of the Rhone, in a round-about 
 way drawing near to the Atlantic coast. 
 
 " I was charmed with the valley of the Rhone, and wandered 
 down it leisurely enough. You never can forget the magni 
 ficence of that evening when I first caught sight of your 
 home. I had seen many ivy-grown castles, many princely 
 palaces on my way thither, but had seen nothing which had 
 so impressed me with picturesque home beauty. The moun 
 tains, the Rhone, the firs, formed such a contrast to the bright 
 little chateau with its red turret with the warm repose of 
 tin.: grounds, the fountains, the statues with their white faces, 
 and the wild cascade leaping down the jagged rocks. The 
 crystal jets of water dancing in the sun were tempting, almost 
 mocking, to a tired traveller, and I resolved to have a drink of 
 the nectar. I left my horse in charge of the servant who 
 accompanied me, and entered the narrow footpath running 
 along the brook-side to the cascade at the foot of the moun 
 tain. As I drew nearer I caught the murmur of a voice, and 
 in a moment more my heart thrilled strangely as the words of
 
 Ambrose Moncrieffe. 297 
 
 my own language reached my ear. I had not heard it for 
 months; and now to hear it so unexpectedly, so strangely, in 
 this remote spot, affected me like a sudden spell, which drew 
 me on whether I would or not. The heavy vines hid the 
 speaker from sight until I came to the end of the veranda, 
 when I saw what was to me at that moment a wonderful 
 scene. Upon a couch reclined a young and apparently dying 
 man, whose countenance seemed to wear already the light of a 
 beatified spirit ; by his side sat a young girl reading the Holy 
 Scripture, and these were the first words which I heard with 
 sufficient distinctness to understand : 
 
 " ' I know that my Redeemer liveth and that He shall stand 
 at the latter day upon the earth ; and though after my skin, 
 worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God. 
 Mine eyes shall behold Him, and not another.' 
 
 " The sound of my own language in a strange land was inex 
 pressibly sweet. I leaned against a pillar in the shadow of the 
 vines and listened. My whole being thrilled while I hearkened 
 to those words. But if the language moved me, there was a 
 tone in the girlish voice, in its tremulous pathos, in its sup 
 pressed yet outgushing sorrow, which moved me more. You 
 remember that wonderful sunset ; the glory around God's 
 throne seemed falling to earth. You saw how it shone 
 around your brother's brow ; you can never know how it 
 hovered about your own. I saw his uplifted eyes, his uplifted 
 hands ; heard his last words ; saw you drop your book, saw 
 you clasp him in your arms, and cry wildly for water. Then 
 I started for the first time ; before I would have deemed an 
 intrusion sacrilegious. You remember that I gave you water ; 
 you bathed his brow ; in the most imploring tones you besought 
 him to live, to live a little longer for your sake. You still 
 wildly clung to him, when I came to the aid of the terrified 
 servant, and tried to take your dead idol from your arms. 
 As you lifted to mine your imploring eyes, pleading so pite- 
 ously that I should not take away your brother, I felt all my 
 soul pervaded with a new emotion, the first great love of man 
 for woman, of which all after loves are only counterfeits. 
 
 " You seemed dearer to me that moment than any object upon 
 earth. I felt like folding you to my heart and holding you 
 there for ever. But you yielded, even while you subdued me. 
 I never shall forget how like a lamb I led you away from your 
 brother, and delivered you into the keeping of your nurse. I 
 composed your brother's limbs ; I closed his eyes ; I dropped 
 
 13*
 
 298 Victoire. 
 
 a tear on his brow, not for him but for you. I took in your 
 face in one long, lingering look as you lay almost lifeless in 
 the arms of your nurse, and then retraced my steps do\vn 
 the narrow path. I mounted my horse und went on my 
 journey. I have cursed myself more for that act than for 
 any other of my life. It was the one which decided my fate ; 
 it was fate. I had an appointment to meet the next day at 
 Nismes, a Heidelberg friend, who was to accompany me to 
 Paris, and from thence go with me to America. At Nismes I 
 expected to find letters awaiting me from Lila. It was Lila, 
 the thought of the solemn vow made to my dying father, 
 which impelled me to go on. The moon rose full above the 
 mountains, and scattered over river, road, and forest, thousands 
 of golden auroras. She made another day softer, lovelier, 
 than the one which had departed. I thought only of you, 
 saw only you. I heard no voice, but felt a hand upon 
 my heart which drew me back ; and yet I went on. More 
 than once I came to a dead pause ; I drew the bridle and 
 turned my horse's head, and yet I icent on. ' It would be 
 harder for me to go to-morrow ; besides, what madness !' I 
 said. I saw the little face of Lila ; I remembered my vow, 
 and still went on. At midnight I halted at a little inn, and 
 in the afternoon of the next day reached Nismes in a more 
 miserable state of mind than I had ever found myself before. 
 I brought with me a new memory, a new joy, a new pain. 
 That which seemed more to me than all the world, I had left 
 behind. I was determined to fulfil my vow, thus to maintain 
 my power over, myself; yet was disgusted with myself that, 
 to sustain it, I had taken refuge in flight. Why had I not 
 stayed like a man to render assistance in the hour of afflic 
 tion ? Why, like a man, had I not proved that I could 
 conquer my heart by meeting and resisting its first great 
 passion, not by fleeing from it ? 
 
 " At Nismes I found my friend ; also letters from Lila plead 
 ing my return. Poor child ! she was tired of her imprisonment, 
 and was sighing for an establishment. Notwithstanding my 
 unhappiness, as I read her letter I felt sure that I had done 
 right. In another month I was in America. I went imme 
 diately to the young ladies' manufactory where I left Lila. I 
 found not the free young cousin, my pretty playmate, in 
 simple robe and Tuscan bonnet; but, instead, a fashionable 
 young lady imprisoned in whalebones and hoops, lost in laces 
 and flounces. She was neither prettier nor plainer than a 
 thousand other school-girls with French braids, insipid eyes,
 
 Ambrose Moncrieffe. 299 
 
 and aristocratic noses. Like paper dolls, they are all pretty, 
 and all intolerably flat. Label each one precisely alike 
 'elegant and accomplished,' sell them as dainty bits of 
 mechanism, and with your eyes shut you could safely buy any 
 one of the thousand, and be sure that she would be just as 
 frail a toy, just as useless a little plaything, as her nine hundred 
 and ninety-nine counterparts which had been purchased by 
 other gentlemen who wished to be amused. I was now twenty- 
 five, and the last four years had been long enough to develop 
 an ideal woman in my brain. I believed that 1 had seen the 
 woman who could create in me the absorbing love which man 
 gives to woman but once in his life. 
 
 " I was sure that Lila had not sufficient character to make 
 me either very happy or miserable. I cherished a very tender 
 affection for her as my old playmate, the pet of my father ; 
 but to the stylish school-girl I was supremely indifferent. We 
 were married, and became one of the world's model pairs. We 
 never quarrelled ; we felt too high-bred for that, had there 
 been a cause, and happily there was no cause. We felt none 
 of the chafing of life's hard necessities ; there was money 
 enough for both of us ; so we each took to enjoying ourselves 
 in our own way. I hate a pedant, but love an intellectual 
 woman provided she has a heart. I wanted in my \vife a 
 companion in the highest significance of that term ; if Lila 
 was not, I resolved that it should not be my fault. I tried to 
 interest her in my loved German authors ; tried to induce 
 her to take a few hours from society and devote them to 
 pleasant study, reading, painting, and music. But, alas ! in 
 boarding-school her intellect rose to its highest level. The 
 shallow little reservoir was then filled to its utmost capacity ; 
 every added drop from the ocean of wisdom only ran over 
 and was lost. Slit said that shetdid not like people who 
 thought. She believed that the most uninteresting women 
 in the world were those who knew a great deal. There was 
 her old teacher, Madame La Pop, who knew everything ; 
 but, oh dear, she was so tiresome ; besides, her dresses were 
 always short-waisted and the skirt always skimped ; for her 
 part, she would rather have her dress fit in Paris style than 
 to know all about the stars or those dreadful old Germans. 
 And all the gentlemen of her acquaintance, except her odd 
 old Ambrose, cared a great deal more about having their 
 wives graceful than wise. She would do anything else to 
 please him, but she never could remember those horrid old 
 Dutch letters. Lila meditated on the subject for perhaps ten
 
 300 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 minutes, to come to a most satisfactory conclusion regarding 
 her own erudition. Why should she know any more? Was she 
 riot all that an elegant lady need be ? She could play upon the 
 piano, and shriek a dozen operas. She could converse in exe 
 crable French, and make diabolical little dogs and cats out of 
 Berlin wpol. She had parsed through the whole of Milton's 
 " Paradise Lost," and that was poetry enough to last for a life 
 time. She dressed like a princess ; she had a costly equipage, a 
 grand establishment ; she had a husband and a poodle; what 
 more could she have if she were as wise as Hypatia ? She doated 
 on her poodle, and never seemed vexed at me except when I 
 accidentally trod on its toes ; then the bow-wows of the dog 
 and the tears of Lila so disturbed my equanimity that I inva 
 riably seized my hat and rushed from the house. At last I left 
 Mrs. Moncrieffe to be happy in her own way ; in her poodle, 
 her establishment, her fashionable charities, and fashionable 
 parties ; she accepting her husband as a most necessary article 
 at all public displays and occasions. 
 
 " Mr. Moncrieffe took to public life. He was young, but 
 wealth and family had their usual influence, and he held 
 offices of honor and trust. Man's nature is too comprehen 
 sive, his powers too varied, to allow him often to become the 
 sacrifice to a single passion. In public action he expends his 
 superfluous energies, dissipates his secret sorrows, and satis 
 fies as far as possible the demands of his soul. I followed the 
 example of other men ; I could not throw life away because I 
 had an unsatisfactory home. In such cases the difference in 
 the actual capacity for suffering in man and woman is not so 
 great as is generally supposed. A human heart is a human 
 heart, whether dropped in a man's or woman's breast. But 
 women have so rarely any great object of personal interest, 
 so little to live for outside of their heai* ; if these are not 
 happy, they shrink back into their own natures to brood over 
 themselves. Men go out into the world to forget themselves 
 at least the better part, their hearts. Yet there are hours, 
 and they come oftener than many people dream, when the 
 busiest man comes back to himself; when the great man- 
 heart within him is just as lonely, just as loving, just as 
 importuning as the heart of any woman. There are mo 
 ments when a sweet, womanly face rises silently from the 
 sea of the past, into whose eyes he gazes with the same love 
 which transfigured his youth, and he would that moment give 
 much of the wealth and honor which fortune has given him, 
 could he only bring that lost face, that lost love back into his
 
 Ambrose Moncrieffe. 301 
 
 life. But presently he becomes conscious of his folly, ashamed 
 of his weakness, and rushes back to the world and to business 
 with renewed vehemence. The woman, if she has no busi 
 ness particularly interesting or remunerative, which I am sor 
 ry she cannot always have, has both opportunity and tempta 
 tion to brood on endlessly ; that is why the world is full of 
 morbid, miserable women. Men's natures would grow just 
 as sickly in the same atmosphere. Outwardly, I lived a very 
 gay and brilliant life, and was too entirely occupied to find 
 much time to be miserable. Yet I often turned away from a 
 face which no eyes saw but mine ; from a pair of beseeching eyes, 
 the only eyes which had ever melted my heart. I tried to be 
 manly enough to despise myself for my folly, but did not suc 
 ceed. Poor Lila ! she was not evil-hearted. A weak nature, a 
 false education had made her what she was. She was not heart 
 less. Her affections, if feeble, were true. She inherited con 
 sumption from her father, and after one year of the wear of 
 fashionable life her health began to fail. We spent our summers 
 in New York. During the first I commenced this house, desig 
 nating it as our summer home. Lila seemed enchanted with it, 
 and made herself happy anticipating the brilliant summer fetes 
 and festivals which she would give her metropolitan friends 
 when it was completed. She used to drive out here every day 
 to watch the workmen and to go about with me superintending 
 the laying out of the grounds. It seems like a dream now," 
 said Moncrieffe, gazing out. " Has anything about the place 
 reminded you of your early home ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes, the fountain, the gorge, the brook." 
 
 " I told Lila that the fountain, with its score of marble lilies, 
 was modelled from one which I saw in France, and she was 
 delighted with it. But she thought that the ravine ought to 
 be filled up and sodded over. She said that when she had 
 her fetes the guests would be in danger of falling into it, un 
 less the overhanging trees were hung very thick with lamps. 
 But this ravine, with its trickling waters and deep shadow 
 of foliage, was my favorite retreat. 
 
 " Another season and the house was completed, but poor 
 Lila had ceased to care about it then. She had gone into 
 another ' mansion,' which we are bound to believe will never 
 perish. From the hour in which ill-health compelled her to 
 forsake the world, she sought refuge in religion and her hus 
 band. It did me good to have her need my care. I forgot 
 the fashionable woman in the little Lila of my childhood. I 
 relinquished all public affairs, and watched and nursed her as
 
 302 Victoire. 
 
 a mother might a child. This tender, solicitous affection soft 
 ened my nature and made me a better man. After a wasting 
 illness she slept ; it could hardly be called dying ; she closed 
 her eyes and passed away so quietly. Her last words were 
 full of affection for me, her dear, dear husband, whom she 
 expected without a doubt ' to meet in heaven.' Yet it was 
 scarcely as a husband that I mourned her. I shed tears of 
 sincere sorrow for my only cousin, the sister of my boyhood, 
 my cherished household pet, for the young girl whom, despite 
 my tenderest solicitude, I had watched fade and perish like a 
 blossom. My mansion had lost its mistress, my heart the 
 object of its care, yet my soul had not lost a portion of itself. 
 What I knew a wife could be to me, the very life of my life, 
 Lila was not, and never could be. Two months after her 
 death, one of the public journals announced that : * Hon. Am 
 brose Moncrieffe had sailed for Europe to dissipate, amid new 
 scenes, the deep melancholy occasioned by the death of his 
 young and beautiful wife.' 'This is all the world knows of 
 its votaries,' I thought, as I read this paragraph. I had no 
 reason to wish to dissipate the beautiful memory of Lila's last 
 hours, the loveliest of all her life. I had no reason to mourn 
 that I was free, although I never wished Lila to die. I was 
 sailing towards Europe to find you. Don't start ; I was in 
 search of nothing else. From the moment of my release, 
 you became to me a living presence, and all the days of my 
 married life a dream. I determined with the eyes of manhood 
 to look on the face which in a single glance fascinated my 
 earlier youth. If it was an illusion, I wished it dispelled ; if 
 not, my soul yearned for the reality. I reached France, and 
 as fast as steam would carry me made my way to Languedoc. 
 Again I traced the road from Nismes and reached your home 
 in the golden noon of a summer day. My infatuation had 
 suggested no thought of change ; it seemed as if I should meet 
 you in the veranda, that you would greet me in the spot 
 where I left you. I was appalled at what I saw at the 
 silence, the desolation. I passed the gate ; high, rank weeds 
 filled the broad path. I drew near the house ; ivy enveloped 
 it like a tomb. Fierce greens had thrust their spears through 
 the crevices of the veranda ; not a face was seen, not a sound 
 heard. Even the fountains were dumb ; nothing looked as I 
 remembered but the statues and the cascade ; I saw a grave 
 and a white cross beneath the firs. 'They are all buried,' 
 was my thought, as I approached it. I began to read the 
 inscription : * Frederick Vernoid,' my impatient eye glanced
 
 Ambrose Moncrieffe. 303 
 
 below to see if it bore another. No, only one slept here, and 
 that thought brought a quick sense of relief to my fearful anx 
 iety. I read the remainder of the beautiful Christian words 
 which a sister's love had recorded on that marble monument. 
 I gathered a flower from amid the long grass which waved 
 above his grave, ami returned in silence as I went. I lingered 
 a moment on the spot where I had once separated you from 
 the dead body of your brother. I drank from the moss-rimmed 
 urn which I had once filled with water for you, and then de 
 parted. 
 
 "For days I sought tidings of you amid the scattered inhabi 
 tants of the valley. All said that the young lady had gone 
 to America, but no one knew anything certainly of her fate. 
 Some had heard a vague rumor of her marriage to a rich gen 
 tleman ; but the majority thought her dead, and that the 
 house was haunted. If the young lady was gone, the Vernoids 
 were all dead. They were a brave, proud race ; the valley was 
 full of the record of their past exploits; the peasants were sure 
 that nightly they visited their earthly home, the young lady 
 and all. At last they almost tempted me to believe that I was 
 a madman chasing a phantom. And yet, when I turned 
 away from that valley, a living face seemed to look into mine, 
 a living form to walk by my side ; I could not banish you. I 
 returned to America, and attempted to take up my old duties 
 where I laid them down. I did not realize until then how 
 utter was my disappointment. I took no real interest in any 
 thing. I was disgusted with politics, with chicanery, false 
 hood, party strife. None of the world's prizes seemed worth 
 striving after ; that prize which I had most eagerly sought 
 had eluded me. I cared for no other. People who had once 
 called me a * smart fellow' and prophesied wonderful success 
 for me, now began to suspect that I was a lazy noodle. 
 
 " My friends thought it was the death of my wife which had 
 so changed me, and advised me to marry ; quite a number 
 of mammas very disinterestedly began to project matches for 
 me. I had one answer for all, that I probably should never 
 marry again. Nearly a year after my return from America, 
 I came to New York, my brain full of wise resolutions re 
 garding my life. I had resolved to break the shackles of that 
 dream, and be my old self again. I even thought of opening 
 a law office in the city, and of seriously going to work. In 
 the midst of such sensible cogitations I strolled into a picture- 
 gallery mechanically one day. I did not expect to be in 
 terested, and therefore began to gaze about as carelessly as I
 
 304 Victoire. 
 
 had entered. I saw, at one end of the gallery, a large painting, 
 relieved by dark green drapery. I walked towards it, and, as 
 I looked, for the first time in ray life doubted the evidence of 
 my senses. For a moment I felt that I must be the victim of 
 hallucination. But no, my eyes could not tell so many lies ; 
 it was as substantial a picture of canvas, oil; and colors, as any 
 in the room. There was no mistaking your face, nor Frede 
 rick's, nor my own ; no mistaking that unique home, that 
 magnificent scenery. No one could have painted that picture 
 but you ; you could not have conveyed the idea to any one 
 who could have embodied it so perfectly, who could have in 
 fused so much reality, so much soul into its expression. 'All 
 that was in that picture had been felt before it was portrayed. 
 I went immediately to the director of the gallery, who told 
 me all that he knew about it. He purchased it, he said, of a 
 very ordinary appearing woman, who seemed to have no very 
 high appreciation of art. She informed him that the picture 
 was the work of a young French girl who had left it with her 
 in payment for debt. She had lost track of the young lady, 
 but she was very sure that she was dead, or had returned to 
 France. The director knew nothing of the young artist's 
 name; the woman did not mention it; he gave her five hun 
 dred dollars for the painting ; she asked six, saying that would 
 not cover the amount of the young girl's indebtedness, who 
 had had a long illness in her house. The gentleman asked a 
 thousand dollars for it ; I would have given him three yes, 
 half of my fortune, rather than not have possessed it. 
 
 "While the picture was being taken down, the director 
 noticed for the first time the resemblance between my face 
 and the one on the canvas. 
 
 " * Why, sir,' he said, ' one of these faces looks enough like 
 you to be your portrait.' 
 
 " When I again entered Broadway I had forgotten that there 
 was a law office in Christendom. I did not believe that you 
 were dead. No, I felt sure that you lived. Relying on the 
 woman's statement, instead of any conviction of my own, I 
 was inclined to think that you had returned to France, as you 
 were an artist; probably to Paris. In another week, the 
 painting, sacredly cased, with its new owner, had taken pas 
 sage for Europe ; and, in a few weeks more, both were fairly 
 domesticated in Paris. By Mr. Van Ostrand's account, I 
 learned that I sailed the very week that vou were married." 
 
 "You did?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 Ambrose Moncrieffe. 305 
 
 " I searched for you in Paris. I went again to Languedoc 
 and found it silent as before. The people around said that they 
 heard a gentleman in Paris had bought Les Delices ; but he had 
 never lived in it, had never even visited it. They were quite sure 
 that he was afraid of the ghosts of the Vernoids. And they 
 evidently regarded me as an astonishing and slightly sus 
 picious individual, to be coming again in search of dead peo 
 ple. I made Paris my home for nearly two years, though, 
 in the meantime, I went to Florence and Rome, vainly hoping 
 to find a young artist sitting amid the wondrous pictures of 
 the Doria palaces or the Vatican. I would return from my 
 fruitless searches to Paris, and, for a time, give myself up to 
 study ; doing my best to perfect myself in arts and sciences 
 which I cared nothing about. I was positive that you were 
 not in Paris, almost positive that you were not in Europe, 
 when, for the third time, I turned my face towards America. 
 
 " One of the first objects which attracted my attention after 
 my arrival w r as ' Niobe,' which was then on public exhibi 
 tion. In the hundreds of paintings which I had seen, this 
 was the first which reminded me of you. Not that it looked 
 like you in any definable way; yet there was something in the 
 expression of the eyes which recalled yours forcibly ; but 
 more, there was something in the outline, the touch, the 
 coloring, which suggested my own painting the work of your 
 hand. I thought that I detected in both one individuality, 
 yet feared much that it was fancy. 
 
 " I found no mystery hanging over Niobe. The proprietor 
 of the gallery informed me that it was the production of a 
 lady, the wife of a distinguished physician, Dr. Rochelle, who 
 was proud of his wife, and afforded her every opportunity to 
 perfect herself in her art. I went away, intending to forget 
 this Xiobe, but did not succeed ; had I done so I should have 
 banished you. In writing to you, I did what I had never 
 done before in my life, yet felt irresistibly impelled to do at 
 this time. I felt a vague hope that if you were the maiden 
 of Languedoc, you would in some way refer to your lost pic 
 ture. You did not ; yet, in the reticence of your reply, I 
 found more than in many pages. If you were she, I did not 
 want the faint illusion dissipated, neither did I wish to draw 
 nearer to you ; if you were indeed she, it was too late to in 
 trude upon your individual life, hence my impersonal letters. 
 I met you nowhere in the society where I dragged myself. 
 And my friend, Mr. Van Ostrand, informed me that although 
 so young, and having all the appearance of one created for
 
 306 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 society rather than solitude, you seemed to be perfectly ab 
 sorbed in art ; shutting yourself up in your- Edeu as if you 
 and your Adam were still earth's only inhabitants. It \v:is at 
 this time I learned the astounding fact that your ' Bel Eden' 
 was no other than the home which I had built for my little 
 Lila. I had not visited it since my first return from Languedoc. 
 Shall I confess my madness? I had a hope that I should re 
 turn with you my wife, and offer you Bel Eden as your home. 
 Such was my disappointment I did not visit it ; and it was 
 after I had relinquished all hope of ever seeing you, that I 
 allowed my agent to sell it shortly before I came to New 
 York and found your wonderful painting. I wanted a law 
 office, but I thought that I should never want a home. One 
 day my conviction of your identity became a certainty. I 
 was sitting in Mr. Van Ostrand's office, when he exclaimed 
 
 " * There, there goes Madame Rochelle in that carriage !' 
 
 " I followed the direction of his pointing finger, caught a 
 glimpse of your face, and knew that it was you. Why had I 
 not caught that glimpse years before ? Perhaps I turned pale, 
 for Mr. Van Ostrand exclaimed ' Good heavens ! Moncrieffe, 
 what is the matter?' To which inquiry I could only reply, 
 * Mrs. Rochelle reminds me forcibly of a lady whom I met 
 years ago..' 
 
 " A mysterious interfusion of circumstances has seemed to 
 render it necessary that I should say all that I have said to 
 you. If you had not recognised me I should have remained 
 silent ; but, knowing me as I you, an explanation was inevi 
 table. I have told the simple truth. Yet do not fear that I 
 shall disturb you, or in any way invade your peace. I am not 
 a weak boy now to be running away from myself. I know 
 well what honor and right demand ; I shall obey." 
 
 I made no reply to his words. Like all that seizes my deeper 
 nature, they seemed to paralyse me. I was dumb. At last 
 my eye fell upon the magazine which contained the Italian 
 story. I opened to it and asked, " Did you not write this ?" 
 
 " Yes," he answered ; " I am not a story writer, yet I wrote 
 
 a^ before I knew that you were Madame Rochelle." 
 
 " It came in the very mail with your first letter. I read it 
 immediately after reading that. Does it not seem strange ?" 
 I asked. 
 
 " No stranger than all the rest," he said, rising and going 
 silently to inspect the paintings upon the walls. 
 
 k Good-bye," he added, in a ft-w moments, as he offered his 
 hand, " I saw Dr. Rochc-lle before coining, and he urged me
 
 Society. 307 
 
 to await his return to tea. Will you be so kind as to give him 
 my regrets, and tell him I could not stay to-day ? Ask him to 
 call on me. Good-bye," he said again, folding my hand in a 
 frank, friendly grasp, and no more. I arose to see him depart. I 
 saw him enter his carriage, received his kind parting glance, 
 watched the wheels flash through the trees along the road. I 
 walked back into the parlor as if in a dream, yet by the pain lying 
 sore against my heart, I knew that it was a reality. Yes, it was 
 a reality ; there lay the card traced by the well-known hand ; a 
 great light seemed to have gone out of the room ; that, too, was 
 reality. Once more I looked out upon God's world. Softly 
 the tender light of the celestial day stole through the open 
 windows. How bland, how benign, how beneficent it was, bap 
 tizing me with its warm effulgence ! Perfume, melody, and 
 sunshine were around me; so were scathed flowers, dead 
 leaves, and desolation. 
 
 Once more I mounted Zenaide, and went quietly down the 
 road to meet Henri. 
 
 SOCIETY. 
 
 Winter came, and to me seclusion, solitude, had lost their 
 charms. Mine was no longer a self-supported life. Existence 
 was touched with delirium. In the feverish atmosphere of 
 society I breathed more freely than in the stiflingly calm air 
 of my home. Bel Eden was deserted for the season. Now 
 that no summer beauty nor autumn glory rendered the 
 country inviting, Henri wished to be nearer to business, 
 nearer to all metropolitan opportunities and entertainments. 
 I said " yes," as usual, to this proposition, Avhich h&d become 
 an annual one ; yet breathed a quick sigh after, not because 
 I had answered reluctantly, but so eagerly. One year before, 
 I had said " yes" without feeling one pulsation of that eager 
 ness. Then the gay world of society was not half so alluring 
 to me as my own home. Then winter, folding its ermine 
 around the fauns and naiads of the park; spreading its white 
 mantle over hill and dingle, along avenue and vista ; fringing 
 the green arbor-vite with convoluted pearl, sheathing the 
 great pillars of the trees in glittering ice ; hanging from a mil 
 lion sprays millions of gleaming icicles, till I seemed imprison 
 ed in a vast emblazoned palace sculptured in crystal was far 
 dearer to me than winter scattering his liquescent pearls ou
 
 308 Victoire. 
 
 ugly griffins and grim stone lions guarding the portals of 
 stately mansions ; or than winter with his white robes sullied 
 and torn by the grime and tramping feet of the city. Then, 
 far more satisfactory to me was daily quiet, my self-imposed 
 tasks, my books, my children of the Mission-school, my dear 
 visits with Morna, than all the gay eclat of dressing, going, 
 seeing, and being seen, which forms the programme of a fash 
 ionable winter season. 
 
 It was different now. I had sought in religion the com 
 plete satisfaction which leaves no room for another. Now I 
 went into the gay absorbing world in search of an impersonal 
 life ; let the conflict cost what it might, I was determined to 
 live without, not within myself. Dust had once more gather 
 ed on the face of poor Thomas a Kempis in the undisturbed 
 closet into which I had thrust him. Holy old monk ! I rarely 
 talked with him now. All his words of consolation I carried 
 in my memory. I did not wish to remember more, for was 
 he not constantly calling upon me for renouncement and 
 self-examination ? Again I had come to the sad conclusion 
 that I had no genius for abnegation. I was tired of examin 
 ing my heart ; I wished only to forget it. 
 
 I heard no name spoken so often as that of Ambrose Mon- 
 crieffe. A love as strong and deep as he once gave to my 
 brother Frederick, Henri Rochelle gave to this new friend. His 
 personal attachments were rare, but, as you well know, tena 
 cious as death. This genial, richly-dowered soul, this graceful, 
 winning cosmopolite, opened a fountain of infinite refreshment 
 to the fastidious yet practical man of science, crowded with 
 the business of the every-day world. His most intimate com 
 panions were not elected from among those who followed the 
 same pursuits; he sought those rather, who could add to his 
 life the ch%rm of variety. 
 
 Ambrose Moncrieffe won love from persons of all classes 
 and conditions. He had a man's athletic brain, with all a 
 woman's tenderness. The manly iron was not stinted in 
 his making, but through it ran a vein of feminine gold. You 
 were impressed with his refinement, his delicacy, his gen- 
 tk-ness ; but were equally conscious of his intellectual power, 
 his capacity for strong passion. High mentality made love in 
 him an exalted sentiment; a passion of the soul rather than 
 a fever of the senses. He was a man who could feel tempta 
 tion through every fibre, because it appealed through a vivid 
 imagination directly to his heart. He might stray where Henri 
 would not even be enticed ; he might fall, through the very
 
 Society. 309 
 
 excess of that in his nature which in itself was beautiful and 
 holy; yet so tender was his conscience, so high his standard 
 of honor, though the world and God might forgive, he would 
 never quite forgive himself for the slightest act unworthy of 
 his manhood. 
 
 He was as versatile as he was opulent in mental resources ; 
 he impressed you as one of those fortunate mortals who suc 
 ceed in whatever they attempt ; yet it required the strongest 
 pressure of circumstances to force all his power into action. 
 Had he been born poor he would have distanced every difficulty 
 and achieved a splendid career. He was equal to grand occa 
 sions ; he would have added to the glory of a great epoch ; he 
 suggested all that was noble and exalted in a man's destiny, yet 
 it was very probable that his whole life would prove only a sug 
 gestion and not the reality. Unless moved by some ex 
 traordinary incentive, he was just the man to slip through the 
 world, attempting little and accomplishing less. So hopeless 
 ly high was his standard of achievement, he found it very easy 
 to be nothing but what he could not help being, a gentleman 
 of generous fortune, scattering lavish blessings about him, just 
 as it happened ; followed by troops of friends whom he did 
 not particularly need ; carrying with him a splendor of culture 
 and a wealth of gifts for which he had no particular use. In 
 making him, God did not drop the seed of a great ambition 
 into his soul. He seemed utterly devoid of the greed for per 
 sonal fame and power which is the almost unfailing accom 
 paniment of secondary endowments. His comprehensive soul 
 had measured all the world of human action ; he had weighed 
 all its prizes in a most exquisite balance, and on the whole did 
 not think them worth struggling after. It required a motive 
 higher, stronger than the desire for personal aggrandizement, 
 to arouse Ambrose Moncrieffe to be all that he could be. He 
 had faults, as all truly lovable people are sure to have. His 
 were those imperial faults which dazzle, allure, and fascinate, 
 as the stark virtues of the sterile-minded never can. If he 
 seemed to win more love than his share, it was not because 
 he deserved it more, or sought it half so eagerly as many who 
 seemed famishing for the lack of it, but simply because he 
 was endowed by nature with those graces of mind and per 
 son, those qualities of heart, which, when found in man or 
 woman, win love as inevitably as the sun draws towards its 
 bosom the floods of ocean. 
 
 When Ambrose Moncrieffe said " Good-bye" on the Octo 
 ber afternoon when he first visited me, he spoke as if that
 
 310 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 "good-bye" were final. But Henri was not charmed so often 
 that he could allow a man who pleased him thoroughly to pass 
 away from his sight without an effort to retain him. 
 
 " Moncrieffe seems to have a world of engagements. I have 
 invited him here to dine every day for a week," he said, not 
 many days after that first meeting. A few more passed away, 
 and Moncrieffe came. 
 
 Men have a very short and sensible way of becoming ac 
 quainted with each other. They are not half as foolish in this 
 matter as women. They have not the thousand and one pre 
 liminaries to pass over, nor one-tenth of the silly punctilios 
 of etiquette which are for ever thrusting to an immeasurable 
 distance from each other women who ought to be friends. 
 Men take each other's hands, look into each other's faces (not 
 at each other's clothes), measuring each other in the look ; 
 they smoke cigars together, or drink a glass of wine, or invite 
 each other home to dinner ; discuss the state of the nation, 
 the condition of the town, their favorite politician, minister, 
 and doctor; and, provided no unusual resisting medium ob 
 trudes itself, these two men rise farther advanced in their 
 social relations than would two fashionable women after a 
 two years' series of "friendly calls." Thus, in what seemed 
 to me an inconceivably brief period, to my amazement I found 
 that Henri Rochelle and Ambrose Moncrieffe seemed to be as 
 intimately acquainted as if they had known each other from 
 their birth. 
 
 " A man who had reared such an enchanting home for other 
 people to enjoy was entitled to their hospitalities as long as 
 he would accept them," Henri said. So through all that 
 heavenly October and the first sere days of the sad Novem 
 ber, when I rode Zenaide through the elm-road to the railway 
 station, I often met two mounted knights instead of one. A 
 pair of eyes which for years had shed a mournful splendor 
 upon all ray dreams became luminous verities beside my table. 
 One evening Morna sat opposite them, and that evening I 
 learned for the first time that Moncrieffe was an amateur in 
 music. She played, they sang together his clear, mellow 
 tenor blending with her rich contralto. I sat apart, I listened 
 or did I only feel ? That was the voice to which all my 
 nature responded the first time that I ever heard it. Was it 
 less seductive now ? I would fain have lain prone upon my 
 face and wept my soul away yet I did not weep at all. I 
 said and did nothing. Yet I remember that Morna stole 
 softly to my side afterwards and whispered :
 
 Society. 311 
 
 " Dear Victoire, what ails you ? You are as white as if you 
 were dead." 
 
 But Moncrieffe's brief visits were usually filled with conversa 
 tion. Henri and he had travelled through the same lands ; 
 there were endless reminiscences to recall ; there was Paris 
 life, an almost inexhaustible theme; there were the affairs of 
 the world to be discussed, after the fashion of men ; there was 
 the condition of the country to be deplored ; there were 
 parties to be denounced ; individuals were saved in the heaven 
 of Moncrieffe's vast charity. When other topics grew stale, 
 by way of variety Henri would fall to lecturing Moncrieffe in 
 a frank, pleasant way ; said lectures always being received 
 with the most unperturbed serenity. One unusually mild 
 afternoon, after dinner, they sauntered out into the piazza to 
 smoke their Havanahs. They seated themselves in the don't- 
 care posture which is the pet felicity of men who have seized 
 an hour to " take it easy" their chairs poised on two legs, 
 their feet several degrees nearer their head than usual, rest 
 ing most comfortably on the marble balustrade. I, within, 
 was meditating upon the sublime composure with which men 
 accept life, when, after a series of long whiffs, I heard Henri say : 
 
 " Moncrieffe, you are a lazy fellow." 
 
 " I know it," said his companion, with utter nonchalance, 
 watching the blue smoke of his cigar curl up through the 
 golden air. 
 
 " You waste your time shamefully." 
 
 "I know it." 
 
 " Then why don't you make a better use of it ? You are 
 full of aspirations after a grand, ideal life. With your infinite 
 resources, why don't you make such a life possible by embody 
 ing it before our eyes ?" 
 
 " Don't make any demands upon me, Rochelle ; it is too 
 late to comply with them." 
 
 " Too late ! Here you are, hardly thirty ; and, with a whole 
 world of splendid acquisitions in your head, you are doing 
 absolutely nothing." 
 
 " I have nothing particular to do. The world would be a 
 terribly tedious place if everybody in it worked as hard to 
 benefit it as you do. It is the law of a Frenchman's being to 
 keep flying about. It is the law of a Southerner's to make 
 himself as comfortable as possible." 
 
 " You can't accuse me of flying. I only keep doing," said 
 Henri. " Besides I am not a pure Frenchman ; my mother was 
 an Englishwoman."
 
 3 12 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 " Well, you always impressed me as a very queer Frenchman. 
 Your mother made you English, every inch of you ; that's 
 English, to keep for ever doing." 
 
 " But what is English or French is not to the point. You 
 must excuse me, Moncrieffe, for my meddlesome pertinacity. 
 If I did not like you I should not mention it ; but now I am real 
 ly afflicted to see you doing yourself such great injustice. Leav 
 ing all culture out of the question, nature made you an orator. 
 You would make a special pleader, a great advocate. It will he 
 your own fault if, in ten years, you are not one of the distin 
 guished members of the New York bar. I believe that it is 
 your moral duty to open a law office in New York." 
 
 " I am not sure but that it is my moral duty to quit New 
 York' as soon as possible." 
 
 "What ! and bury yourself in that little provincial city. If 
 you are going to live on this continent at all, New York is 
 the only place where a cosmopolitan can live. Here he has 
 room to breathe and do. Here he is quickened by the elec 
 tricity of human masses ; here the energy, the life of the na 
 tion culminates. The wealth, the misery, the wants of hu 
 manity ." 
 
 " Don't bore me with * the wants of humanity,' I beg of you, 
 Rochelle. It is a hopeless task for you to attempt to strain 
 me up to a high point of philanthropy. I'll do everything 
 that I know how for everybody that needs me. Perhaps 
 you can live on the luxury of doing good, and be satisfied ; 
 I can't. Individuals so absorb me that I can't swallow 
 the whole human race at once. If I should seriously set 
 myself to work. to relief e 'the wants of humanity,' I should 
 be so overpowered with their number and my inability 
 to supply them, that I should give you the opportunity of 
 shutting me in a lunatic asylum within the space of a year or 
 two. It is best for some people to live as much of an oyster- 
 life as possible ; they will feel enough then." 
 
 "And do nothing? You are wrong, depend upon it; and 
 you have seen the day when you did not discover so much 
 merit in doing nothing." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I have seen the day when I was as busy as a 
 Yankee. I am not aware that I am any better or happier, or 
 the world either, for my having been so." 
 
 " The thwarting of your life-plan has made you morbid in 
 one particular, but no more. I am sure I don't blame you," 
 said Henri, very kindly. " Perhaps I cannot sympathize with 
 you, for I have obtained every object in this life that I ever
 
 Society. 313 
 
 sought. Nothing would so near unman me as to bury my 
 wife, yet with rne it would be a point of conscience to go on 
 with every duty, as if nothing had happened. The putting 
 out of one hope should not make you blind to all the rest, my 
 dear fellow." 
 
 " Of course it is ungrateful ; but some people, if they are 
 denied the only treasure they ever asked for, disdain all other 
 gifts. Who is it says that everybody can be a philosopher 
 over other people's troubles ? Perhaps I shall be aroused to 
 the importance of accomplishing a career some time. But 
 there is no forcing experiences, you know, Rochelle. I am 
 sure that it is kind in you to be so interested- in my destiny. 
 I hope that I shall never prove ungrateful." 
 
 " I wish that you would show your gratitude by using one 
 or more of your thousand accomplishments to some purpose. 
 What do all your Greek, and Latin, and Italian classics amount 
 to, if you never use them ?" 
 
 "They amount to this, that they afford me a vast amount 
 of entertainment. And if a man is too indolent to make an 
 effort to benefit his race, he ought at least to be able to amuse 
 himself." - 
 
 " It is a mystery to me," said Henri, " how you ever con 
 trived to ransack the ages, and search all climes for the lore 
 of heaven and earth. You have neither the looks nor the 
 habits of a student. Where did you find all that you know, 
 Moncrieffe ? You never exerted yourself terribly, I am cer 
 tain." 
 
 "Well," said Moncrieffe, "some people are like moles, 
 you know ; they dig and dig, till they ferret out a vast pile of 
 knowledge ; and some are like sponges ; they suck it in from 
 every vein in nature, without exerting themselves particulai'ly. 
 They are constantly absorbing ; yet this drop, or that, they 
 cannot tell when or how they drank it in. If they are full, 
 praise not them, but the rich worjd around-them. Perhaps I 
 am a sponge." 
 
 " That you are ; you manage to sponge out of me more 
 time than any other mortal living, except my Victoire ; and, 
 by the way, in many respects you are marvellously like her. 
 Here she is, ready for a walk as usual," said Henri, looking 
 around and seeing me by his side, hat in hand. The feet 
 came down from the balustrade, and the two diminished cigars, 
 with ashen crests and burning eyes, flew simultaneously into 
 a bed of withered leaves. 
 
 We went out together under the wind-swept. branches of 
 
 14
 
 Victoire. 
 
 i 
 
 the great trees, under the' solemn pines waving above us their 
 odor-tipped lances, dipping them now far out in the sunset's 
 gold. On we went through the dank yellow grass, through 
 the dismantled flowers, through the rain-torn autumnal leaves 
 which covered the ground with a red-brown carpet, till we 
 reached the bridge down in the ravine. Here we stood a 
 moment in silence, when Henri said, taking out his watch: 
 
 " I must be in town in an hour. I have four patients whom 
 I must call upon this evening." 
 
 So we wandered back where the carriage stood waiting, 
 and I, standing on the piazza, saw them depart together. 
 Moncrieffe did not visit Bel Eden again that year. A 
 few days after, all our household, including Kate Murphy, 
 George Peacock, no small number of dogs, cats, and birds, 
 besides Pontiff and Zenaide, were transferred to our city 
 home. 
 
 One of the most unalloyed pleasures of my daily life con 
 sisted in watching the gradual transformation of George 
 Washington Peacock. Unawares, a beautiful soul was grow 
 ing in the boy. To be sure he retained his idiosyncrasies; 
 he was George Washington Peacock still, and no one wished 
 him to be any one else. He was not yet remarkable tor flu 
 ency of speech, although now he could speak upon the sub 
 jects most exciting to him without stumbling over an oath. 
 His love of truth was no longer displayed at the expense of 
 his good temper. His love of beauty had grown harmonious 
 ly amid the refinement of his later life; and his strong desire 
 for goodness, struggling into existence amid moral darkness 
 and deformity, had grown into a sturdy, healthy principle, 
 tempering all his actions. It was not half so apparent in the 
 fact that he asked for the privilege of teaching a class of little 
 ragged boys in the Mission-school, as it was in his private in 
 tercourse with his family ; in the Christian dispositions which 
 he manifested to his brothers and sisters ; in his obedience to 
 his mother; in his tender forbearance when she tried him 
 most an instrument more potent in the reformation of friends 
 than any number of long sermons, or any amount of righteous 
 indignation. His love for light reading had grown into a de 
 sire for useful knowledge. Every spare cqjit of wages was 
 expended on books to study. And his delight knew no bounds 
 when, on our arrival in town, Henri offered him the privilege 
 of attending a boys' academy. 
 
 Since the day when she asked him to go to Sabbath school, 
 Hope's interest in his welfare had in nowise diminished.
 
 Society. 315 
 
 Every month brought him letters traced by her beautiful hand, 
 full of sweet, unconscious pictures of Parisian life such as her 
 limited school-girl experience enabled her to see. The boy 
 made these letters into a book, placing them inside of a hand 
 some cover, each letter forming an additional leaf, making at 
 last a large volume. This he allowed to come in contact with 
 no other book but his Bible, on which he laid it, studying it 
 as scarcely less a divine oracle. He lived in the ever-yearning 
 desire to make himself an object worthy of her approbation. 
 
 Hope's home letters were an unmingled delight ; they were 
 diaries into which every phase of her guileless young life was 
 written. It was very evident that the great world was not 
 spoiling her. She was one from whom every contamination 
 would drop off, so wonderful was the spell of innocence and 
 purity which she carried in herself. Her letters, written in 
 French, Italian, and Spanish, were graceful proofs of her ad 
 vancing scholarship, while every word which they breathed 
 was touched with unconscious humility, which was as natural 
 to her as her beauty and grace. 
 
 " How I long for you, my beloved ones," she would write ; 
 " yet I gladly submit to any exile which at last will make me 
 more worthy of you." 
 
 In one of his letters, written before we met, Moncrieffe 
 spoke thus of the face of Hebe which was exhibited beside 
 Niobe. Pie supposed it an ideal face, and said : 
 
 " It is wondrously beautiful, and lacks nothing but inten 
 sity that intensity which always accompanies an impassioned 
 nature and deep capacity for suffering. Such a look could 
 never deepen the dream-like beauty of this face, or the nature 
 which it represents. Hebe could gently grieve or be sweetly 
 sorrowful ; she could not be rent with anguish. There is no 
 selfishness in this face. She could relinquish everything, 
 life itself, for another ; yet she would not suffer in renouncing 
 as Niobe would. Niobe would make a larger sacrifice in 
 offering the same object, for in putting it away from her she 
 would tear her heart with it. Hebe has not this tenacity of 
 soul-grasp. She is all love, but loves as the angels love. She 
 would look through her tears into the face of life's greatest 
 sorrow with a smile of seraphic resignation. She is all gentle 
 ness, love, and beauty. No renunciation, no process of suffering 
 or growth has made her what she is. Thus she was born. 
 Such a being would not satisfy me now ; yet after a great 
 storm of soul I can imagine how I might find heavenly rest and 
 peace gazing on such a face ; imagine with what warmth of
 
 Victoire. 
 
 healing the celestial sunlight of such a spirit would fall on the 
 ruins of my own, tilling me with tenderest affection, yet 
 kindling not a grand inspiration." 
 
 Hen 11 was filled with surprise and satisfaction when he 
 learned that my long-lost picture was in the possession of 
 Moncrieffe. He accompanied me to the sumptuous private 
 
 parlor in the Hotel St. where it hung. When it was 
 
 first revealed, amid its softening drapery, he manifested a 
 degree of emotion rarely visible in him. The face of Beatrice, 
 of Frederick, the memories so suddenly evoked by the pre 
 sence of those long-lost faces, so strangely grouped in a 
 strange land; Frederick's death, my departure, all came 
 back to him so vividly, so unexpectedly, that for a moment he 
 seemed lost. Then he took my hand almost impulsively as 
 he said : 
 
 "My poor child, then this is that long year's work, just 
 completed when disease and madness overtook you. It is 
 noble. It is worthy of a great genius, of a great soul. I 
 look at it, and live over again my lost youth. No picture 
 ever moved me like this. Frederick, my brother ; Beatrice, 
 my sister; Victoire, my wife all here! Frederick dying! 
 It seems as if I was parting with him over again." He 
 looked down into my face. Again I caught a glimpse o'f 
 the deep valley of tender love far down into his nature. My 
 heart yearned towards him. Oh, why did he not draw my 
 soul thus near to him always ! 
 
 I looked up Moncrieffe was gazing at us. 
 
 He said : " Rochelle, if you think so much of this picture, 
 take it. However much I desire or need it, I am unwilling 
 to monopolize anything that does not belong to me. Take 
 the picture, and hang it up at Bel Eden." 
 
 " I am sure that the picture belongs to you," said Henri. 
 "As it is not mine, Moncrieffe, I would rather that you 
 should own it than any one else in the world. No, I have more 
 than a picture ; I am not going to rob yon of that. Besides, 
 there is your own face in it. It is not strange that every 
 person and shade of that scene was so indelibly impressed on 
 her mind. It is the most natural thing in the world that she 
 should have remembered and painted you, appearing at that 
 moment as you did. It is strange that you of all the in- 
 habitants of the earth should have come into possession of 
 the picture. Life is full of remarkable coincidences." 
 
 It' Moncrieffe felt any dissatisfaction at the very practical 
 way in which Henri disposed of the fact of his face being in
 
 Society. 317 
 
 the picture, he did not express any. He treated me now as 
 he did upon all occasions, simply as the wife of his friend. 
 While he maintained these distant relations, he evidently felt 
 under no obligation to reveal a past experience. I was 
 conscious of carrying nothing in my heart which I was 
 either ashamed or afraid to confess, but I had a great 
 dread of making myself absurd in the eyes of Henri. 
 It always piqued me a little when he laughed and called 
 me romantic. I was constantly endeavoring to make myself 
 practical in his sight. It would have been a great relief 
 could I have told him how Moncrieffe had once grown into 
 my life. But I had not the moral courage to be willing to 
 make myself appear ridiculous to him, as I knew that I should, 
 tell that story as best I might. I could not tell him, but I 
 would put it far away from me. I would fill my life so full 
 that I should have neither time nor room for that memory. 
 I would yes, I would do right. Thus I reasoned. Mon 
 crieffe never sought me. Politeness obliged him to accept 
 a portion of the many invitations lavished upon him by Henri, 
 but he by no means availed himself of the privilege offered 
 by his host, " to consider our house his home." He yielded 
 to the entreaties of his many friends, opened a law office, and 
 distinguished himself for ability in the fulfilment of public 
 duties with an ease which astonished many in that brilliant 
 circle, who had known him only as a gentleman of graceful 
 leisure, a master of the accomplishments of life. This was 
 the state of affairs in our little world when the gay winter 
 season of the metropolis began. 
 
 After all, it was a natural metamorphosis which changed 
 the nun-artist of Mrs. Skinher's attic, the young toiling 
 designer of the " comfortable home," into the woman of 
 society, wearing her crown of success as regally as if she had 
 placed it on her head with her own hands. Yet, what was 
 the volatile mass, the glittering crowd to me ? They were 
 fellow-creatures, nothing more. For their burden of foibles, 
 folly, and sorrow, which we shared together, I had abundant 
 pity ; for everything else I despised them. I was well aware 
 that it was not me but the golden accidents of my life which 
 made them flatter and follow me. Victoire, the unknown 
 artist, might have painted on to her dying day unbefriended ; 
 Vietoire, the designer, might have died of poverty and star 
 vation for all of this fickle crowd. A few might have pitied 
 as a beggar one whom they now sought as a peer ; but they 
 would not have treated her with the consideration of an
 
 oi8 Victoire. 
 
 equal. Oh, no ; she had no position then. I knew that 
 Madame Rochelle was not better, not more a lady than that 
 young Victoire. The attentions which would not have been 
 
 fiven to her, were yet lavished upon Madame Rochelle, 
 could fairly estimate now. I knew precisely how much 
 they were worth. I had never been dependent upon pro 
 miscuous society for happiness, and could well afford to 
 be good-natured while I measured its favors. I had no 
 fault to find with it ; it gave me all that I asked entertain 
 ment and an interesting source of study. Besides, .it is 
 vulgar and ill-natured to be always grumbling at the world. 
 Society is only accumulated humanity ; we must accept it as 
 we ought each individual human creature, loving its virtues, 
 forgiving its sins, taking care to divest ourselves of the very 
 faults which we are so willing liberally to condemn. Society, 
 in its broad significance, is a word of vague import, but its 
 rbot lies near the surface of life, and means only companion. 
 So the struggles of the race in this age and all others to 
 establish a standard of the best society, have been only human 
 hearts seeking the best companionship, its type varying with 
 races, climes, and customs. 
 
 Louis Fourteenth thought that he had found it when the 
 genius of Boileau, Racine, Sevign6 the eloquence of Bos- 
 suet, the saintliness of Fenelon, the beauty and wit of Pompa 
 dour and de Maintenon, reflected splendor upon the court 
 of Versailles. The high-bom coterie of the famous Hotel de 
 Rambouillet, with its immaculate purity and inexpressible 
 nonsense, thought that the best society of the world was shut 
 within its walls. So thought Charles the Second amid his 
 court of lewd beauties ; so thinks Victoria to-day in the 
 virtuous palace of Windsor ; and of the same mind is Mrs. 
 Potiphar in the Avenue, and Mrs. Codfish, whose wardrobe 
 has not yet lost the odor of beer contracted by a long residence 
 in the Bowery. In a commercial metropolis, vulgarity tries 
 haul to bear the palm of the best society. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Wholesale never invite to their soirees Mr. and Mrs. Retail. 
 No ; they snub them upon all conspicuous occasions, and in 
 vite only to their mansion the relations of Mrs. Extensive 
 Jobber, and gentlemen distinguished in the professions. Mrs. 
 Wholesale is sure that she has all the "best society." Mrs. 
 Pedant allows no one to darken her threshold, save the lions 
 of the literati ; she of course has only the " best society." 
 Mrs. Ton admits only the rich, no matter how ignorant 
 boorish, vulgar ; if they are only rich, rich enough to sport
 
 Society. 319 
 
 coach and livery, they are the very "best society." When 
 these distinguished representatives of the " best society" 
 cross by accident each other's orbits, it is amusing to a spec 
 tator to see them stare at each other with eyes askance; to 
 hear Mrs^VVholesale whisper to her bosom friend Mrs. Ex 
 tensive Jobber : " See Mrs. Retail, that dowdy woman ! She 
 docs not belong to our set." 
 
 Thank God, amid a vast deal of shallowness and falseness, 
 there are homes in New York beautiful, holy homes. In 
 them are luminous brains, lovely faces, loving hearts, dis 
 pensing all catholic hospitalities, all gracious, tender charities. 
 They are the rare magnets who draw about them the " best 
 society," and a gifted, noble American the only man in the 
 land who has depicted its society with both infinite truth and 
 infinite grace has told us what that " best society" is " the 
 men who mould the time, who refresh our faith in heroism 
 and virtue, who make Plato, and Zeno, and Shakspeare, and 
 all Shakspeare's gentlemen possible again. The women 
 whose beauty, and sweetness, and dignity, and high accom 
 plishments and grace, make us understand Greek mythology, 
 and weaken our desire to have some glimpses of the most 
 famous women of history. The ' best society' is that in 
 which the virtues are most shining, which is the most 
 charitable, forgiving, long-suffering, modest and innocent." 
 An easy fortune, poetic surroundings, opportunities for wide 
 culture which wealth can give, are certainly more favorable 
 to a rich, harmonious development of mind and person than 
 the blighting air of poverty. But if poverty tends to distort 
 and depress the souls of its finer victims, great affluence 
 tempts its recipients with enervation, artificiality, a false, 
 hollow existence. Only a noble soul will live a simple, sin 
 cere, contrite life, amid the frivolity, the shams, the hypocrisy, 
 of purely fashionable society. Such souls are sometimes 
 forced by circumstances into these circles. All who compose 
 the world's gay multitudes are neither heartless nor false. 
 Here I found divinely-inspired souls, whose feet touched the 
 flower bedizened path of fashion, but whose eyes were 
 kindled with the light of the empyrean ; men who did not 
 disgrace the likeness of God ; women whose souls were 
 unsullied white, whose eyes were like the evening star, whose 
 vestal beauty and supernal grace saved Sodom, and 
 atoned for half the folly of the denizens of Vanity' Fair. 
 1 found the " best society" when I found the highest com 
 panionship, amid the few who met in sincerity, simplicity,
 
 320 Victoire. 
 
 sympathy, and charity, whether they met in lowly homes or 
 gorgeous palaces. 
 
 The Van Ostrands were true metropolitans, holding allegi 
 ance to no particular clique or " set." One was sure to see at 
 their receptions and soirees representatives from the world of 
 religion, art, literature, science, philanthropy, fashion ; and 
 at their house one night I met an old acquaintance. We 
 went early I am not afraid to go early to a fashionable party. 
 You who have such a reputation for fashion to sustain that 
 you never dare show your face before ten o'clock, cannot 
 know how much you lose. Go early to a party, if you want 
 to sip its dew and bloom. Go early, and you will breathe the 
 air before it becomes fever ; you can use your eyes in the gas 
 light before it burns them like fire ; you can gaze at pictures 
 and marvels of art before they are lost in crinoline; you can 
 inhale the breath of flowers before they wither ; you can 
 receive the smiles of your hostess before she has grown weary 
 or nervous about her spoons and carpets ; if there are any 
 children in the house, you can have a chance to kiss them 
 before they are thrust out of sight. If you are so fashionable 
 that you must lose all this, I am sorry for you. We went 
 early ; the dancers had not come, but through the great, illu 
 minated halls floated the heavenly music of Dodworth's band, 
 playing " When the Swallows Homeward Fly." The lofty 
 drawing-rooms were as enticing as wealth, taste, splendor, 
 light, warmth, and genial hearts could make them. Through 
 their ample length floated a thousand rich odors from the 
 open conservatory, whose air was sown thick with lemons 
 flushed with the tawny gold of clustering orange trees. Gor 
 geous exotics, sweet home flowers, plashing waters, golden 
 fish, singing birds, made the charmed life of this tropical 
 bower hid in the heart of a palace of stone. 
 
 A rare poetic hour in this mimic paradise, and the guests 
 began to flow in. Fair young sylphs in snowy " clouds" and 
 misty mantles, in robes of lustrous silk and ethereal tulle, 
 floated away to the dressing-room, and from thence to the 
 dancing hall ; slender gentlemen in flashing pumps and virgin 
 kids, flew after them. Into the drawing-rooms began to flow 
 all the component parts of a brilliant metropolitan assembly. 
 There were people distinguished for their brains, and people 
 equally distinguished for their want of them. There were ora 
 tors, philosophers, scholars, painters, poets, and singers; bloom 
 ing matrons, pause belles, and pretty maidens whose mammas 
 would not let them dance. There were gentlemen who wrote
 
 Society. 321 
 
 reviews, gentlemen who edited newspapers ; antiquated ladies 
 who wrote novels, and school-girls who wrote essays from the 
 models of Addison. There were authors who touched the 
 tips of each other's fingers, stared into each other's faces, 
 praised each other's last new book afterwards going away and 
 slandering the same. There were seers and sybils, inspired 
 men and women, beautiful and loyal, whose souls drew near 
 together on one plane, loving each other then, and loving 
 each other aftenvards. Miss Poddil Puff herself was there, 
 a young lady who contributed to the magazines, and had 
 written a book ; whose ejaculations, " O moon !" and " O 
 music !" were decidedly Ossianic ; whose desire for notoriety 
 was so rampant, that she wrote elaborate notices of her own 
 effusions, and particularly flattering descriptions of herself, 
 and paid the daily journals for printing them. Mr. Dante 
 Blonde was there ; a girlish youth, who had been told that 
 he bore a striking resemblance to his illustrious Italian name 
 sake, and therefore quoted his poetry at great length, rolling 
 up his eyes after the most accepted model of high poetic art. 
 Morna was there, wearing a dress of opal velvet with a scar 
 let flower in her lustrous hair. Moncrieffe was there. 
 
 In the course of the* evening I found myself pressed into 
 close proximity with Mrs. Automaton and Mrs. Flirtfan, two 
 ladies of the highest ton in the world of insipid nonsense. 
 Mrs. Flirtfan was one of those flimsy bits of femininity who 
 make sensible women ashamed that they are women. One of 
 those little, fluttering, feathery women, all covered with flying 
 ends of ribbon ; head, tongue, and fan always going. Mrs. 
 Flirtfan affected naivete. She thought that nothing made a 
 lady so irresistible to gentlemen as to prove by her conversa 
 tion that she knew nothing. " Gentlemen so admired sweet, 
 dependent women." " I am a mere child, you know" (she was 
 over forty), she would lisp to some lord of creation, archly 
 peering up through the feathers of her fan, perfectly sure 
 that she had made herself transcendently fascinating, which 
 was her highest ambition. Mrs. Automaton was not without 
 her great object in life ; it was to make herself as unnatural 
 as possible ; and, more fortunate than most people, she attain 
 ed her object. To be possessor of an " air," was not that 
 enough to live for ? You might have injured Mrs. Automa 
 ton in many ways, and she would have forgiven you, remem 
 bering you especially on the next Sabbath, when, kneeling in 
 church, she murmured over her gold-clasped prayer-book, 
 " Good Lord, deliver us." But she would have been too much 
 
 14*
 
 3 22 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 disgusted to have ever forgiven, had you in her presence 
 descended sufficiently from your high-bred grace to have 
 manifested natural emotion. Mrs. Automaton had charity 
 for all people but -"gushing" ones; persons who had t{je inele 
 gant, rustic habit of appearing affectionate. It was the 
 Christian duty of every man and woman so fortunate as to 
 have been born to the best society, to cultivate a "man 
 ner." . 
 
 " Do not stir, dear," she said, magnificently, to Mrs. Flirtfan ; 
 " our friends will come to us." 
 
 " Stir ! Dear me, no ; I shan't stir till we pass to the supper 
 rooms. I am always afraid that I shall be introduced to some 
 body who isn't in our set ; and it is so dreadful, you know ; 
 because then I have to snub them when I meet them some 
 where else. One never knows whom they will meet at the Van 
 Ostrands'. They will do as they please, and yet you know, 
 Mrs. Automaton, we have to come, because they are the Van 
 Ostrands ;" and the little fan began to flutter spitefully. 
 
 " Mrs. Flirtfan, that young lady in the opal velvet dress is 
 very distingue," observed Mrs. Automaton, with an air of pro 
 found erudition. 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Automaton, do you know what you are say 
 ing ? Why, that is Miss Avondale. She is only a great 
 singer. It's splendid to go to the Academy and hear her, 
 where we pay her for amusing us ; but oh dear, think of it, of 
 meeting our artists at our reception on the Avenue just as if 
 they were on our level ! Why, Mrs. Automaton, I have 
 heard it from the most undeniable authority that this Miss 
 Avondale came up from the depths of poverty. I have heard" 
 and here the little fan flew close to the little mouth, which 
 whispered ominously "I have heard that once she even 
 sewed for her living ! Oh dear, Mrs. Automaton, isn't it almost 
 insulting, to oblige us to breathe in the same room with such 
 a person, just as if she was our equal ? The Van Ostrands 
 are so queer and yet you know that they are the Van Os 
 trands." 
 
 " Let us forgive them, dear," said Mrs. Automaton, with 
 tin- august tone of an injured queen. "Our friend M. Peti- 
 man is approaching." 
 
 " There, if he isn't speaking to that Miss Avondale," inter 
 rupted Mrs. Flirtfan, her fan twitching most nervously. 
 " Of course he doesn't know. It's our duty to inform him, 
 Mrs. Automaton. Dear M. Petiman, he has such a sweet, 
 heavenly, condescending smile. Oh dear," I wish I could smile
 
 Society. 323 
 
 so divinely. Oh, did you ever see such an ineffable ' air' and 
 such a lovely bow ?--and all wasted on a sewing girl. Oh dear, 
 Mrs. Automaton, it is dreadful !" 
 
 " Yes, love, it is dreadful," solemnly echoed Mrs. Automa 
 ton, with the look of a sphinx. Overcome by their reflections, 
 the ladies spoke not again till their friend M. Petiman had 
 wormed his way to their side, making his lowest obeisance. 
 
 " Ah, I am delighted to see you," said that gentleman to 
 his doting friends. " I have been a long time reaching you. 
 One finds so many people at Mr. Van Ostrand's whom they 
 must speak to ah you understand. You observed me 
 speaking to Miss Avondale, our gifted American cantatrice. 
 She is a truly magnificent singer, she is a great genius 
 but " 
 
 "But" reiterated Mrs. Automaton, drawing up in 
 
 owlish ^Hite. 
 
 " But" simpered Mrs. Flirtfan, " Oh dear, M. Petiman, I 
 am so glad you know" (and the fan began to coquet). "It 
 really made me quite sick, thinking that I must as a duty 
 inform you of her history." 
 
 " Ah, thoughtful as ever ; yes, very kind of you, Mrs. 
 Flinfan. But you know I make it a point to ascertain the 
 history of all whom I meet in society. It is very easy, very 
 easy. A few incisive questions are all-sufficient. These are 
 due to society and due to ourselves. Ah, Mrs. Flirtfan ? 
 But as I was observing, this Miss Avondale is truly an estima 
 ble young lady ; she has great genius, but like all persons who 
 have struggled through disadvantageous circumstance.s to 
 success, she places a somewhat undue estimate upon herself, 
 and is inclined to think that her powers are not fully appre 
 ciated by the public. I never heard her say so, but that is 
 my suspicion. For this reason, I take great pains to smile 
 upon her whenever I meet her in the ' best society.' It is 
 better to humor, even to natter such people, you know, when 
 you see that the great public awards them a high position for 
 genius, ah, Mrs. Flirtfan ?" 
 
 He told the truth when he called it a " suspicion." It was a 
 suspicion, too, which had foundation only in his own craven 
 mind. He could have said nothing more false. Morna was 
 too proud to seek approbation, and too humble to feel that 
 she deserved it. She was astonished and gratified as a child 
 for the praise awarded her. She associated no sense of personal 
 merit with the great gifts lent her, which she never felt were 
 h&rs; and I who knew her best, knew well the crushing
 
 3 2 4 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 weight of self-distrust which she carried in her heart. She 
 needed encouragement as the flowers need dew, but she never 
 courted flattery nor demanded praise. 
 
 This speech was like what I first knew of M. Petiman. 
 He was a little too amiable, a vast deal too polite to be 
 openly slanderous. It was so much more graceful to be slyly 
 invidious ; so much more high-bred to drop a covert innuendo, 
 to breathe a gentle insinuation ; so much more magnanimous 
 to baptize a name with praises at the last pouring a drop, 
 only a drop, of poison into the honeyed flood ; that one 
 drop deadly enough to murder all the sweet faith which you 
 were willing to cherish in the nobility of the man. 
 
 M. Petiman could have said nothing which would have 
 moved me more. In indignation I turned towards Morna v Ire 
 died before that pure brow, those holy eyes. She walked far 
 apart from those drivelling souls ; their miserable misapprehen 
 sion, their petty thrusts, could never reach her. 
 
 " Oh, M. Petiman, so many engagements, so many engage 
 ments engagements to parties a week deep ; but I was so 
 sorry, so sorry not to have been at Mrs. Petiman's soire'e last 
 evening," said Mrs. Flirtfan. 
 
 " Ah, we had such a charming time," said the amiable gentle 
 man ; " such a charming time. My friend Lady Magnificent 
 says that she has seen nothing so brilliant this side of the 
 water. There were my distinguished friends Lord and Lady 
 Poodle, the great philosopher Noodle, the sweet poet Simple, 
 the philanthropist Wimple, and so many rising stars. Ah, 
 you should have been there, Mrs. Flirtfan." 
 
 "These little people, they do not interest me ; they cannot 
 even amuse me," said Moncrieffe, approaching my side. His 
 fastidious ear had caught M. Petiman's last mellifluous sen 
 tences. The sight of Mrs. Automaton and Mrs. Flirtfan was 
 sufficient. " By the way, I heard M. Petiman ask Dr. Ro- 
 chelle for the honor of an introduction to his wife," Moncrieffe 
 continued. "I only marvel how you have escaped so long. 
 I should not know New York society if I did not see M. Peti 
 man's face wherever I go." 
 
 He was not mistaken ; in a few moments Henri, who had 
 been busy with a group of savants, drew near, accompanied 
 with the gentleman of many smiles. He did not dream that 
 I had spoken to M. Petiman before, although he knew that I 
 had seen him many times, and it was very apparent that gen 
 tleman recognised no former acquaintance in Madame Ro- 
 chelle. After the introduction, I informed M. Petiman that I
 
 Society. 325 
 
 had had the pleasure of an introduction before. His suqjrised 
 look seemed to say, "Is it possible that I ever forget one in 
 any way distinguished ?" I informed him that M. Petiman 
 was the only gentleman to whom I brought letters of intro 
 duction from France. He probably did not recognise the 
 young artist girl, Victoire Vernoid. He remembered her now, 
 as his face plainly indicated. 
 
 " Ah, he recollected that years ago he had had the distin 
 guished honor. He remembered with sorrow that the multi 
 plicity of his engagements had prevented him from visiting 
 Miss Vernoid's studio with Mrs. Petiman, a lady devoted to 
 art, as he most fervently desired. Would Madame Rochelle 
 pardon ?" 
 
 Madame Rochelle informed him that she had nothing to 
 pardon. She was well aware that M. Petiman regarded Vic 
 toire Vernoid as a romantic adventurer, and treated her ac 
 cordingly. Had he considered that she was a young girl, 
 Eoor, alone, exposed to temptation and danger in a strange 
 md, needing encouragement and counsel, she was willing to 
 believe that he would have given it, and, by a few kind words, 
 helped her to have helped herself. I did not dip my arrow 
 in venom ; I sent it with a smile. M. Petiman needed it. It 
 reached its mark, and I meant that it should. M. Petiman 
 continued to smile, yet his manner had lost somewhat of its 
 Parisian ease. Evidently he did not feel entirely comfortable 
 in the presence of Madame Rochelle. As soon as practicable, 
 he bowed himself out of her sight. There are many M. Peti- 
 mans in the world. 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 Did you ever dare to look into the face of a great tempta 
 tion, declaring : " I will look, yet not be tempted ?" Did 
 you ever persist in gazing into the eyes of the fascinator, say 
 ing : " I will gaze, yet not be fascinated ?" Many have said 
 it ; many have fallen because they said it. Often we are 
 taught by the saddest experience, that we can never have the 
 power to do absolutely right while we make the slightest 
 compromise with wrong. The flowers which ravish us with 
 their perfume, distil the deadly gas which destroys life ; so 
 there arex souls which, unawares, poison us with their very 
 sweetness.
 
 326 Victoire. 
 
 In the silence of my soul, before God, I had prayed for 
 power to make not only the acts of my life, but the words of 
 my mouth and the meditations of my heart, acceptable in His 
 si<jht. I had vowed to do right, and only right, so tar as 
 knowledge was given me. Complete occupation, the absorb- 
 in <; world, would leave no space for him, I reasoned. 
 
 He possessed the rare grace of perfect manners, which in 
 him was less the consummation of art than the harmonious 
 expression of a rich, many-sided nature; the result of affluent 
 culture, of aesthetic taste, of the finest perception, and a gentle 
 heart. So clear were his intuitions, so quick his sympathy, 
 that he adapted himself almost involuntarily to the moods and 
 emotions of his companions, and thus unconsciously took 
 possession of their hearts. 
 
 As I stood apart, I saw fair cheeks flush, lovely eyes soften, 
 and kindle, and deepen under the deeper eyes reading their 
 sweetest secrets. I heard common tongues grow eloquent in 
 replying to one who could create and quicken inspiration. I 
 saw him filling the r61e of a man of the world ; yet, however 
 surrounded, felt not a pang of jealousy. The story which his 
 lips had uttered once, had never been repeated that was not 
 necessary. I did not know how deep was its impression. I 
 was not aware that I was living in the silent consciousness of 
 my rich possession. To those who love each other, the uni 
 verse is articulate, and breathes a language for them alone. 
 Language in its subtlest phrases sheathes a meaning within a 
 meaning, never misunderstood by the quickened heart, which 
 is its unerring interpreter. It was enough for me that occa 
 sionally I could stand apart and listen to the tones of that 
 alluring voice, although it fell upon other ears ; that the elo 
 quent eyes, the books which he read, the music which he 
 selected, the flowers which he placed in my hand, all con 
 veyed a meaning understood by my heart alone. If it was 
 love, it was love unuttered. It was love, without one of 
 love's privileges ; no meetings, no caresses, no tokens. I was 
 fortified against visible dangers, careful that no flaw should be 
 made in the wall of propriety. I had yet to learn that the 
 most insidious and dangerous of all love is that which steals to 
 the heart through the enchanted avenue of the imagination, 
 kindling in its passage with all ideal beauty, that love which 
 iH-vi-r otl'eixls by license, never repels by grossness; which 
 does not express itself in words, but in things lying deeper 
 than all words the involuntary language of the heart, breath 
 ing itself into a thousand acts, speaking through every glance
 
 Temptation. 327 
 
 of the silent eyes. A sensitive, susceptible heart can live on 
 this delicious, yet often deadly aliment, asking nothing more. 
 This is the love of woman ; how different from the love of 
 man, which, in proportion as it deepens and absorbs, maddens 
 for complete possession of its object. 
 
 To me no one said, beware. Not even the world, with its 
 suspicious eyes and hellish tongues. Mr. Moncrieffe was the 
 intimate friend of Dr. Rochelle. Mr. Moncrieffe awarded to 
 Mrs. Rochelle the courtesy due to the wife of his friend. That 
 was all that the world saw ; that was all that there was for 
 any mortal to see. Pray do not fancy it an uncommon case. 
 Looking at the unruffled surface of society, what do you know 
 of the life below, of the wrecked hearts, of the dead hopes 
 buried in its great deep ? Could the electrical cord lying 
 in the depth of the main become impregnated with the mes 
 sages of men and nations, it would transmit them without a 
 sound; it would not disturb the sunken galleons, nor the 
 moss-green bones lying on the ocean's oozy floor. The gay 
 inhabitants of the coral palaces, the great tidal waves above, 
 would play and flow as if no messages of life and death 
 thrilled through the abyss below. Thus from being to being 
 flow the electrical currents, bearing the subtle messages of 
 hearts in silence. Soul speaks to soul in burning syllables 
 which make no sound. Love and tragedy meet in the eyes 
 of men and women, while the ever swelling ocean of outer 
 existence rolls on unconscious of the fiery chord of life 
 spanning the profounds of being below. I knew nothing 
 of this then. I scarcely knew that my nature was filled with 
 a new inspiration, that the old ecstasy in life, the joy in 
 simple breath, had come back. Rare forms and faces grew 
 beneath my hand almost unconsciously. My work, when 
 completed, astonished myself; I could not realize that these 
 creations of beauty were born in my own soul. The divine 
 passion within made every form in nature more beautiful ; 
 it filled my heart with a tenderness for all living creatures. 
 Like a satisfied child, I rested in the soothing arms of the 
 present. All sunshine seemed around me and in me. I did 
 not see the little cloud growing and deepening, which soon, 
 might fall upon me and cover me. I was satisfied in the 
 beautiful now, and all the coming to-morrows seemed only 
 countless links in the golden chain lengthening down to the 
 doors of the still more beautiful to-be. 
 
 Life was all enkindled. I worshipped all that was highest 
 and fairest. Through one glorious human personality, I fancied
 
 328 Victoire. 
 
 that I drew nearer to the one eternattioly soul of love. Why 
 need disenchantment come ? Why should life ever be any dif 
 ferent ? Rather, why should the beings who made my life ever 
 be any different ? Change might come to the earth, might 
 touch the soul of nature and the brows of men ; it would not 
 reach our hearts. Alas ! I had yet to learn that the change 
 which blights nature and withers the human face, is not half so 
 sad as that change which makes the mutations of the human 
 heart. The gay winter went by on wings. With the ripening 
 spring, with the newly quickened life which comes to human 
 beings, with the birth of leaves and the resurrection of the flow 
 ers, I marked a change in Moncrieffe. Almost imperceptible 
 at first, it became more and more painfully apparent. The sha 
 dow of a deeper sadness brooded in his eyes; he often seemed 
 listless, absent, or else he was feverishly gay, startlingly bril 
 liant. The graceful poise, the healthful repose of bis manner, 
 seemed gone, and his fitful actions gave token of deep rest 
 lessness, if not unhappiness. 
 
 "I wonder what ails Moncrieffe?" said Henri one evening. 
 " I used to think that he had no moods. That was one rea 
 son why I liked him. I knew where to find him. He was 
 not agreeable one day, and disagreeable the next. But he 
 seems moody enough now ; and once or twice he has been 
 really cuttingly sarcastic, as if he was retaliating upon me for 
 some injury that I had done him. He seemed to regret it 
 immediately, and suddenly became so kind, of course I did 
 not notice it. But I am sure of one thing, he has some trou 
 ble that we know nothing about. It is not all sorrow for his 
 wife, I know. Poor fellow ! when I have time I must investi 
 gate and find out what is the matter." 
 
 I needed not to investigate. Henri's words were to me a 
 revelation. From that hour a pain ran through all the plea 
 sure which had once been untouched when I met Moncrieffe. 
 I knew not why, but before I was aware, the innocent ease, 
 the frank intercourse of every-day friendship seemed gone. 
 True, it was assumed, but it was no longer real. I could no 
 longer look into his face unconsciously, and tnlk innocently 
 and fearlessly of all the pleasant nothings of daily life. No 
 thing which he said or did, but an undefinable atmosphere 
 around him, seemed to forbid it. I attempted to be uncon 
 scious as of old, yet, without the slightest idea why, only suc 
 ceeded in being embarrassed and constrained in his pre 
 sence. 
 
 He was now to me a conscious and troubled thought, so
 
 Temptation. 329 
 
 conscious that the attempt to put it away seemed useless. I 
 was aware of this ; it made me miserable. 
 
 Again it was June. The dark shutters and massive doors 
 of the grim mansion in place were barred for the sum 
 mer, and we had come back to Bel Eden and its roses. The 
 third anniversary of our marriage came, and on its morning, 
 after an accumulation of medical lectures and scientific en 
 gagements had kept him dumb and absorbed for four weeks, 
 Henri most unexpectedly announced that he should give that 
 entire day to me. The day was as divine as June could make 
 it ; we spent it in the park and upon the river, floating away 
 in our little yacht as if sailing was the whole of life, and there 
 was no such thing as a dry world of business on shore. 
 When it was over, we took our tea amid the fountains and 
 flowers. 
 
 " Now," said Henri, as we pledged each other in a draught 
 of delicious water, " Morna and Moncrieffe ought to be here 
 to drink our healths in Madeira or old Bordeaux or this cool 
 crystal. By the way, don't you wish that they would love 
 each other, Victoire ? They would make a most magnificent 
 couple !" 
 
 "Yes," I replied ; " I would rather see Morna marry Mon 
 crieffe than any one else in the world." All that day I was 
 happy in a sunny valley, and never once remembered that it 
 lay under the Alps. The next day came, with its stiff, blank, 
 business aspect, and I saw nothing but the Alps, although it 
 was June. The same week was to bring an event towards 
 which 1 was looking with the most intense interest. At that 
 time Morna was to bid farewell to the American public at the 
 Academy of Music in the opera of Norma. Morna was 
 tempted to appear upon the lyric stage much less frequently 
 than her admirers wished. Her exacting conscience seemed 
 better satisfied when she came, without a single stage acces 
 sory, in the simple yet grand character of Morna Avondale. 
 Yet it was only in a lofty impersonation in which she could 
 embody the great emotions, the tragic passions of the human 
 soul, that her genius could find its broadest scope or be truly 
 fathomed or measured. The opera season was past ; the gay 
 habitues of the temple of music were beginning to disperse in 
 search of pleasure on the hills and by the sea, when it gave 
 the managers " great pleasure to announce the farewell benefit 
 of Miss Morna Avondale !" Morna was to spend a year in 
 Europe, singing and studying with the great masters, and 
 when she returned, Hope was to come with her. Great was
 
 330 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 my desire to accompany her, but I did not express it, for I 
 had listened to the reading of our programme long before. 
 Two years must pass, Henri said, before he should have 
 earned the right to a year of leisure. Then he intended to 
 place his large practice in competent hands, and we would 
 go for a visit to Paris and Languedoc, to Florence and Rome. 
 
 On the afternoon preceding the benefit, Henri returned to 
 Bel Eden at an unusually early hour. He was quite unwell, 
 he said ; too ill to attend to business, and had come home to 
 rest, and if possible recover sufficiently to accompany me to 
 the Academy in the evening. It was not strange that I was 
 slightly alarmed at this announcement, for, in all the years in 
 which I had known him, I had never heard him complain of 
 the slightest indisposition, and had often thought that the 
 beautiful tenor of his life was as attributable to his unbroken 
 health as to his equable temperament and harmonious intel 
 lect. 
 
 " It is only a slight cold," he said, as I stood bathing his 
 feverish head and hands. " A very slight affair, yet I thought 
 it best to attend to it. I think that I shall be well enough to 
 go to-night ; yet as there is a bare possibility that the fever 
 might increase, I told Moncrieffe to drive over to accompany 
 you, if I should not be able to do so. I am resolved that you 
 shall not be disappointed." 
 
 " Why did you ?" I asked. " I do not want to go without 
 you." . * 
 
 " How foolish," he said, " for you to deprive yourself of a 
 pleasure which you have set your whole heart upon, because I 
 have a slight cold, and am fearful of contracting more. If 
 I was very ill, it would be a different matter. Or if you had 
 an indifferent escort it would alter the case. But I would trust 
 yon to the care of Moncrieffe as soon as to my own. You can 
 afford the world the rare sight of seeing you once without 
 your husband!" 
 
 " How disappointed Morna will be, and I cannot half enjoy 
 the music if you are not there." 
 
 I uttered the simple truth. A strange apprehension seemed 
 to fill me at the thought of going without him. The very con 
 sciousness of the joy which Moncrieffe's society might have 
 given me under other circumstances, made it a pain to think 
 of it in the present. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I am disappointed on my own account; 
 don't make me disappointed on yours also. You will not com 
 pel Moncrieffe to drive over here for nothing, will you ? Go
 
 Temptation. 331 
 
 and dress, and I will try to take a nap ; afterwards we will 
 decide the matter." 
 
 I went to my" dressing-room, and there found Azalie stand 
 ing, lost in admiration before the costume which she had laid 
 out for me. 
 
 Azalie was a little French grisette whom the hard fortunes 
 of orphanhood had stranded on this western shore. Henri 
 found her in a wealthy French family, in which he was medi 
 cal adviser, where she tried to fill the double office of child's 
 nurse and lady's maid. Azalie was more used to ribbons than 
 to babies. She did not affect the latter, but doted on the 
 former. Azalie was cross to the baby, I fear, and then the 
 gay Mere Fran$aise was cross to her in return. At any rate, 
 Azalie followed Henri into the hall one morning, weeping bit 
 terly. " Would the gentleman pardon her ? she knew no 
 other French gentleman or she would not trouble him. 
 Among all the fine families which he visited, did the gentle 
 man know of one lady who had no babies, and was never 
 cross ?" 
 
 Henri informed her that he did not know any lady who was 
 never cross, but he knew a lady that had no babies, and who, 
 if she indulged in the feminine felicity of being cross occa 
 sionally, it took little to make her good-natured. 
 
 " Oh, if Azalie could only live with that lady, she would 
 make her dresses, work and darn her laces ; Azalie could do 
 everything in the world but tend baby and stay where she 
 was ; that she could not do ; no, she could not ;" and Azalie 
 fell to weeping more bitterly than ever. 
 
 Henri again sought the lady of the mansion, and learned 
 from her that Azalie was an accomplished dress-maker, but a 
 diabolical baby-tender ; that she persisted in pinching the ten 
 der ears of young Monsieur Augustine Paul Du Pont, for 
 which unnatural cruelty the lady wished to get rid of her im 
 mediately. The result of the matter was, that before night 
 
 little Azalie with her many budgets was transferred to 
 
 Place, where a young woman who was not without employ 
 ment in attending to her own little tempers, accepted this 
 freaky maiden as another soul to help or hinder, as good an 
 gels should prompt ^r bad ones triumph. 
 
 All looked complacently upon Azalie's advent but Kate, who 
 declared that she " cud see no good in her young missus havin' 
 that bit of a Frinch flyin' an' gablin' an' doin' not a hap'orth' ;" 
 but at last Azalie bought Kate's blessing with bon-bons, with 
 taffy candy, glass rosaries, pewter crucifixes, wooden holy
 
 332 Victoire. 
 
 virgins and baby Jesuses ; and finding herself in the house 
 without an enemy, without a baby to make havoc with her 
 amiability, little Azalie grew antic and happy as a kitten in the 
 sun, while her life's one superlative joy consisted in the privi 
 lege of tricking: out her mistress till she looked as near like a 
 
 o ^ 
 
 bird of paradise as possible. 
 
 On this memorable evening she had spread out before my 
 toilet a robe of pale rose color, a snowy opera-cloak, gorge 
 ously embroidered, a trifle of a hat which seemed only a gar 
 land of roses smothered in tulle. She had forgotten nothing ; 
 the sleeves of fibrous lace, the bracelets of pearls, the cobweb 
 pocket-handkerchief, gloves, fan, lorgnette, all were there ; 
 while, as she declared, " Azalie was dying to see Madame 
 in them. Madame had worn that dress but once, and 
 Azalie had never seen her look half so handsome in anything 
 else. And that hat, Madame had never worn anything half 
 so ravishing. All the world would say of Madame, elle se 
 met avec gout. Ah, if Azalie could only go to the Academy 
 and sit in the parquette to look at Madame. She cared no 
 thing about the music, nothing at all ; she only wished to go 
 to look at Madame." 
 
 Under this flattery to Madame, I was well aware was hid 
 an earnest plea for Azalie. 
 
 " If you care nothing at all about the music, you can look 
 at Madame here, and save the trouble of going to the Academy 
 for a sight," I said. 
 
 " Ah, did Madame think that her eyes looked half as hand 
 some in the day as in the night, or did she think that Madame 
 standing there could be half as magnrfique a,* Madame sitting 
 in the opera-box under the curtains of golden satin ? Ah, if 
 Azalie could see Madame there." 1 "* 
 
 Thus, amid a thousand ejaculations of admiration and de 
 sire, the foolish maid dressed the foolish mistress. 
 
 The faintly blushing gossamer fell around me in softest folds ; 
 over neck and arms swept the alluring lace. Azalie hid a 
 white half-blown rose in my hair, now redundant as of old ; 
 she clasped the pearl necklace about my throat, the pearl 
 bracelets around my wrists ; she threw the white mantle 
 carelessly around my shoulders ; she th just into my hand the 
 tulle hat with its wealth of veiled blush roses; and then, 
 pointing to the mirror reaching frbm floor to ceiling, with a 
 look of triumph, exclaimed : 
 
 " Je mis enchante ! Je vous felicite de tout mon coeur!* 
 
 I looked for an instant ; then a crimson blush sprang from
 
 Temptation. 333 
 
 the quick thought in my heart, to my very temples. " Vanite ! 
 Folie / " I exclaimed, turning quickly away, throwing the 
 frail trifle in my hand upon the sofa from which I had risen. 
 
 " Azalie," I said, turning to the astonished girl, " I shall 
 wear none of these things. Some other time, child, I will 
 wear them, but not to-night. Go bring my plain grey silk, 
 black lace mantle, and walking hat." 
 
 She evidently had a very faint idea that I meant what I 
 said. She did not believe that Madame would allow Azalie 
 to get up such a toilette for nothing. "Did not Madame 
 know that she looked frightful in grey and all sad colors ? 
 Madame needed soft, warm tints. Madame looked like a 
 beautiful young bride now, but she would only be a very 
 plain Madame in grey dress and straw bonnet ; and how 
 would a black mantle look under the golden curtains ? Ma 
 dame was in sport, Azalie knew," and she did not move a step, 
 and looked as if she had not the slightest intention of doing so ; 
 
 A carriage rolled up the avenue. I heard a quick step and 
 ring. I looked in the glass. I took up the bonnet ; it was a 
 marvel of taste and beauty, and so becoming. I was looking 
 well. Was there any merit in making myself look indiffer 
 ently ? " This costume will gratify his exquisite taste," said 
 desire. "That is the very reason why you are so loth to 
 part with it ; the very reason why I command you to put it 
 off," said conscience, sternly. Azalie, instead of obeying me, 
 had been peeping through the blinds to see who had arrived. 
 
 " Ah," she exclaimed, " Monsieur Moncrieffe, un bon beau 
 Jiomme, had come. Now, would Madame take off her beau 
 tiful robes ? Azalie knew that she would not." 
 
 " Azalie," I said, in a tone which I tried to make very de 
 cided, " go and do as I bid you." 
 
 Evidently I had not quite succeeded in my effort. Azalie 
 had a lingering conviction that I did not mean quite what I 
 said. She took only a step or two-in the necessary direction, 
 then paused and shrugged her shoulders, saying : 
 
 " Madame, je suis de mauvaise humeiir." 
 
 "I am sorry," I said. "If you have lost your good-humor 
 you must find it again. But do as I ask you, Azalie." 
 
 She was fairly enraged now, feeling that the compliments 
 lost to the toilette were so many lost to herself. 
 
 " Quel dommagel Quellehonte! Cela est epouvantable /" 
 she exclaimed. 
 
 " Azalie, point d' impertinence. Je le veux absolument." 
 
 Azalie looked into rny eyes. There was no mistaking their
 
 334 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 meaning now, nor my last " I insist upon it." Without another 
 word she obeyed my command, and with multiplied sighs and 
 groans, watched me descend in my quiet costume. 
 
 Moncrieffe was in the parlor. Henri was lying on the sofa ; 
 he was still feverish, and had decided not to go. 
 
 " And do you know, Moncrieffe, this child has been half 
 inclined to stay at home, too, which would be absurd, for she 
 has thought of nothing else for a week ; besides, it would be a 
 real unkindness to Morna. Why have you donned such a som 
 bre costume ? This suit does not look at all like you," he con 
 tinued, looking at me. 
 
 " It seemed more suitable to ride in than full dress," I said, 
 feeling myself blush as I saw Moncrieffe's eyes take me in. 
 
 " I hope that you will have a very happy time," said Henri, 
 looking after us as we departed. " I shall lie on the sofa and 
 nap till you return." 
 
 I stepped back an instant. " I should have a happier time 
 if you were going," I said softly. 
 
 " Nonsense," he replied, yet looked pleased. 
 
 It was deep twilight when we started. The carriage rolled 8 
 through a wilderness of roses. It had been one of those fever 
 ish days which come in the young summer in the early ardor 
 of its adolescence. The atmosphere was enervating ; the 
 heavy fragrances which oppressed, also stirred the senses. 
 Electric clouds lifted their crimson crests low in the sky; 
 above, the stars stole out faint and sultry. Even our proud 
 horses seemed affected by the smothered passion of the ele 
 ments ; their scornful feet seemed to have lost somewhat of 
 the lightness of their rebound, and their arched necks drooped 
 with a languor not usual. 
 
 From the moment when we found ourselves alone together 
 a spell seemed to fall upon each of us. We had not found 
 ourselves solitary companions since our first interview. There 
 had been a mutual and instinctive avoidance of such an oc 
 currence. Neither had ever seemed to have any inclination 
 to recall the past, to discuss the present, or to anticipate the 
 future. There were a thousand things which we could talk 
 of in the presence of others; alone, there was at least danger 
 that we should talk of each other. Now each seemed struck 
 dumb with the other's presence,. pervaded with the other's 
 being, conscious only of the other in every nerve. I attempt 
 ed a light, impersonal conversation ; uttered the usual amount 
 of trite nothings, interspersed with a few more elaborate re 
 marks not particularly lucid or brilliant. But my efforts
 
 Temptation. 335 
 
 were fruitless. Silent lapses seemed inevitable. Moncrieffe 
 gave gentle and brief replies, yet seemed to have little more 
 to say than what my words called out. For the first time I 
 saw him preoccupied, brooding over something apart from 
 the occasion. Why I felt that it was something in connexion 
 with myself I could not tell. The grace, the deference of 
 manner was all there, but the careless ease, the polished aban 
 don was utterly wanting. If I was not mistaken, he was 
 terribly oppressed and wretched, and took refuge in silence 
 lest he should betray it. 
 
 Thus we rode till we found ourselves under the very sha 
 dow of the grand temple of Irving Place. Its lobbies and 
 cloak-room were thronged with gay groups, and bouquet- 
 venders were driving an astonishing trade. Resplendently 
 dressed ladies nodded and smiled in recognition, and looked 
 with as much wonder as their high breeding would allow upon 
 Madame Rochelle's very unoperatic costume. The Academy 
 looked as brilliant as at the acme of its winter season. The 
 same blaze of light flooded its stuccoed arches and dome of 
 arabesque. The white old Titans supporting the successive 
 gallery tiers had rarely held up a heavier burden. The sculp 
 tured little boys looking down from the balustrades, the 
 beautiful goddesses in their rosy robes gazing down from 
 the lofty ceiling, had seldom seen below them a more daz 
 zling sight. Parquette and dress circle were rapidly being filled 
 with people more or less splendid. Fashionable gentlemen, 
 leaning against the walls, looked through their lorgnettes at 
 fashionable ladies sitting in their seats. Fans fluttered, rib 
 bons flew, voices hummed and tittered ; boys paraded the 
 aisles, calling: "Opera Normal Twenty-five cents." Fair 
 faces, bare shoulders, burning diamonds, jewelled and tasselled 
 fans, were beginning to appear within the amber satin cur 
 tains of the boxes ; everything gave token of a most brilliant 
 night when Moncriefle and I entered ours and took our 
 solitary seats. 
 
 I should have turned from all this pomp of wealth and 
 fashion in sorrow that night, if I had not thought of Morna. 
 It was a triumph for her which she had never anticipated. 
 If Henri could have been there to have witnessed it! I 
 knew how keen would be her disappointment that he was 
 not. She venerated him as the one benefactor who had re 
 deemed her from a life of hateful servitude and given her 
 soul opportunity for its grand expression. For every triumph 
 which she achieved she thanked him ; and yet he was nat here
 
 336 Victoire. 
 
 to-night. Involuntarily I dwelt upon Henri and Morna in 
 connexion, and was filled with the new, painful consciousness 
 that, while I was away " pleasuring," one so near to me my 
 husband was at home alone and ill. I was filled with self- 
 crimination, which by no means ceased as I looked into the 
 pale face of Moncrieffe. Guiltily I remembered that the 
 thought had sometimes come to me that, could I only sit by 
 his side, it would be joy enough ; here I was, yet was not 
 happy at all. No, I felt strangely troubled. 
 
 Upon all this splendor without, this darkness within, the 
 vast curtain rose, and at last I forgot all in Morna Norma. 
 The soul which embodies life in any of the immortal forms 
 of art must first have lived. By life I mean all that is com 
 prehended in its unfathomed mystery. Morna had suffered, 
 sorrowed ; she had loved, lost, struggled, and triumphed. 
 She had lived ; and now all of life its love, its yearning, its 
 woe, its hope, its despair seemed to flow from her soul in 
 one great refrain of melody, smiting and thrilling the univer 
 sal heart. There was no stint in the acclaim, which filled her 
 ears that night, nor in the gorgeous flowers which fell in vo 
 tive offerings at her feet. It was at the close of the last 
 scene, amid the enthusiasm of a pealing encore, that Mou- 
 crieffe and I threw down to her our fragrant offerings of love, 
 rather than of homage. She knew whence they came ; 
 lifting her eyes to the box as she stooped to gather them with 
 a sweet acknowledgment of manner, I thought I detected a 
 shade, just a shade, of disappointment pass over her expres 
 sive face. She saw that there were but two in the box, and 
 missed the other one. With tears in my eyes, I looked down 
 upon this sister of my soul, as my heart travelled through 
 all the scenes which had brought us to this spot, and out 
 towards the future which must be revealed ere I should behold 
 her thus again. 
 
 The lights, the music, died like a dream ; the gay pageant 
 vanished, and once more I sat beside Moncrieffe, with our 
 faces turned towards Bel Eden. Again the painful silence had 
 fallen upon us so painful now that it seemed an agony. We 
 had entered the Elm road ; for more than a mile before us 
 stretched its delicious arcade. High above the sulphurous 
 clouds which formed the smouldering bastions of the sky, the 
 moon had risen. Through the light foliage which made a 
 dome of perforated green over our heads, this gentle Christ of 
 the solar heavens shed upon us a mournful smile. I saw Mon- 
 crieftVs hand press tightly upon the reins, and the horses stood
 
 Temptation. 337 
 
 still as if by instinct. He turned suddenly around and con 
 fronted me. The glimmering light fell full upon his face; 
 again swept over it the deathly pallor which covered it when 
 we first met. The divining eyes seemed to overflow with an 
 unfathomable sorrow ; all the might of passion quivered in 
 the curved lines of the supple mouth, while he said : 
 
 " Victoire, I cannot endure this life. A mechanical, mis 
 understood, miserable life ; such I live, and can live no longer. 
 I must go and leave you, Victoire; or you must go with me." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" I gasped. 
 
 "Mean!" he said, low and slow. "You must know what 
 I mean. You must know, you must feel, that all my life is 
 false. Am I not false to my needs, to my holiest affections, 
 to the most sacred aspirations of my soul ? I have been true 
 to nothing but a miserable abstraction, which I have called 
 duty, right. You know that I love you ; aye, that word, liv 
 ing as it is, seems dead to express the love which through, 
 long years of growth has culminated in my heart for you. 
 You know that I live in you and for you ; that it was only 
 to breathe the same air with you that I consented to stay in 
 New York ; I said that I would never trouble you, that I 
 would go far from you, if I found that I must be more to you 
 than a friend ; I said that I knew what belonged to duty and 
 honor. Forgive me, Victoire ; for weeks I have known no 
 thing save that I love you ; that I have no existence sepa 
 rate from you ; that in you all that is best in my nature finds 
 its inspiration and its crown. Duty, honor, falsely so called, 
 are only empty sounds. Victoire, you must have felt all this, 
 yet you ask me what I mean." 
 
 " Moncrieffe," I said, " only a portion of yourself utters 
 these words. There is another portion which some time will 
 contradict much that you say now. Duty and honor are not 
 empty sounds ; they comprehend all that is truly grand and 
 loyal in life. No one has believed this more practically than 
 yourself ; you will believe it again. Talk not of what must 
 not be. We must be superior to ourselves to our hearts, I 
 mean." If there was a tremor in my tone, there was anguish 
 in my soul ; yet, beside his, my words sounded both weak 
 and grating ; they seemed to goad him. 
 
 " Superior to ourselves !" he exclaimed. " Is not the he'art 
 the holiest portion of ourselves ! God made the heart, and 
 we cannot be superior to it. It will assert its prerogatives 
 in spite of us. Victoire, can you, a woman a woman capable 
 of thrilling with the divinest love which ever transfigured a
 
 Victoire. 
 
 woman's soul can you talk thus? Would you make me 
 believe that you would crush the heart, kill it ?" 
 
 Truly one part of myself had uttered these words. Con 
 science had asserted itself, even while the moaning heart far 
 below it wept over the words which it had spoken. 
 
 " Victoire," he murmured ; it was the same voice, the very 
 tone which once penetrated my soul through all the agony 
 which death then brought me. He took my hand in his 
 the same hand which led me so unresistingly years before. 
 Then I knew not to whom it belonged ; now I knew that it 
 was the hand of one whose soul touched mine more nearly 
 than that of any other being whom I had ever met upon 
 earth. Could I resist him now ? 
 
 " Victoire," he said, u we belong to each other. By every 
 law of our being we belong to each other. Come with me, 
 Victoire ; come ! I have no sweet stones to tell you of Italian 
 skies and orange bowers ; where we can dream our life away 
 in love and poetry. But the world is wide. It holds some 
 spot where you and I may live in and for each other. To me 
 life without you is not life it is a living death. In the past 
 eternity God never allied two souls so closely to each other, 
 only to doom them to an eternal separation. You know, 
 Victoire, that I can never leave nor forsake you. Will you 
 come with me ?" 
 
 " Henri ! Do you think that I can leave or forsake him ? 
 I owe him too much ; he is too dear to me ; I have vowed " 
 
 " Yes, you have vowed. Henri llochelle is your husband 
 in name, but not in soul. I do not doubt your truth, your 
 esteem, your affection for him ; if I did I should honor you 
 less. He loves you as much as such a man can love. But he 
 is purely logical. Leave him, and his reason will assure him 
 that you were utterly unworthy. He will waste few regrets 
 on a woman whom he will deem so false. He is a man full 
 of practical ambition. His busy life will soon cure his heart. 
 He will weave comfort out of a stoic's philosophy. God 
 forgive me if I wrong him, but he can never need you as I 
 need you. He has never fathomed the mine of love in your 
 soul as I have fathomed it ; he does not feel the exquisite 
 delicacy of your nature as I feel it ; he does not appreciate 
 your marvellous grace as I appreciate it ; he is not moved as 
 I am moved by every need of your heart. He can draw a 
 fine portrait of an ideal woman, and then destroy her uncon 
 sciously by the atmosphere which he makes for her. I will 
 give you what he has never given companionship, sympathy,
 
 Temptation. 339 
 
 tenderness ; for these you are inly dying, Victoire ; with all 
 your glorious genius, there is nothing which you long for, 
 nothing which you need half so much, as tenderness. I have 
 nothing else for you. Victoire, come!" 
 
 Oh, if he had not said " come" in a tone which dissolved 
 my soul in weakness ! I could think of nothing, feel nothing, 
 but that voice. Fever, passion, were naught with me ; they 
 would have availed him nothing. Only such tenderness could 
 thrill me thus ; for this my woman's heart was so athirst. All 
 that I had ever dreamed of love, divine, complete, looked down 
 upon me from those living eyes. The spell of a powerful na 
 ture rested upon me ; I seemed a dissevered part of his being, 
 which an irresistible attraction was now drawing back to him 
 self. 
 
 "Come." 
 
 My face sank into my hands. I felt the tightening of the 
 reins ; I heard the carriage grate against its wheels in turn 
 ing ; I heard the tirst step of the horses beginning that endless 
 journey which would lead me from home and honor for 
 ever. 
 
 What was it what, which amid tfie hopeless fascination 
 which had fallen upon me, making me more pliant than a child, 
 suddenly quickened in me a new antagonism as those sounds 
 smote my ear ? Was it the old will which had made me so 
 stubborn a child, so wilful a maiden ? Or was it the ever- 
 promised grace, brought by good angels from the heart of the 
 compassionate God, to succor His falling little one? The 
 glamor had fled ; a lightning consciousness struck through ray 
 soul. My duty, my husband, my sin ! The face of my de 
 parted ones hovered close to mine ; Frederick's seraphic face, 
 the face of Beatrice, my father, my mother. Had they come 
 to accuse me ? No ; their eyes were tilled with the light of a 
 serene hope yea, of a radiant certainty. I stretched out the 
 arms of my spirit for help to wards them, towards the tenderly 
 pitying Christ, the man of sorrow, once tempted, yet without 
 sin. 
 
 " Take me back, back," I said, suddenly lifting my face from 
 my hands. 
 
 " Back ? I will not cannot. You are mine, mine for ever 
 more. I cannot take you back to one to whom you do not 
 belong. By all the holy laws of nature you are mine !" 
 
 Involuntarily I rose ; his strong arm restrained me, but the 
 spell was broken. My soul had risen to a level above his own. 
 There was a cold resoluteness in my manner which I did not
 
 Victoire. 
 
 understand ; my voice was low, slow, strangely distinct it 
 did not seem like my voice even to myself. 
 
 " Monerieffe," I said, " I can resist even you. ,1 will not 
 perjure my soul even for you ; I will not prove traitor to my 
 most sacred vows even for you. Take me back. If I obey 
 you to-night you will despise me to-morrow. You cannot 
 realize it now, but it is true ; you would soon cease to love a 
 woman who had proved false to her integrity, even though 
 she had proved false for your sake. Ambrose Monerieffe, you 
 are false to yourself to-night ; to-morrow you will feel it and 
 deplore it. Take me back !" 
 
 Again our eyes had met in one long gaze. He looked on 
 me as only such a man could look upon the object which he 
 loved best. Will, purpose, passion died ; sorrow, tenderness, 
 tears, stood instead in the dark irides. I could combat the 
 first with the nerve of an Amazon ; before the last, my soul 
 melted. That long, loving, lingering gaze, which evermore 
 makes a farewell look, covered his face ; beneath it I felt all 
 my nature growing weak again. I turned away. 
 
 " Victoire, if I have sinned, if I have wronged you, it is 
 because there is no object in earth or heaven which I desire 
 beside you ! Yet I would rather die than wrong you, save 
 in the sudden madness of a mad moment !" 
 
 Again I felt the tightening of the reins ; again the carriage 
 grated against its wheels, the proud horses curved their grace 
 ful necks, and we were once more fairly turned towards Bel 
 Eden. During the remainder of the drive not a word was 
 spoken ; in silence he handed me from the carriage ; in silence 
 he extended his hand ; then, as the moonlight fell clear on 
 both faces, the words of the Greek Ion burst from his 
 lips : 
 
 " I have asked that dreadful question of the hills 
 That look eternal ; of the flowing streams 
 That lucid flow for ever ; of the stars, 
 Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit 
 Hath walked in glory : all were dumb ; but now, 
 While thus I gaze upon thy living face, 
 I feel the love that kindles through its beauty 
 Can never wholly perish ; we shall meet again." 
 
 He dropped my nerveless hand ; I stood transfixed as I saw 
 him enter the carringe saw it roll down the avenue. For 
 days, months, I could hear the sound of those wheels. I hear 
 them now ! 
 
 I leaned my head against one of the pillars of the portico
 
 Temptation. 341 
 
 for a moment before entering the house. The peerless beauty 
 of Bel Eden stretched away, revealed in the white moon 
 light ; the green shadow of the park, the glory of the 
 flowers, the intoxicating roses, the quiet statues, the peace- 
 dropping fountains, all stood before me, baptized in the dewy 
 splendor of a June night. A little way beyond was the low 
 garden seat on which we sat that June morning, three years 
 before, when I said to Henri Rochelle : " I will marry you. 
 God pity and forgive me if I sin in saying so." Again my eye 
 wandered to the memorial cross, again stole up to the dumb 
 heavens, past the voiceless stars, to the listening soul of the 
 Everlasting Father, the yearning prayer, " God pity and for 
 give." 
 
 I stole softly through portico and hall, through dimly- 
 lighted parlors, to the sofa where we left Henri. He was 
 still there, and seemed asleep. I laid my hand lightly on his 
 brow and started, it was so feverishly hot. 
 
 " Victoire, is that you ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes," I said, giving him my hand. " I have been anxious 
 about you. I have feared that you were growing worse." 
 
 " I have been anxious about you also," he replied. " I have 
 not learned how to be sick ; a slight cold makes me childish ; 
 I was never at home and you gone before ; thus for the first 
 time, to-night I have had an opportunity to know that there 
 is no light in the house when you are out of it. I did not 
 dream that it could make such a difference in my happiness to 
 know that you were inside of these walls. I have been 
 strangely nervous to-night such a new sensation. Every time 
 I fell into a light slumber I was tormented about you. It 
 seemed as if you were in trouble, or danger, and I was trying 
 to save you. My distress would wake me up ; and then I 
 would reassure myself with the thought that you were as 
 safe with Moncrieffe as you would be with myself. Then I 
 would fall asleep and dream the same horrors over again. You 
 are a very dear child," he said, kissing the hand which he held. 
 " Ma chere, chere amie, ma bonne, ma belle epouse^ asseyez- 
 vous pres de moi." And he drew me down to a low seat be 
 side the sofa. 
 
 " I ha^ve thought only of you when awake as well as asleep," 
 he added ; " but then my thoughts were very pleasant. I 
 have been thinking what a good wife you are, Victoire, and 
 have longed for you to come home that I might tell you so. 
 To-night it has dawned upon me like a new revelation, that 
 lor months you have been growing more and more beautiful
 
 34 2 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 in face and soul. How you adorn my life, how you soften and 
 gladden it ! Here, in silence and alone, I have thanked God 
 for you, my sweet companion, my lovely friend, the only one 
 I think in the world who has learned truly to love me. You 
 know that I am one who will never win many to love me. 
 Many will esteem, I suppose, but I think that no one loves 
 me but you. I never realized until to-night how grateful I 
 am for the gift. Indeed I think that it makes me rich enough. 
 You will never take it from me, will you, Victoire ?" 
 
 " Never," I said, breaking into a flood of tears, while I 
 still held the burning hand. Had he pierced me with a thou 
 sand daggers he could not have hurt me worse. I had never 
 felt a mote poignant pain than this to be compelled to hear 
 from the soul which believed in me without a doubt, praise 
 that I did not deserve, faith which I had almost forfeited, love 
 which I had almost forsaken. Yet, as I sat there, could I say 
 that I was indifferent, that I had no affection for him ? No, 
 I could not. I longed to throw myself beside him and confess 
 all ; my only expiation could be that, after all, I honored and 
 loved my husband too well to betray him or to forsake 
 him. 
 
 I thought of Moncrieffe how in Henri's affections he stood 
 apart from all other men. I could not speak the word which 
 would lower him ; in this moment of perfect trust I could not 
 shatter his faith both in wife and friend. All would yet be re 
 vealed. I prayed that it might, but the hour had not yet 
 come. I knelt beside that couch, and in silence thanked God 
 that He had delivered me from temptation. 
 
 Henri uttered no complaints, yet I saw that he was seriously 
 ill. A heavy cold had settled upon his lungs, and the morning 
 revealed a fearful case of pneumonia. In the many long days 
 and nights of watching which came after, I found abundant 
 time for reflection, for contrition, for prayer. 
 
 By this couch of suffering one dreary midnight, while strain 
 ing my vigil-worn eyes over the day's newspaper to keep them 
 from closing in hopeless sleep, I read the announcement that, 
 that day, " Ambrose Moncrieffe, Esq., sailed for Europe as 
 
 American consul to ," the paper adding that "it would be 
 
 difficult to find a man more eminently qualified to fillihe posi 
 tion with distinguished honor than Mr. Moncrieffe."
 
 Temptation. 343 
 
 "FREE LOVE. 
 
 " My dear fils adoptif, my dear brethren of mankind, en 
 deavor to clear your mind of cant." 
 
 Why is this life so full of partial relationships? Why do 
 the barriers of circumstance often separate us for ever from 
 the beings dear to us? Why are the twin in soul so ruth 
 lessly divided by fate ? One sent on, longing and faltering 
 down the life-path, for ever looking far back, where the other 
 stands bereft and hopelessly alone. We cannot measure our 
 affections and appropriate them in given quantities according 
 to our will. If so, why am I so cold and indifferent towards 
 you ? My intellect acknowledges your superiority. You are 
 wise and worthy. I admire you, I appreciate you, yet my 
 heart does not warm towards you. I expostulate, I repri 
 mand it, because it does not ; but in vain. The more I try, 
 the less I like you. The truth is, there is something in your 
 nature which obtrudes and chafes me ; it hurts me, and will 
 keep me for ever outside of your heart. Your affinities lie 
 without my sphere. " You are no relation to me." I will 
 esteem yon to the end of my days ; love you I cannot. 
 
 The guileless, unformed girl of seventeen truly believed 
 that she loved the man to whom she plighted her hand ; 
 perhaps she did. There are so many gradations of love, it 
 shades itself so naturally to the claim of the soul to whom we 
 give it to simple tenderness or divine pity, to friendship, 
 phrensy, or passion. She did not dream that she liked him, 
 simply because he loved her, nor because there was anything 
 in him which answered to the yet quiescent needs of her 
 being. But the harmonious, ripely developed woman, with 
 her yearning soul and passionate heart, discovers what the 
 girl of seventeen could not know. She may give to him all 
 the affection which his nature calls forth, all which it demands. 
 But the measurelesss devotion, the absorbing, the ideal 
 love of the woman, finds not in him an object. There are 
 depths in her nature which he cannot fathom ; there is a reach 
 to her intellect which he cannot measure, a want of love in 
 her heart which he cannot supply. Her nature is melodious, 
 inspired, spirituel ; his is paltry, plodding, prosaic. Is it 
 strange when Apollo crosses her path that he is drawn 
 towards Venus in spite of Vulcan ? At their birth the same 
 genii presided ; their spirits are attuned to the same har 
 monies. She makes all beauty possible to him ; he all nobility
 
 344 Victoire. 
 
 a reality to her. Children of the sun, born in one celestial 
 latitude, they recognise each other. 
 
 The man who married at twenty the beauty who maddened 
 his senses, at thirty, in the peevish, querulous woman whom 
 he calls wife, looks in vain for that early charmer. These 
 souls have changed. He has grown ; she has shrivelled. He 
 has arrived at manhood's noon of strength, of knowledge, and 
 of power; she, an evanescent blossom of the morning, fades 
 and shrinks away before his noontide glory. Where is the 
 radiant companion of his dawn ? He needs a more eifulgent 
 spirit to share the splendor of his meridian. He forgets that, 
 rashly mad, he tore this frail bud from its mother-stem when 
 it was far too early to know what the blossom could be. Has 
 he nourished and fed it as he ought with the dew and sunshine 
 of love ? He does not think to inquire ; he only feels that now 
 it is a daily piercing thorn, whose sharpness hurts him, whose 
 dwarfed proportions insult his pride ; and as he looks, he says 
 silently with all a man's bitter impetuosity : " That such a 
 woman should be my wife !" perchance cursing fate, when 
 only he himself is to blame. 
 
 To this man very dangerous is a regal woman who has 
 crossed his path in the world ; a serene and musical woman 
 with a man's brain, a woman's graces and gentleness, and a 
 woman's heart of tenderness. Her presence fills him with 
 inspiration. He dreams that all goodness and greatness would 
 be possible with her. For the first time in his life he is 
 filled with a sentiment which he deems worthy of the name 
 of love ; that pervading, transfiguring love of the soul, first 
 born in us in the full ripeness of our years. He sits by his 
 hearth in the twilight shadow, his children climb his knee and 
 cover his face with kisses, but a dissatisfied womanly voice 
 utters its peevish complaints and fretful reproaches. He looks 
 down on his little girl, into her dreamy eyes, and half uncon 
 sciously sighs : " Oh, that Ally called Tashline mother !" 
 
 Shall Venus seek refuge in the arms of Apollo ? Shall this 
 man renounce the woman whom he has left so far behind in the 
 race of progression, and seek as the light of his home the 
 glorious Tashline? Thus did Shelley, one of the most gifted 
 and most misguided of men. Who doubts but that Mary 
 Godwin inspired in him a higher love than that kindled by 
 the pretty child-wife who so early found "the world too 
 many" for her, who sank so soon under a woman's burden of 
 life ? Yet, who can say that it was not the great crime of 
 Shelley's life when he forsook this poor child, left her alone
 
 "Free Love.'" 345 
 
 in her weakness and temptation in order that he might walk 
 the paths of high intent with a fitter companion, a beautiful 
 soul-mate, the 
 
 " Friend whose presence on his wintry heart 
 Fell like bright spring upon some herbless plain." 
 
 Such a being as Shelley could only meet Mary Godwin to 
 love her ; had he met her first, his would have been a less 
 stormy life, a less mournful fate. But life with her afterwards 
 could not obliterate the past. The love of Mary Godwin, 
 dear and satisfying as it was, could not banish the melancholy 
 ghost which haunted his years could not warm the remorse 
 which froze his soul, as the drowned face of that forsaken one 
 drifted through the cold waves of his dreams. 
 
 Ah, if human beings could only feel and act as if they felt 
 that love is born in their souls for a higher end than that of 
 mere personal happiness. The simple renunciation of the be 
 loved but forbidden object, forces upon us new discipline and 
 growth, greater nobility and purity of spirit. Love does not 
 die because you relinquish the creature which awakened its 
 deeper life. You would fain have lavished all your noble 
 soul upon one ; God wills that it should sweeten and gladden 
 the lives of many, flowing into the wider spheres of thought 
 and action. Thus the very love which may be made an inspi 
 ration and blessing, if sought solely for your own pleasure, 
 seized as your own exclusive personal possession, would prove 
 the very bane and scourge of existence. Perfect fellowship, 
 if it is not born to us legitimately, will not force its way into 
 our lives through dishonored homes, sundered ties, and broken 
 hearts. The maiden ni y not have married the man whom 
 of all others she would li: ve chosen, nor the youth the girl of 
 his first love. Both h ve a memory to sigh over, a lost 
 dream to dream over when their hearts are sore or sad, a 
 brief unwritten poem to chant amid the dull prose of life ; 
 yet each may be more truly mated than if fate had not torn 
 .from them their early idols. In marriage, as in His other 
 gifts, God does not always satisfy every desire, but bestows 
 for a higher end than the personal joy of the present hour. 
 Socrates needed a Xantippe to test the grandeur of his 
 philosophy. No doubt, he drank his last draught of hemlock 
 with deeper serenity, and left for all ages the record of a sub- 
 liiner death-scene than if he had given up the ghost in the 
 arms of a beloved Hypatia. 
 
 Ambrose MoncriefFe came to me under no silken covert ; 
 
 15*
 
 346 Victoire. 
 
 he had not attempted to decoy me by any arts of temptation, 
 He had simply been himself, a gifted, manly man ; yet, because 
 a man, tempted and ready to fall. Talk not of the weakness of 
 woman, O man, born of woman ! First look into the eyes of 
 the only woman whom you love with the concentrated pas 
 sion of your manhood, then gauge your strength. It cost my 
 heart many a pang to leave a letter, which I had received 
 from him a few days after our parting, through Henri's long 
 illness, unopened. As I sat in silence and dimness beside 
 that couch of suffering, my eyelids would close in half 
 wakeful dreams, and through their mist would float that 
 never-to-be-forgotten face ; sometimes, as I looked on it last, 
 all blanched with pain and passion, but oftener as it had 
 looked upon me in earlier hours, effulgent with genius, ten 
 derness, all manly beauty ; then what light it would make in 
 the darkness, till, unconsciously, I would put out my hands to 
 thrust it away, opening my eyes in sudden terror. Then I 
 would half sleep again, to feel that voice thrill along the 
 chords of my spirit, filling all my hearing with music. Again 
 my ear would catch the echo of his resilient step, and the 
 dark room would kindle with the radiance of his presence. 
 Again I would open my eyes in remorse, lavishing every 
 tender attention which my heart could devise upon the suf 
 ferer by my side, attentions born no less of contrition than of 
 the saddest affection. 
 
 Henri missed him, and in the intervals when he was free 
 from pain, would ask for him ; and I did not dare to say that 
 he had gone away, fearing the effect of such a revelation on 
 one so very ill. He might, had it not been for that spring's 
 sad change, he might have brought consolation to the sufferer 
 in that darkened, sorrowful room. 
 
 The long weeks "wore away. August came and brought 
 with it the promise of returning health to the invalid. That 
 which I had sighed for so long was granted me ; he needed 
 me now. The strength of the strong, proud man sickness 
 had broken. He did not scorn the aid of a woman's arm, and 
 had come to depend upon her hourly care and companion 
 ship. The snow melted on the coldest pinnacle of the Alps, 
 watering with tender rain the valley below ; in this budding 
 valley I took up my abode. Sheltered and quiet I una 
 wares grew peaceful ; if something like a shadow of remorse 
 had not stolen in, I should have been happy. With my 
 letter from Moncrieffe came one also to Henri, which in 
 the early days of his convalescence I placed in his hand to
 
 " Free Love." 347 
 
 read. After announcing his sudden departure, it said : " If 
 you knew everything about me, you would want to crush me 
 under your feet. I will tell you some time ; then you may do 
 as you please. I feel that I need your friendship, and will 
 yet deserve it." 
 
 "Poor Moncrieffe," said Henri, most kindly, "how moody 
 he has grown. I never knew a nobler fellow ; I am sure that 
 I shall like him to the end of my days ;" and, with a trembling 
 hand, that very hour he wrote and told him so. 
 
 Many days after, when every shadow of danger of a relapse 
 had passed away, when Henri had once more gone forth to his 
 daily occupation, when I once more found myself solitary- -not 
 till then did I open and read my long waiting letter the only 
 one which ever waited for my reading. 
 
 " Victoire," he wrote., " for the first time in my life I feel that 
 I have degraded my manhood. I was false to myself that 
 night, and to-day feel the fulfilment of your prophecy. I have 
 been false to myself for many weeks past ; I have been wicked, 
 and my only consolation is that I know it, and with the know 
 ledge comes the purpose to make atonement. My first leaning 
 towards wrong was in courting temptation, propping myself 
 up with the delusion that I only did it to prove myself strong. 
 It was a temptation which could come to me but once in a 
 lifetime. The one object which my heart had sighed for was 
 before my eyes, the only object which I desired or needed. 
 Yet, I said, I will behold it, yet not desire it ; I will come 
 into its presence, yet not seek it. Thus I ran the gauntlet of 
 my strength with that of the great arch foe. It was enough 
 for you, a woman, that you could sometimes hear my voice, 
 that you could share my society with others, and that you 
 could know in silence that I loved you ; but it is not in the na 
 ture of man to be satisfied with anything less than absolute 
 possession of the woman whom he loves. A man's passionate 
 love is exclusive? restless, and selfish ; it will endure no rival, 
 it obeys no law but its own wild will ; it is the parent of sin, 
 sorrow, remorse, and death. Affection is holy, and differs 
 from passion as light from fire. It grows in the atmosphere of 
 reason ; it reveres the right ; it is disinterested, constant, and 
 tender ; it gives all, asking no return but the happiness of its 
 object. I said It is affection which I give to her holy, true ! 
 I would not believe that it was love, blind, mad, until I looked 
 into the face of your husband and felt a sudden feeling of hate, 
 new and frightful to my soul, while it seemed to me that he 
 had defrauded me of my own rightful possession. Then a
 
 348 Victoire. 
 
 demon took up its abode in me, and actually made me believe 
 that you belonged to me, and that I had a right to claim you as 
 my own. I have somewhere read that woman, having first led 
 man astray, must never more presume to be his guide. When 
 woman falls, it is through the depth of her affection ; man 
 falls through the might of his passions. Passion is weakness ; 
 tenderness may be also, but it is of a diviner sort. I believe 
 that if woman has been the tempter, she must also be the sa 
 viour of man. In the clear light which shone in your eyes that 
 night, passion died. Had you yielded then, you would have 
 lived to curse me as I curse myself. Truly you said : ' You 
 could not long love a woman who had been false to her inte 
 grity, though she had proved false for your sake.' No, I could 
 not. No man can truly love a woman whom he has ceased 
 to respect. Though once he worshipped her as an angel of 
 light, let her descend from her moral altitude, through her 
 great affection for him, sink to the level of his passion, and all 
 unconsciously to himself -his reverence changes to contempt, 
 his love to hate or pity. I am giving you the convictions of 
 my intellect I have no right to offer you more. I am going 
 forth again into the great world, not to forget you, but to 
 make you a beautiful yet sorrowful memory embalmed in the 
 past. I silence my heart and say-^-Narrow must be that na 
 ture which can be measured by a single sentiment ; narrow 
 indeed that soul which through all its mortal life can be 
 absorbed by a single being. Love is eternal, but its objects 
 change. Poetry dreams of one love, but our consciousness 
 assures us that it can find more than one object. If God has 
 manifested Himself in one soul for me, He can do so in another 
 also. Victoire, you will say this is man's love ; only a man 
 could thus talk of relinquishing an object which has so long 
 filled his life, and thus coolly calculate upon the certainty of 
 securing another. You, a woman, would find a sad, unac 
 knowledged consolation in the thought that I should remain 
 for ever desolate for your sake. Like a true woman, you re 
 jected the love which you had no right to take ; like a true 
 woman, you will weep for want of the very gift which you 
 spurned. There will be moments when you will pine for the 
 tenderness which you so utterly refused. There will be hours 
 when I shall be desolate and wretched enough to satisfy the 
 wildest cravings of your heart. But I will not be the slave of 
 such hours. Already I have given you reason to despise me, 
 even as I despise myself. God save me from again dishonor 
 ing my manhood. Long I sought to find a woman with a
 
 Hope. 349 
 
 large brain, but with a weaker woman's lowly and loving 
 heart; one who finds in the use of her manifold gifts their 
 own exceeding great and rich reward. I came into the sphere 
 of- such a woman, and proved myself unworthy. Victoire, 
 forgive me. I go to make myself indifferent. We shall meet 
 again ; but never until I first have learned to find lawful hap 
 piness in the being of another. Not till then shall I have 
 earned the right to look into your face. I will make my heart 
 relinquish you." 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 " She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness, 
 
 A power that from its objects scarcely drew 
 One impulse of her being in her lightness 
 
 Most like some radiant cloud of morning dew, 
 "Which wanders through the waste air's pathless blue, 
 To nourish some far desert ; she did seem 
 
 Beside me, gathering beauty as she grew, 
 Like the bright shade of some immortal dream 
 t "Which walks, when tempest sleeps, the waves of life's dark stream." 
 
 As I read the last words of his letter, it dropped from my 
 hands. Weary and weak with long anxiety and watching, I 
 wept as I had wept but once in my life, and then over the 
 new-made grave of Frederick. Alas ! too true were his 
 words : " Like a true woman you rejected my love, like a 
 true woman you will weep for want of the very gift which 
 you would not take." At last came sleep. 
 
 " Sweet child, sleep ; the filmy-eyed 
 Murmured, Wouldst thou me ?" 
 
 Many, many weeks had passed since she had wrapped me 
 last in her " mantle star-inwrought," or in words less Shel- 
 leyic, since I had slept soundly. From the depth of a profound 
 slumber I opened my eyes upon a new life one just emerged 
 from the ruins of the old. With an outwardly serene and 
 smiling face I arose and went back to my duty and to the 
 love that was left. From my nature something had been 
 wrenched away, from my heart something had been torn ; 
 the wound might heal, but the scar would remain for ever, 
 and sometimes it would bleed. My visible life seemed pre 
 cisely what it was at the same time in the summer before.
 
 35 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 There were my pleasant household eaves, my painting, my 
 home pupils, which now claimed an accession in the shape of 
 the magpie Azalie ; my books, my afternoon rides with Ze- 
 naide ; the same quiet, the same no, not the same loneliness 
 that was mine one year before. Then, how much was want 
 ing ; now, how much had gone! Henri fairly back into the 
 world, found a multiplicity of affairs claiming his undivided 
 attention ; therefore I saw less of him now than before his 
 illness. Ever kind, he was now most gentle to me always. 
 There was*something very like tenderness in his manner when 
 he lingered sometimes, yet he would go promptly to the 
 moment as of old. Before his sickness this strong and active 
 man found his most positive happiness in the energetic, 
 absorbing occupation of a man's life ; but that long convales 
 cence had made him feel, what he believed theoretically 
 before, that there is something richer and sweeter in life 
 than business or the most lofty public affairs. " Well," he 
 called himself, yet I was certain that physically he was not 
 the strong man that he was before. Languor, weakness, to 
 him were new companions ; so were the needs which they 
 brought with them the need of quiet, of rest, the need of 
 womanly soothing and of womanly care. Henri was evi-. 
 dently astonished to discover such unanticipated needs in 
 himself; he thrust them quickly to one side as unmanly 
 weaknesses ; he went and came at the call of duty as if he 
 did not feel them ; but I could detect a shade of difference in 
 his going and coming. Once all his inclination went with 
 what he called " duty ;" now his inclinations often tempted 
 him to remain ; yet duty was no less his inexorable master, 
 no less promptly and perfectly obeyed. 
 
 I had anticipated for this saddened summer. I had selected 
 in my mind the company of " friends" who should gladden it 
 with their presence. Months before I heard in my brain the 
 merry patter of childish feet, the velvet fall of ladies' slip 
 pers tripping through the marbled and carpeted halls; I had 
 heard the refrain of their merry laughter echoing from room 
 to room, and the music of other voices blending with his ; 
 the rich tones of the piano floating through the wide apart 
 ments. I had travelled through all the splendors of my fete 
 champetre ; had seen just the effect of the gorgeous-colored 
 lights streaming through the dense foliage of the park, wnile
 
 Hope. 391 
 
 I listened in fancy to the wondrous melody of Dodworth's 
 band swelling through those umbrageous arches on a delicious 
 " stilly night." I had gone on further into the season when 
 there was a great flying about of maids ironing flounces and 
 *' doing up" with miraculous skill sheer muslins and costly 
 laces ; when there was an endless amount of feminine buzzing, 
 flutter, and chatter ; endless consultations on the becoming- 
 ness of this and the elegance of that; an agony of trunk- 
 packing lest all could not be got in ; yet, how could one 
 article of wardrobe be spared from those engulfing trunks ; 
 with a gay dispersion at last for Nahant, for Newport, and 
 Saratoga. And I remembered distinctly now how often I had 
 wondered whether he would go with us, or with them. I had 
 not made two months' sickness and watching, nor the other 
 sad changes of this summer, the vestibule of these gay 
 festivities. All was over now; life's daily routine began 
 again. 
 
 Why was I so indifferent regarding my " friends ?" It was 
 not too late even now to invite them to such a retreat as Bel 
 Eden. A portion at least would be glad to exchange their 
 quarters at an over-crammed watering-place hotel for the 
 inviting coolness, the quiet freedom, the beauty and luxuries 
 of Bel Eden. The truth happened to be that these " friends," 
 like the mass of people to whom we unlawfully give this holy 
 name, were good enough sort of persons in their several ways. 
 I liked them very well ; a few I liked very much when circum 
 stances brought me in conjunction with them; but as far as 
 soul-wants were concerned I did not need them, and they did 
 not need me. Very fine friends we were, as society esti 
 mates friendship; but it would not have made any great 
 inroads upon the happiness of either party if we had known 
 for a certainty that we should never have set our mortal eyes 
 upon each other again. The world is full of just such exalted 
 friendships. Very selfish it was, no doubt, but you know that 
 I had never succeeded in annihilating my selfishness, and was 
 not now in that self-abnegating mood which inclined me to fill 
 my house with people when I did not want them ; when the 
 very sound of their voice would have tortured me ; when 
 their aifected quips and insipid puns would have jarred sadly 
 against my aching heart. I knew that they would be a great 
 bore to Henri, but if they had not been, perhaps I should have 
 done just the same. 
 
 Perhaps it would have been wiser to have done exactly the 
 opposite. Serving them might have helped me to forget what
 
 Victoire. 
 
 I ought to have forgotten. But I felt no inclination for gay 
 company, nor for my grand fete champetre, nor for Nahant, 
 nor Newport, nor for any other fashionable resort crowded 
 with all the world, his wife, and marketable daughters. Henri 
 had said : " Where shall we go ?" but I knew that he had 
 said it only for my sake, desiring nothing so much for himself 
 as the quiet and rest of his home ; therefore I said : " No 
 where." Then I went back to my CEnone. I began (Enone 
 amid the last winter's trance of happiness, dreaming as all 
 artists dream over their youngest born this last shall excel 
 all before. It was not (Enone alone, but CEnone in the vale 
 of Ida: 
 
 "There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
 
 Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
 
 The lawn and meadow ledges midway down 
 
 Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars 
 
 The long brook, falling through the cloven ravine 
 
 In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
 
 Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 
 
 Stands up and takes the morning ; but in front 
 
 The gorges opening wide apart, reveal 
 
 Troas, and Ilion's columned citadel 
 
 The crown of Troas. Hither came at noon 
 
 Mournful (Enone, wandering forlorn 
 
 Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills." 
 
 I had infused into the coloring of this classic landscape 
 all the warm richness with which my soul overflowed in those 
 unkindled hours. It was steeped in a soft radiating beauty, 
 unshadowed as Eden ere the curse fell. Now I had come to 
 paint amid this untouched glory " Mournful CEnone," " whose 
 cheek had lost the rose," " whose eyes were full of tears," 
 who could only sing : 
 
 " Oh, mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die." 
 
 I could not have painted CEnone when I painted the vale of 
 Ida ; I should have made her glad. I could not have painted 
 the vale of Ida now, silent and happy ; no, I should have made 
 it sad. After a great change has fallen upon our life it is 
 hard to go back to a task begun when the world seemed so 
 different ; to take it up where we laid it down in a summer 
 hour ; and go on with it just the same as if that which made 
 its inspiration was still our own. Still to keep doing when 
 that which made doing sweet is gone, ah ! that is a weary 
 thing for those whose doing well depends so entirely upon
 
 Hope. 
 
 353 
 
 the sympathy and encouragement of those whom they love. 
 " Everything is going on just as if nothing had happened," 
 people sometimes say after coining from a house in which there 
 has been a funeral. Thus we can bury out of our sight our 
 dearest joy, and go on with our tasks to all outward eyes as 
 if nothing had happened, yet not just the same ; that which 
 yesterday was inspiration to-day is only toil. 
 
 I had not touched this picture since our return from the 
 city ; there, with what interest he had watched its progress. 
 When I feared that I should fail, how often he had reassured 
 me by telling me that I should do well ; that as a work of 
 art, CEnone would far transcend Niobe. I might have begun 
 a new picture and perhaps found inspiration in itself; but I 
 could not in this which had grown thus far beneath his eyes. 
 How I missed the eager and approving glance, the gentle 
 criticism, the intuitive recognition of beauty, the conscious 
 ness of sympathy such as had never been vouchsafed to me 
 before. What wonder that the " vale of Ida" was transcen 
 dent in its portrayed loveliness. The vale of Ida was a portion 
 of a lost existence; CEnone was the fitting companion of to 
 day. I could embody her. Into this daughter of a river-god 
 could I not infuse all my own want, my desolation, my re 
 morse, my sorrow ? While from Ilion's cliff she cried : 
 
 " Oh, mother, hear me yet before I die ! 
 Hear me, O earth ; I will not die alone, 
 "Walking the cold and starless road of death 
 Uncomforted." 
 
 Morna, too, gone ! There were moments when my palette 
 would drop in my listless hand and my head sink against my 
 easel, while, in my great loneliness, I longed for her. Morna! 
 friend of my mind and heart, beloved companion, sister of 
 my deeper soul, nor time nor distance can divide us ! No less 
 now than then do I long for you. No change can come to 
 me, nor ever any joy or sorrow, which can make me need you 
 less or love you less entirely. A few, perchance, have truly 
 loved me, but who as thou ? Who else so patient of my 
 errors, so forgiving of my frailties ? I might grieve and 
 wound you, yet you would not drop me from the tender arms 
 of your enfolding charity. I might fall, and the world spurn 
 and curse me, yet thou wouldst not look coldly nor forsake 
 me ; no, all the more sacredly wouldst thou soothe and 
 cherish me because fallen and forsaken. I have known many 
 women gifted, beautiful and good ; among them all I have
 
 354 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 looked in vain for your comprehensive soul, for your incapa 
 city for all littleness, for your simple greatness,, your sweet 
 humility, your unfathomable charity, your sacred sadness 
 twin-sister of divinest love, born of the Christ-like pity in 
 your soul for the sorrows of all living creatures. Sister, en 
 deared by those long days of privation and toil by working, 
 waiting, longing, hoping, and belie^ng shared together ; by 
 the kindred aspiration, the perfect communion, the hallowed 
 joy which we have known ; would that a new name of love 
 would drop from the heart of Infinite Love above us with 
 which I might dower thee ! But the summer air, perfumed 
 with the life-wine of the flowers so dear to you, as it shimmers 
 along my paper andjipples through my hair in assonant ca 
 dence of liquid Latin, murmurs only carissimaf Never 
 can I cease to need thee to need thee or to long for thee, 
 Morna, carissima ! 
 
 Henri wrote fraternal letters to Moncrieffe, and received 
 fraternal letters in reply. Besides the common-place " kind 
 regards to Mrs. Rochelle," they contained no message for 
 me. Where was the friend who so lately had enriched all 
 my life? What a dreary blank divided us; what an im 
 passable chasm which nothing could span ! I was flooded 
 with letters vapid, lifeless, well-meant, good enough letters 
 which one worries through to forget the moment they corne 
 to " Yours, etc." A few were full of life and love ; Morna's 
 and Hope's were; but never more drew near my ark that 
 white dove bearing the olive and the mystic myrtle. But the 
 longest year is a little while ; this was the longest one which 
 1 ever knew, yet it did not take long for it to go. Another 
 came and brought to us again Hope and Morna. Yes, Hope 
 had come. How beautiful she was! What sunshine came 
 into the dwelling with her fresh young life! The long school 
 years were ended, and there was nothing to take our dar 
 ling from us any more. The rare prophecy of her child 
 hood was more than fulfilled. My eyes never wearied of 
 gazing upon her ; she was to me an unceasing marvel, an un 
 failing delight, so beautiful she was in motion or in rest. 
 Hers was the rarest order of beauty ; hovering and undefi- 
 nable, it ever suggested a beauty beyond itself. Like the 
 beauty of a rainbow, or a perfect flower, or a strain of ravish 
 ing music, it thrilled the senses, yet hinted at something 
 beyond all sensuous delight something that could not be 
 re>olved back to any mere fact of organism. It is true 
 Hope was no illusion, but the sweetest of realities. The per-
 
 Hope. 
 
 355 
 
 feet form was tangible ; the curved cheek with its peachy 
 bloom, the luxuriant h.-iir, the eye with its depth of glory, 
 were physical facts ; yet it was the effulgent soul which made 
 their illumination, which surrounded them with a mystery of 
 beauty and inspiration for ever felt, and for ever mocking all 
 solution. Her body was the perfect temple of a still more 
 beautiful soul ; for it is a false idea that in the divinest 
 temples of clay the Creator ever enshrines a trivial and petty 
 spirit. It is true that the Godlike often do penance in hideous 
 houses of flesh, but not always. When God himself came to 
 earth he did not choose a defaced and distorted body. The 
 image of Christ, as he lives in the universal soul, is that of a 
 sorrowful, majestic, and beautiful man. 
 
 Hope had not devoted four years to the acquirement of 
 meretricious airs and a head full of smatterings. She had 
 not returned with the idea that she was " finished," and had 
 nothing more to do but to forget as quickly as possible the 
 little which she had learned, fold her hands in idleness, and 
 present her beautiful face as an advertisement for a husband. 
 In a being so perfectly constituted, it was impossible that 
 there should not be a harmonious development of all the 
 faculties. Upon a nature so exquisitely wrought, intellectual 
 discipline could have only its finest effect. She was a fine 
 scholar; in solid attainments far in advance of most educated 
 girls of her age, yet who could connect the idea of learning 
 with Hope ? She seemed so like a fresh incarnation of beauty, 
 who could find the meaning of everything worth know 
 ing within herself. She never referred to what she knew ; 
 never quoted the last book which she had read ; never 
 brought forward abstruse themes, saying to some embarrassed 
 mortal who did not know "Of course you know." "The 
 
 great , of course you have heard of him" It was only 
 
 in the deepened expression of those beautiful eyes, in the 
 subtle flashes of unconscious thought, in her exquisite taste 
 and perfected grace, that we saw the result of those years. 
 In music she found untrammelled expression ; she played as 
 if by instinct ; and her voice, cultivated as it was, seemed 
 like that of a bird's, filling the air with untaught harmony. I 
 would pause and listen while it floated up to me as I sat at 
 my work, sometimes soft and low as a spirit's, but oftener in 
 glad gushes of spontaneous melody the music of a heart un 
 touched by sorrow, breathing the prelude of the song it was 
 yet to sing with the angels. 
 
 Yet Hope was not a genius. Why should she be ? Why
 
 356 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 should she king like Morna, or paint pictures like Yictoire, 
 when she herself was a sweeter song than words could mea 
 sure ; when her own transcendent loveliness no pencil could 
 portray ? She lived in the sunshine which her own spirit 
 created. She possessed such a susceptibility to happiness, 
 no joy could escape her ; and the light which she exhaled 
 from every object around her she radiated back upon each 
 heart which throbbed within the circle of her life. She lived 
 out the beautiful nature which God had given her, without 
 knowing that it was beautiful. She felt herself to be the child 
 of a tender, loving Father, and simply loved and obeyed 
 Him without dreaming of merit in so doing. She lived in a 
 beautiful world, she thought ; God's world, overflowing with 
 all lovely and enjoyable things ; why should she find fault 
 with it ? Yet she was alive to all who sorrowed in it, 
 and in a thousand nameless ways brought joy to aching 
 hearts. With her facile power of adaptation, she glided into 
 a knowledge of everybody's wants, and supplied them from 
 the loving wealth of her own heart, unconsciously to herself 
 and perhaps unconsciously to them. A perpetual blessing, 
 ever doing good, she never dragged about with her the 
 heavy cross of duty to mankind^ the name which some of the 
 world's dreary philanthropists give to their own all-devouring 
 egotism. Love was the essence of her being. She loved 
 much, and because she demanded nothing in return, she re 
 ceived much, ever accepting as a gift, never as a reward. 
 
 Thus she lived, a pure spiritual force, yet one unconsciously 
 to herself, almost unconsciously to those who knew her best. 
 Most of all, we knew that she was our darling, that there 
 was something of magic in her presence, that Bel Eden was 
 brighter since she came, that the very paintings on the walls, 
 the flowers in the vases and in the garden, everything, our 
 human hearts included, seemed to feel the inspiration of her 
 presence, the quickening joy of her young life. Yet there 
 was so much of the child in her sportive grace something 
 that looked so like weakness in her guilelessness, something 
 in her unworldliness which sued so meekly for protection, 
 that we loved her still as a child, never dreaming all that she 
 
 _ J f . O 
 
 flattery and adulation, the temptations of folly, the allure 
 ments of pleasure. Who could behold her beauty unmoved ? 
 Who could know her and not love her ? I knew all this, but
 
 Hope. 357 
 
 I knew also that the purity of her soul was a God-given 
 amulet; that wearing it, all the fipers of the world might 
 touch her, yet would they drop off and leave no sign. 
 
 I had learned to believe my life a happy life; the old exist 
 ence seemed very far off, yet it lay only one year away. I 
 said to myself, " I no longer regret it." The grave which I 
 made there 1 have planted thick with flowers ; it scarcely 
 seems like a grave. He went forth to make himself indif 
 ferent ; I, too, am indifferent. The scar in my soul is well 
 healed ; it would take much to make it bleed again. 
 
 It was one of the first grand soirees of a gay season, which 
 we were to attend that evening. I had dressed Hope myself, 
 to the great indignation of Azalie, who now delighted to re 
 gard herself as Mademoiselle Hope's exclusive,/?^ de ckambre. 
 Greater prizes were at stake in Mademoiselle's toilet. How 
 could Azalie tell what great fortune it might make for 
 Mademoiselle, and perhaps for Azalie ? Madame's fortune 
 was made already, besides Mademoiselle was never queer, like 
 Madame stayed dressed just as Azalie di-essed her, never tore 
 off her beautiful robes when there was no occasion. But I 
 had set my heart on dressing Hope myself this evening ; hav 
 ing bought Azalie's reluctant good-nature with a present, 
 after a succession of pouts she condescended to proclaim her 
 self " enchanted." , 
 
 As an artist, beauty was to me a necessity. I worshipped 
 it in every form ; but to have a soul whom I loved enshrined 
 in so peerless a casket, was an inexpressible bliss, and if any 
 thing could have spoiled Hope, it would have been my foolish 
 idolatry of her loveliness. To-night she wore a dress of white 
 tulle, festooned with rose-buds and lily of the valley. Her 
 graceful head wore no adornment save the glory of its bur 
 nished hair. I looked at her in triumph. The effect of her 
 unadorned beauty was wonderful. As we entered the draw 
 ing-room, I felt a thrill of delight as I marked the suppressed 
 yet visible admiration which greeted her and followed her, 
 and afterwards in watching the homage which she elicited, 
 the love which she spontaneously won. 
 
 As usual in such assemblies, at last the room grew crowded, 
 the' heat oppressive. Weary of looking and listening, of bow 
 ing, smiling, and talking, I was glad to find the recess of a 
 lace-shaded bay-window, where I could breathe the clear 
 winter air wandering in from under the stars. I sat down a 
 moment apart, gazing at the throbbing tide of human life 
 flowing through the apartments, at the few happy and many
 
 358 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 weary faces ; at the braided beauty, splendor, grace ; the 
 magnificent costumes of velvet, satin, silk and lace, crowned 
 with flowers sown with diamonds and pearls; listening to the 
 flutter of fans, the buzz and hum of congregated voices, blended 
 with the swells and falls of the orchestra ; and, having ex 
 hausted all of these, fell to studying the devices of the cornices 
 girdling the lofty walls with golden vines and fruitage, and the 
 rare carved devices on the antique rosewood doors when 
 suddenly a chill swept over me. I was possessed with the 
 sudden consciousness of an intimate human presence. My 
 eye followed its attraction. Opposite me stood Hope, and by 
 her side stood Moncrieffe. Henri was there, too, apparently 
 looking amid the gay crowd for me. 
 
 As I looked the shudder passed off, leaving me cold as 
 marble. I saw only him and her. I felt no power to stir. I 
 could not look another way. Was it a vision ? No, it was 
 Moncrieffe. Could I mistake that face that form ? No, there 
 he stood ; the same, yet not the same. There was a chastened 
 and quiet expression in the countenance, a look almost sad, 
 yet I could hardly call it that ; it was the lingering shadow 
 of a sadness passed away. The imperial face, softened, ele 
 vated, purified never had I seen it so sublimely beautiful 
 before. Still I looked. Not two years had passed since we 
 parted at the threshold of Bel Ecjen ; had it been ages he 
 could not have seemed more remote from me than he did with 
 only the width of the drawing-room between us. How did I 
 know, as I gazed at him now, that his work was accomplished ? 
 that his heart had relinquished me ? Why was Hope by his 
 side ? Had they just met ? Had they met before ? It mat 
 tered not. It was enough that I read their destiny, that I saw 
 their future. Yet my heart grew strangely calm ; it seemed 
 frozen ! 
 
 For this had I loved this child ? Her sweetness would have 
 been wasted, she might have been blighted, trampled under 
 foot in the horrid dens of poverty if my love had not rescued 
 her. For this had I loved and nourished the bud to a rare 
 and perfect flower, to be gathered by his hands ? Was it for 
 this that I had loved and suffered? I thought that I 
 had conquered. Why could not fate spare me such a 
 test ? 
 
 Still I gazed. I knew those faces. Not a light or shadow, 
 not a thought or feeling had ever kindled or shaded the ex 
 quisite features of either which I did not know. The look in 
 his eyes now, I knew. I had seen it, felt it ; once it was mine ;
 
 Hope. 359 
 
 never before had I seen him give it to another. It was the 
 look which won my heart away long years before beside the 
 dead body of my brother. I had seen him smile, had seen 
 him converse with women before, even in that very room ^ 
 but never with that look and manner. And Hope ! a new life 
 seemed born in her face her whole being responded to his 
 soul. She did not know it, but he was winning her heart away 
 from her as he had won mine from me. Fool, sinner, I called 
 myself, as suddenly the consciousness of my thought fell upon 
 me. I had risen, and Henri, discovering my outline through 
 the lace drapery, immediately crossed the room. 
 
 " Do you know that MoncriefFe is here ?" he asked. " I 
 think that I was never quite so much astonished in my life. 
 He has returned as suddenly as he departed. He is a queer 
 fellow." 
 
 I took Henri's proffered arm and crossed the room. We 
 did " meet again." As our eyes met, a change so slight that 
 it would have escaped a casual observer passed over his face. 
 1 forced mine to smile, whatever hb discovered beneath its 
 mask. 
 
 " I am happy to meet you again," he said, taking my hand 
 kindly and frankly. " You see that I have already appro 
 priated a portion of your family," he added, looking down 
 upon Hope. 
 
 The eloquent blood, for ever coming and going on her trans 
 parent cheek, deepened at his words. 
 
 " You have a certain right of possession, perhaps you think," 
 I answered. 
 
 " No ; no right, unless you bestow it," he said, with a look 
 of pain. 
 
 Henri had many questions to ask. The conversation was 
 free and general. We lingered together as long as politeness 
 would allow, and parted with an engagement to meet upon 
 the morrow. I fancied that I had played my part well, felt a 
 sort of miserable triumph that I had not betrayed my weak 
 ness. During our drive home I was strangely gay. When 
 had I found so much at a party to be pleased with, so much 
 to talk and laugh about before ? Hope was as strangely silent. 
 To Henri this had been neither more stupid nor interesting 
 than any other party, but it had animated him to meet Mon- 
 crieffe. He returned home to sleep the calm sleep of an un 
 disturbed heart and peaceful conscience. I went to my 
 dressing-room, sent away Azalie, who began to ask a thousand 
 questions, telling her that Hope would describe the beautiful
 
 360 Victoire. 
 
 costumes; that I had forgotten them. 1 was alone at last. I 
 could be honest now. 
 
 A sudden thought took possession of me. I arose and went 
 to the mirror. I wore a dress of crimson velvet, the high 
 corsage laced and edged with pearls; my hair was confined 
 with a bandeau of pearls wrought in lilies. I looked only nt 
 my face. I scanned it with the eye of keenest criticism. It 
 was no longer a young girl's face. Not old, oh, no ; twenty- 
 five is not old, I said ; yet before very long it will have ceased 
 to be young. Already the rounded outline of earliest youth has 
 gone. Time has not worn it, but thought and feeling have 
 left their traces. There is glory in the hair, depth of power 
 in the eyes, something in this face which makes people look ; 
 but after looking a long time, they are not always certain what 
 it is. All come to different conclusions ; what one calls its 
 beauty another calls its genius, and another its haughtiness. 
 But it is not a beautiful face. Oh, no ; not beautiful as Hope's 
 is beautiful. I never cared before that she was so much love 
 lier. Just then I heard a slight stir as of rustling robes, and 
 turning, I saw Hope in her white vestments standing in the 
 open door. I gave her the displeased look of one suddenly 
 detected in an act not altogether creditable. Her step faltered 
 as if she didn't know whether to enter or retire. 
 
 "Come," I said, "you are not frightened, are you, to find 
 me looking in the glass? Don't you know that this is the 
 special employment of ladies who begin to suspect that they 
 are not as handsome as formerly ?" 
 
 She moved slightly forward, but not with the light spring 
 with which she usually approached. There was a sharpness in 
 my tone which she had never felt before; it pierced her loving 
 heart. I saw how she was affected, and the sight only irritated 
 me. 
 
 " Why, Hope, what is the matter ? You actually appear 
 afraid of me. Have I suddenly grown so terrible to you ?" 
 
 " No, dear Victoire ; only I never saw you look at me so 
 before. Have I done anything to displease you ? Do tell me, 
 so that I may never do it any more." 
 
 " How foolish ! Do you ever displease me ? Am I not al 
 ways delighted with you? Does not everybody say that I 
 shall certainly spoil you with excessive fondness? I was 
 startled, for I thought you in bed long ago." 
 
 " Oh, I feel as if I could not sleep. I saw a light in your 
 room, and came in to say good-night." 
 
 " Well, come, pet," iWd, holding out my arms. " To tell
 
 Hope. 361 
 
 the truth, I was vexed because you found me doing a foolish 
 thing. But you will forgive me, will you not ? You know 
 that I love you." 
 
 She came as was her wont, and laid her beautiful head upon 
 my shoulder. There she lay for a longer time than usual, and 
 I looked down into her eyes without a word. 
 
 " Why do you look at me so, Victoire ?" she asked. " I 
 never saw you have such a sad look in your eyes before ; never. 
 Tell me, and let me love it away." 
 
 " Yes, you will love it away," I answered. My words had 
 a different meaning from hers, and she did not know it. 
 
 " Can I ? What is it that makes you so sad ?" 
 
 "My own wicked heart; that is all, child." 
 
 " Victoire, why do you talk so ? If you are wicked then I 
 am very wicked." 
 
 " That does not follow, Hope. We have opposite natures. 
 You will never have to struggle as I do to conquer yourself. 
 Your walk to heaven will be much easier than mine. You 
 seize nothing with such a death grasp that you can never let 
 it go. Thus I seize everything that I love. It seems as 
 if I never could give up an idol, never ; and yet I must and 
 will." 
 
 "I don't see what has changed your feelings," she said. 
 " I thought that you were very gay coming home. You looked 
 splendid to-night. I heard more than one say so." 
 
 " Who said so ?" 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. , and " 
 
 " Never mind. I dare say that I looked quite as well as I 
 felt. You were happy to-night, Hope." 
 
 ' Yes, so happy. I am happy now." 
 
 " Why more happy to-night than usual ?" I asked. 
 
 " Am I happier than usual ? Life all the time looks beauti 
 ful. "God has given me so much ; you, and Henri, and Morna. 
 Life is so rich." 
 
 " Yes, rich for you ; may it never be poorer," I said, as I 
 loosened my arms and kissed her good-night. 
 
 Never had I seen her more radiantly beautiful than now. 
 Neither of us had mentioned Moncrieffe. I looked after her 
 as she glided out of the room. Sweet child, I thought, you 
 have your heart yet to learn, may you never have it to con 
 quer.
 
 3 62 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 JEALOUSY CONQUEST. 
 
 He came, and I had full opportunity to see and feet all the 
 change which those two years had wrought. The suave 
 manner, the high-born grace, characterized him as of old ; 
 while the fitfulness of mood which Henri had marked 
 before his departure had entirely disappeared. His beautiful 
 repose of bearing seemed to flow from the serenity of a soul 
 which had suffered, yet outlived its suffering; which had 
 ceased eagerly to anticipate, yet was ready calmly to enjoy. 
 Yet this very serenity seemed a sleeping strength, which s;iid 
 in every action: "I rule my own spirit." There was no 
 affectation, no constraint, yet there was less spontaneity of 
 utterance, a reticence which left no room for impulse; the 
 growth of chastening, of discipline, of experience. He was 
 more than kind to me, but it was the frank tenderness of a 
 brother for a sister, hiding nothing beneath it deeper or 
 sweeter. The careful reserve which once marked his manner 
 towards me was all gone ; it was no longer necessary. He 
 made no outward demonstration of a preference for Hope ; 
 he neither sought nor avoided her. Yet I, who knew those 
 eyes as well as the forms of beauty which they loved, saw 
 with what a calm delight they ever turned to that pure young 
 face, and what a look of peace stole into their depths while 
 gazing upon that soft and soothing loveliness. Even then 
 I thought that I read in the deep quiet of those eyes' expres 
 sion : " This is my recompense. I have wrestled with myself 
 and conquered ; this costly gift the kind God bestows as my 
 reward. The night of passion has fled ; in this beautiful 
 being I behold the promise of a calm, transcendent day." 
 
 How was it with me ? Was I indifferent as I had supposed ? 
 The love that I had thought dead, was it dead ? Or was it 
 only buried buried alive, and because alive, ready to writhe, 
 and moan, and suffer? Alas! how often that which we call 
 dead is only asleep within us, ready to awake the first instant 
 it is touched by the power which kindled it into being. We 
 think that we gauge our hearts ; some unexpected phase in life, 
 some sudden revelation or temptation presently shows us that 
 we are slightly different from what we suspected. With all 
 our soul-probing there were some little unguarded corners 
 which we did not find. I honestly believed that I had re 
 nounced Moncrieffe. It was true I had relinquished him for 
 myself; but I had not renounced him for another.
 
 Jealousy Conquest. 363 
 
 Here was an opportunity to be great and magnanimous. I 
 am sorry that I was neither. I am very sure that I was 
 not at all magnanimous. I had besought Moncrieffe to be 
 true to duty and honor, true to himself; now that he was 
 obeying me, proving that he could be strong, I was wretched 
 that he was not weak. If, when out in the world far from me, 
 he had wooed and wedded a wife, I should have breathed a 
 sigh, and have gone on my way, coldly and quietly, saying : 
 " It is well." " It is better thus." Then I should have 
 known nothing of the torture to which I was subjected now. 
 But no ; he had come back to my home ; and the one object 
 in the world on which his heart had fastened was the ewe- 
 lamb which I had cherished in my bosom. 
 
 If she had sought to win him with beautiful arts and co 
 quetries, I could have hated the very beauty which for so 
 many years had been my delight. But no, there were no arts, 
 no efforts to win ; she was only her own self, and because her 
 self, it was impossible not to love her. I knew that he was an 
 idolator of the beautiful. Could I wonder that he was moved 
 by human loveliness which was only the melodious symbol of 
 the perfect and the spiritual ? Is not all beauty spiritual ? Is 
 not beauty ever a suggestion, never a fulfilment ? That which 
 can be perfectly defined is not beauty. When it hovers about 
 human features, glances from a human eye, it ever hints at the 
 incomprehensible, at the unattained. When the spirit within 
 fails to fulfil the promise of the perfect face, even its wor 
 shipper is filled with a vague sense of disappointment, and, 
 passing on amid other beautiful forms, still seeks the divine 
 ideal. 
 
 Moncrieffe unconsciously was verifying his own words : 
 " Love is eternal, but its objects change." He might have said, 
 they increase. The soul, like a wave, is for ever widening 
 widening out to absorb and to be absorbed of others. A soul 
 fulfils its mission to us ; we enter into closer kinship, or grow 
 apart. The law of growth constantly forces us into new re 
 lationships with those nearest to us, or else thrusts us for ever 
 'asunder. Thus it happens, that, of those who for a time walk 
 the life-path together, a few go on before, and many are left 
 behind. Thus it happens that we so often say to one stand 
 ing far apart from us : " We were all the world to each other 
 once; we are nothing now." 
 
 It was impossi le that Moncrieffe and I should return to our 
 old relations ; they belonged to the past, and henceforth couM 
 be only a memory. Had the pent and passionate love of hia
 
 Victoire. 
 
 heart been offered to me to-day, I would have refused it 
 no less utterly now, than then. Yet strange, sad inconsistency 
 of the human heart, if possible I would have prevented that 
 love from being proffered to another ! 
 
 We returned to Bel Eden early that season. I shall never 
 forget the first time which Moncrieffe came; the first time 
 that his eye had rested on Bel Eden since that memorial night 
 when he parted with me at its threshold. Henri paused a 
 moment in the portico, where Morna and Hope were sitting, 
 to distribute between them sundry parcels and letters which 
 the mail had brought ; while Moncrieffe, after a brief greeting, 
 walked quietly into the drawing-room. Opposite, as he enter 
 ed, hung the painting of QEnone, which all connoisseurs de 
 clared, as a work of art, far excelled all that I had before 
 attempted. He knew the vale in Ida; his living eyes had 
 feasted on its living beauty in his wanderings beyond the 
 ^Egean sea ; this faint similitude of its classic loveliness had 
 grown beneath his eye ; his aesthetic taste had decided many 
 of its lights and shadows. Long before, he had watched " the 
 noonday quiet hold the hill; the grasshopper silent in the 
 grass ; the lizard with his shadow on the stone, resting like a 
 shadow ; the cicola asleep ; the golden bees, lily-cradled." 
 
 "Still at his feet the crocus broke like fire, 
 Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 
 Lotus and lilies. 
 
 Overhead the wandering ivy and vine 
 This way and that, in many a wild festoon, 
 Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
 With bunch aud berry, and flower through and through." 
 
 A shadow had stolen across this beauty since he last beheld 
 it. Now sorrowful CEnone stood on "the knolls of Ida." 
 Leaning on a fragment twined with vine, she sang to the 
 stillness. " Beautiful-browed, mournful (Enone, still wander 
 ing forlorn, for Paris once her playmate on the hills." All of 
 loneliness and of sorrow, all of remorse and love, looked from 
 her beautiful and burdened eyes. No voice of encourage 
 ment, no word of praise had added inspiration to her being. 
 No criticism, however sharp, no blame, however severe, could 
 have hindered her existence ; I could have said this of no other 
 work which I had done. But (En6ne was the offspring of my 
 highest, most sacred soul ; in her ! had embodied my own 
 deepest life. She seemed no portion of the gorgeous beauty 
 amid which she stood. A most lovely yet sorrowful mortal
 
 Jealousy Conquest. 365 
 
 shadow, she would haunt its brightness but a moment with 
 her song and her sorrow, ere she passed on to Troas or laid 
 down to die. 
 
 The vale of Ida stretched before him, the reflex of a brief, 
 delirious Elysium of being, in which he and another soul had 
 lived two years ago. GEnone stood before him like a living 
 ghost just arisen from the tomb of the past. As he looked 
 into that face, the deathly pallor which I had seen sweep over 
 his own twice, smote it again. He turned from that pictured 
 face to mine, as I sat in the recess of an open oriel window. 
 All the love, the sorrow, the sacrifice of a life seemed gather 
 ed in that gaze, as he turned upon me his silent eyes. A great 
 emotion, long mastered, suddenly surged back with resistless 
 might. Tenderness such as I dreamed not could pour from 
 the eyes of man upon woman, brooded over me. Utter love, 
 utter abnegation, met in that one gaze ; it was the final seal 
 of renunciation ; it was never repeated. Memory seized it as 
 an immortal dower, the most sacred, the last. 
 
 Hope tripped in with a carolling laugh and an open letter ; 
 how eagerly he turned towards that young face as if it was a 
 refuge from himself. During the remainder of the evening 
 how often and intently he looked upon it. I understood it 
 now ; in this face he found rest. I recalled the words which 
 long before he had written to me concerning it : 
 
 " After a great storm of soul, I can imagine how I might 
 find heavenly peace in gazing on such a face ; imagine with 
 what warmth of healing the celestial sunlight of such a spirit 
 would fall on the ruins of my own filling me with tenderest 
 affection^ yet kindling not a grand inspiration." 
 
 No, my chamber in his soul was barred and solitary. The 
 bar would never be taken down, the door would never be 
 opened, that another might go in and take possession. He 
 loved Hope ; yes, I was sure that he loved her loved her with 
 just th'e pure, beautiful affection which her nature inspired. 
 She filled her own niche in his soul, not mine. Had it not been 
 for that revelation beside CEnone, I should never have known 
 but that he himself had thrust me out not because it was 
 right, but because he was indifferent. Every other painting 
 of mine he had criticised, but he never criticised CEnone. No 
 comment concerning it ever passed his lips ; he made one re 
 quest regarding it, but that was months afterwards. 
 
 The glory of the summer deepened, and so the glory deep 
 ened in the eyes of Hope. The gay girl-heart was feeling the 
 first low thrills of that mysterious power of love which makes
 
 3 66 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 the greatness, the strength, and the weakness of woman. 
 It was the dawn of the great awakening of her nature, which 
 in her would be pure and holy, never awful in its misdirected 
 or thwarted force. 
 
 Yet the word had not been spoken ; the tale of love had 
 not been told by him. Well I knew what Hope in her inno 
 cence could never dream, that there was a very different story 
 to be told, a very different confession to be made, before Mon- 
 crieffe would allow himself to utter to her words of affection. 
 I knew what sin it was which lay heavy on Moncrieffe's con 
 science ; that he both dreaded, and sought eagerly the day 
 when he might confess to his friend the wrong which in a 
 moment of weakness he was ready to have done him. In the 
 delicious stir of her new happiness, she little dreamed that 
 Henri, with his unclouded judgment, his strong, true heart, 
 was to be the arbiter of her fate. Hope was not without the 
 usual train of admirers and lovers which the most beautiful 
 girl of a metropolitan winter season would be likely to inspire. 
 She had met men, who, judged by all the accepted stand 
 ards of society, were at least in many respects the equals 
 of Moncrieffe. But Hope knew nothing of coquetries, and 
 it was impossible, at least for me, not to see who alone inspired 
 her; who it was whose simple presence made all her face and 
 being radiant ; to whom she turned as naturally as a flower 
 turns its face to the sun ; whom she instinctively obeyed and 
 studied to please, without being conscious that she was so 
 doing ; who had the power to draw her out beyond her usual 
 self, till in all which she did for him, she far transcended her 
 ordinary beauty and grace. Her exquisite tone and touch 
 thrilled with tenfold sweetness when she sang and played for 
 him ; yet all was spontaneous and unconscious. Had it been 
 suddenly revealed to her how deeply she was swayed by him, 
 she would have been shocked, and have deplored without stint 
 what she would have called her wickedness. Was he indif 
 ferent ? Did you ever see a man so near being an archangel 
 that he could receive with perfect indifference the involuntary 
 homage of a beautiful woman ? 
 
 Outwardly it was a gay summer at Bel Eden. All that 
 troop of " friends" which I had been so selfishly indifferent 
 about two years before, came and went at their pleasure. 
 Parties stopped for a few days' visit on their hither and thither 
 way from mountains and springs. Zenaide and Pontiff had 
 many prancing companions now cantering with them through 
 the shady avenues. There were sensible people who in de-
 
 Jealousy Conquest. 367 
 
 lighted silence watched the sunsets fuse the world in glory ; 
 and there were twittering misses who made many weak ex 
 clamations' over the same ; there were young ladies who doated 
 on flowers and fountains, and evening rambles in moonlit, leafy- 
 alleys, especially when they could be enjoyed with fascinating 
 gentlemen companions. Thus it happened that now, when I 
 sat in portico or piazza in these summer twilights, the lovely 
 world around Bel Eden was no longer quiet as of old ; white 
 robes gleamed along the embowered walks, and I caught 
 glimpses of fair faces through the vistas of the trees. As the 
 dimness deepened I could discover manly arms drawing in 
 near proximity to delicate waists, while I doubt not sonorous 
 voices murmured into eager ears stories too sweet for the day 
 to hear or for me to repeat on paper. 
 
 The weeks were crowded with fetes and excursions', "With 
 regattas on the river, pic-nics in the park. The house was full 
 of gay voices ; snatches of laughter and song gushed back and 
 forth from room*to room. There was mirth and music, gossip 
 ing and novel-reading, to preserve women amiable through the 
 fiery fervor of the solstice. There was the plash of many 
 fountains to steal through their senses with a thrill of cool 
 ness in spite of the thermometer ; there was the hush of dim 
 shaded rooms ; the loosest and coolest of robes ; the long 
 siestas of the sweltering afternoons to assist the lovely crea 
 tures in enduring the burden of the weather. And for the 
 gentlemen outside of the house there was the cool stillness of 
 mantled arbors; the dense shadow of the park, where they 
 could lounge as they listed ; smoke, sleep, discuss the news 
 paper, augment their caloric over politics, evaporating all their 
 superfluity of naughtiness, leaving them the enchanting beings 
 which they proved themselves to be to the ladies in the even 
 ing. This was outward life at Bel Eden ; the tragedy was 
 within. 
 
 It was in the silence of my own room, in the solitude of my 
 own nature, that I listened to my hurt and desolate heart. 
 Often, when all were asleep, I would take a light, steal to 
 Hope's bed, and gaze upon her in silence. How peacefully, 
 how innocently she slept, like a child, in her low, calm breath 
 ing. In silence I stood over her, and read her fate how 
 different from mine! No striving with want, no struggle 
 with pain, no insatiate yearning, no inward dying. Her life 
 would be one calm lyric, without a dissonant note ; its 
 rhythm would flow all melody to the end. The one who 
 had won her earliest love, he who could fill the entire mea-
 
 368 Victoire. 
 
 sure of her needs, with gentlest hand would lead her along 
 sheltered paths to her journey's end. The ethereal maiden 
 would ripen into a harmonious household woman, more spiri 
 tually beautiful than the maiden had ever been. Young 
 children would cling around the fair neck, "keeping her 
 low and wise." In the joy of her home she would find 
 the sweetest inspiration which can be given a woman's life. 
 There the graces would hover ; there Faith and Love be the 
 Lares to guard its altars. And how melodious would be her 
 footfall, how beautiful her ministrations beside the inner shrine 
 of home ! 
 
 Sorrow and death would come- at last, but not fiercely to 
 one who seemed always to be sheltered so near the bosom of 
 God, _ When the last call would be heard, and the life-song 
 closed, the dear head would only nestle a little closer to the 
 Infinite Heart, and God would take her. Only once, when 
 I thought of him, of what he had been, might have been, 
 to me, I grew suddenly fierce. If I were free, and then she 
 had come between us, then had robbed me, would I have 
 saved her ? Could I ? I asked. I shuddered, I turned away. 
 I said "yes." Had she robbed me of all that life had bestowed 
 dear to my soul, still I should have said " yes.'' Had she been 
 less lovely, I could have ceased to love her ; I could never 
 have harmed her. Hope smiled in her sleep as if she saw the 
 angels. 
 
 Moncrieffe was not an established guest at Bel Eden, yet 
 he often drove over with Henri. I knew that he did not 
 come to taunt me that he did not come in triumph to prove 
 that, after all, I was weak and that he was strong ; yet his 
 coming did prove all this. Still I inwardly exclaimed Why 
 must it be here? Why in this very room where we first met, 
 must I behold the dearest revelations of life made to another ? 
 Hope had never seemed to hold in reserve from me a single 
 thought or feeling; everything had flowed from her heart 
 to mine as to another self. This rendered her reserve in 
 speaking of Moncrieffe more remarkable ; his name rarely 
 passed her lips. I did not wonder at this, for I was not 
 at all certain that there was not something in my manner 
 which forbade it. I, too, avoided his name; and I fancied 
 that she had a vague intuition that in some way to me his 
 name was connected with painful associations. I remembered 
 my impression when I first saw them together, that their 
 manner was that of persons who had met before. I resolved 
 to know, and to have the perfect confidence established be-
 
 Jealousy Conquest. 369 
 
 tween us regarding him, which existed respecting everything 
 else. Thus, at last, when a day of freedom came, when the 
 guests had all departed, and Hope and I sat alone under the 
 trees one afternoon late in the summer, I asked, without 
 preliminaries : 
 
 " Hope, did you ever meet Mr. Moncrieffe before Henri 
 introduced him that evening at Madame 's party?" 
 
 " Yes, once before. I saw him first in Paris." 
 
 " How did that happen ? I thought it impossible for a 
 young lady to form any gentleman's acquaintance in that 
 pensionnat.^ 
 
 "I did not form his acquaintance, Victoire. I only saw 
 him when he delivered an oration at one of the anniversaries." 
 
 " And you remembered him ?" 
 
 " How could I forget him ?" 
 
 " Why did he make so deep an impression ?" 
 
 " Would not his face, and bearing, and voice, impress any 
 one? Besides, the moment he rose on the rostrum I thought 
 of you." 
 
 " He does not look like me." 
 
 " No ; but the thought instantly came into my mind that 
 he was one whom you would very much admire.'' 
 
 " Did I ever describe to you one whom I should very much 
 admire ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then why should you imagine that you knew ?" 
 
 " I don't know why ; perhaps it was because I admired him 
 myself more than any man whom I had ever seen." 
 
 " Did he remark you ?" I asked. 
 
 " He has told me that he recognised me immediately as the 
 original of your Hebe." 
 
 " Then he has told you that he knew me before his depar 
 ture for Europe. Did he tell you where we first met ? Plow 
 we became acquainted ?" 
 
 " No ; he only told me that he sought your acquaintance 
 through your Niobe; that you had exerted a deeper influence 
 upon his life than any other person whom he had ever known ; 
 that everything which you had ever loved or cherished was 
 dear to him." 
 
 There was a long silence. We both looked afar off into 
 the dreamy depth of the fountain. When I thought that I 
 could command my voice, I asked : 
 
 " Hope, when did he tell you all this ?" 
 
 " The other evening at the sailing party, when you asked 
 
 16*
 
 37 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 him to row me in my new skiff. Don't you remember, the 
 river was like glass, 8O <l uiet ? I could scarcely see the boat 
 move, it floated so softly ; then he told me." 
 
 " Did he tell you that he loved you ?" 
 
 " No ; henfever told me that he loved me." 
 
 " Yet you feel that he does, and I feel it. He will tell you 
 this soon, and when he tells you, the story will be very sweet 
 to hear, will it not, Hope ?" 
 
 "Yes, Victoire, it would sound sweeter than anything I 
 ever heard ; you know it would. I never dreamed that such 
 a man could ever love me ; I dare not believe it now. No 
 one else could ever love me who would seem to me to be his 
 equal. I could never forget him ; I fear that I should never 
 cease to regret him." 
 
 " You will never be called upon to forget him or to regret 
 him. "When he offers you his love, accept it, and lavish yours 
 upon him without stint. He will make you very happy, 
 Hope ; and you you will make life dear to him. If com 
 pany comes, do not call me," I added, rising ; " I shall not 
 come down until Henri returns. You will not be lonely, 
 Hope ?" 
 
 " O no," she said, with her sweetest smile, kissing her hand 
 after me. Why did I ask that question, when I saw that her 
 own thought was richer company than any living presence, 
 save that of one, could possibly be ? 
 
 In contrast with the hilarity which had so lately filled it, 
 the hush which now pervaded the house seemed almost 
 stifling. Morna was in her room; Azalie was asleep. For 
 the last two months her brain had run wild inspecting and 
 studying costumes, and now the reaction was so great the 
 poor child did nothing but sleep from pure exhaustion, and 
 an unwonted lull in the household atmosphere was the result 
 of these slumbers. Save the trills of the canaries and the 
 subdued murmur of voices in the distant kitchen, no sound 
 greeted my ear as I passed through the hall and stole up to 
 my studio. 
 
 I had done nothing in it for many weeks ; the blinds were 
 shut ; the windows closely draped ; it was dim and silent. 
 I went in and knelt down. There are moments when the 
 great God comes down to us ; when the Omniscient, All-dis 
 cerning soul, entering our inmost heart, searches us through 
 and through. The film of self-love falls from our eyes ; the 
 armor of selfishness drops from our heart ; desire, motive, 
 action, stand bare, utterly revealed. We see ourselves, not
 
 Jealousy Conquest. 371 
 
 as we love to seem, not as we love to make ourselves and 
 others believe, but as we are, as we shall kiiow ourselves at 
 death and at the judgment. We can reject creeds, the 
 dogmas of men, the pomp and paraphernalia of ghostly forms; 
 but we cannot reject God, we cannot doubt Him, nor deny 
 Him, nor turn from Him, when thus He asserts Himself within 
 our innate secret consciousness. The blindness of self-love 
 again may gather ; again we may grow metallic, sordid, 
 selfish, weak, yet we shall ever be better, purer, for having 
 wrestled this hour with God. We may be conscious of sin, 
 with a desire and even a purpose to relinquish it, yet have 
 no adequate realization of its nature or of its consequences 
 upon ourselves and others. When the primal spirit illuminates 
 us so that we both utterly see, and feel, and repent, then we 
 not only desire, we do renounce sin. Great epochs mark 
 the inner as well as the outer life. The epoch in our outward 
 career Settles our destiny among men; the epochs of the soul 
 decide its indestructible character, its eternal fate. The mo 
 ment which saw me reject the love of Moncrieffe decided my 
 human lot ; it saved my name from the ranks of the fallen ; it 
 perpetuated to me the gifts and amenities of a favored fortune; 
 it did not eradicate any blot which temptation might have 
 made upon my moral nature, it did not absolve my soul be 
 fore God. But this moment was to decide whether, with 
 spirit stained or washed white, I was to live and die. It 
 would set the final stamp upon my inward character by which 
 I should be recognised and judged by God and angels, if not 
 by men. I had been self-deceived ; not wilfully, surely ; yet, 
 no less entirely because I did not know it. An eternity of 
 life seemed curdled in these moments in which I scanned my 
 naked soul. 
 
 That was not renunciation which I called renunciation two 
 years before ; but the hour had come now ; and now as I tore 
 the living idol from my living heart, every fibre warm and 
 bleeding with the very life-blood of my humanity, I knew 
 and felt for the first time how entirely it had become inter 
 woven with all the tissues of my being. 
 
 Renounced it ! My conscience renounced it two years 
 before ; my heart never. Had I ever clung to it with such 
 deathless, jealous, despairing tenacity as in the weeks just 
 gone ? Why had not the spirit of God searched me thus 
 before ? Why had I never felt as I felt now how very, very 
 weak and sinning I was ? Heart and will surrendered ; the 
 enshrined idol dropped from my relaxing grasp j dropped so
 
 37 2 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 far away from me that I could never reach it any more. My 
 soul was being winnowed by a mysterious and awful force, 
 which with one resistless sweep carried with it all that I had 
 cherished most. 
 
 " This moment cannot change all my nature ; it cannot 
 annihilate the associations of years. To-morrow, when I look 
 on the living face, shall I find that it has lost all its power ? 
 To-morrow shall I not find myself just as weak as I have been 
 to-day ?" faltered doubt. " To-morrow ! You have no 
 business with to-morrow. It is not yours. Be the con 
 queror of now. Make the present pure, and all the future will 
 be peaceful," answered the deeper voice, as I arose, wonder 
 ing at the great calm that had come over me. 
 
 The deluge of passion had rolled back. "The earth was 
 green again. I was in a new world, and the new world was 
 the sepulchre of the old." 
 
 I went down into Henri's study. I felt a wonderful sense 
 of kinship for this room. I knew that none but wise and 
 pure thoughts had ever entered into it. Next to human 
 faces and hearts, what can so grow into our affections as 
 books ? Many of these I could not understand, but many 
 more were my daily intimate companions, while the marble 
 faces looking down from the alcoves' now seemed the kindest 
 of silent friends. I was in search of an antique book whose 
 words had often come home to my heart with a strange, 
 sympathetic truthfulness. I found it, and sitting down with 
 in the drapery of the open window, read : 
 
 " Many, if not most friendships, be like a glove, that, how 
 ever well fitting at first, doth by constant use wax loose and 
 ungainly, if it doth not quite wear out. There be friendships 
 which a man groweth out of naturally and blamelessly, even as 
 out of his child-clothes ; the which, though no longer suit 
 able to his needs, he keepeth religiously, unforgotten and 
 undestroyed, and often visiteth with a kindly tenderness, 
 though he knoweth they can cover and warm him no more. 
 
 " But deceive not thyself, saying that because a thing is 
 not, it never was. Respect thyself, thy old self, as well as 
 thy new. Be faithful to thyself and to all that ever was 
 thine. Thy friend is always thy friend. Not to have or to 
 hold to love, or to rejoice in, but to remember. 
 
 " And if it befall thee, as it befalleth most, that in course 
 of time nothing will remain to thee except to remember, be 
 not afraid 1 Hold fast that which was thine ; it is thine for
 
 Jealousy Conquest. 373 
 
 ever. Deny it not, despise it not ; respect its secrets ; be 
 silent over its wrongs. And so kept, it shall never be like a 
 dead thing in thy heart, corrupting and breathing corruption 
 there as dead things do. Bury it and go thy way. It may 
 chance that some day long hence thou shalt come suddenly 
 upon the grave of it, and behold ! it is dewy green." 
 
 Why had Moncrieffe crossed my path? Why had each 
 nature responded perfectly to the other? Why had we 
 been friends more than friends ? Not to have or to hold, to 
 love or to rejoice in ; but to remember, to be for ever nobler 
 and purer for that memory. Could either well spare this 
 experience out of their existence ? Was it not indispensable 
 to our discipline, growth, final development? This larger 
 capacity to love all things, this broader charity, this deeper 
 insight into my own heart and the hearts of others, this 
 profounder yearning for innate purity, this victory over my 
 self, all this love, at last had brought me did they not make 
 the wealth of my life ? Not one could I spare from my 
 nature. When at last we should yield up our souls, redeemed 
 and perfected, to the God and Father of our spirits, we 
 could bless him for this mortal love which He had made a 
 link of light to draw us upwards nearer to Himself; whereas 
 our own hands might have forged it into a chain to drag us 
 down to remorse and death. 
 
 Amid these thoughts an infinite tenderness swept over me 
 as I gazed around the room and thought of its owner. I 
 knew that the time had come when there could be no longer 
 any reserve between me and my truest friend, the husband 
 of my heart. " To-night," I murmured, " I will tell him all." 
 
 I do not know why I thought of my old haunt, the gnarled 
 bridge crowning the ravine, but I did. It would be a good 
 place to test my new emotions, I thought. Returning my 
 book to its place, I went slowly down to it, beneath the 
 shadow of the foliage which hung dense about it. Here I 
 had leaned and lingered hundreds of times ; here I had 
 waited in dim expectation that October day when Mon 
 crieffe came ; here, too, he had loitered and dreamed in the 
 leisure of a past existence ; it was all past ; all came to me 
 now like memories from a distant world, that long life of 
 love for him ! It was not a present consciousness, not a living 
 desire ; it was a memory. I thought of him already as the 
 husband of Hope. The thought did not make me wretched. 
 
 " Oh, dear !"
 
 374 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 I started as this exclamation broke in upon my thought. I 
 had heard it too many times, under too many different circum 
 stances, not to know perfectly well from whom it proceeded. I 
 was only surprised that I had not been conscious before of 
 the near proximity of a human presence. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! 
 
 My eye followed the direction of the voice, and there below 
 me, just above the brook, beneath a clump of alder bushes, 
 his face buried in the ferns and mosses of the bank as I 
 remembered having seen it buried in the bosom of a lounge- 
 cushion, lay George Washington Peacock, no longer an over 
 grown boy of twelve, but a well-formed youth of eighteen. 
 
 "Oh, dear! I thought when I was up there that I'd just 
 as lief drown myself as not. And I would if my dead body 
 could in any way be a blessing to her. But she'd think it 
 was a pretty end of all her teachings to have them drag me 
 out of the water dead as a stun'. It wouldn't mend matters. 
 She couldn't respect me, and she wouldn't love me any more, 
 because I had made a goose of myself by taking affairs out 
 of the Lord Almighty's hands. But I came down here on 
 purpose to drown myself; and now it makes a fellow feel kind 
 of queer to think he can't. I mean that he don't want to. I be 
 lieve after all I'm afraid ; not of the water, but of what's beyond 
 it. A pretty end 'twould be, after all of her tryings to make me 
 good, for me to go and kill myself. The devil's got me, or I 
 shouldn't have thought of it. 
 
 " O Lord !" here he raised himself up upon his elbows 
 and began to pray. 
 
 "O Lord! I know that You know best what is best for 
 me. I'm only sorry when I know that I don't know what is 
 best for me ; that I ain't any better contented with what's 
 given me. O Lord! I'm sure of one thing that nothing so 
 homely as I am was ever made to go with anything so beau 
 tiful as Miss Hope. It would be like tying a great sprawling 
 mud-turtle to a white flower. Only, Lord, I wish You had 
 made me handsomer. I can't see why you didn't. I should 
 have had a better disposition if I had been made better look 
 ing. I should have swore less. I shouldn't have struck the 
 children more than half as many times, for then they couldn't 
 have said : * George Washington has got a berry on the end 
 of his nose.' I know for certain that it makes a chap feel 
 ugly to know that he looks ugly. But O Lord, I know that 
 You knew best. Of course, it would be easy enough to be 
 good if there wasn't anything to make one ugly. O Lord,
 
 A Weddi'ng in the Last Chapter. 375* 
 
 You know I try hard enough, with mighty slim results. 
 Help me to give up wanting to look for ever at Miss Hope. 
 The more I look the more I want to. I know well enough I 
 wasn ? t made for Miss Hope; only, Lord, I wish You had 
 made me for her. O Lord, why didn't You ? But You 
 know best. I know that You have given me a great deal 
 more than I ever deserved. I am thankful, O Lord, that 
 through her+You have taught me what beauty, and good 
 ness, and everything lovely is. From the first moment 
 I saw her I knew that there was something higher in life 
 than I had ever thought of, and ever since I've been try 
 ing to reach it, and mighty hard work it is. O Lord, I 
 am thankful for the kind instructions, the happy home, the 
 blessed friends Thou hast given me. JVlay I never disgrace 
 them nor prove myself unworthy of them, as I should if I had 
 gone and drowned myself just because I can't see Miss Hope 
 as often as I want, and because she can't never think any 
 more of me than she does now. O Lord, help me to feel that 
 You put me in this world to be a good and useful man, not to 
 have everything my own way. Help me to act as if I felt it. 
 Help me to be good, because I ought to be good, because it 
 is lovely to be good, and not just because Miss Hope desires 
 it. Help me to stop living just on the sight of her face ; it's 
 mighty poor living when I can't get the sight any oftener. 
 Help me to give up Miss Hope in my heart. I shall be a 
 better man just because she is in the world if I ain't nothing 
 to her but a poor ugly boy that she is sorry for. The dearest 
 idol I have known, help me to tear it from its throne. O 
 dear !" 
 
 Perhaps I should have laughed at the sight of George 
 Washington rolling and groaning amid the ferns, if I had not 
 felt more like crying. Just then I heard the sound of carriage- 
 wheels in the avenue, and a moment after, Hope's light laugh 
 and silvery voice blending with more sonorous tones the 
 summer wind brought me through the trees. I knew that 
 Henri had come, and so went back to the house. 
 
 A WEDDING IN THE LAST CHAPTER. 
 
 As I emerged from the trees Henri saw me, and came 
 down the path to meet me. Hope was gathering flowers to 
 garnish the tea-table, whose snowy damask gleamed above
 
 37^ 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 the green grass of the shaded lawn. Moncrieffe, leaning 
 against the vines of the portico, seemed to be intently watch 
 ing her. It was a strange tea which came afterwards. The 
 birds sang in the trees, as they did every evening, their low, 
 lullaby music; the flowers and fountains, the river, the blue 
 palisades beyond, had not changed ; the world around us was 
 precisely the same, yet it seemed different, simply because I 
 looked on it and on the five human beings who sat around the 
 table with different eyes, with a different heart. 
 
 Conversation at jhis table was usually a most easy and 
 pleasant thing, composed of elements as various as the five 
 widely differing natures which contributed to it. When the 
 ladies gave them opportunity, which was by no means always, 
 the gentlemen grew profound over public measures and affairs 
 of state ; or they grew fervid over politics, for they were of 
 opposite parties ; yet, strange to say, their differences seemed 
 only to augment their friendship. But' the merry chit-chat 
 and the earnest discussions were both wanting to-night. A 
 rare silence seemed to have fallen on all. Each one appeared 
 to be thinking of something which could not be spoken, 
 and yet a perfect sympathy seemed to exist even in this 
 silence. 
 
 Morna was a little paler and a little more silent than usual, 
 but there was no unrest in her manner. Moncrieffe's face 
 seemed full of an expression of relief the light in his dark, 
 radiating eyes seemed gratitude; not joy but thankfulness. 
 Henri's clear gaze sought my face continually ; it was filled 
 with a new meaning, made of wonder, love, pain. Hope's 
 sensitive heart seemed to vibrate to all our moods, and she 
 glided into our silence as intuitively as if she, too, had a 
 burden on her heart which she had, but it was a very pleasant 
 one. 
 
 After tea we had music. Hope played and sang till 
 the twilight came. Then we wandered into the beau 
 tiful outer world again all but Morna, who lingered, her 
 fingers rippling over the keys of the piano, her rich voice 
 quivering with the prelude of a strain into which the great, 
 loving soul soared impatient to overflow. Music had become 
 a more soothing companion to her than any living presence 
 could be. We left her with her friend, as in the world the 
 great, the loving, yet unmated in soul, are often left utterly 
 devoid of companionship save that which their own spirit 
 can make. 
 
 Henri and I wandered out to one of the garden seats, and
 
 A Wedding in the Last Chapter. 377 
 
 not until after we were seated did I notice that it was the 
 one on which we sat on that June morning when I said : " I 
 will marry you." Moncrieffe and Hope slowly wandered 
 down the wooded path which led to the ravine, the brook, 
 tne bridge. I watched the sheen of her white robes floating 
 in and out through the interlacing foliage, till at last they 
 were lost down the descending knoll. They were wandering 
 down to the little bow-braided, leaf-draped bridge, beneatli 
 which that very afternoon George Washington had struggled 
 with himself, his love ; the bridge whose murmurous leaves 
 and musical waters were instinct with a thousand memories. 
 There, what vagaries had stirred my heart, what visions had 
 been revealed to me, but never this that here the stranger 
 of Les Delices would win his bride, and that bride would 
 be Hope Avondale. 
 
 " There will be a wedding at Bel Eden before many months, 
 if you are willing," said Henri ; and as I looked up I saw 
 that he, too, had been gazing after them as intently as I till 
 they disappeared. " I have given my consent. Will you 
 yours?" he added, taking my hand most gently, yet fixing 
 upon me a penetrating gaze which pierced me through. I 
 did not shrink from it. Truth was in my heart, and it must 
 have shone through my eyes. 
 
 " Yes, I shall be glad to have a wedding at Bel Eden." 
 
 " Victoire, I have heard a strange story this afternoon," 
 he continued, without withdrawing his hand or removing his 
 gaze. 
 
 " Yes, Moncrieffe told it to you." 
 
 " Yes, he told me. I have heard that all women have a 
 story some heart-tragedy to reveal if they choose. I begin 
 to think that men have about as many, at least poetic men ; 
 a commonplace fellow like me, of course, does not weave 
 much romance out of the raw material of life. Moncrieffe's 
 story was a romantic one, but a very hard one for me to listen 
 to, Victoire. He has done me a wrong which few men can 
 forgive which I would not forgive any man but him," and as 
 Henri uttered these words I saw that his deep nature was 
 wounded to the very core. " Jonathan never loved David 
 more truly than I loved him. His nature commands the 
 affection of men no less than of women. You have loved 
 him, Victoire ?" 
 
 " Yes, Henri, I have loved him. I loved him first. The 
 great temptation of my life came to me through him. Yet I 
 have never seen tine moment in which I could consciously
 
 378 Victoire. 
 
 wrong you for his sake. If I have sinned in loving him, for 
 give me. It is past." 
 
 "Are you sure, Victoire; are you sure that it is past?" he 
 asked, vehemently. " If not, of all men I am the most wretch 
 ed. With all my wise conclusions have I been blind, self- 
 deceived, for all these years ? Viutoire ; are you sure that it 
 is past?" 
 
 " Yes, I am sure. I desire to find rest only in the heart 
 of my husband. You know how tenaciously my heart clings 
 to everything which it seizes. But when at last it lets go an 
 object, it lets it go. It tears it up by the roots not a fibre re 
 mains, and the idol drops so far away, it can never be taken up 
 again. Can you forgive me, Henri, that I ever loved him ?" 
 
 " Forgive you, child ! I do not blame you for the love ; 
 if I blame you, it is that you did not confide in me that you 
 did not tell me, your husband, your best friend." 
 
 " I wanted to tell you, Henri ; I wanted to tell you all ; but 
 I did not dare. I was afraid of that quiet smile, so cold and 
 so lofty ; I was afraid of your pity. I knew that you would 
 feel for me a kind of godlike pity, while you gauged a weak 
 ness that you never felt," I murmured. 
 
 "When I thrust aside my feelings and look at this in the 
 light of reason," he continued, " I find that I cannot exonerate 
 myself from blame. Ever since my illness I have sometimes 
 questioned my own course, which I never did before. Ever 
 since then I have discovered wants in myself, weaknesses I 
 have called them, which previously I had never known. They 
 have made me more appreciative of the needs of others ; those 
 which I once noticed from a sense of duty, if I noticed them 
 at all, I have learned to regard with genuine personal sym 
 pathy. There is something hard in unbroken physical health. 
 A vigor that has never even been touched by disease has no 
 adequate sympathy to otter for the sufferings or needs of the 
 weaker or more exquisitely organized ; it can theorize, specu 
 late, estimate, and be even kind to a degree, but it does not feel. 
 Suffering mental, moral, physical is the saviour and softener 
 of the human heart. Thus I have learned to think, Victoire, 
 since that long illness has wrought such a change in me in my 
 feelings more than in my actions, for, with my native love of 
 domination, I have ruled them though I have not killed them. 
 I remember that long convalescence as the very happiest 
 season of my life. It was the first time in my life in which I 
 ever enjoyed ease, rest. To be sure I had taken them occa 
 sionally before, because I knew that I must: but it was a great
 
 A Wedding in the Last Chapter. 379 
 
 bore. I was restless to be doing ; the great force of activity 
 within me seemed to impel me irresistibly forth to work, to 
 business duty I liked best to call it.'' 
 
 I made no answer, and he went on. 
 
 "The power of action, the capacity for affairs, which are 
 essential requisites of manhood, I drove beyond their healthy 
 energy into an excitement, a dissipation. I never realized 
 this till, with faltering feet, weakened neives, and a softened 
 heart, I returned from the gates of the grave. That coming 
 back to the bright earth, to the summer flowers, to your dear 
 face, was the epoch of my being. Those long hours of deli 
 cious leisure, of gentle rides, and quiet walks ; those hours in 
 which you used to read to me, and sing for me till I fell asleep, 
 only to hear your voice distil its music through my dreams, 
 seemed to create a new heart in me, soft and grateful as a little 
 child's a hea t far too Weak, I thought, for a strong man's 
 breast, and of course thought it my duty to hide it as far as 
 possible. In those hours I first noticed a change in your face. 
 When your tender heart had exhausted the last possible atten 
 tion, and you had sunk upon the low stool at my feet, your 
 white hands crossed and your features in repose, I saw what I 
 had never thought of before my illness. A sadness looked 
 out from, your eyes which I tried in vain to fathom ; a look of 
 weariness lay across the brow, which I did not understand ; it 
 was not the result of physical exhaustion, it was a weariness 
 of spirit. Anxiety and watching alone had not made it. What 
 had? Your face should still be radiant as any maiden's it 
 should still be girlish in its outline and its bloom. What had 
 so soon transformed it into that of a woman, with a look of 
 suffering on the brow and the history of long years gazing 
 from the mournful eyes ? Then, for the first time, I began to 
 question myself. What had I to do, directly or indirectly, 
 with this change ? Had I not fulfilled all my promises ? Had 
 I not covered you with gifts? What other wife did I knoMr 
 so free and independent, so honored, so beloved ? I remem 
 bered that in the past, after a great press of occupation had 
 kept me constantly absorbed for many weeks, the thought 
 would suggest itself that perhaps I had unwittingly appeared 
 careless or neglectful, that I condemned you too entirely to 
 loneliness or the society of strangers. But I recollected also 
 that you never complained of neglect or loneliness. Did you 
 not have art, letters, friends, home, a rich and varied life ? 
 The thought of ennui, loneliness, in you seemed absurd. Had 
 you not told me once that you wished to devote a portion of
 
 380 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 your best years to art ? Just as if I did not understand your 
 nature too well, even then, before you knew anything about 
 yourself, to take you at your word. ' I am busy. Let her 
 learn something of life, the world ; there will be time enough 
 for love afterwards,' was ever my final conclusion. 
 
 " But now there was something in the white face, and soft, 
 womanly eyes which looked up to me, which contradicted all 
 my wise theories of duty and happiness, and there was a feel 
 ing in my heart as well as a voice in my head which assured 
 me that I had been mistaken. I resolved that as soon as I 
 could arrange business matters I would take more leisure for 
 my home, and we would renew the sweet, uninterrupted com 
 munion of the hours of convalescence. But you know how it 
 was I found a thousand matters to attend to which I never 
 thought of, and the leisure has never come. Yet all the while 
 my heart has kept up a rebellion with my head, which it never 
 thought of doing before. 
 
 " God knows that I have ever meant only to bless you, Vic 
 toire. Yet I have been selfish. Because I have found in your 
 nature all that mine demanded, because you have given me all 
 the tenderness my soul needed, and I knew that there was a 
 world more in reserve on which I could make draughts at any 
 time, I have been contented, and have not inquired whether I 
 returned to your heart an equivalent. Strange it was that the 
 pale, changed face first prompted the inquiry. But you know 
 that most natures are miserably deficient in something. Rarely 
 we find a perfectly harmonious being. There is always some 
 sharp jutting angle, some hateful excrescence, or some pitiable 
 lack. My intellect has been cultivated at the expense of my 
 heart. My reasoning faculties have absorbed my emotional, 
 leaving them neither room nor warmth to grow. But, Vic 
 toire, I bave a heart, and it is capable of great expansion, and 
 you have not been filling it with sunshine and dew all these 
 years for nothing. I blame myself that I Lft you to feel the 
 need of a tenderness which another was ready to bestow. 
 Men place a flower on their heart, and after they have drained 
 it of its first fresh sweetness they forget it. Absorbed with 
 their worldly projects or great ambitions, they forget that 
 without light or dew that flower will die. The flower drops 
 away at last from the dry dust of the heart which has 
 ceased to nourish it. A stranger who has long watched, per 
 haps coveted that flower, seeing it droop and'fade, begins to 
 water it, to give it a little of the light and air which it needs. 
 The flower begins to revive and grow beautiful again under
 
 A Wedding in the Last Chapter. 381 
 
 the hand which nourishes it. The stranger has no right to 
 cherish this flower, for it is not his ; but if he loves it he can 
 not be wholly indifferent to its needs. Of course it is very 
 weak in that flower to need sunshine and dew, but only being 
 a flower it grows beautifully with them, and is dwarfed 
 without them. The man who owns the blossom may some 
 day wake up to find that he has lost it; but it is his own fault, 
 he should have taken better care of it. The man who unlaw 
 fully possessed himself of that flower is not a good man of 
 course; neither is the man who professed to love, who was 
 bound to cherish it, yet did not. 
 
 " If you had forsaken me, Victoire, I should have condemned 
 you bitterly, but not more bitterly than I should have con 
 demned myself. Your heart turned involuntarily towards 
 Moncrieffe, not only because he was born to inspire love, but 
 there is not a want of your soul which he does not know and 
 feel. Can I forget that my one .chosen friend would have 
 robbed me if he could of the treasure of my life ? If he saw 
 that I did not cherish it as tenderly as I might, he should have 
 told me frankly and truthfully as he did this afternoon. Yet 
 I know that that was too much disinterestedness to ask for 
 friendship when it stood in the way of love. 
 
 " I forgive Moncrieffe because he is Moncrieffe, and because 
 I know his inherent nobleness ; and because I know that as far 
 as he has sinned, that sin has brought to his heart its own 
 punishment. Never can I forget his manliness in confessing 
 all. The sun had never risen since that night, he said, when 
 its light had not brought to him a consciousness of remorse 
 for the unforgiven sin which rested on his soul. Hope is very 
 dear to him. He finds rest and peace in her pure young soul ; 
 he wishes to devote his life to her believes that he can make 
 her happy in his love ; yet he said if I thought him unworthy 
 of her, if I could not forgive him with all my heart, he would 
 never utter to her a word of affection ; he would not again 
 enter her presence ; but a solitary man would go forth into the 
 world. Victoire, I told him that I forgave him with all my 
 heart, and I do. But why has your soul been sealed so long ? 
 Why have you never revealed any of this to me?" 
 
 " I knew that the day would come when Moncrieffe would 
 tell you all. I have waited for this day. Long ago I longed 
 to ask pardon for myself, but I could not betray him," I an 
 swered. 
 
 " After all, it is as well that you did not," he said. " No 
 words, nothing but experience, could teach me what I now
 
 3 82 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 feel and know. My intellect has always assured me that ten 
 derness in a man was weakness, and yet I have always known 
 that the greatest souls are the most childlike. There WHS a 
 time when there was no discord between my heart and brain ; 
 but ever since ray sickness my heart has silently yet surely 
 waged war with my head, and has corne off victor. Victoire, 
 can your great, tender heart rest satisfied in the love 
 which I give you ? Never was woman loved more entirely 
 or more tenderly than I love you now. Surely I cannot have 
 been all wrong. The kind God must have brought us toge 
 ther for good, for complete love and happiness at last." 
 
 " Yes, for complete love and happiness at last," I mur 
 mured. " On this spot I promised to marry you : here, five 
 years after, I can say from my heart I am glad that I pro- 
 raised. I love you, my husband. I ask only that you should 
 need that love, and I can live in you, and for you for ever." 
 
 The eyes which looked down upon mine were suffused with 
 tenderness which I had never seen in them before. The light 
 in them, always so clear, was wonderfully soft and deep the 
 outshining of that immortal love which can fill the eyes of a 
 man when he gazes on the woman for whose sake he has for 
 saken father and mother that he may love and cherish her to 
 life's end. Theories and disquisitions were nothing now. 
 Love had come, full, perfect, filling our hearts ; it needed no 
 analysis. Close to his heart he folded me this husband of 
 five years, this lover whose kingly pride love at last had 
 conquered. The Alps and glaciers of the head vanished ; 
 instead, the dews of Hermon distilled through all that sum 
 mer valley of his soul, and I entered in, to go out no more for 
 ever. 
 
 Deeper and longer grew the shadows in the grass ; the 
 flowers slept, the birds grew still ; the fall and flow of waters 
 trickled through the silence ; softly the leaves turned their 
 lips to the evening wind ; all the beauty around us, even the 
 celestial blazonry of stars above, breathed but one thought of 
 our wedded hearts that thought was happiness. 
 
 "Let us return to Europe," at last he said. "Let us go to 
 Les Delices, and there begin truly to live ; there will be time 
 enough after to come back to this land of endeavor, this 
 country of emulous and endless action." 
 
 Les Delices! My heart bounded at that name. All the 
 memories of childhood, all that was best and sweetest in life, 
 came thronging back at its mention. 
 
 u Les Delices !" I said. " Oh, if I had not lost it, if it was
 
 A Wedding in the Last Chapter. 383 
 
 still my home, it would be such a joy to behold it ; but I fear 
 that it would fill me with sorrow now to see it forsaken and 
 neglected, the property of a stranger." 
 
 " You have seen the, purchaser of Les Delices many 
 times." 
 
 " Where ?" 
 
 " You see him here now. I bought Les Delices, and for 
 you. I thought, even then, that perhaps the day might come 
 when you would gladly return to it for a season. At any 
 rate, I was not willing that the ancestral home of Frederick 
 should go to strangers. My medical friends imperatively 
 insist upon rest and change of air for me ; and, to confess the 
 truth, I do feel worn. The unrelaxing tension of the last six 
 years is broken, and I, too, want rest for my body as much as 
 you want it for your heart. Don't you want to go to Italy, 
 Victoire, and to Languedoc ?" 
 
 " And never come back ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, come back, of course ; that is, if you prefer Ame 
 rica to France." 
 
 " You are my good angel. I bless you a thousand times 
 for saving Les Delices. You saved it for a surprise some 
 day ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It is my Mecca, to which I shall for ever make pilgrim 
 ages. I shall kneel before Frederick's grave as the Kaaba 
 of my heart. Les Delices is the home of the past, the shrine 
 where I shall renew all holy vows and consecrations ; "but 
 America Bel Eden is the chosen home of my life. Is it not 
 of yours, Henri ?" 
 
 " Yes, you know that I could never live at Les Delices save 
 in the way of visiting ; it is a spot in which to rest and to 
 gather strength, not to live a life of action in. Listen !" 
 
 As he spoke a tide of melody, sad yet triumphant, flooded 
 forth, tilling all the night, till the very airs seemed to stand 
 still to listen, and the boughs above us to quiver with rap 
 ture. It was Morna singing. 
 
 " Morn a," said Henri, tenderly, "what a blessing she is; 
 in her unselfishness, what a silent teacher to us all ! How 
 could we spare her from our life, Victoire ? I once hoped 
 that Morna and Moncrieffe would l<5ve and marry ; but I see 
 now that both have suffered too deeply for either to find 
 refreshment in the life of the other. Moncrieffe needs just 
 what he finds in Hope's spontaneous, untouched soul." 
 
 I grew sorrowful as I thought of Morna, and yet, as I lis-
 
 384 Victoire. 
 
 tened to that voice, I could not say that she was not as happy 
 in her renunciation as I in my realization. 
 
 An hour later, from the balcony of my room I saw Mon- 
 crieffe depart. Again I heard his carriage-wheels roll down 
 the avenue, but not as I had listened to them once. I had 
 not thought of rest ; I could not for joy joy that at last I 
 had emerged from the cloud and mystery of my life into an 
 open and benignant day ; joy that yearning, strife, torture 
 had ceased to be my portion ; that, instead, I held to my 
 lips the overflowing cup of peace. I waited for Hope ; I 
 knew that she would not pass my door that night without 
 entering. 
 
 " May I come ?" at last I heard the sweet voice say, and in 
 a moment more she was in my arms. The soft eyes were lumi 
 nous with a new lustre, the transcendent face touched with 
 an added loveliness. She was filled with the celestial rapture 
 which is kindled with the first consciousness of loving and of 
 being loved. I knew that Moncrieffe loved her as deeply, 
 but not as she loved. His was a deeper and calmer joy ; he 
 had loved before. 
 
 "A most noble heart has given you its love. You are 
 worthy of the gift," I said, low in her ear, for she had not 
 spoken. Tears gushed through the long, silken lashes, and 
 the head nestled closer to my heart. 
 
 " No, I am not worthy. It is too much ; my life is too full 
 of joy. How kind my Heavenly Father is ! How much I 
 thank Him and love Him for everything !" Hope's was a 
 deeply religious spirit ; to her unquestioning faith every gift 
 which she received came from God, and her first impulse was 
 to thank him for it. 
 
 " Yes," I said, " you will always be happy, for you are one 
 of Christ's little ones ; your way will always be in green pas 
 tures and beside still waters, and a most loving hand will lead 
 you to the end." 
 
 I saw them married. With my own hands I dressed my 
 darling in her bridal robes. On a golden morning in golden 
 October, when Bel Eden was resplendent in scarlet and amber, 
 in opal and amethyst, Moncrieffe and Hope were married. 
 
 It was a brilliant wedding. Many beautiful faces were 
 grouped around that fairer face ; many a manly heart felt a 
 twinge very unlike happiness while it listened to the words 
 which gave that lovely young creature to another; many 
 were the maidens who thought, "What a handsome husband ;" 
 many the young men who sighed, " What a beautiful wife ;"
 
 A Wedding in the Last Chapter. 385 
 
 many the men and matrons who declared " What a splendid 
 match !" secretly hoping that their pug-nosed " Augusta Jane 
 would do as well." 
 
 Never with my mortal eyes shall I behold a rarer couple. 
 He in the fulness of manly prime, lofty, yet humble ; calmly 
 happy, yet deeply thoughtful in his happiness ; she in the first 
 bloom of her wondrous beaut^; in her marvellous and un 
 worldly grace pure as a vestal in the love and worship which 
 she gave him. How could I say that they were not created 
 for each other ? 
 
 Henri gave the bride away, as long before I had in silence 
 given her and him! I loved them both loved them too 
 well to divide them or to mar their happiness even by a 
 thought. I could never be indifferent to Moncrieffe ; still he 
 was mine, even as Hope was mine ; still he was my friend, 
 "not to have or to hold, to love or to rejoice in," but to 
 remember. I was satisfied. I was a holier and happier 
 woman for that memory, for it was consecrated, sanctified. 
 Already my life was full and rich ; I no longer needed Mon 
 crieffe. 
 
 We were to sail for Europe in a week after their marriage. 
 Moncrieffe and Hope were to begin their life at Bel Eden. 
 Only once did Moncrieffe remind me of the past. 
 
 " Are you willing to remove CEnone ?" he asked one day as 
 I entered the drawing-room and found him standing before 
 it. " This belongs to the old life ; you know that I have 
 begun a new. For Hope's sake, it must not be darkened by a 
 single shadow of the past. It is better that CEnone should go." 
 
 Thus CEnone went, was loaned for our absence to the di 
 rectors of a gallery of art, and there took its place among 
 those pictures of which some thoughtful gazer says : " It must 
 have a history !" wondering much what the story is. 
 
 We spent the winter in Rome. Amid the miracles of old 
 art, I did not learn to despise the inspiration of the new. In 
 paying homage to the old masters, I did not cease to love the 
 masters of to-day. Once I had hoped to meet Orsino in Italy. 
 Alas ! I found only his grave : amid the flower of the Roman 
 youth who fell in Mazzini's struggle, Orsino died. Yet he 
 had his wish he poured out his life-blood for Italy ; the sod 
 of Rome made his pillow ; her purple heaven pavilioned his 
 rest. Here, above his head, I read the. last words which he 
 had recorded for me, the last written before his death. Many 
 times had I read them before ; many times had I wet them, 
 with my tears : 
 
 17
 
 386 Victoire. 
 
 "To-morrow, signora, to-morrow I shall behold a great 
 conquest or I shall die. If I live, the rubies in my amulet 
 will burn with triumph, and I will write for you the record of 
 onr victory. If I die, I shall die for Italy, my mother. If I 
 die, then accept these, my last words : that, next to Italy, 
 art thou dearest to Orsino's heart." 
 
 Orsino was only one of thousands of Italians who, on alien 
 shores, deplore, with all an exile's yearning love, the degra 
 dation of their country. The Italian loves Italy as he loves 
 his mother. Who that knows their self-denial, the ever-long 
 ing love of her exiled sons, will say that the old passion for 
 liberty is dead, that the Italian of to-day is unworthy the 
 name or inheritance of his fathers ? With their child-like 
 hearts and the poetic fervor born of their summer clime, 
 their souls thrill with all the old heroism, their arms are 
 nerved with all the tragic valor of the ancient Roman. At 
 the first call of her patriots they leave our shores to lay 
 down their fortunes and their lives for Italy. May all for 
 tune favor the deliverers of Italy ! Glorious Garibaldi ! God 
 guard his way ! Heaven hasten the hour when, beneath the 
 civic heaven, within the seven hills of Rome, a ransomed peo 
 ple shall proclaim, " We are free !" 
 
 I sat beside Orsino's grave, beneath the softest of Italian 
 skies, believing then, as now, that the blood of that brave 
 young heart had not been spilled in vain. Dear to him, after 
 the ring of the battle-field, is the everlasting calm. Already to 
 that tenderly-attuned spirit has come the sleep and the for 
 getting ; thrice blessed will be the morn and the* awakening. 
 Had he been a painter, he would have been Raphael ; had 
 he been a poet, he would have been a Shelley without 
 Shelley's sins ; but the gift of inspired utterance the last 
 gift of genius was denied him. His soul was a- harp, want 
 ing a single string ; pining to reveal itself, the melody which 
 might have been, looked sadly through those translucent win 
 dows, yet ascended to the Eternal without a sound. 
 
 In the spring we went to Les Delices. I had prepared my 
 self to behold desolation, change, decay ; thought that the 
 fountains would be choked and the flowers dead; but the 
 love which now watched so tenderly over my life thought of 
 this also. Henri sent a messenger before, and when we 
 reached it not a trace was left of those long years of desertion. 
 
 One afternoon in May, when every pulse in nature seemed 
 to throb with ecstasy, my eager eyes caught the first gleam 
 of the scarlet turret beneath the firs. The cascade was voci-
 
 A Wedding in the Last Chapter. 387 
 
 ferous, throwing its creamy skirts far over the rocks ; the 
 fountains gurgled happiness ; the flowers bloomed, the birds 
 sang ; even the face of old Ceres wore a radiant look as she 
 held out the flowers and fruits in her hand to the returning 
 wanderers. The vines which I knew in childhood still mantled 
 the veranda and hung high above my head ; but the win 
 dows were wide open, and as I entered, there were the fade 
 less frescoes, the antique furniture of the old beloved room, 
 the very carpet on which I had played when a child. 
 
 " Henri," I said, as I threw myself into his arms, " how 
 tender, how thoughtful, how good you are! What heart 
 could withstand such a love as yours ?" 
 
 And as we stood amid all those hallowed souvenirs of a 
 happy past, in the full joy of a still more happy present, our 
 tears of gratitude mingled together. But there was a still 
 more sacred spot to be visited ; through the open windows 
 we saw the white cross shining pure above Frederick's grave. 
 The' velvet turf, all starred with white blossoms, seemed a 
 fitting coverlet for that beautiful body with which I never 
 could connect the idea of decay. Already it seemed immor 
 tal. Even now, while I knelt beside his tomb, I felt as if I 
 had hardly been separated from him ; and as the words which 
 he had uttered to me long before came back, " As a minister 
 ing spirit I may do more for you than if I walked by your 
 side fainting beneath the burden of my own humanity;" I felt 
 as if, through all those years, he had never left me. ' Good 
 stars^ meet in your horoscope,' he had also said. I knew it ; 
 I felt it now. - 
 
 Two years have passed since that night ; still we linger at 
 Les Delices. The winters were spent at Florence and Paris, 
 and we are here for the last time now ere we return to Ame 
 rica and Bel Eden. The new poetic home of Moncrieffe and 
 Hope I shall see from the window of my studio. She writes: 
 ''Already we are settled, and so happy ! When will you 
 come ?" Les Delices truly named " The Delights" I am in. 
 no haste to leave thee ! 
 
 I received a letter from Morna the other day. 
 
 "You ask me if I am happy," she writes. " When I ceas 
 ed to seek happiness as a definite object it came to me una 
 wares. At least a calm has fallen on my life, so like that I 
 call it happiness. My soul, I fear, is not as largely de 
 veloped as yours, for you drink from fountains of life of 
 which I have never tasted. The bliss of the wife and the 
 mother will never be mine. Already people begin to call me
 
 388 Victoire. 
 
 an ' old maid' and to pity me because, with wealth and fame, 
 I am still alone. I am very weary of that old idea that a 
 woman's life can have but one event that if she does not 
 marry there is nothing worth having left for her. The 
 world of human affection, the world of benevolence, of nature, 
 art, of thought, of religion, open their avenues to her. Here 
 in abide all serene and elect souls, whether men or women 
 they who are likest the angels, in whose spirits the earthly sub 
 serves the divine. And I confess I do not see why a life of 
 individual action, of lonely personal endeavor, need force a 
 woman to lay aside the unsullied garments of her normal 
 womanhood and go forth to add discord to this most discord 
 ant world. I can but feel that a woman drops the insignia 
 of her most sacred nature, when, making herself the highest 
 end of all effort, she chases amid the crowd the phantoms of 
 fame and power. 
 
 " I am sure that it is very plain to see that in the jostling 
 world men contend for most contemptible prizes. Why 
 should a woman want them, or seek for them, when in a 
 thousand unrecorded ways she may be a teacher and savior 
 of the race ; when her nameless deeds are recorded among 
 the stars ; when to the utterance of her thought the ages will 
 reverently listen ? The life of an unmarried woman need not 
 be miserable or incomplete. This, dear Victoire, I believe. 
 My friends waste all the pity which they lavish upon me. 
 My life is not barren, my affections do not wither. I do not 
 love the less all the beauty around me, the fair children who 
 spring in my path, because they are not mine. Why 'need 
 my life grow selfish or contracted while I am surrounded by 
 God's poor and all the sorrow that is in the world ? Pardon 
 this long lecture, but I think that I am nearly happy. Victoire, 
 come home and see 1" 
 
 I have been the recipient lately of a long favor from Mrs. 
 Peacook. She informed me in a very remarkable handwriting, 
 that, as her youngest, " Victory Hope, has e'en a most grow'd 
 out of sight an' mind," she has commenced her long medi 
 tated novel, and she has no doubt that it will " bring her an 
 everlastin' fortin' !" In great detail she has recorded for me 
 all its incidents and characters, by which I learn that Miss 
 Hope is the heroine, and Miss Victory her rival. It bears 
 the not unappropriate title of "Lovely Hose, the Lady 
 of Fortin'," and when it is completed it may be purchased 
 by Mr. Bonner not as a novel in any way equal to Sylvanus 
 Oobb's, but as a literary curiosity of the nineteenth century.
 
 A Wedding in the Last Chapter. 389 
 
 Through the narrowest streets of New York, through its 
 most filthy alleys and darkest passes, these long summer days, 
 walks a young man carrying always a satchel, and often 
 looking weary and worn. Into garret and cellar, into dens 
 the most wretched, to human beings the most depraved, this 
 young man penetrates ; but wherever he goes I think that he 
 carries with him something of light and cheer. In homely lan 
 guage, but with a directness, kindness, and sincerity which 
 command their attention, he talks to them of a better life ; tells 
 them how they may become sober, honest, and happy. He 
 does more ; he oifers to assist them, to show them how they 
 may become industrious and earn a reputable living ; he does 
 still more he takes these neglected little ones of these dark 
 abodes by the hand and leads them forth to the soft-eyed 
 women who will wash their sad little faces, cover them with 
 whole garments, and teach them day after day in the Mission- 
 schools. 
 
 From his plain dress and bearing, he is one whom (had she 
 never seen him before) Kate Murphy would declare was " no 
 gran' gintleman," and his face is by no means handsome. 
 Still I like it exceedingly. I like the manly forehead, the 
 clear frank eyes with the shadow of sadness in them, the 
 earnest air and look of sincerity which radiates from every 
 feature. Yes, I like this face, and have a most sincere regard 
 for its owner. This young city missionary is George Wash 
 ington Peacock. I doubt if he will ever receive a call to a 
 church in Fifth Avenue. 
 
 There are other and fitter " calls" for George Washington. 
 In the lonely villages of the frontier ; on the endless prairies 
 of the great West, where houses are scattered and churches 
 rare; where the children pine for new books and Sabbath- 
 school libraries of their longingly remembered Eastern homes ; 
 where immigrants hunger for the bread of life, and lonely 
 women weep as they recall the lost privileges of their youth 
 the meeting-house, the minister, the minister's wife (though 
 perchance they found much fault with her once) ; where a 
 warm and honest heart, a simple and sincere utterance, are 
 prized more than all priestly polish, all oratorical grace there 
 George Washington Peacock, with his Bible and bag of red- 
 cheeked books, will be received as a messenger direct from 
 God. In some stark pine school-house, blistering unsheltered 
 in a fierce prairie sun, or in some little log meeting-house, 
 from miles away will gather " the neighbors" men with white 
 hair, grandames leaning on their sticks ; bronzed men, bony
 
 390 
 
 Victoire. 
 
 matrons, young men, maidens, and little children, to listen 
 with eager tears to the immortal story of a loving and saving 
 Redeemer as it falls from the young missionary's lips. Or in 
 the haunts of great cities where squalor and vice abide ; amid 
 " common people" like those from whose veins he sprang ; in 
 a thousand ways and in a thousand places, can George Wash 
 ington Peacock love and labor. He no longer speaks of " Miss 
 Hope ;" long ago ago that name died from his lips. Neither 
 has he ever manifested any personal preference or attachment 
 for any other lady. Through all his mortal life, through all 
 changes of time and fortune, will Hope Avondale be en 
 shrined " all lonely in his highest thought," the being who 
 unconsciously to herself has been the angel who has wrought 
 his regeneration. 
 
 Victoire fancies that she has found the secret of happiness. 
 She has found it in cherishing the joy which she has, in ceas 
 ing to sigh for that which she has not. 
 
 She knows of no other way to struggle towards all goodness 
 and purity than to tear away the little secret shoots of evil 
 as fast as they appear before they reach the surface or blossom 
 into acts ; tearing them away with unsparing hand, that we 
 may leave space for God's light, room for the good and beau 
 tiful to grow within us. 
 
 The grandest victories are not those which history records 
 and to which all generations pay homage ; nor those the sub- 
 limest sacrifices which are emblazoned on the world's escut 
 cheon. A common life is often made not only holy but heroic. 
 The silent triumph of a single obscure soul over its own 
 error or weakness though never known or praised of men, 
 is reverenced by angels and acknowledged of God. 
 
 If growth is the end of existence, how are we to grow into 
 harmonious, perfectly developed beings ? Not by being ab 
 sorbed in a single object, not by cultivating a single faculty will 
 we become mentally and morally distorted ; but in allowing this 
 many-sided, myriad-shaded soul which God has given us to 
 develop in complete symmetrical expansion. Then the great 
 life within us will flow to beings without, and we shall never 
 ask Have we riches to spare ? never dream of merit in its 
 bounteous overflowing. Is it not God's life ? 
 
 The sun is going away from Les Delices this wondrous sum 
 mer day going away in scarlet fire down behind the firs. 
 Gorgeously rifted cloud-piles uplift their pearly peaks above 
 the mountains. The Rhone's arrowy waters dark, yet tip 
 ped with flame swiftly pierce the rocky passes, while white
 
 A Wedding in the Last Chapter. 391 
 
 sails gleam, and boatmen call upon its breast. Here on the 
 veranda I am writing my last words for you. Are you glad ? 
 I get on slowly, for I have to pause so often and look at what 
 I see before me a picture which fills eye and heart. A little 
 way off, under that spreading larch,, sits a gentleman with a 
 book in his hand, but he is not reading it. No, he is looking 
 at just what I am. This gentleman is my lover. " All man 
 kind love a lover !" All women surely do. I should find it 
 very lonesome living without one. My lover is all that I 
 desire my lover is my husband. Once his face was called 
 cold. But with that soft fire burning in his eyes, with that 
 smile of happiness playing about the mouth, who can call 
 that face cold now ? But what are we looking at ? Here on 
 the turf, chattering like a magpie, is Azalie; and here is a lit 
 tle cat flying after its tail, and a silken-eared dog bobbing his 
 nose after flies, and a sunny boy whose little life may be mea 
 sured by twelve happy moons. 
 
 A great sight, you say, to absorb a sensible man and woman. 
 
 Never mind; it suits us. The boy rolls and croons with 
 happiness, feet and hands twinkling in the golden light ; he 
 does not pull the cat's tail to the roots till she flies at him 
 with a terrible " yow," nt>r the dog's ears till he fiercely bites 
 and yelps, but it is only because we will not let him. Azalie 
 declares that she is enchanted with babies now. And certain 
 it is, I never hear a sudden scream indicating that the tender 
 ears and quivering dimples of this one scion of our house has 
 just suffered a malicious pinch. The natural conclusion would 
 be, that in the lapse of time Azalie had grown better tempered. 
 But I prefer to think that the want of pinches is all owing to 
 the fact that Master Henri Frederick Vernoid Rochelle is a 
 vastly more amiable child than Master Augustus Paul Du 
 Pont ever thought of being. 
 
 But do I see nothing in the world but this-baby ? Have I 
 forgotten art ? Oh no ; I paint pictures still, but no longer 
 childless Niobes and forsaken CEnones. I paint Cupids and 
 Cherubs, and my boy is the model my boy with his hya- 
 einthine eyes and winged Andalusian feet. 
 
 The sun is just going, the earth is all aglow. This is a 
 beautiful world ; I love to live in it. Do not you, my friend ? 
 If this world, with its clouded loveliness, is still so lovely ; if 
 this life, with its sad discipline and brief beginnings, may be 
 made so fair, what must that world be towai'ds which we 
 hasten ? What that life upon which we may enter with per 
 fected minds and purified hearts ? We may never take each
 
 39 2 Victoire. 
 
 other's hands, or look into each other's eyes below ; yet some 
 where along the ages, in the illimitable universe, beyond the 
 stars, I hope we shall meet, and recognise, and love each 
 other. 
 Good-bye, my friends ! 
 
 THE END.
 
 NEW BOOKS 
 
 And New Editions Recently Issued by 
 CAKLETON, PUBLISHER, 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 418 BROADWAY, CORNER OF LISPENARD STREET. 
 
 N.B. THIS PUBLISHER, upon receipt of the price In advance, will send any 
 of the following Books, by mail, POSTAGE FREE, to any part of the United States, 
 This convenient and very' safe mode may be adopted when the neighboring Book 
 sellers are not supplied with the desired work. State name and address in full. 
 
 Victor Hugo. 
 
 LES MISEEABLES. The only unabridged English translation of 
 "the grandest and best Novel ever written." One large 
 octavo vol., paper covers, $1.00, . or cloth $1.50 
 
 LES MISEEABLES. A superior edition of the same Novel, in five 
 octavo vols. "Famine," "Cosette," " Marius," "St. 
 Denis," and "Valjean." . . Cloth, each vol., $1.00 
 
 THE LIFE OF VICTOE HUGO. (Understood to be an Autobio 
 graphy.) " As charming and interesting as a Novel." 
 
 octavo, cloth $1.50 
 
 By the Author of " Rutledge." 
 
 RUTLEDGE. A deeply interesting novel. izmo. cloth, $1.50 
 
 THE SUTHEBLAND8. do. . . do. $1.50 
 
 FEANK WASHINGTON. do. . . do. $1.50 
 
 LOUIE'S LAST TEEM AT ST. MAEY'S. . . do. $1.50 
 
 A NEW NOVEL. In press. 
 
 Hand-Books of Good Society. 
 
 THE HABITS OF GOOD SOCIETY; with Thoughts, Hints, and 
 Anecdotes, concerning nice points of taste, good manners, 
 and the art of making oneself agreeable. Reprinted from 
 the London Edition. The best and most entertaining work 
 of the kind ever published. . . I2mo. cloth, $1.50 
 
 THE AET OP CONVERSATION.- With directions for self-culture. 
 A sensible and instructive work, that ought to be in the 
 hands of every one who wishes to be either an agreeable 
 talker or listener. . . . izmo. cloth, $1.50
 
 AA^ Ar V V