Vanquished
page: [View Page ] page: 0 (TitlePage) [View Page 0 (TitlePage) ] VANQUISHED. AGNES LEONARD. SHE lifted her byes to his face, and the exquisite tenderness of tears answered himm All sorrow was Vanquished. The unspeakable joy of love was Victor. NEW YORK: Wa. CARLETON , pO., PUBLISHERS. LONDON : S. LOW, SON & CO. MDCocr Xvn. page: 0[View Page 0] Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1867; by G. W. CARLETON & CO., In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern i District of New York. THE MEMORY OF DR. OLIVER LANGDON LEONARD , FORMERLY OF LOUISVILLE, KY., WHO DIED MARCH 31st, 1864, THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED, IN TOKEN OF THE ADMIRA- TION FOR HS GENIUS, GRATITUDE FOR HIS U - - NSEE PATEAI CARE AND DE- VOTION, AND LOVE FOR HIS NOBLENESS OF HEART, FEINT BY IS AFFECTIONATE DAUGHTER, THE AUTHORESS. page: 0 (Table of Contents) [View Page 0 (Table of Contents) ] CONTENTS. CHAPTER AGE I. HERSCHEL BAGSHAW-HS WAYS .......... . ................. 9 II. THE SUBJECT OF CONJECTURE .................... ............... ............. 13 "I. A HGHLY RESPECTABLE APPLE PIE................................ 15 IV." WOARETHE ENTS " ................................... 22 V. VICTOR AND VANQUISHED .......................................... 30 VI. A SOCIAL EVENING .................................... 46 VII. 4, THE MAN FOR THE OCCASION." ................................... 51 VIII. PRO AND CON ................... .... ......................... 6 IX. KENTS AT HOME ................................................ 61 X. A WEDDING ANNIVERSARY....................................... 71 XI. ROMANCE AND REALIY . ...................... 79 XII. NEW RESOLUTIONS ............................ . 92 XIII. BERNICE KENT'S PLANS ................... ............... ..... 97 XIV. AN HOUR OF RESERVE .......................... 102 XV. A WOMAN OF A THOUSAND .. ............ .................... 106 XVI. "I DO NOT LIKE YOU, DR. FELL.' ...... ......................... 113 XVII. "DANDY LYONS." .......... ...................................... 116 XVIII. LOVES POOR RELATION ........................................... 123 XIX. MRS. MURDLAIN'S DISCOVERY ..................................... 128 XX NEW ERA. . ........ ................. 134 XXIII, THE SPIDER AND THE FLY ....................................... 146 XXIV. TiEa MSER ABLE FLY ............................................. 151 XXV. BERNICE VISITS THE BAGSHAWS. .................................... 165 XXVI. OLLAPODRIDA..... 161 XXVII HOME WHEREV'ER THE HEARTIS ....................... 168 XXVIII WOF THE KENTS KENTISH ........................................... 173 X XXIX ATTHE PHLHARMONIC ........................................ . 178 XXX. MSS FANNIE BRAINARD .................... ....................... 187 XXI. 'CONCERNING "OUB BEST PEOPLE. .................................. 197 XXXII. ASURPRISE ...... ........................................ ........ 221 page: viii-9[View Page viii-9] Vm CONTENTTS. CHAPTER PAGE XXXII. UN BALLO IN MASCHERA .......... ........... ....................... 227 XXXIV. SOCIAL RAPTURES .......... ......................... ............. 240 i XXXV. OPERA OF NORMA .................................................. 257 XXXVL REPENTANCE PROMSING REFORMATION ............................ 267 -. XXXvnI. MR. BAGSHAW'S HANDS .............................. 279 ,: XXXVIII. DR. KENT'S COMPENSATION ......... ............................... 284 : XXXIX. GODIS PROMSE FULFILLED......... .. ............................. 290 $ XL. PRECEPT AND PRACTICE ...... .......... 297 297 XLI. THE REALITY OFSUFFERING.................................,....... S2 : I XLII. A DRIVE AND HOME AGAIN ......................................... 310 XLIII L "PERFE(rILY SHAMEFUL!"7 ....................................... 318 XITV. MRS. BAINARD'S ETHCS ......................................... 325 XLV. SELFISHNESS AND SUFFERING .................................... 331 . XLVL DR. RASHTON'S EXPERIMENT ..... ................................ 338 -, XLVIL THE GREATEST OF ALL CRIMES ...................................... 39 : XLVIII. NOTHNG MORE PRECIOUS THAN LOVE .... ....................... 356 . XTIXTX. LOVERS YOUNG DREAM.. .. . ......... - .. ............ ......... 364 .- L. SABBATIS ...............................0 ::0 " A MOTHER'S SOLICITUDE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES ........... 378 ;,: AIL FNALEs ............ 385 .i"' VANQUISHED. CHAPTER I. HERSCHEL BAGSHAW-HS WAY. WHETHER the maternal predecessor of Herschel Bagshaw chose her offspring's Christian name with a view of thus increasing his importance, I am not authentically informed. I shall content myself, therefore, with the remark that if the mother had thus intended, and' had given her son indubitable proof that she had succeeded beyond her most sanguine expectations, that gen- tleman could not have entertained a higher opinion of himself, as an individual, than he did entertain. According to his solemn convictions, Mr. Herschel Bag- shaw was a man of a thousand. A man whose obscurity he explained to himself, upon the hypothesis of having had few educational or social advantages; and also upon the hy- pothesis that "the world knows nothing of its greatest men." And indeed, the world outside of Snubbleton, the village where Bagshaw resided, knew very little of Mr. Herschel Bagshaw, and was actually so obtuse as to care less than it lknew. He might have led a very quiet life, if he had chosen, or at least quiet when compared to the one he did lead; but Mr. H. Bagshaw had an inquiring turn of mind, so very in- 9 page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] 10 HERSCHEL BAGSHAW. quiring indeed that his idea of happiness was, unravelling a mystery; and his idea of misery was knowing that there was a mystery to unravel, ana nct being able to unravel it. Con- sequently he endured a vast deal of labor in the endeavor to find out that which did not ir, the least concern him, and could not, under any combination of circumstances, be of the smallest benefit to him. To do him justice, however, he did not pursue the vocation of Paul Pry with any expectation of deriving benefit there- from; but followed it simply as a mental recreation from the more sober duties of life. Said sober duties, however, dwindled into insignificance when compared with his more laborious social duties of superintending his neighbors' affairs, and keeping himself thoroughly informed regarding them. The arrival of the daily stage in the village was a source of much mental activity to Bagshaw, and caused him to en- dure untold agonies of speculation concerning the history, destination and intentions of the strange passengers he saw daily in the stage, as that vehicle stopped to change horses and leave the mail. There were many things he never found out. Worry and question and stare and speculate as he might, strangers would stop at Snubbleton, get their dinners, buy cigars, and then leave remorselessly without informing him of their des- tination and intentions. So, though H. Bagshaw, Esq., had no troublesome lawsuits to manage, nor popular opponent in Congress to defeat, nor in fact any legitimate worry, he was as busy and as harassed as if the national debt had rested on his shoulders, and the penalty of his failing to discharge it were to be the forfeiture of his valuable life. Early and late he toiled at his vocation, yet the market was exceedingly dull. Everybody who considered himself superior to his neighbors had been talked about, and, meta- phorically, picked to pieces. HERSCHEL BAGSHAW. 1 Everybody -who did not consider himself superior to his neighbors had been talked about, and cause shown why he should not so consider himself. Everybody who had lost or made anything farming, or otherwise, in Snubbleton vicinity, had been discussed, and Mr. Hersehel Bagshaw was rapidly falling into an apathetic despair, induced by the appalling conviction that there was "nothing new under the sun," when a fresh subject for agonized conjecture came up in the stage one morning, in the form of a man apparently in delicate health, who put up at the village tavern, bag and baggage, as if for a protracted stay. "Any news to-day?"Mrs. Bagshaw asked, as herhusband sat down to the dinner-table with an expression of import- ance that to her conjugal eyes indicated that there was news. To do Mrs. Bagshaw justice, she was not so afflicted with curiosity as her liege-lord was; but having grown accustomed to listening to his daily report of village gossip, she was dis- posed to humor him, by manifesting an interest in his avo- cation, when she was not particularly worried. It happened that she was not particularly worried on this occasion, and so, as she handed him a cup of tea, asked for the news with something more than an ordinary interest, engendered by his excited manner. "There is news," returned M-r. Bagshaw, setting down his cup of tea with an air at once emotional and mysterious. "There is news," he repeated, compressing his lips as if fearful that a revelation would burst out without his consent, and before the proper amount of anxiety had been displayed by his family. Mrs. Bagshaw knew his " tricks and his manners" (as little Jenny Wren would say,) and said quite composedly to her youngest, who was staring unfeignedly at her father, "Eat along, Emmy!" Mr. Bagshaw considered this indifference on the part of page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] 12 HERSoHEL BA0SHAW. ; Mrs. Bagshaw as a domestic outrage, to be avenged by scald- ing himself with hot tea, that he was too indignant to allow to cool before pouring it down his injured throat. Mrs. Bagshaw cooled her tea, drank it complacently, and then asked composedly, "Well, what is the news?" This composure, this more than mortal indifference to Mr. Bagshaw's revelation was exasperating, and he replied, testily : "Oh, nothing, I suppose, that you'd care to hear." It was a remarkable instance of conjugal devotion with the Bagshaws, that the husband and wife rarely exactly agreed. Consequently no sooner did Mr. Bagshaw suppose that Mrs. Bagshaw would, not care to hear the news, than that lady became equally certain that she did care. (This perverseness on the. part of married people is of course a very rare thing in real life; the reader, therefore, must impute the foregoing to the extravagance of a novelist.) Bagshaw understood his advantage, and with his scalded throat yet unforgotten and unavenged, pursued that advan- tage until Mrs. Bagshaw, losing all patience, delivered another peremptory "Eat along, Emmy," and then addressed va- cancy to the effect that "Mr. Bagshaw always did make something of nothing. Mr. Bagshaw always did deal in mysteries, and pretend to know more than he did know." Bagshaw winced at this, flourished his napkin as if it were a flag of truce; and was so utterly vanquished, when Mrs. Bagshaw remarked further, to vacancy, that she was a fool for ever allowing her curiosity to be excited at anything Bagshaw could say, that he surrendered at discretion, and informed her of the stranger's arrival. aI THE SUBJECT OF CONJECTURE. 13 CHAPTER II. THE SUBJECT OF CONJECTURE. THE stranger was registered at the village tavern as B. Rashton, resident of a neighboring city. He kept his room for the first few days after his arrival and was evidently in delicate health. Apart from his pallor and nervous debility, he gave indi- cations of being, at his best, a man of great physical endur- ance as well as mental determination. "All I need is quiet for a few weeks. I don't want any medicine. My nervous system is prostrated, and I need rest," was his explanation to the officious landlord, who wanted to know if his lodger would like to have a good phy- sician recommended to him. His manner was so repellant, and his remarks so conclu- sive, that the landlord found himself gravitating doorward aid as if he were being drawn out of the room against his will, and before he had completed his real errand of learning particulars concerning his lodger. The landlord realized his position; reflected that he was leaving without collecting anything wherewith to regale the hungry newsmongers below, and lionize himself in the tavern bar-room; neverthe- less there was something imperative in the stranger's man- ner; and the landlord, after revolving about Rashton in a circuitous route out of the room, finally left, banging the door after him, which Rashton immediately locked. "Confound that fellow's impertinence," muttered Rashton savagely, grinding his teeth, "I have been sufficiently har- assed. My nerves are as badly unstrung as a woman's. I need rest, and I won't allow him or any one else to annoy me." He threw himself on the bed as if exhausted, and lay quite still for some moments, with his hand pressed close over his temples, as if to force their throbbing into quiet. page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] " THE SUBJECT OF CONJECTURE. Physically he was of the type Napoleonic. So broad- chested and compactly organized as to seem at first glance larger than he really was. His eyes had a fevered brightness, as if they reflected fiercest flames of passion half stifled. Stifled lest, revealing their full power, they should, Jupiter-like, consume any pre- sumptuous Semele of a beholder. His mouth. with its best expression, was exquisitely formed, and capable of untold tenderness; contradicting the eyes as Love might contradict Pride. The mouth was this at its ; best. At present, however, its womanly beauty is hidden by a heavy moustache, and something like a sneer, something like defiant pain is disfiguring it, and making it cold and cruel and pitiless. "Confound it!" he exclaimed, at length, sitting bolt up- right in bed, and glaring vexatiously about the room, "I shall never get well if I don't quit thinking. This cursed thing is dri'ving me out of my mind. I must get rid of it. -I must do something to distract my attention." He got up and walked the room, with nervous, impatient strides, breaking the silence at irregular intervals with such exclamations as "Fool!" "Idiot!" "Curse it! Hadn't I : every reason to be driven to desperation?" Then he sneered as if some one replied to him and annoyed him with the reply. Then he stopped suddenly, stamped his foot imperiously, and muttered through his clenched teeth, "I won't be annoyed by this thing! I've a right ,to :- some degree of satisfaction, and, by the Furies, I mean to 1 have it!" X His gesture was full of passionate pain, and his whole . bearing expressed defiance. "I understand the game of life," he muttered again, as if : : pressing his foot upon the neck of a fallen foe; "I under- ; stand it perfectly. There is no middle ground, no idle spec- tator's foothold. It is a fierce struggle, a desperate contest, and one must be either Victor or Vanquished. I understand aft A HGHLY RESPECTABLE APPLE PIE. 15 the proposition, a clear case, Victor or Vanquished; we shall see." By this time he was quite exhausted; and panting as if he had just closed a long, desperate struggle, he dropped once more upon the bed, putting a sneer under his mous- tache as if it was something bitter he took to keep up his strength. It was evident that the man had been in " the thickest of the fight," somewhere. Had struggled fiercely in some un- equal contest, and as he lay there, pallid and gasping, with fierce, untamed eyes, and cold, trembling fingers, it was quite apparent that the physical suffered, though only the mental had struggled. The nervous, shivering hands were Womanly in their weak- ness, and, as they pressed his beating forehead and lingered a moment over his hot eyelids, seemed to deprecate their own inefficiency, and to drop away abashed and humiliated by the pallid scorn of the fiercely resolute face. 'He had said he understood the game of life, yet it had evidently been no mere game with him, but a terrible battle in which blood had been drawn, and from which he had come with an untamed spirit temporarily conquered, yet burning for another and a fiercer struggle. There was such a mingling of pain and rage and defiance in his face, that the most superficial observer could have de- cided that thus far in the contest of life he had been Van- quished. CHAPTER mI. A HGHLY RESPECTABLE APPLE PIE. THE Bonnivets were highly respectable people living in a very respectable house, in the respectable village of Snubbleton. page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] 16 A HGHLY RESPECTABLE APPLE PIE. Before marriage Mr. Bonnivet had followed school- keeping, and in that highly respectable calling had contracted a matrimonial alliance with a very respectable young lady. After which, he bought a farm in the outskirts of Snubbleton, and gave himself up to the respectable occupation of farming. Education with Mr. Bonnivet meant simply an ability to "keep school," and earn money thereby; therefore as none of his children would be obliged to keep school, he did not consider profundity of knowledge essential. To be able to read and write was all that he required, educationally, of the young Bonnivets. Snubbletron had known Mr. Bonnivet for many years. Had known him for a prudent, reticent, industrious, church-going, "well-to-do" farmer, bringing up his children, as he said, "to habits of business, and in the fear and admonition of the Lord." Miss Lelia Bonnivet made her own bonnets, cut her own : dresses, sang in the choir at church, had a smooth straw- berry-and-cream complexion, that bid cosmetics defiance, and was in every other respect the admiration of the village beaux: consequently the envy of the village belles. ; George Bonnivet, Miss Lelia's brother, was a mild, inof- fensive young man, who sustained the dignity of being only son and heir to the house of Bonnivet, with a well-disposed air of intending to injure no one. Indeed, his whole bear- ing wore a touch of the apologetic, as if he were always about to say : "Don't let me disturb you, sir ;" or, "I beg your pardon, miss, (or madam;) I hope I am not in your way." In short, he was just the kind of man to be wooed and . -: won by a virago; to be cajoled and endearingly forced into ? matrimony, preparatory to prolonged tortures of hen-peck- r"i ing; the kind of man that a certain class of women prey - ^ upon remorselessly,. tormenting the poor fellow to death, and then bestowing any amount of posthumous praise upon i? the victim's memory, wearing their widow's weeds compla- cently, and declaring that "he was the best of mer[." -- A HGHLY RESPECTA BLE APPLE PIE. 17 As in the case of the Veneerings, "there was an innocent piece of dinner furniture that went upon easy castors," so with the Bonnivets there was an innocent piece of Sunday dinner furniture that took to coming home from church with Miss Lelia, and regarded that young lady with as much ad- miring emotion as if she had been a well-flavored apple pie. Indeed, to the mind of this piece of dinner furniture, John Meggs by name, it is not improbable that a similarity was perceptible between Miss Lelia and an apple pie. The young lady was large and voluptuous, with the clear, creamy complexion that might have suggested the beautiful brown upper-crust of the pie. Then her full, sweet, juicy lips representing the soft, pulpy mass under the crust; and her blue, girlish eyes, with just enough snap in them to suggest the corrective flavor of nutmeg, may have rendered her a suggestion of a great apple pie, yet all the more attractive to Meggs for the resemblance as being " a crea- ture not too bright and good for human nature's daily food." Whether coming in church, with her firm, elastic step, or opening her mouth in the choir, or at the dinner table after reaching home, Miss Lelia was equally the admiration of Mr. Meggs. In every movement he must have seen apple pie personified, apple pie glorified ; else why his infatuation? Could he have regarded anything more rapturously than apple pie? Could he have regarded anything more raptur- ously than Miss Lelia Bonnivet? Corollary: Mr. John Meggs detected a similarity between the two. Apple pie of the house of Bonni-vet was not indifferent to the scion of the house of Meggs. On the contrary, she was formally betrothed to him, and going home to dinner with her every Sunday was looked upon as a conventional pro- priety, performed in a highly respectable manner by the very respectable Meggs. The Sunday after the invalid stranger's arrival im Snub- bleton he attended church, and stared at Miiss Lelia with a page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] 18 A HGHLY RESPECTABLE APPLE PIE. A HGHLY RESPECTABLE APPLE PIE. 19 persistency that John Meggs considered reprehensible in the extreme. This conviction became the more uncomfort- able on account of Miss Lelia's delighted blushes at the stranger's apparent admiration. A frown overspread the habitual placidity of Meggs's features, and his expression of annoyance, as he turned the leaves of Miss Lelia's hymn- book and glanced at the young lady's beaming countenance, plainly indicated his feelings. It was as if the apple pie were a trifle overdone. The upper crust was too much colored. He seemed to find it a little bitter. The hymn selected was "Day bf Judgment," and Meggs sang its warning as ferociously as if making especial refer- ence to Rashton, with a view of intimidating him, Miss Lelia had never rendered herself more enchanting to Meggs, in the palmiest days of their courtship, than she seemed to his distorted vision on this occasion, to be ren- dering herself to the stranger. Why couldn't she look demure and complacent, as she usually looked? Was she not the same as a married wo- man? Was she not engaged-engaged to him? Was she not as much his apple pie as if he had bought her at a bakery? Who was this stranger, this white-faced scoundrel star- ing at the choir as if looking up a long lost relative, and re- garding Miss Lelia as if she might be the long-lost relative, who would be embraced after the services were concluded? Meggs shivered at the thought! Then, noticing how pale the stranger was, ventured to indulge the hope that con- sumption, with a speedy and fatal termination, would waft the stranger to a clime where apple pie would not interfere with his devotional exercises. Meanwhile Rashton was thinking: "Bright-faced girl that blue eyed one, with red strings to her bonnet! Inno- cent looking creature! Has been brought up evidently on bread and molasses, washed down with any quantity of rich, warm milk; and the diet has made her sweet and creamy and voluptuous. Ferocious looking young man beside her. An engaged pair of simpletons, no doubt! Pah!" Rashton smiled and sneered, stole another glance at Miss Lelia, who was undergoing excessive palpitations of grati- fied vanity, on account of his attentions, and then turned to look at the minister, who rose in the pulpit to give out his text. There are, I think, in the lives of most women and men, times when, overpowered by the weariness and weakness of suffering, they hunger and thirst for something better than they have ever known ; times when " the soul feels her wings and longs to try them." Yearns with a vague unrest all unconscious that the yearning is born of the Immortal that is restless until it finds rest in the Infinite. "He made our souls for Himself, and they are restless until they find rest in Him." This feeling, vague and undefined it is true, yet neverthe- less genuine, actuated Rashton to leave his close, dreary room at the hotel and join the village church-goers. Hoe was a stranger in a strange land, and his longing, if he had understood it, was for the fellowship of God's people. The emotion, however, wasembryotic, and unfortunately there was nothing in the sermon to develop it. No beautiful assur- ances of God's love and mercy to the children of men. No giant intellect convincing the reason with the majesty of its truth and the sublimity of its faith. No strong heart sway- ing the multitude with its life-breathing pulsations of love and gratitude to the Giver of all good. The minister was weak. His speech was labored. It was intellectually a banquet of husks. A seraph might well have shrunk from the a dful responsi- bility resting upon this village-preacher, yet there he stood, filled with shallow complacency, uttering platitudes that had in them neither the wisdom of man nor the grace of God. A few stereotyped sentences, an attempt at making a dis- page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] 20 A HGHLY RESPECTABLE APPLE PIE. play of Christian humility; long-winded prayers with vain repetitions, and a leathery exhortation by way of conclusion, summed up the services of the morning. Truly has it been said that "fools rush in where angels fear to tread." An angel might well have trembled with the thought of how much good or harm might be accomplished by the man- ner of interpreting the religion of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ; yet this man-this village preacher-had no such reflections. With stupid relentlessness his air and manner translated religion as a shallow, unsatisfactory, un- interesting parcel of nonsense, possessing neither good for the mind nor warmth for the heart. Rashton turned away his head in disgust. He had thought there might be something in religion. It is true the feeling had been a vague surmise rather than an actual belief; yet a judicious sermon had strengthened and encouraged it. As it was, it died. After this Rashton's sneer intensified, as if it were a double portion of something bitter he took to strengthen himself, a moral anodyne administered from the ? necessity of the case. "What a farce religion is! what a farce love is, and what a farce life is!" he said to himself, while a sudden flame of rage and pain darted from his eyes, like a half-quenched fire I bursting out with sudden vehemence in an unlooked for quarter. Miss Lelia Bonnivet noted the look, and, in perfect accord- ance with her severely practical nature, supposed it meant a pain in the stranger's stomach or a cramp in his back, and her plump hands nestled closer together in their tight little gloves with the sympathetic reflection that rubbing the back was sometimes good for a cramp. Then she blushed so vio- lently that such a thought should have crossed her mind in relation to the stranger, that John Meggs, noticing her - heightened color and sympathetic glances, grew more wretched than ever. Quite as wretched as if he had been A HGHLY RESPECTABLE APPLE PIE. 21 the miserable prey to a ravenous appetite, and had nothing for dinner but an apple pie burnt to a cinder. All men have a standard of perfection as well as of enjoy- ment. According to the amount of intellect and culture possessed by them will their standard be elevated or other- wise. John Meggs's standard of perfection was that which min- istered most satisfactorily to the senses. His standard therefore may safely be said to have been apple-pie; and his conception of enjoyment devouring that toothsome edible. He suffered at the prospect of losing Miss Bonnivet as he would have suffered at the prospect of losing his dinner or any other creature comfort. Miss Bonnivet enjoyed the stranger's apparent admiration as a child would have enjoyed a new toy. Not that she recognized any particular difference between Rashton and M eggs; not that Meggs had failed to satisfy every demand of her nature; not that Rashton's nature seemed to promise more than Meggs's, did Miss Bonnivet smile so graciously upon Rashton, but simply that the young lady was fond of variety. Men and brethren, I should be sorry to shake ever so lightly your faith in the gentler sex,-sorry to disturb ever so temporarily your comfortable egotisms; nevertheless, I am persuaded that, if the truth were known, your triumphs over less fortunate (?) rivals are due, in nine cases out of ten, more to, feminine love of variety than to the lady's rec- ognition of your superiority. You may be infinitely supe- rior to your rival, yet there are ten chances to one that the "fayre ladye," weary of the old love, puts on the new, even though she recognizes in the new no other advantage over the old than that it is a change. I deprecate your indignation, ladies, and your incredulity, gentlemen, by the trite observation that "There are excep- tions to all rules." page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] 22 "WHO ARE THE KENTS?" If you have an experience in this direction, consider your case, if you choose, an exception to the rule. CHAPTER IV. I^ ^ccWHO ARE THE KENTS?" I R: . iHORACE KENT," was the name on the door- plate of a brick house in- Square. There was G nothing pretentious about this establishment. The door-plate was the plainest of plain silver door-plates, and the name was engraved on it without a single flour- H: ish in the letters, or a single ornament above or below. The engraver had either a private understanding with Dr. ; Kent concerning this absence of unnecessary ornament, or understood the character of the owner and made the door- plate in accordance. There was an air about the exterior of the house of unaf- fected simplicity, comfort, gentility, yet not the slightest ostentation or pretence of being other than it was. On the contrary, it suggested a thoroughbred individual, whose At bringing up had been luxurious, but whose misfortune was fast verging towards a kind of shabby gentility, whose shabbi- ness it was too proud to resist and too upright to make a pretence of hiding. The interior of the house had an air of being under the : dispensation of half-grown children whose parents had left home for a protracted visit. For instance, if the drawing-room was in order, it was always at the expense of the dining-room. So that either apartment was invariably, to accustomed eyes, an index of the other. For example,-if the dining-room had withered bouquets tossed into it, a pan of cold soap-suds on the table, some , "WHO ARE THE KENTS?" 2 polish and an old piece of buckskin beside it, a dusting- brush on one chair, and a polishing-rag on another, that was indicative that the drawing-room had been put in order; the withered bouquets taken out, the vases washed, the furni- ture polished, and the door-plate rubbed. /' If, on the other hand, the drawing-room was a trifle un- tidy, if the piano-cover was awry, the music scattered, as if it were seed to be sown, the picture-frames dingy, and the family-portraits in a modest state of retirement behind a heavy veil of dust, the door-plate discolored, and the bou- quets drooping from old age and decay, then there would be no cold soap-suds and their concomitants in the dining- room. So with other portions of the domestic economy of the house of Kent. Something always bore the same relation to something else, that the dining-room bore to the drawing- room, and the drawing-room bore to the dining-room. It was either extremest tidiness in one quarter, and ex- tremest untidiness in another, or a moderately comfortable medium in one direction, and a moderately uncomfortable one in another, for one invariably affected the other. Dr. Kent had grown so accustomed to this state of things, and was withal so patient and indulgent, and so impressed with the idea that a woman could not be too tenderly cared for, that if he found his shirts not entirely buttonless, he wore ripped gloves, and disordered hosiery, with cheerful equanimity, feeling that to ask more at one time than a full supply of buttons, would be to ask of his spoiled, luxuriously brbught up daughters more than he had any right to expect of them. When he had done them the injury of allowing them to sew on buttons, it was not to be supposed for an instant that he would add the insult of inquiring about disordered hosiery. When he had reluctantly brought himself to the point of requesting five or ten minutes' expenditure of needle and page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] 24 "WHO ARE THE KENTS?" thread on one portion of his wardrobe, could he be so ex- acting as to require another five or ten minutes' expenditure on another portion? Not he I He was their father, and as such felt no sacrifice of self too great for their comfort. 1Mrs. Kent had died years before our introduction to the Kents, leaving three little children as her last legacy of love to her bereaved husband. She had so dreaded "somebody's being unkind or indif- ferent to our children, Horace. Forgive me, dear Horace, - but a second wife, you know, could not feel towards them as : an own mother," she would say, turning her pale, imploring face, and deep, luminous eyes upon him with a mingling of pain and love and pleading that would have influenced a harder-hearted man than Dr. Kent. So it came about that he never married again, and the life his daughters had led accounted, perhaps, for their utter want of domesticity and system. "We might as well have been brought up on a locomotive, for all the quiet we have ever had," said Bernice Kent, when ; : they moved into their house in - Square. "Well, my dear, you can have as much or as little quiet now as you like. The city is large enough for you to be as obscure or as conspicuous as you choose," returned Dr. Kent, soothingly. "I do not doubt that we shall be obscure enough, if that were all," said Bernice, discontentedly. "Why so?" asked the father, with surprise. "Oh, we haven't money," she rejoined, impatiently. "At ' school I always knew we hadn't money. At home I never forget we haven't money; and no doubt other people remem- i ber it too, and ask, ' How do the Kents live? And how can they be so extravagant on so modest a competency?"I "Bernice is always depreciating the Kents, and talking g as if money were everything. The Kents do live, and the Kents have money enough to live on, and the money is ob- tained honorably, and people don't sneer at us either. Every- "WHO ARE THE KENTS?" 25 body knows who the Kents are." Aureola Kent said this with a lofty air that was not at all in keeping with her dumpy little figure. "Stuff!" exclaimed Bernice, impatiently, as she pushed the point of her lead pencil through a hole in her gaiter. "Everybody knows who the Kents are," echoed Oswald Kent, a bright, mischievous boy in his teens, with a merry sarcasm shining in his eyes, and lurking in his dimpled chin. Bernice was in a bad humor that morning or she would have laughed at her brother's tone and gesture. ,As it was, she only pushed the pencil farther into the hole of her gaiter, and turning her curved lips towards her sister, as if thor- oughly exasperated, asked, "Who are the Kents, pray?" "The younger members are but three, two of which can always agree when they're in a fuss with the other one," re- joined Oswald, with a merry poke at his father's knee. Dr. Kent smiled, and Bernice exclaimed, with a motion as of wearing some article of clothing that chafed and restrained and discomfited her: "Do keep still, Oswald. - I want . Aureola to tell who the Kents are. She is always saying that everybody knows, or insinuating that everybody ought to know, and I want her to be explicit for once. Aureola nudged her father's foot with her plump little slipper, as if urging him to notice Bernice, yet deigned no reply. Silence seemed only to add to the girl's exasperation, and she exclaimed, excitedly, "Who are the Kents, pray? Who are they? Shabby gentility, that's what they are!" "Shabby gentility!" echoed Aureola, and then, as if over- come by Bernice's audacity, subsided into speechless indig- nation. Dr. Kent flushed, and involuntarily opened his lips as if to speak; then, reflecting that the words were only those of an excited girl, he remained silent. "Come, sister, said Oswald, with a vein of half-forgiving indignation in his voice; "if beefsteak don't agree with you, page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] 26 "WHO ARE THE KENTS?" say so. If coffee injures your digestion, acknowledge it; but don't afflict us with your biliousness and call it shabby gen- tility. It isn't shabby gentility that ails you; it is bile, and you need pills; but do call things by their right names." "Then I should call you Impertinence," retorted Bernice. "'Call me pet names, dearest,' call me Impertinence," playfully rejoined Oswald, with unabated good humor. It was impossible for Bernice to refrain from laughing, so she did laugh, and Dr. Kent laughed, as he always did when there was the least provocative. It was a way he had of keeping up appearances, and trying to make his children exhilarated instead of depressed by his presence. "Money is not everything," said Aureola, at length, with severe accent upon the first and last words. She had taken no part in the laughing, and did not notice that Bernice was being laughed into good humor. Nobody seemed inclined to take up the gauntlet, and Aureola dropped her emphasis, yet went on with unabated ardor. "Family blood and bringing up are more than money. We have always had everything other girls have had. We have been brought up luxuriously, and what dif- ference does it make if we have not three times as much as we need to spend. Nobody came of a better family than ours. Nobody can boast better bringing up, and I'd like to know what difference money makes?" Bernice had left the hole in her gaiter, kicked the ottoman from under her foot, and was so busily engaged in blacking her father's thumb-nail with her lead pencil, that her sister's tone of severe inquiry was totally lost upon her. She was thinking what a pretty hand, for a man, her father had, and wondering how he would like a hair-ring for a birthday present. Her ill humor was gone, like a cloud chased off by April sunshine, and her face was bright again with its ever going and coming radiance. "Issue your views in pamphlet form, Ola! Oratory has "VHO ARE THE RENTS? 27 no effect on Bernice, unless it is one's forte, and one under- stands it as an art," suggested Oswald, looking at Aureola, with his habitual, teasing, mirthful expression. "Oswald thinks he is so smart," said Aureola, not deigning "There! You see that!" exclaimed Oswald, with mock triumph; "I have a genius for pantomime, a face expressive. I can make Aureola know what I think just by my manner. There is no necessity for words. My ever-speaking counte- nance is enough. & "Then why don't you let enough suffice, and not talk so much?" asked Aureola, finding the subject of blood and bringing up ignored, and determined to have a discussion in some direction. "'Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself has said' "- Oswald made a full stop at "said," and a full stop in a most ridiculous attitude, intended to be theatrical. "Said what?" queried Aureola, contemptuously. "Said," repeated Oswald; "( does not that indicate that the poet recognized a necessity for something's being said; and when a man has a talent for oratory, ought he not to say something, even though he has an expressive countenance?" "How ridiculous you are, Oswald," said Bernice, as Aureola took up a magazine and straightened herself for its perusal. "Whenever she gets that Henry Clay look in her eye, Bernice," said Oswald, nudging his sister, and pointing to Aureola, who, at this, began to twist up her mouth with a puckered determination not to laugh; "there is no other way of escaping a three-volume lecture than by talking non- sense to her. She can talk Kent by the hour, but be silly and she gives up. She knows no more about that than she does about"--. Oswald paused, and looked around the room, as if to determine what it was that Aureola knew least page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] 28 "WHO AIE THE RENTS?" :; about, and then concluded, with an effort to look matter of : course, "than she does about house-keeping." Aureola made a pretence of being playful, and threw the magazine at Oswald's head. Oswald dodged the book, and said, "I never thought your arguments striking, Ola, but I did think your aim better." The Kents laughed at this, and good feeling seemed re- stored by their mirth. It was always so with Oswald Kent. He was the life and joy of the household. He might have kept a small planet of sunshine on his own account, so invariably did he succeed in dispelling the domestic clouds that gathered over the Kents. -. "Oswald, you're a dear, good boy, and you're worth a ship-load of girls," said Bernice, with sisterly pride and en- thusiasm. "Am I?" exclaimed Oswald, with a pretence of sudden animation. "Where are they?" "Where are what?" asked Bernice. "Why, the cargo of girls I'm worth. Didn't know I was so wealthy. I'll go and bring up a few. This house needs feminine labor invested in it." "Now, Oswald"-- began Bernice. "Now, Bernice"-- interrupted Oswald, coaxingly, as he stopped her mouth with a kiss. Dr. Kent rose, took his hat, and went out the street-door. It was his habit to allow his children to converse unrestrain- edly in his presence. "I could silence Bernice," he said to himself, "when shoe ; is petulant, or Aureola when she is argumentative, but it is better to let them act and talk exactly as they feel, than to make them moody and secretive, and always under restraint. I would not exchange the frankness and out-spoken petulance of Bernice for any amount of deceptive amiability. "I know my children. They hide nothing from me. Whereas, if I were continually interrupting their little dis- "WHO ARE THE EENTS? an cussions, and seeking to control their opinions, they would lead as moody and discontented lives as I led during my boyhood. My father was always denying me everything I granted, because, as he said, I could have my own way and plenty of money sometime. I looked forward to the wealth he would leave me, and said to my thwarted, baffled boy- hood, ' Wait I Manhood is just ahead.' I believed in that manhood, with its good gifts of fortune and independence. Dr. Kent walked rapidly in, as if to escape the phantom of these memories. Persistent as Fate, they went with him. Yet he was not a morbid man, not prone to nurse melancholy fancies. It was his habit to cultivate cheerfulness, yet there were times when a shadow followed him, an unforgotten pain went with him, and its name was Memory-the memory of his boyhood. Sometimes his thoughts shaped themselves in words. "A cheerless boyhood, a long, dreary, gloomily-luxurious boyhood. Luxury more intolerable than any hardship would have been with freedom added. My father was a tyrant, who regarded his children as mere slaves to his caprices. He seemed always trying to make my childhood as unpleas- ant as possible, because, as he was always saying, I'd have my own will some day, and plenty of money, when he was dead and gone. "Yet, after all, he lost the money. Died and left me a helpless, penniless, broken-spirited boy, with no trade, no education worth mentioning; nothing but my unused, wo0 manish hands, my dwarfed intellect, and my starved heart. "And as if that were not enough, as if ignorance and poverty and helplessness were not enough, there were debts of his to pay, and a younger brother and sister to support. "I have thought many times that a pleasant childhood, independent of its influence upon my character, would have changed my after life in other respects. "Let it all go, however. It is of the past. If I can make my children what I want them to be; if I can leave them page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] VICTOR OR VANQUISHED. the immutable riches of mind and heart, I shall be content. If I can make life pleasant for them while I live, perhaps whlen I am dead they will say, 'As it was this memory of our father or a fortune that we had to choose between, we are happiest with the memory.' "If I w Tere assured that they would feel thus, and live to accomplish all that I hoped to accomplish, and might have accomlplisahed, under different circumstances, I should be repaid for my exertions, and feel that in the great conlict of Life I had not been utterly vanquished." In Dr. Kellt the poor found ever a fiend; the ignorant an instructor, who, having labored lon years for an edua- tion, knew the value of it, and was not only willing but anxious to impart it to others. He had endeavored, no to be a rich man, no popular man, but simply to be a good, true man. The aim may seem a commonplace one to you, oh my reader, bu i was this man's aim. This man, who was neither ordinary, t; nor- vulgar, nor plebeian, but a gentleman, a scholar, and crowned with the royal coronet of genius. One of thoselar men "who may seem to the superficial observer to be Van- quished, but who are in every true and good work, and over every evil thought and base paupose Victor! CHAPTER V. VICTOR OR VANQUISHED. DO not be rash, Philip. e decision will shape your air) future. The battle of your life is jus beginning, Are you to be Victor or Vanquished?" The woman who spoke ad a stern, striking face. face that most person, atel lug f A c persons would pronounce peculiar. Te eyes were dark, cand so full Of penetration they seemed to VICTOR OR VANQUISHED. 31 sink fathoms deep into one's very soul. The forehead indi- cated the keenest perception, as well as the deepest reflection. The nose had the unmistakable language of energy and com- mand. The mouth indicated Secretiveness, without which no woman is properly endowed. For does not secretiveness A mean simplyv self-control, or rather is not the larger element of one comprised in the other? We bury our dead and they crumble to dust. We hide a great passion, and say to ourselves, "It is simply hidden, it is not conquered. It is buried, but the loved image is still there." Day after day we walk over the grave and turn away our eyes lest we should read the inscription on a phantom head- stone guarding the sleeper. Night after-night we dream with our faces pressing the dust- that covers our hidden. Year after year we tread the worn paths of the world's highway and woo, at the 'same time we repel the thought that we have something buried. Something whose cold horror the world wotld stare at aghast if we were to drag it forth. Something that would wring compassion from the sternest if we could make them understand our suffering. Possessed with this fancy, and yearning for sympathy, sometimes we take a kindly hand and lead its owner beside the still waters of our soul's innermost and try to tell the story. Can we tell it? Can we paint the buried image until it glows with the beauty of life and the radiance of love? I think not. Our listener hears our story as if it were a magazine story, says "Ah me! too bad! too bad!" tells a mutual friend we are " very romantic," and that is the end of it. Our tragedy may be a very good thing in its way, but after all it is only a tragedy, and the world is full of such. Pain is an old story. We realize this after a time. We page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] v"TU OR VANQUISnD. grow to nmderstand, by slow degrees, that only the incon. siderate are confidential concerning their sorrows. Only the weak have groans extorted from them by the agony of mere heart-ache. How slowly we learn this. How long, oh how long, before we can seal our lips and hide our suffering, and do our ap- pointed work cheerfully; content to find no human recogoi- tion of our courage and endurance! We do learn this how- ever. There comes a time to us, who will die fighting rather than be vanquished when we can pass the grave of our buried, in the darkest midnight of despair, without one shiver of pain, or one cowardly sigh of regret. We look away from the grave it is true, but we are not af aid. We know it is there, but we have resolved to look away from it, and we are firm. Year after year we pass it; morning noon and night, for it is right in the pathway of life, and there is no going around it. Year after year we gow to respect ourselves more highly, and trust ourselves more implicitly for the courage with which we have endured our sorrow. Year after year we wonder more and more that we have borne it so well. Year after year the grave-mound sinks lower. Our feet press upon it until it is level with the common-ground and is no longer cliffictLt to conceal. Yet we say to ourselves, '"There it is; the coffin is there the shroud is there; the same grace; the same mouth and eyes; the same hands we pressed so long ago. All there; deeply buried from human eyes."' We believe this. We say to ourselves again, and yet again; "a feeling hid- den is not conquered." We are sincere in saying so. At length we determine to look our sorrow calmly in the face. VICTOR OR VANQUISHED. 33 We shrink from it no longer; we determine to exhume it. We are anxious to test the truth of our theory, that it is unchanged. We tear away the sods. We lift up the coffin. We wrench off the coffin-lid, to look eagerly upon that which has been so long buried. For a moment we half believe we shall find nothing but a handful of dust. Common sense tells us we should expect nothing else. We close our eyes for a moment with doubt that is not pain. We open them-and oh rapture and oh agony! there is no change. It is one of those rare cases of preservation of which we sometimes read. The buried love is young and beautiful, and tantalizing and torturing as ever. We groan for the first time in years, and ask bitterly, Is this the reward of persistent effort? Is there no antidote for pain? To labor so long to forget, and after all these years to find the corpse untouched by time! Oh madness!" Then we reason that there was no use in burying it. Decay could not harm it. Tine could not conquer it. We might as well have been carrying it in our arms, and pressing it to our heart. What an absurd thing a coffin and burial! If we had found dust we could have gone away contented. We realize that the burden is ours for all coming time. That love, useless, unsatisfactory as a corpse, is yet so wooing in its matchless proportions, and so mocking in its wondrous indestructibility that we can never escape it. After the first burst of agony, the first torture of realizing that we are wedded for life to a corpse, whose cold arms must clasp and stifle us, and whose matchless beauty must thrill and torture us for all coming time, we determine to bear our burden bravely. We resolve that none of our steps shall slide while prayer can sustain us. page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] VICTOR OR VQAQUISH D. We cry, "Oh God, be pitiful!" and then, kissing the rod of our affliction, bend to receive that which is inevitable. 5We look upon the corpse with unutterable agony, and then essay to lift it in our arms, when lo! the breath of God's compassionate air falls upon our burden. "Likee as a father pitieth his children," God pities us, and our burden crumbles to dust. It is gone. We are free. Buried, it seemed indis- tructible, yet exhumed, and in the twinkling of an eye the heavens smiled over it, God breathed upon it, and it was gone. How strange! How wondrously strange! We marvel for a moment, and then, like a leper suddenly cleansed, fall on our knees in an ecstasy of thanksgiving to Him who hath loved us and healed us. We have no longer a buried love. No more a hidden sor- row. There is only a handful of dust in which daisies may grow. After this we are stronger and happier. So much stronger and happier that we must be careful lest we lack compassion for those whose corpses are not grave-dust, and who have not the courage to bury their dead. Experiences such as these record themselves on faces a well as souls. Their language is Patience, Courage, Grati- tude. The capacity for enjoyment is blunted, but so also is the capacity for suffering lessened, and they are they who do the real work of life. These are the victors, in whose path every obstacle to success is vanquished. They are they whose very presence invigorates. Whose soul-atmosphere is faith, which may be translated hope, and whose voice reaches every aspiring element of that nature capable of understanding it. Philip Arion's mother belonged to this class, and he was as much like her as it was possible for him to be without her actual experience. She had transmitted to him the qualities develdped in her- self beyond their normal power, by the force of circumstances. She had given to him organization, but she could not give experience. She seemed to chafe under the irritation ofthis last reflection, as she asked with a sternness that commanded rather than entreated, "Are you to be Victor or Van- quished?" "Victor! not only for time but for eternity," rang out the clarion voice, as if it were set to the martial melody of "To arms; to arms, ye brave!" The flashing eye, the erect form, the white fingers, cenched with unconscious firmness, and the resolute mouth had no need of words to translate their motto of "Victory or Death." The mother looked at her son with glistening eyes, that held in their shining depths affection's larger element, pride. She was proud of him. So proud that she would have taken her very heart out and have given it to him, a bleed- ing, quivering trophy, if by that means she could have ex- alted him, even though in that exaltation he had, forgotten her love anfd sacrifice. She was a proud woman, and of such it has been truly said that "there is not a feeling out of heaven her pride o'ermastereth not." The face and eye and tone of her son filled the mother with intensest admiration; yet experience is a stern teacher and the hardly-learned lesson is not easily forgotten. The woman had learned in a dear school, and the light of pride died from her face, while something pitiless as memory and imploring as love came in its stead, as she spoke. "Oh, my son, if I cold give you experience as I ha given you love--knowledge without pain-I think I could lay down my life in this hour freely as I gave yours unto you the day you were born. "You are morbid. You are blinded by the blue mists of a rugged mountain that is a great way of. You dream of climbing that mountain and revelling in those azure glories; page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] but, dreamer that you are, child that you are, can you never be made to understand that the enchantment of the scene is due only to distance? The mountain is rugged. The way is dangerous. The rocks of the ascent are jagged and cruel, and the summit, the summit, my son, is---cold as the grave." A shudder ran through the woman's friame as she finished. You talk in parables, mother,"said the son, softly. "Do not be metaphorical. Say precisely what you mean." Holmes says there are inscriptions in our hearts which, like that on Dighton Rock, are never to be seen except at dead low-tide. Mrs. Arion's spirits were at dead low-tide, and her son unconsciously made a footprint in the sand at the side of her "deepest ocean-buried inscription." He was standing, with- out being aware of it, where he might have read, if he had chosen, all of her heart that had hitherto been hidden rom him. "Say that I mean!" rejoined the mother, with her wonted energy and'sternness. "I mean simply that you propose to make a needless sacrifice. I mean that in the conflict of life you are in danger of being vanquished. What! You a minister? You, with your talents and God-given air of royalty, a meek-eyed parson? Verily, there are hewers of wood and drawers of water enough in the world, without kings descending from the thrones whereon nature hasplaced them." "Then you hold in contempt a minister's profession? You class those who give their whole lives to Godamongthe hewers of wood and drawers of water? You hold in con- tempt the memory of my dead father, who was a minister? You write vanquished on his head-stone when you forbid me to follow in his footsteps, as effectually as if you spurned his dead body with your foot." "My son, my son!" exclaimed the womwn, in a tone where command and entreaty blended. "You do not underatand. If I seem bitter, it is because I have suffered." A womanly sob smote the stillness, and touched the young man as no words could have done. He passed an arm about her waist, with an expression of infinite tenderness and compassion. "My boy, my baby boy!" she sobbed, as if appealing to love rather than reason. "If I spoke abruptly," said Philip, softly, "it was from the habit you yourself have taught me, of speaking to the point. I did not intend to be unkind. Say that you forgive me, mother, my own dear mother." "I do, my son. I do forgive you. But listen to me. I have had experience and you have not. Let us begin at the foundation of the whole thing. Let us examine our pur- poses of life. Let us determine what our aim is, and then decide upon the means by which we shall accomplish that aim." "You know my aim, mother. It is simply to do the greatest possible amount of good in the world," rejoined Philip. "Precisely my own," returned the mother. Then I shall be glad to hear your argument concerning the best means of accomplishing that end," said the son. "To accomplish a great work," she rejoined, "requires power. Therefore what we want is power. He who has most power is most capable of doing good. To place one's self in a limited sphere is to sacrifice the privilege of doing a great good for the sake of doing a less one. To be a min- ister is to be alternately patronized and fawned upon. It is in nine cases out of ten to be poor and dependent and mis- erable." Mrs. Arion paused a moment, with something like -a dry sob in her throat, as if she spoke from the bitterness of ex- perience, then she continued: "In another sphere you could win money, honor, influence. As a lawyer you could be at the very head of the profession.' "Why do you suppose I could?" asked the young man. page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] 38 VICTOR OR VANQUISHED. "Because you have the brain, my son! Thank God, you ' have an intellect such as is the best gift ever bestowed upon .. humanity. It is God-like, and means power. To have genius such as yours is to have success, is to have happiness, X is to have everything." The mother's eyes glowed like burning coals, and her cheeks were aflame with the fires of her untamed spirit. "Then if God has given me so much, how much do I owe to him! Is it not better to make every influence of my life i tend Godward than to give him simply a tithe of the pro- ceeds of his gift?" '- "Oh, my son, my son!" said the mother, sadly. "There :; are many golden apples of theory whose realization is dust and ashes. Your theory was once mine. Fair and beautiful . (, it grew upon the tree of life years ago, yet when I tried to pluck and eat, I found it unsatisfactory as Dead Sea fruit. "Your father had great energy, coupled with the strictest integrity. He was not devoid of talent, and he was no prod- igal, yet he died poor, and left us dependent, so far as for- tune was concerned. Had he chosen another sphere it would have spare/ us both years of toil and anxiety. I could have married wealth and position when I married him, but I gloried in the immolation of self on the altar I named : duty. I delighted to crucify my pride, and believed that, in - marrying your father, I was giving my body 'a living sacri- fice, holy and acceptable unto the Lord. Every aspiration was crushed in the dust of humility. I was patronized and, tortured by pious vulgarity. I was judged and condemned and harassed for trifles by canting hypocrites who demanded perfection of their minister's wife. f : "I was crushed by poverty, and exhausted by prayer-meet- ings, where the people seemed to worship God as if it were penance they endured, instead of a privilege they enjoyed. The more mental effort your father expended at such times, the more certain he was to come home with his nervous energy exhausted to an extent that made him morose and ? O; ' /I VICTOOR oVAN qsHED . 8 9 fitful and uncomfort able , u ntil nture couul receulor aes. Arion spoke b itterly an r a pidly, but the severly analyti cal min c of her son was not to b e distracted from the original basis of the argtaDent. , You speak n ow, mother ," saidhe, "Of the inconveniences -tten l?oinaiiste r' s life. I do n ot dispute then . But the uesion to be debated is concern the greatest am ount of g ood to be accoeplisted-?rove to e how I can do mora good tho n by promping the Gospel, and I shall hesitate not ^oeinsa0t th ,8hla"nete (i Ial your fath e gone to merchandising, returned rs made Arion, " with his industry and econom he could hav e made oyq he acc-he a ^ig^L a fortune. He could have had it in his power to feed the hungry, and educate the ignorant, whereas he acomplishac ,h outhin k then," rejoined Philip, " that my father should have been a merchant, yet you e o not want me to be a mer- c "No," returned lrs. rion, with enthusiasm; "for you " No returned MY S. Ar D Merchalndising Iwoud have genius, God's best gift, my son. erchan sing would be too tame for you. You w ere born en orator. " By your own argument then, m , ou enourae ilBypreIf tere is no danger of my being a brief- in my purpose. 1f? o ten there is no less barrister, nor a half-starve olitiian thnster If intele nct dlnger of b mybein g a poverty-striken nister. Ifinthet is success, and you say it is, then it is the man, a profession, that is responsible." "My son, my son" sobbed the mother, with a burst of conviction that was due rather to a natural reaction of feel- ing than to any force of argtunent; "you have conquered. My worldly wisdom is all vanquished. The majesty of your truth is victor." My own true mother, my blessed mother; who gave me every noble principle of my nature, I knew w un- derstand it after a time, and give me your, blessing wthout page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] 40 40 ICTOR OR VANQUISHED. which I can do nothing," returned Phiip, in a voice rendered unsteady by emotion. "I have suffered so, or I should not have opposed you from the beginning," she returned. Philip Arion pressed his mother's hand in silence. There was one sorrow that had fallen upon them that neither found courage to mention, save at rare intervals. Suffering had matured Philip AMion as years of happiness could not have done. After all, what is ace but suffering? We are old accord- ding as life's drama has been tragedy or comedy. It was this sorrow, perhaps, as well as'the tendency of the highest genius, which is goodness, that made the young man so resolute in his determination to devote his whole life to- the cause of Christianity. He whose suffering is God's chastisemen, instead of sin's concomitant, learns speedily that there is no antidote for pain, like unto the religion which is belief that God knows, compassionates, and will heal our sorrows when the divine mission of their purification shall have been accomplished "I know you have suffered, mother, my own mother," - said the young man soothin otly. "Suffered, my son! I have paid the penalty of every mistake, as if it had been willful crime. The consequence ; of my every error could not have fallen more heavily an relentlessly upon me, if they had been righteous retribution for deliberate sin. Yet I have always m eanto do right I have always acted from motives the purest and most unselfish." "I am sure of it, mother. No one could doubt a, who knows you as I do. As you have suffered more than other Women, so have you become purified more than other wolmen. You have the strength and courage that could not have been given by a less degree of suffering. If I can be such a son as such a mother deserves, I shall be satisfie, "Oh, my son, my comfort, my precious compensation, you : f GVICTOR OR VANQUISMED. 41 are truly' God's keepsake to remind me of His love.' You have all a mother could wish. Youl were fashionedd my own feeble conception of manhood, and God gives me my share of 'earthly happiness in one gift, the gift of my soan, instead of giving me many inferior gifts as he has given other women in lesser blessings." "Even His chastisements have been benedictions, for their mission has been such as only love could dictate and wisdom contrive," said Philip earnestly. "Yes," rejoined the mother, "I can recognize the good accomplished by almost every sorrow of my life. The author of Philip VanA rteveld, you remember, says, pain and grief, no less than joy, are transitory things, yet though they do leave us, they leave us not the men we were.' And they leave us not the ,women we were. My first great sorrow transformed me from a passionate, ardent, extravagant wo- man, into one so much colder and sterner that I scarcely knew myself." "And that sorrow?" queried Philip. "It seems unworthy of mention now. The simple, oft- told story of unrequited passion." "Unrequited passion!" exclaimed the young man, as if doubting the evidence of his own ears; " you, mother? a wosman of your beauty and intellect, to be the victim of unrequited passion? I cannot credit it." "Nevertheless it is true. I was ardent, impulsive, not sufficiently cautious and self-controlled. I defeated my own plans by the very excess of my desire. A woman in love, is a woman out of her mind. She is capricious and un- governed and unsatisfactory. She has more whims than all April day. Her pride is always at war with her love, and prompts her to a thousand absurdities that estrange her lover, and make her miserable. The majority of men lack the brain to understand this, and take a woman to task as severely for the acts committed during love's insanity as if she were in her right mind. page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] 42 VICTOR OR VANQUISHED. "Her very love prompts her to counterfeit coldness, that her lover may not know how completely he is master and she is slave. The very intensity of her devotion renders her- exacting and easily piqued. In short she-is a maniac, yAe : denied the consideration extended to a maniac; inasmuch as she is held to as strict an accountability as if she were a responsible person. The lover is stupid as passion and manhood can make a human being "- Philip playfully placed his hand over Mrs. Arion's mouth and said, "You are not to be satirical concerning a sex to which your son belongs. Your contempt for man amounts almost to a mania." "What a pity I ever married. The discerning world could explain my contempt in that case so easilv and natu- rally. It understands the wonderful theory of sour grapes so well. 'Nature's journeymen,' as Shakespeare denominates some inferior power, have been very busy, in this world of ours, manufacturing imperfect specimens of humanity." "But the story, mother, let's have it," said Philip with a smile. "It can be told in very few words," rejoined Mrs. Arion. "We quarrelled and separated. For years I bore the burden of that love and that sorrow. I was tortured by a devotion infinite as I believed it imperishable. I buried it fathoms deep. I believed that time would conquer it. My quondan lover married, and pride had new reason for crushing my heart into silence. I was brave as a Spartan. I met that man face to face. I was even strong enough to undertake , the farce of a friendship. I was so indifferent as to deceive for a time even him who should have known me best. 'j! "His wife died after a brief married life, and then my 2 buried love clamored more fiercely than ever. He gave no 'i evidence of returning the feeling he had inspired. t? "It has always been a pet theory of mine, that if a proud woman will sting her pride to action by humbling herself, she can make that pride conquer any feeling she chooses. VICTOR OR VANQUISHED. 43 "Desperate diseases require desperate remedies, we are told. I resolved to confess my feeling to the man so soon as I found suitable opportunity. I would' stoop to conquer.' "When he proposed friendship, I lifted the corpse of my love from its grave, to show him that in all the years of its burial, it had never changed. In other words, I told him that I could not accept his friendship, that I preferred oblivion; that his presence had tortured me for years and I could endure it no longer." Philip Arion pressed his mother's hand sympathetically. He could understand how great the humiliation of such a confession must have been, for so proud a woman. "What did the man say?" asked Philip. Mrs. Arion gave a. short contemptuous laugh, expressing everything disdainful as she replied, ' Oh, he said he had been fearing as much for a long time, and had been doing everything in his power to ward off too much devotion on my part." "Very modest and chivalrous on his part, not to mention liberality," rejoined Philip, ironically. "You have read, my son," the mother continued, "in- stances of where dead bodies have been exhumed, after years of burial, and have presented every feature unaffected by decay; yet upon being exposed to the air crumble to dust almost instantaneously. So it was with my feeling; no sooner had I uttered it than it was gone. It had lain in my heart unaltered and seemingly unalterable for years, yet it crumbled to dust in a moment, and when the man would have taken my hand with shallow sympathy, I could have crushed him to atoms with my scorn. He appeared so immeasurably my inferior, that I seemed to have uttered an unpardonable falsehood in saying that I had ever cared for him." "Did you hate him, mother?" "No; I simply scorned him for the moment, and after that the place where there had been an epitaph in my page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] " VICTOR OR VANQUISHED. . heart was blank. He dropped out of my life, and it seemed a dream that I ever knew him. "Yet at one time I suffered on his account, and was strengthened and purified, and changed by that suffering. "Love, with me, became not a passion, but a principle. a No longer a cataract, benefiting no one, but a broad river, bearing ships of purpose and kissing shores of fruitfulness. I recognize the benefit of that suffering, I can recognize the benefit of every sorrow, Philip, except one"- "And that is the last one," he half asserted, half interro- gatively. "And that is the last one," she rejoined. "It was more terrible than all the years of unrequited passion, all the years of grinding poverty, all the bereavement of your father's death, everything else, Philip that ever tortured and crushed me." "I know, mother. It was most terrible, yet sometime, perhaps, you will recognize the benefit of even that sorrow," rejoined the young man, soothingly. "If the child had been a boy," said Mrs. Arion at length, as if rousing herself from a reverie, "I could have consented to bring it up, poor as we were, but I know too well what it is to be a woman without wealth. Whatever natural affec- tion I sacrificed in giving her up to strangers, I am compen- sated for by the reflection that she will have wealth and the advantages of society." ; "What are the advantages of society?" asked Philip, bit- ; terly. "To a woman, blunted sensibilities. Too much heart is a I woman's greatest curse. The heart grows, and the affec- tions expand in solitude. "Society curbs, restrains, and sneers this excess of feel- ing to silence. I "The shallowest flirt is happier than the true woman, who has more heart than is ever satisfied. "Let the girl's heart be deadened by frivolity. So thai VICTOR OR VANQUISHED. 45 her intellect is cultivated and her morality preserved, she requires nothing more." "But does society preserve a woman's morality? Is it calculated to make her the pure, spotless being she should be?" asked Piilip. , Whatever society may or may not do, a woman has al- ways her pride and her conscience to protect her." -"Society may cripple pride by blunting conscience," re- joined Philip. "It may; yet the hedge of public opinion is between every woman and the precipice of destruction, and so long as her heart is not over-warm, she is safe. There are uses as well as abuses of society, and I want the girl to have all the ad- vantages that were denied our poor darling"-- The woman's face whitened,' and Philip could only clasp her in his arms and whisper, "We are happier not to speak of this, mother. The past cannot be recalled. Let us for- get it, since remembrance brings no pleasure." A "But it was my fault. Poverty had been stinging me until the pain had rendered me mad. I was a mad woman. Will God hold me accountable?"She turned almost fierce- ly, as she loosened herself from Philip's clasp. "No, mother, no! He is a merciful God, and has com- passion commensurate with His infinitude. Cast your bur- den at His feet, and leave it there." "I will, I will, my son, for when I look upon it, the strug- gle of my life seems vain, all vain. The toil of years, tile triumphs of principle over passion, the sacrifices and the unequal contests seem vain, vain, vainer than life, and I can only cover my mouth with my lhand and put my mouth in the dust, while I cry out in the utter anguish of soul, van- quished! oh my God, vanquished l" k- 1; page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] A SOCIAL EVENING. CHAPTER VI. A SOCIAL EVENING. . RASHTON having been introduced to Miss Lela Bonnivet, and having met the young lady twice, concludes to spend a social evening at the house of Bonnivet. "Not that bread and butter is particularly entertaining," he says to himself, putting the wonted bitter anodyne under his moustache, "but I must pass my time away somehow. [ shall never recover my health while my spirits are so depressed." Then he walks on with that determined stride, as if every 3tep grinds and presses something into the earth. "Confound the infernal thing! It shall not conquer me. will escape this hell of thought!" The tone in which he utters these words is quite in keep- ng with the resolute face and the firm tread. i Reaching the Bonnivet domicil, he clutches the bell with n eager, nervous motion, as if it were trying to dodge Lm, and sends a sharp, sudden, tinkling echo through the ront hall and into the parlor, with a violence that causes liss Lelia to look at Mr. Meggs, and Mr. Meggs to look at tiss Lelia with startled, inquiry, and then as some one is eard opening the front door, to move their respective hairs farther from each other, and endeavor to assume an i, spression of composure, not at all in keeping with the vio- nt palpitations they are undergoing on account of having narrowly escaped being caught seated in so loving a roximity. They do not separate a moment too soon, for Miss Lelia still engaged in smoothing, with her hand, the side of her ad, that John insisted should rest one moment against his oulder, when the stranger is ushered in. "Good evening, Miss Bonnivet." X k A SOCIAL EVENING. 47 "Good evening," the young lady replies, with a sharp, cheery, social accent that the stranger finds bracing as a cool morning breeze. "How do you do, Mr. Meggs?" "How do you do yourself?" rejoined Meggs, with an air of saying, "You're another," to some one who had called him a fool. The stranger draws the side of his under lip between his teeth, and regards Meggs as if the young man were a full length illustration in a comic almanac. Delightful weather for the season, Miss Bonnivet," says the stranger, taking his eyes from the full length illustra- tion, and fastening them upon the young lady. "Yes; I thought it was going to rain awhile before night," returns the young person, feeling the necessity of saying something, and evidently considering the remark exceedingly appropriate. "For my part I should prefer the weather as it is now to any amount of tempestuous grandeur in the way of thunder storms," rejoins Rashton, smiling to himself, and wondering if she knows the popular cant, among the certain class of women, about " the magnificence of a tempest," etc. "Yes," replies Miss Bonnivet, "I don't- like rainy weather." The complacent expression of the young person's coun- tenance at this juncture is indicative of entire satisfaction concerning the brilliancy of her remark. "Nor I," returned Rashton. "I am so fond of walking, that I enjoy clear, pleasant evenings like this, exceedingly." Miss Bonnivet is about to say, "Yes 1" very intelligently, when Mr. Meggs, evidently descrying an opening in the con- versation, gallops up to it precipitately: "Fine weather for walking, sir. Very fine weather for walking, when one likes it. Ground as dry as a bone, sky as bright as day time. Fine weather for walking, sir, very fine weather for walking." page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] 48 A SOCIAL EVENING. X Rashton turns as if the comic almanac had been thrust unexpectedly in his face, and stares at the full length illus- tration with infinite amazement. j Miss Lelia blushes, gives her hair a smoothing, to be sure it tells no tales of John's shoulder, and thinks how very badly the stranger must feel to be spoken so to by John Oeggs. She breathes more freely, however, when the stranger replies, with apparent amiability, "Yes, I do en- joy walking very much when I have nothing better. It is preferable to sitting alone in one's room, but not nearly so pleasant as congenial society." . Had Mr. John Meggs felt Rashton's polished boots comrn- ing in sudden and violent contact with his physical frame, it would have been far less offensive to him than the pol- ished surface of Rashton's remark against his moral organ- ization. An angry retort, or even a sulking silence he could have endured, aye, even rejoiced in, but the thorough-bred air of amiability and polished choice of words, infuriated and baffled him. -: Rudeness, coarseness, brute-force, he could have compre- hended and combated. Refinement, gentlemanly self-pos- session and dignified amiability he knew nothing about. In a general melee of clubs and sledge-hammers he would - have been victorious. In the delicate conversational fen- cing, he was vanquished, and subsided disconsolately into a modest silence, from which Miss Lelia benevolently endea- vored to rouse him, by numberless such appeals as "What do you think of it, Mr. Meggs?" or "Don't you think so, Mr. Meggs?" At such times Rashton, too, would turn very deferentially E towards Meggs, as if it were impossible for the conversation to proceed without Meggs' opinion. Meggs, however, was little inclined to conversation, and if he managed to say "Yes " and "No," and "Perhaps so," at reasonably long intervals, he invariably sank back after ! 4 i"' A SCIAI EVENING. 49 each effort, with an air of exhaustion, as if from over-exer- tion. Somewhat as if he were "little Jack Horner, sitting in a corner," very much fatigued after an exciting game of ball, and had just come in to find some one else " eating his Christmas pie." Rashton was conversationally gifted; consequently he and Miss Lelia got on admirably. Miss Bonnivet was so de- lighted to find herself borne adown the tide of conversa- tion so easily and naturally, on her monosyllables and "Certainlys" and "Perhapses," that she thought to bring Meggs along too. But in so swift a current of conversation as Rashton managed to keep up, Meggs struggled helplessly as a lame donkey in a swollen river. Miss Lelia wondered at his awkwardness. Why couldn't he say, "Yes" and "No," and "I presume so," or "Oh, in- deed," when an opening was presented, easily and naturally as she did? She was sure she could not tell. It was too provoking for John to be so awkward and embarrassed. Miss Lelia did not reflect that poor John had nothing to encourage him; that she, with her merry, twinkling eyes -and fresh "damask cheek," (upon which nothing more de- structive than soap and water had ever "preyed,") could provoke glances of admiration that were vastly encouraging and provocative of monosyllables and appreciative exclama- tions at much shorter intervals than could be rivalled by any real or mythical Jack Horner, who had only the corner, while somebody else had the Christmas pie, that, according to tradition, belonged to him. "Do you sing,- Miss Bonnivet?" asked Rashton, at length, glancing towards an open piano across the room. "Sometimes," said Miss Bonnivet, with a toss of her head and a twinkling of her eyelids, and a little motion of her hands, that formed a not unpleasant accompaniment to speech, and made her one word more effective than fifty would have been, minus the physical attractions she brought to bear conjunectly. 3 g page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] 50 A SDCALT EVENING. - "What a lovely complexion she has!" thought Rashton, i as she brought out a fresh artillery of blushes and smiles, X when he said--"Do favor us, then," and led the way to the i piano. Miss Bonnivet had no mincing affectation of being disin- . l dined to sing; neither had she "a bad cold," nor was she ! "out of practice." On the contrary, she took up a piece of music as if it were a paper dress-pattern, opened and laid it on the piano as if fitting it on a piece of dress goods, and then began playing with the same nonchalance, as if she were cutting a dress in the family sitting-room. "How natural and charmingly unsophisticated she is," thought Rashton, as-the young lady performed rapidly and complacently. Never having heard any one excel herself, why should she be diffident? Why deprecate Rashton's praise when she felt deserving of it? Why shrink from ex- hibiting her powers, vocally and instrumentally, when they quite equalled her standard of excellence? R. B. Rashton was enchanted with the picture of fresh- ness, innocence, good humor and sterling common sense that sat confessed in Miss Lelia Bonnivet. Miss Lelia Bonnivet was sympathetically affected by the pale, sad face that seemed to plead with her benevolence, as its luminous eyes did her involuntary homage, and was not a little fascinated by the ease and grace and latent ardor that stood confessed in R. B. Rashton. As a sequence to the foregoing, that was quite percepti- ble to Mr. John Meggs, that young gentleman was by no means in so comfortable a frame of mind as he had been before the arrival of Rashton, and was beginning to en- tertain serious intentions of a discomfited departure, when Rashton thanked AMiss-Lelia, profusely, for the favor of her singing, declared himself indebted for a most delightful evening, and left Mr. Meggs to the full enjoyment of Miss Bonnivet's society. "Did you ever see any one so pale as he is?" asked Miss THE MAN FOR THE OCCASION. 51 Lelia, so soon as the stranger was out of hearing, with an effort to appear as if she had remarked nothing about the stranger except his exceeding pallor. "Cowards are always pale," muttered John Meggs, sav- ' agely. ! What has that to do with it?" laughed Miss Lelia, giv- !A ing her chair a confidential hitch Johnward, as if to assure him he need not be jealous. "He looks like a coward," said John, in a tone mollified by the position of Lelia's chair; then, looking about cau- tiously, he debated the expediency of kissing her hand, then and there, while she was giving him such a look as she had never given the stranger. "He looks as if he had been sick, I think," said the young lady, referring to Rashton, and allowing John to kiss her hand as if they were school-children, and it was a bite of her apple he was taking. From appearances it was equally satisfactory, for John Meggs's countenance gradually became placid as the result of abated hunger. Meantime the stranger was tossing feverishly on his nar- row bed at the village inn, muttering, "Why the devil was I ever born?" CHAPTER Ve. rv^1 ^ "CCTHE MAN FOR THE OCCASION." * I I:E weather is getting colder. It is nearing Christ- 9 mas, and Mr. John Meggs finding Miss Lelia Bon- 9 f' nivet becoming more and more frigid towards him, begins to understand that his apple pie is getting cold, too cold, for such weather, consequently determines to look about him, and endeavor to destroy the stranger's influence; for it is evident to his mind that winter does not affect the atmosphere more certainly than Rashton affects Miss Lelia in her demeanor towards Meggs. page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] 52 THE MAN FOR THE OCCASION. X "Bagshaw generally finds out everything concerning I everybody; I'll see what he knows about this meddlesome k- rascal," says Meggs to himself, as he approaches the Bag- A shaw residence, whose very windows look inquisitive and Ij mysterious, as if they knew a great deal, but are very desir- ous of knowing more. "Good evening, Meggs, good evening. Take a seat, sir," says Bagshaw, greeting his guest with great hospitality, and being really very glad to see Meggs, inasmuch as Mrs. Bagshaw has been very trying in her persistent refusal to have her curiosity excited about the stranger, and Bagshaw is languishing for a chat with an appreciative listener. He finds in Meggs the Man for the Occasion. He regards Meggs rapturously-wrings the young person's hand to an excruciatingly cordial extent, and only ceases the welcoming preliminaries on account of overmastering impatience for the performances to begin in which he feels himself about to be exhibited advantageously. "Well, Meggs, what is the news?"Bagshaw asks, after he has seated himself opposite his visitor, and Mrs. Bagshaw has taken out her knitting, and all things seem favorable for comfort conversationally. "None that I know of," returns Meggs, who is equally anxious to be getting on, "though I am expecting every day to hear news in a certain direction." Bagshaw darts a rapid glance at his wife to see if she can hear that unmoved. Finding that she is apparently unmoved, for, truth to say, she has grown too accustomed to mysterious remarks that mean nothing to be excited by this, Bagshaw proceeds to inquire, eagerly, "Why, what do you mean?" "Oh," says Meggs, with an easy, off-hand disdain, "I've been expecting every day that somebody would come to i arrest this Rashton for horse-stealing, or bigamy, or some- thing of the kind. Nobody knows anything about him." I Mr. Meggs has a benevolent air of regret that so great a a fraud as Rashton should be attempted upon the commu- I -THE MAN FOR THE OCCASION. 53 nity, not unmixed with virtuous complacency that he has I done his whole duty in stating his suspicions, and for the future will wash his hands of the whole affair, and leave Snubbleton to its own destruction, unless some of its prom- inent citizens should see fit to interfere, and entreat him not to wash his hands of the consequences that may ensue from the stranger's sojourn. Mrs. Bagshaw looks up at Meggs's easy solution of his former mysterious remark, and seems to say: "I knew it would turn out being nothing; at least nothing worth my while to be curious about. Men always pretend to know more than they do. Bagshaw would keep me worn as thin as fiddle strings if I were to get excited and nervous every time he wants me to." Mr. Bagshaw looks up at Meggs's easy solution of his if remark, and experiences a slight disgust that there is nothing more definite than suspicion. Mr. Bagshaw has hoped that Meggs, finding out something, has come expressly to impart it, and has been cordial and acquiescent accordingly. Mr. Bagshaw findg that Meggs has not found out any- thing, and has come expressly to impart it, regards Meggs with an air of having detected him in a heavy swindling operation, and asks, a trifle severely, "Then you don't know anything about the man, and you have not found out any- thing new?" Meggs deprecatingly admits his lamentable ignorance in the direction mentioned, and endeavors to propitiate Bag- shaw by asserting that he knows Bagshaw to be a man of penetration. Here Bagshaw looks at Mrs. Bagshaw to discover the effect of this assertion upon her. Discovering none, he looks away again. "Furthermore," Meggs continues, after he has looked at Mr. Bagshaw, and also at Mrs. Bagshaw, to note the effect of his remark; o I knew if anybody was sharp enough to find out anything about the fellow, you were the man, Bagshaw." page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] 54 THE MAN FOR THE OCCASION. Bagshaw is confident this must produce a gleam of con jugal pride on the part of Mrs. Bagshaw, and looks at her more searchingly than ever. Mxrs. Bagshaw, strange to say, seems totally unmoved, and looks at her knitting with the same composure as if it were Bagshaw himself trying to excite her curiosity when she has made up her mind not to have it excited. &t "I generally keep my eyes open, and mostly see what takes place under my nose," says Bagshaw, in reply to . Meggs, endeavoring, by the modesty of his remark, to ap- pear not unduly elated by Meggs's eulogium. "Yes," says Meggs, evidently encouraged to proceed; "you don't go through this world blindfolded, and you are not to be imposed upon as easy as some people, so I made up my ? mind to come and ask your opinion of this Rashton, or whatever his name is, though there's no knowing whether he has got a name or not, or if he has, whether that's it!" Bagshaw throws up his eyebrows, that his eyes may stare knowingly out from under the heavy wrinkles thus made in his forehead, shakes his head with gloomy mystery, droops his chin over his cravat, and compresses his lips with an expression of solempity and importance, that Mrs. Bagshaw recognizes very readily as habitual when racking a person with suspense, and- so goes on knitting with an accession of frigidity and resolution, as if now convinced beyond a t doubt that the sock is Bagshaw masquerading as a sock for it the sole purpose of exciting her curiosity, that she is "bent and determined shall not be excited," as she has said to her- self a hundred times. Meggs, however, having a more intimate knowledge of apple pie in its various states and stages than of Herschel Bagshaw and his way, eyes Bagshaw imploringly and un- easily. Mrs. Bagshaw jerks up her ball of yarn, that rolls out of her lap, as if she were checking Meggs's curiosity, and telling him not to be a fool. THE MAN FOR THE OCCASION. 55 "I know this much," Bagshaw begins, with an air of being about to say a great deal, while Meggs starts forward with an agony of interest; "I know this much," Bagshaw repeats, after a long pause, intensifying his expression of mystery until Mrs. Bagshaw evidently loses all patienct, and, seeming to regard her ball of yarn as Meggs, jerks it up so violently as to break the string by which she holds it. "Well?" interrogates Meggs, intensifying his expression of interest to correspond with Bagshaw's expression of mystery. . "I know this much," Bagshaw repeats, slowly and im- pressively, as he regards Mrs. Bagshaw in triumph, that she dare not interfere, in the presence of Meggs, with his being as mysterious and tantalizing as possible; "I know"-- Meggs by this time has reached a point of expectation amounting almost to frenzy. Bagshaw luxuriates in the sus- pense of his victim, and commences again, slowly and with mysterious emphasis, "I know this much. I know"- "Yes, yes 1 Pray go on," says Meggs, in an agony of sus- pense, that brings the perspiration to his forehead, and satis- fies even the exacting Bagshaw, who concludes, "I know- that-there-is-something-wrong-about-the-man. Mrs. Bagshaw-seems to be making her needles go to the tune of "I could have told you so." Meggs sinks back in his chair a disappointed and ex- haustedman. SeeingBagshaw's face, however, still gloomily mysterious, Meggs rallies sufficiently to inquire, as if catch- ing at a straw, "How do you know, Bagshaw?" "See-it-in-his-eye," returned Bagshaw, explicit, be- cause realizing Meggs's utter exhaustion and incapability for further excitement. The straw breaks in Meggs's fingers, and he allows himself to drift on hopelessly for a time. "Mrs. Bagshaw looks as if she might enjoy poking him with her knitting-needle, for being a credulous simpleton. Conventional considerations, however, deter her from this page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] " PRO AND CON. manifestation of her feelings, and Meggs's disappointment is I the sole penalty he endures for his faith in Bagshaw. That, however, he feels to be quite equal to his capacity for endurance; and after a few more similar efforts to find out something from Bagshaw, and being always stimulated t by Bagshaw's manner to fresh exertions, and being always i finally disappointed by Bagshaw's total ignorance regard- o ing the stranger, Meggs gets up to go home, and Mrs. Bag- shaw winds up her ball of yarn, always with the air of re- garding it as Meggs, and tosses it into her basket as if it - had worried her quite enough for one evening, and she is immensely relieved to be rid of it. Meggs goes out disconsolately, and Bagshaw remarks to : Mrs. Bagshaw, with an effort towards deprecating her dis- ; pleasure for the liberty he took in being so very mysterious, that he really must find out something about that Rashton, since Meggs is so anxious. Mrs. Bagshaw has not forgiven the liberty he took in be- ing so mysterious, when company prevented her checking a him, and so advises him briefly to " mind his own affairs i and let other people's alone." CHAPTER VIII. - PRO AND CON. THERE is excitement in the village of Snubbleton. Miss Lelia Bonnivet is going to be married to R. B. Rashton, who, it seems, has studied medicine, and is Dr. R. B. Rashton. Of course, the final settlement of so important an event, has not come about suddenly, nor without a great many I pros and cons. Mr. John Meggs, heading a strong party of cons, includo 1 PRO AND CON. 57 ing pere and mere Bonnivet, would most certainly have triumphed, had it not been that Miss Lelia was so ultra in her pro-Rashton views, that there were but two alterna- tives allowed the opponents; they must submit to a quiet wedding at the Bonnivet mansion, making Miss Lelia Bon- nivet Mrs. R. B. Rashton, or they must submit to a conven- tional outrage, in the form of an elopement for the same purpose. The heads of the house of Bonnivet have chosen the first named condition, and preparations are going rapidly on for the wedding. Mr. John Meggs regards Mr. and Mrs. Bonnivet with that amount of gentle commiseration due to those suffering from an attack of mild lunacy. For, to his mind, insanity alone could prompt the highly respectable Bonnivets to consent to Lelia's marrying a stranger that Bagshaw and Meggs, by their united exertions, have discovered to be addicted to drunkenness and gambling. Bagshaw has imparted to Meggs the last mentioned in- formation, and has even succeeded in awaking the curiosity of the obdurate Mrs. Bagshaw, by relating in his usual mys- terious manner how two stage-passengers, having stopped at the village tavern for cigars, and espying Rashton as he passed the bar-room window, simultaneously nudged one another with a start of surprise, while one exclaimed, "By George! The very cove himself." Then the other assented grimly, "Yes sir, the same chap." Of course Bagshaw felt it due to his citizenship in Snub- bleton to inquire, for the benefit of that flourishing village, what the strangers knew of Rashton. "Sharp fellow," returned one of them, in reply to Bag- shaw, " sharp enough to win every inch of ground in this town, if it could be put up. and gambled for." This was all that Bagshaw could learn from the strangers respecting Rashton. This much, however, he imparted to Meggs, and Meggs straightway conveyed it to the ears of page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] 58 PRO AND CON. pere Bonnivet; and pere Bonnivet having himself seen, as he said, "that doctor more than half seas over," was by no means desirous of receiving the gentleman into his family, as the husband of his daughter Lelia. His daughter Lelia, however, finding the gentleman in question a much more ardent and graceful lover than Mr. John Meggs, and being pleased with the deferential tender- ness he displays towards her, in so marked a contrast to his reticent, stifled ferocity towards every one else, was by no means inclined to reject him on so trifling a pretence as : parental opposition. Dr. Rashton had gentlemanly hands. Dr. Rashton could do the tempestuous, as if with a view to annihilate creation, when provoked; yet in the midst of his fury, and threats to "wring Bagshaw's nose," and "blow M3eggs's skull open," and "apply a little cold steel, both externally and internally, - to any other infernal rustics who didn't let his affairs alone," if he caught Miss Lelia's eye fixed upon him, with a kind of awe-stricken amazement, as if he were a very dangerous species of fireworks, not to be handled incau- tiously, Rashton would immediately become softened, and assure Miss Lelia that only she had power to influence him. Miss Lelia was as much delighted with the power that she possessed over,this high-tragedy enigma, R. B. Rash- ton by name, as a child might be with a curious toy. In addition to his other attractions, the gentleman was given to poetizing. With this latter accomplishment Miss Lelia was as much delighted as if he had suddenly devel- oped the most surprising gymnastic resources, such as would draw immense crowds to witness his performances. For, truth to say, so far as poetry was concerned, Miss Lelia's idea of it was a something that persons admired. So that the accomplishment of walking on his head, or flying with his arms, would have suited Miss Lelia as well, if the pub- lic had only so decided. Anything that would make her husband admired, grati- PRO AND CON. 59 fied her vanity. What the specialty should be was of no consequence. Gymnastics or poetry; anything that would excite most admiration. Consequences of Miss Lelia's cogitations are to be seen in hurried preparations for the wedding. Bagshaw returns to the bosom of his family an exhausted and thwarted man; disappointed in his fondest anticipa- tions of detecting Rashton in something that would have hung him, or at least condemned him to the penitentiary for life. Not that Bagshaw has ever had a personal differ- ence with Rashton, but simply that Bagshaw has given his word that there is something wrong in Rashton's eye, and to establish his claim to being a physiognomist has been the dream of his existence. Cast down by news of the wedding, yet not wholly dis- couraged, Bagshaw retreats to his own "vine and fig-tree," otherwise Mrs. Bagshaw, for consolation. Mrs. Bagshaw is not totally heartless. Mrs. Bagshaw is not a demon in human form. Mrs. Bagshaw understands the feelings of a man of Mr. Bagshaw's temperament, after so great a defeat. Mrs. Bagshaw is sympathetic accordingly, and consoles Mr. Bagshaw to the extent of remarking,.on her own responsibility, that, "No good will ever come of that match." * It is evident that Mrs. Bagshaw does not give her consent; but Mrs. Bagshaw's consent is dispensed with, and Mr. Bagshaw's consent is dispensed with. Also, do the happy couple dispense with the consent of Mr. John Meggs, and the entire portion of Snubbleton that remain obdurate, and the wedding takes place, and Miss Lelia becomes Mrs. R. B. Rashton, and is the eldest unmar- ried Miss Bonnivet no more forever. Mrs. Bonnivet hopes, with gloomy resignation, that her child will be happy. I; Mr. Bonnivet, with similar emotions, gives utterance to a similar wish. page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] * *" 60 PRO AND CON. A The villagers, eyeing the bridegroom askance, are likewise benevolent, and wish the newly married "much joy," as they shake Rashton's hand with an air that plainly says it may be only a hand, notwithstanding its very striking resem- blance to an infernal machine. George Bonnivet also extends his congratulations, with a deprecating timidity, that seems to be asking pardon for so intruding upon his sister and newly made brother-in-law. Mr. John Meggs does not attend the wedding, and Mrs. Rashton, with her native goodness of heart, takes the first convenient opportunity to ask the bridegroom if he has seen ? poor John very lately. The gentleman has seen Meggs the day previous. "How did the poor fellow look?" the innocent bride asks, with a sigh, caused by a reflection of her own charms and John's irreparable loss. "Looked as if he could bite a ten-penny nail in two with t the same ease as if it were soft-soap," returns Dr. Rashton, with a contemptuous smile, for it is a peculiarity of his that he never laughs aloud. His blushing bride, however, has no such peculiarity, and laughs so heartily that her commiseration for the unfortu- nate Meggs is lost in the mirth induced by her husband's remark, and the pride she cannot but feel in his distingug appearance. "Just to think, I have married a gentleman- and a poet, when I came so near marrying awkward John Meggs," says Mrs. Rashton to herself, with a throb of intensest exultation. The groom knit his brows and seemed to scowl, half in triumph and half in pain, at some invisible foe, as he said to himself- "I have married youth, wealth and beauty. I am even with the world once more. The girl is an innocent little creature, and loves me as well as women ever love. I suppose I have no reason to complain." Yet two hours later he walked the moonlit verandah, in I front of the Bonnivet mansion, and something like a groatn , W'i THE KENTS AT HOME. 61 came from the man's lips, as he said, passionately, to the silence about him, "Eloise, Eloise, if suffering atone for sin, I have atoned. If pain be an expiation for crime, I am guilt- less." CHAPTER IX. THE KENTS AT HOME. THIS looks cosy. This looks comfortable. This looks as if Oswald Kent had set up an establishment on his own responsibility, and had things all his own way, as of course he would have." So saying, Oswald Kent surveyed the tidy sitting-room and the glowing anthracite fire in the grate, with an air of extreme satisfaction. "Dear me, Oswald! Do look at your feet! And the door-mat passed by as carefully as if it were made of silk velvet, and on no account to be used. It's too bad, and I'm so tired! Our girl left us to-day, and Aureola and I have had everything to do ourselves." Bernice Kent looked the personification of fatigued despair. "Girl left?" echoed Oswald; " what was that for?" "Don't ask me what for, I don't know. I'm utterly dis- couraged. Aureola has given up and gone to bed. We swept and dusted and put the things away about this whole house." "Whole house in order at once?" began Oswald, with teasing incredulity. "Say pa----oh, pa!" Dr. Kent came out of the hall, where he was hanging up his hat and overcoat, and replied, "What is it, my son?" "Why, Bernice says the whole house-now think of that, pa-the whole house is in order! When did such a thing ever happen before? If you go down town again to-day, hadn't you better have the court-house bell rung in token of an ex- traordinary event?" i page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] 62 THE RENTS AT HOME. Dr. Rent smiled, and said, half-rebukingly, "Come, come, my son! Don't tease your sister." "But I never heard of such a thing before," Oswald pur- sued. "I didn't know it could be done. I have always re- garded this house as a family, its rooms being expensive daughters, with so limited a wardrobe that they could not; by any means be all presentable at once. Indeed, if more than one at a time is in full dress, I immediately conclude that the dishabille of the others is most shocking. To have t them all full-blown and crinolined, as it were, at once, as- M! tonishes me, and I begin to think there are hidden resources whose existence I never suspected." !? "How long have you been composing that oration, Os- wald?" asked Bernice, when her brother had concluded, and the father was eying his son with interest, pride, and ad- it miration, :. "Composing it," echoed Oswald, slightly abashed for an instant; " does it sound composed? Well, I don't feel at all composed. On the contrary, my feelings overpower me, and I'm mentally much perturbed." The boy had an airy, graceil way, that combined with I his inexhaustible good humor, made him the most charming of companions. "I am afraid, my son," Dr. Kent began, as he drew Ber- nice towards him, and made her sit on his knee, as if she had been a child, " you do not fully appreciate your sisters." "No, he don't, pa," Bernice began, piqued at Oswald's in- @ difference to her exertions. "He pretends the house is t never in order, yet he never takes any pains to keep it so. He knows that half the time we have no servant, and that we never tried to keep house before; and he brings in mud and tears up paper over the floor, and then makes fun of me when I have been busy all day." ?? Oswald Kent got up quietly, wiped his feet on the door- mat, took the hearth-broom and knocked two dried pieces 3 of mud under the grate-pan with the broom-handle, then -' % aI2 THE KENTS AT HOME. 63 I' settled himself back in his chair, after he had picked up the fragments of an envelope he had a moment before thrown on the rug, and exclaimed, playfully, with his favorite affec- tation of high-tragedy, "Ha, villain, look! Dost see? Is't mud thou seest on the rug? S-p-e-e-k-e, girl! speak!" Oswald was so intensely theatrical and ridiculous that Bernice laughed and pouted both at once, as she twisted her sleeve out of Oswald's hand, and "spoiled the dramatic effect," he told her, " by not keeping still." "Yes, my son," Dr. Kent began again, with a seriousness thateeven Oswald did not laugh at: "I am afraid you do not appreciate your sisters, nor remember that they have had no experience in domestic matters. It is twice as much trouble for them to do a thing as it would be for one who under- stood housekeeping, and had learned the economy of labor. When you speak of never finding the house in order, you do not reflect that your sisters become exhausted after attend- ing thoroughly to one or two rooms, and have not the requi- site strength to do more at one time than they do. You ought to remember that they have spent their lives at school, and at different boarding-places, and know really nothing about work." Bernice,Kent burst into tears, and put an arm about her father's neck. It was so pleasant to be praised when she was too tired and discouraged to endure teasing. Oswald Kent had so keen a sense of the ludicrous as to entertain an inexpressible dread of making himself ridicu- lous. Consequently he eschewed sentiment, and everything like an approach to a scene. Finding Bernice in tears, and his father regarding her as if her symptoms were those of a very dangerous patient, Oswald got up, tried to say lightly, "Oh, -yes, I know. I was only jesting. I beg your pardon, Bernice;" and then left the room before his sister could, reply. "Pa knows how it all is," Dr. Kent said, soothingly. "He understands that his precious little girl cannot do everything, .^ page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] " THE RENTS AT HOME. and do it all at once too. Pa appreciates the trouble she : took to have the house in order, and pa thinks his daughter is worth her weight in gold." ! "You're a dear, good pa," said Bernice sobbing, "Cand I don't mind doing all I can; but Oswald is always teasing me." "Never mind it! He doesn't mean to. You are tired and nervous now, or you would not notice his raillery." ir Bernice Kent concluded that she was a little nervous and exhausted, and began to be ashamed of having been so i;t easily fretted. Her father's soothing tones and caresses were inexpressibly grateful to her. "I don't know what I should do, pa, if it were not for you," she said, getting up, at length, with a view of seeing g, about dinner; "Oswald teases me so, and Aureola is always it preaching family and position, and nonsense to me, and I t; should be disgusted with human nature if it were not for you, a dear, darling pa." Dr. Kent smiled and kissed his daughter cheerfully. Yet ': no sooner had she left the room than the brave mask of smiling was dropped, and something weary and worn, some- & thing inexpressibly lonely and desolate, settled over the ? father's face as he began soliloquizing in a perplexed tone--"I really do not know what I am to do for money. My prac- : tice is large, but there are so many who don't pay,'so many i. that I have not the heart to make pay what they owe me, that I do not know what I am to do." Dr. Kent pressed his hand to his forehead, and went over that same rugged path so many have climbed and must climb, that wearying labyrinthian path, "What shall I do?" "I shall have to do without a new overcoat," he went on, 'or Bernice must give up her drawing lessons; and she must not do that while she is progressing so rapidly. I need a suit of new clothes; but I cannot get them just now, for Aureola must have a set of furs. She says her old ones are positively past wearing, and I cannot have her i- mortified with shabby furs." ?a THE RENTS AT HOME. 65 In the same strain the father mused until the dinner-bell rang. Then the skeleton went back into its closet, and the mask of smiles went on again, for "the children must not be depressed,' Dr. Kent said. "The children," as they always had been, and always must be to the indulgent father, certainly did not look depressed. Bernice was laughing heartily at some of Oswald's jokes, and Aureola had that placid expression of countenance peculiar to one who has had a long, satisfying nap, and wakes to a comfortable condition of surroundings. Dr. Kent sat down to the table and asked the time-hon- ored blessing that, notwithstanding his homeless life at hotel and boarding-house, he had not forgotten, but took up as naturally as if he had always had a private table of his own. "Grant us a blessing, Heavenly Father, for what we are about to receive. Pardon our sins, and save us, we ask for Christ's sake, Amen." Simple and earnest, yet so beautiful, Bernice thought; then she said, aloud: "It seems so nice to have a table of our own, and to have pa ask a blessing. Doesn't it?" Aureola said "Yes," with dreamy placidity, as she played with her fork-handle. Oswald shook off the momentary seriousness, that was beginning to settle on his face, and said, gaily: "It is not only seeming pleasantness; it is the genuine article. Un- adulterated satisfaction to sit down to a man's own table." It was a habit the boy had of affecting maturity that made his remarks piquant. ' "Yes, my children, it is very pleasant for us to be all together. We ought to be very grateful and happy.". Aureola Kent roused herself momentarily from a reverie, into which she had fallen, and said, half dreamily, in reply to her father's remark: ",Yes, I think so." "I used to think," began Oswald, "when I was a youth, page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] " THE KENTS AT HOME. a lad, a boy, I may hra, that to grow up would be something , j tremendous in the way of enjoyment." "So did I," said Bernice; "I used to get so disgusted with school and boarding, that I should never have had the colrage to live if it had not been for the hope of grow- : ing up." "Was your childhood so unpleasant, my children?" asked the father, with a shadow on his forehead that might have I been memory. "I tried to make it pleasant for you." "Oh, it wasn't your fault, pa," said Oswald and Bernice, both at once. "Whose, then?" asked Dr. Kent. "Oh, well," rejoined Bernice, "I scarcely know whose faultt was. I suspect we were spoiled and-exacting, and didn't know when we were happy." "I remember," said Oswald, laughing, "what tempestu- ous little notes pa used to get from Bernice, imploring him to take her away from school;. that she couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't stand it another day; that her head ached, and she was sick, and wanted to see her own dear pa. Then pa would say to me: "My son, we must go and see Ber- nice," and he would tell old Dr. Jarbox, his partner, that t business would take him from the city a day or two; and the old Dr., who knew pa as well as if he had been his a, b, ab's, used to take me aside, and say: "See here, my boy, : isn't your father going to see your sisters?" And of course, as I was a second edition of George Washington, minus the hatchet, I would immediately look him-boldly in the eye, and say: "Yes sir." Dr. Kent laughed at this juncture, and Bernice laughed, and Aureola, whose normal condition was a reverie, was again temporarily roused, and asked: "What are you all laughing at?" "Laughing at the contortions a fly would be supposed to undergo swallowing a live lobster whole," explained Oswald, with a merry twinkle in his eye. fi Ij THE KENTS AT HOME. 67 "Pshaw! Stuff! I might have known it was some of your nonsense, not worth listening to," said Aureola, with placid contempt, as she went back again into her reverie. "Ola is out of hearing, we may as well go on," said Oswald, noting the abstracted look, that said as plainly as a look can say anything, that Miss Aureola Kent's mind was not at home, but afar, exploring distant realms of fancy or memory. "Yes, go on," said Bernice, who admired her brother extravagantly, and now that she was in a good humor could endure his raillery with pleasantness. "Well, pa and I would go post-haste to that female col- lege of yours, and pa's sympathies would be so wrought upon in your behalf, that he would look at me as if he had been cruelly neglecting me too, and this remorse would grow upon him to that extent that I always found it profit- able to express mild preferences for marbles, tops, or confec- tionery." "And pa always indulged you, didn't he?" asked Bernice, looking tenderly at her father. "Oh, yes," returned Oswald, with his habitual extrava- gance. "Pa always seemed to consider himself such a wretch in sustaining the hard-hearted relationship of parent, that he was always trying to expiate his crime." Dr. Kent smiled with a proud, happy smile, and came for a time out of that perplexing, labyrinthian path, "What shall I do for money?" that he had been secretly treading. "I used to think you a regular brick, Bernice, in the way of letter-writing. You could always work pa into a sympa- thetic furore that mads him doubly affectionate to me on your account. Whenever I saw your thick, tear-stained scrawling letters, 'I always said to myself: 'Now, Oswald Kent, young man, that letter will be worth at least a pound of candy to you,' and it always proved so, for pa could never endure the thought of our being unhappy." "It was shameful, positively wicked to impose on poor, page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] 68 THE KENTS AT HOME. C dear pa so, when he wasn't rich, and had to labor so hard at his profession for the money he did have," exclaimed c, Bernice, with a sudden mist of tears blinding her. "Why, yes," returned Oswald, struggling against his bete noir, a scene, "You ought not to have done it, my dear ^: young lady, but I suppose you really did feel miserable, and ! had no sustaining anticipations of a sometime-moustache, as I had, so you gave vent to your feelings in letter-writ- ing, while I was stroking my upper lip, and wishing nature had made it a trifle longer and straighter, that my mous- ^. tache might have no excuse for being a dwarf." "Ridiculous," said Bernace, smiling as she wiped off a : tear with her napkin, "I was a hateful, spoiled, miserable ; little wretch, to worry pa so; but I didn't mean to, did I, : pa?" "Why certainly not," returned the father. "You ought not to notice Oswald's extravagance. It was not so bad as he describes it." - "Oh yes; I know it was bad," said Bernice, making another passage at her cheek with her napkin, "But I did : love you so, pa. It almost killed me to be separated from ,I you, and people were always saying, if Bernice Kent were a Princess Royal she could not be worse spoiled, and no one but you had any patience with me, so I was just miserable away from you, and I could not help writing you letters, and telling you so." "It all came, pa," said Oswald, before Dr. Kent had time to speak, "of sister's not being personally acquainted with that Princess Royal those disagreeable persons used to speak of. You see, Bernice thought a Princess Royal a kind of ogre, and of course she could not endure the out- rage of -having any one say, if she had been such a person. Her unhappiness all arose, pa, (and I hope you repent,) from your being a cruel and unnatural father in not furnishing her with the means of becoming personally acquainted with r whatever Princess Boyal those persons meant." I r?; THE KENTS AT HOME. 69 "What is that about pa's being a cruel and unnatural father?" asked Aureola, catching at the conversation as she came suddenly out of her reverie. "Bernice and I are rebelling," explained Oswald, mis- chievously, "and won't submit to pa's cruelty." "Pa's cruelty----"Aureola was begining to echo, with astonished indignation, when she saw the smiling faces about her, and checked her exclamation with a flush of embarrassment, as she said, "I never can see any sense in Oswald's foolishness. The rest of you laugh, but it is all so silly to me, I try not to hear it." "All so silly to you," repeated Oswald. " 'To the pure all things are pure,' but of course there can be no application." "Not a particle," returned Aureola, preparatory to going back into her reverie again. "Pray do keep awake, Aureola," said Bernice, sharply, nudging her sister with a fork-handle. "You are very lady-like, very refined indeed, poking your fork-handle into my arm," said Aureola with freezing irony, as if she had been brought out of her reverie this time on a very sharp iceberg. "I know all that! Do advance something original," re- torted Bernice. "How would a little original sin do?" asked Oswald, facetiously. "Bernice is so rude, so unladylike, so unrefined," said Aureola, dropping her irony, and becoming emphatic. "It is no wonder she is always asking why the Kents are so much superior to every one else. It's no wonder she sneers at the Kents when she thinks of herself as a specimen of the Kents. Very elegant and ladylike deportment, to be sure, poking a fork-handle into my arm, and screeching out, 'do keep awake' as if I were asleep, or as if I wanted to waste my time, listening to such nonsense as hers and Oswald's. If I choose to occupy my mind with more profitable subjects than she delights in, I am sure she -need not, trouble page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] 70 THE RENTS AT HOME. herself about it, nor go poking fork-handles into my X -elbows." -"Have her arrested for assault and battery, Ola," sug- i gested Oswald, laughing. "The law provides against fork- handles and protects elbows when elbows appeal to it." : Bernice laughed heartily, and Aureola who was really : good-humored, went back into her reverie, and smiled pla- cidly over her beef in utter obliviousness of her surround- ings.: "Ola never used to trouble pa with letters," said Oswald. "I never got any toys nor confectionery at her expense. i. She always commenced her letters, 'My Dearest Father,' in the most imposing manner imaginable, and she was al- X ways very happy and very well satisfied, and everybody was : kind to her, and she invariably signed herself, without a ? blot, or a letter out of place, his 'Affectionate Daughter, Aureola H. Eent.' She didn't know Bernice's tricks of i commencing frantically, ' Oh pa, my own dear, darling pa, I have something to tell you!' Aureola did not know that tears, in those days, could work wonders with pa. She did i not seem to understand the advantages to be derived from a gush of tenderness, followed by the most extraordinary : bursts of confidential melancholy." "Now, Oswald, that's too bad," began Bernice, " to talk of my tricks, as if I deliberately and willfully made capital ( of pa's affection. You are a wicked, teasing brother to say so, and I'll be angry if you don't behave yourself. You i know very well that it was all terribly true, and that I did not pretend one particle of it." "Didn't?" queried Oswald, affecting incredulous aston- ishment. { "No I did not. I felt it, every particle," returned Bernice earnestly. !, "Whew! How tremendously you were endowed, Bern- !]' ice! Felt all that those letters said? And never sent us any sham tears in those blotted pages? I never heard of :i ' rii A WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. 71 anything so astonishing! Why, your eyes must have been pretty extensive waterfalls, and melancholy must have been your normal condition." Oswald nudged his sister's foot, under the table, with a teasing motion that she could not resist. "I do wish I was at the other side of the table, so that I could punch you with my fork," said Bernice, half laughing, and half pouting. Oswald's face brightened, and he proposed a conundrum. "Why are some of Bernice's remarks like lightning?" "Because they are quick?" asked Dr. Kent, smiling. "No sir!" rejoined Oswald. "I know they are quick," pouted Bernice, "but I sup- pose, Sir Impertinence means I am boisterous, and that they are attended by a great deal of noise-thunder comes after lightning you know." "Yes, I knoW! But that isn't the answer. Do you give it up?" "Yes," rejoined Bernice, smiling, "unless my remarks re- semble lightning because they are so brilliant." "The brilliance is not perceptible, my dear girll The answer is because they are fork-ed," said Oswald, dodging his sister's napkin-ring as it came flying at his head. While Aureola came out of her reverie to assure Bernice ironi- cally that she was " very ladylike, very refined, to be throw- ing napkin-rings across the table." CHAPTER X A WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. jf HS is the third anniversary of our wedding-day, Lelia. Had you forgotten?"Dr. Rashton's tone was almost lover-like. page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] 72 A WEDDING ANNIVERSAEY. I "Dear me, so it is," rejoined Mrs. Rashton. "I wouldn't have believed I had had my lavender silk so long. I was looking at it the other day, and it is just as good as new. It isn't soiled a particle." Dr. Rashton was by nature a poet, and though he had not married his wife from any poetic attachment, yet if she had chosen she could have elicited that which had been for many years latent in his heart. Her reply, however, was entirely characteristic of herself. A more imaginative, il finely organized woman, would not only have spoken with : deeper tenderness when the day was mentioned, but would have remembered it with some little token of affection. - Mrs. Rashton, however, was not imaginative. Her laven- der silk had seemed quite as important on her wedding-day as the wedding itself. Marriage with her had meant a handsome trousseau, a bridal tour, and a husband to sup- port her. -. Dr. Rashton heard his wife's remark with something very like a sneer. The incipient poetry and tenderness faded from his face, and left it cold and stern, and cynical. Then he determined to test his wife to the utmost. To read her ^ very soul if possible and learn the exact quantity and qual-. ity of feeling that actuated her. l "Lelia," said he, with bitterly satirical tenderness, "do you not remember the night we were married? How the moon shone and how fragrant the breath of the heliotropes in the conservatory where we went after the marriage-ser. vice, and where I first called you my darling, my own little wife?" MArs. Rashton did not detect either her husband's satire, or his experiment, and answered quite innocently, "Yes I re- member. Those heliotropes were splendid. Mother gave me some slips, you know, but I never had any luck with them. They all died. I don't see why it is that mother never had any trouble with her flowers, and I never could raise any.," "Do you love flowers, darling?" asked Dr. Rashton with A WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. 73 the same ironical tenderness, and bitter determination to experiment to the utmost. "Yes, I think they're real nice. I always thought plants in a window made a room look real stylish." If she had manifested an ardent, poetic love of flowers, I think he could almost have forgiven her that she seemed to remember nothing of their wedding save her lavender silk, and the -"real nice " heliotropes. As it was, something like "Pah!" came from his lips. "Did you speak, Robert?" she asked, catching a faint echo of his involuntary exclamation of disgust. "No, my poet-love," he answered sarcastically. Then he added, with a sudden change of manner that made his tone almost stern, "Lelia, why did you marry me?" "Oh, because I thought you was real nice," returned Mrs. Rashton, with a smile purely physical in its signification. "How was I nice?" asked Rashton. "Well, what tickled me was, you could write such beauti- ful letters, and such nice poetry," she rejoined, with the same smile and expression of her previous remark. Dr. Rashton was an exceedingly sensitive man. A man whose fastidiousness shrank from a coarse or commonplace expression as if it had been a pestilence. His wife's use of the word " tickled" wounded him. He seemed to shrink and shiver as if recoiling from a repetition of an unexpected blow. "My poetry was nice, and she was tickled with it. Poetic seraph! Appreciative cherub!" he sneered to himself as he looked gloomily into vacancy. "You look as if there was something on your mind, Robert. What is it?" she asked, at length laying her hand on his arm. "Oh, I don't know. I suppose I'm feeling melancholy to think you don't love me any more than you do," returned Rashton, in a tone that might have been irony or might have been despair. 4 page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] 74 A WEDDING ANNIVERSABY. J "Why, Robert, I do love you! What makes you think I don't?" "Perhaps because you did not remember the anniversary ?! of our wedding-day," rejoined Rashton. "Why, how unreasonable you are, Robert. Mother told ii me yesterday that to-day would be three years I had been married, and I told Jane then to be sure and make a real nice pudding for dinner to-day, in honor of the anniversary; for I knew you was real fond of pudding, and I wanted to please you. You don't notice what I do for you, and I ri! thought you was so fond of puddings, too." Mrs. Rashton began to look injured: very much as if she had made an immense sacrifice in ordering pudding for Rashton's dinner. "Yes, Lelia, I am very fond of pudding when I have nothing better; but I should have been far happier for you to have wakened me with a kiss this morning in memory of our wedding, than to have had ten thousand puddings for dinner. For you to have been haunted by a memory of the ? moonlight and the breath of the heliotropes that made fra- grant and beautiful the hour we were married, would have v made me happier than for you to have superintended dinner ? for me the year round. It is the poetry of love that proves the exaltation of its character." i "If you want me to write poetry, Robert, I can't do it. You knew that when you married me. I told you soon after we were married I was afraid you ought to have got a wife who could write poetry as you could, and you said you didn't care for a literary wife; but you do, Robert, you know you do. You are tired of me." Mrs. Rashton took out her handkerchief and began to sob. "Don't, Lelia! Don't be hurt! You misunderstand me. I do not want a literary wife. I want nothing that is not essentially womanly. Purity, refinement and affection are all that I ask of my wife." "Oh, I know I'm not refined. You knew it when you A WEDDING ANNIVERSAY. 75 married me. I don't make any pretensions to refinement. I know I'm just as coarse and awkward as can be. I know I don't amount to anything at all." Mrs. Rashton sobbed harder than ever, and her husband was moved to compassion. "Come, darling, don't do so. You are making yourself miserable for nothing. Nobody said you were not refined. Nobody said you were coarse. Don't imagine such things. I only wanted you to love me a little more than you do, that's all." "I do love you, Robert. You know I do. You know I could have married John Meggs as easy as anythiig, but I married you, and poor John was so miserable too, and he has never married either, and I know he loves me yet, too. Mother says she don't think he has ever got over feeling bad about it, and it is three years- too, since I gave him the mitten." Dr. Rashton spoke as soothingly as possible to his wife, and quieted her in his arms as if she had been a child. Ex- hausted by her sobs and the unusual violence of emotion, Mrs. Rashton did what was altogether characteristic of her- self under the circumstances, went to sleep and snored with her head on her husband's breast, while he sat wrapped in bitter reverie until the dinner-bell rang. He had spoken truly. He did not want a literary wife. A blue-stocking was his bete noir. A scientific fright, with dishevelled hair and ink-stained fingers, possessing -meta- physical proclivities, was his pet abomination. He loved poetry, yet he did not consider it essential to his happiness that his wife should be a poetess. All that he required, and all that most men require, my young lady reader, is that a wife shall be thoroughly womanly. She need not be brilliant, yet she must be appreciative. She must understand and enjoy the utterance of the thought tha t is dear to her husband. She must have tact to hold out gracefully the truce-flag of her love when the demand is beyond her intellect. page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] 76 A WE DDING ANNIVERSARY. A woman may be ever so shallow, and a man will, in nine cases out of ten, forgive her shallowness if she be graceful ! and loving, and offer him affection in an acceptable manner, when her intellectual capacities are found wanting. Let hers JE but show him that she acknowledges his superiority; that she appreciates and applauds an intellect she cannot rival; that she knows when he says a good thing, and admires i him for saying it, and he will not only forgive her inferiority, but will love her the more on account of the womanly sweet- ness and humility that a knowledge of it imparts. X; There is something sublime in the generosity of an affec- :: tionate man. He asks so little of his wife. A becoming dress, an amiability and refinement added to an apprecia- tion of his efforts to make her happy. That is all. His requirements may be expressed in less space. Aye, in the one word-Tact. 1 Study the word, oh, woman, and you have the " open ses- : ame" to jewels of manly love and trust. Your lavender- silk, and the pudding for dinner may occupy three-fourths of your mind, but for love's sake, have the good sense to keep the fact to yourself when your husband's mood is such that he craves some evidence of refined feeling and i: poetic sentiment. When you have once lost your husband's love you can l never regain it; therefore, oh, woman, keep the jewel sacred i as the purity of your own soul. Nothing earthly can corn- i pensate you for its loss. Your talisman is Tact. Do not forget. -You may consider this a platitude, nevertheless it is a truth. After Goodness, a woman's greatest possession is Tact; then Beauty, and then 0 -Intellect. *The last is in most cases superfluous in any unusual development. The first two are indispensa- ble. :I You may be forgiven for being a fool if you are a graceful I, one; but you will never be forgiven if you lack Tact. The sound of the dinner-bell roused Mrs. Rashton, and A WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. " she started up with an alacrity eloquent in its signification of devotion to pudding. "Mother never likes to have us late getting to the table. Let's hurry down," she said, looking back at her husband, who seemed rather to loiter than to hasten. Dr. Rashton smiled a bitter, sneering smile, that was habitual to him when disgusted. Mrs. Rashton hurried down, and was already seated at the table when her husband entered the dining-room. She moved her chair an inch or two, as if making room for him, with a well-disposed air of comfortableness that was peculiar to her when there was pudding for dinner. She always enjoyed her visits to Snubbleton; giving evidence of her filial affection and poetic attachment to the home of her childhood by telling her husband that she always liked to go home, " mother always had: such good dinners." Mrs. Bonnivet had the same expression of gloomy resig- nation to her daughter's marriage that she had had three years before. Mr. Bonnivet was as economical and complacent as was his wont. George Bonnivet was the same apologetically disposed person he had ever been. There was no perceptible change in the house of Bonnivet. "'We are going to have a revival at our church, Lelia; ' did I tell you?" said Mrs. Bonnivet, as she finished her dinner, and leaned back in her chair. "Yes," rejoined Mrs. Rashton, "you told me. I saw one of the young ministers, who has come to help carry on the meeting, ,when I went down street this morning. He is real handsome, too. Jim Perkins pointed him out to me. He came in the store to ask for gentlemen's hankerchiefs, and when he heard Jim call me Mrs. Rashton, he turned and looked at me as if he would look me through." "c Smitten with your appearance, no doubt," said Rashton, with a satire that no one detected. page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] 78 A. WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. "Oh, no!"Mrs. Rashton exclaimed with a laugh of grat- ified vanity that belied her words. "I don't suppose he !l:' was. But he kept looking at me all the time I was there. I couldn't think what made him." :il "Love at first sight, no doubt," said Rashton, with an irony so bitter that young George Bonnivet looked up keenly enough to have been on the points of making a dis- ; covery. : Mrs. Rashton turned her head one side, smiled pleasantly )i upon a remnant of pudding in her husband's plate, and then ^ rolled up her napkin with an air of being not wholly averse to the stranger's infatuation. "Did you hear his name?" asked the pere Bonnivet, in a i- voice that was a cross between a cracked bell and a diseased - gong. .. "Yes; I asked Jim Perkins on purpose. He looked so sweet and nice, I jest wanted to know his name. He has a " real pretty name, too. It is Philip Arion." t: A start-a quickly drawn breath, and Dr. Rashton grew h pallid as a corpse.-: "Are you ill, sir?" asked young George Bonnivet, eying I his brother-in-law curiously. "No-o-ye-es-I "- Dr. Rashton got up and staggered to the door, like a man reeling with the dizzy pain of a sud- f den and violent blow. Mrs. Rashton followed quickly. "Was it the pudding, I.: dear, that made you sick? Sometimes it gives me an awful cramp," she said, tenderly. , ' Young George looked out of the window with an air of ; saying, "It might be pudding, and then again it mightn't." Pere Bonnivet rolled up his napkin and pushed it into his napkin-ring as carefully as if it were a bank-bill he was stowing away in an old stocking. He did not appear to be at all affected by his son-in-law's illness. "Come, Robert, go up stairs and lie down, dear. You'll I feel better then." r:S I;' ROMANCE AND REALITY. 79 c I am better now," returned Rashton; yet so soon as he was alone with his wife he said excitedly, "We must go home to-morrow, Lelia. I am not well, and I don't want to be sick away from home." That night a boy handed Philip Axion a note whose con- tents ran thus:- "The extent to which I have wronged you or yours I shall not now discuss. The past cannot be recalled. Doubtless your piety has long since endowed you with a sublime forgiveness. At any rate I hope you will have the prudence to refrain from any allusion to my past life. My reputation here is good. Do not tamper with it. I am a desperate man, and cannot answer for the consequences should I become unduly ex- asperated. R. B. RASHTON. The Rashtons left Snubbleton the next day, and Mrs. Rashton never afterwards became wholly reconciled to pud- ding, since it " had affected Robert so that he did not seem to get over it for days." CHAPTER IXI ROMANCE AND REALITY. OU'RE not going out this evening, are you, pa?" asked ,X.\ Aureola Kent, as her father took down his overcoat ' ?and began putting it on. "Yes. I have a very sick patient that I must look in upon a little while." "Well, do, pa, take me with you. Bernice and Oswald are no company for me. They just get to laughing and romping and running on with their foolishness until I am forced to go off in a reverie to keep from being lonely. I never enjoy being with any one, pa, as I do with you. You can leave me somewhere while you go and see your patient; then you can page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] 80 ROMANCE AND REALITY. go by for me, and we can walk home together. This house is positively intolerable without you, pa. Say I may go with you." - "I should like to have you go," returned the father, un- willing to disoblige his daughter, and yet doubting the feasi- bility of the plan; "though I don't know exactly where to eave you on the way." "Where is your patient?" asked Aureola. "114 -- Street," Dr. Kent rejoined. "Well, then, leave me at M{r. Trenton's. I haven't seen Mrs. Trenton for weeks, and I owe her a visit." "Very well, then, the Trentons. I did not think of them. Get ready quickly, if you are going. I will wait here." Amureola Kent drew her father's head down, kissed his cheek, and then left him to prepare for her walk. . The sound of laughter and merry chatting came out of the sitting-room, and Dr. Kent knew that Bernice and Os- wald were happy in each other's society. - "Bernice thinks she could not live without me," the father mused. "She often says she could not, yet she enjoys Os- wald's society. She is entertained by his sprightliness, and she could do without-me better than Aureola could. Aureola really enjoys no society so well as mine, and she would be lonely indeed if I were dead. Oswald and Bernice would miss me, yet not so much as Aureola, my dear, timid little dreamer." It was true. Aureola Kent really enjoyed no other society ! than her father's. Him she found always sympathetic; always attentive to her wishes; always listening patiently to her gratulatory remarks about the Kents; always willing to gratify her pride of family by answering any of her queries concerning which cousin was an ex-governor at the time of his death, and what uncle was Judge of the Supreme Court, and all about the ancestor who belonged to the royal family; for such themes were inexhaustible; and whatever misfor- tune befell the Kents, Aureola invariably took refuge in r?. ROMANCE AND REALITY. 81 climbing their genealogical tree and perching complacently on some offshooting branch of a cousin or uncle or aunt who was either matrimonially connected with some great person, or was the great person himself. "My dear little Aureola, are you well wrapped up for your walk?" asked Dr. Kent, as his daughter reappeared, and took his arm as they went out the street-door together. "Oh, yes, pa, very well wrapped up," returned Aureola, tucking her plump little hand in her father's arm, and seem- ing the personification of dimpled content, as she trudged along the gas-lighted sidewalk. "Did Ola go out with pa?"Oswald asked Bernice, a mo- ment after the street-door had closed with a clang.* "Yes, and as we are probably going to have the evening all to ourselves, you are not to tease me, nor make yourself in any way disagreeable. You are to be a dear, good brother, and try to interest me." "Am I?" rejoined Oswald; " then I suppose you are to be a dear good sister, and are not to get angry when I see a proper opening for a remark and make it." "No-o," said Bernice, hesitating a moment, "I won't get angry if I can help it, but I would prefer your not trying to be witty at my expense. If you do attempt such a thing, I warn you in advance I won't laugh, or see the point of your witticisms-not one time." "Oh, well," laughed Oswald, "Ican forgive that; for I have failed to see the point of your remarks often." "There, sir, just stop your nonsense, or I'll take a book and won't speak to you again this evening. You know it's too cold for you to go down town; so you will have to be lonesome unless you'll be amiable." "What would you call amiable?" asked Oswald. "I'd call it amiable of you to sit here and put the sofa- pillow on your knee, and let me lay my head on it while you tell me a story; and if I should go to sleep not to wake me up, but just sit still, like a dear good brother." page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] 82 ROMANCE AND REALITY. "Jmph! Nice arrangement that! Companionable crea- ture you'd be, asleep! Are you a somniloquist?" asked Os- wald, laughing. Bernice laughed too, but she arranged the sofa-pillow and her position as she had suggested. "I won't go to sleep, Oswald, but I am awfully stupid, and I do wish you would tell me a story." "Well, you are pretty, Bernice, very pretty. Is that far : enough from the truth for you?" asked the teasing brother. "It would be much farther from the truth to make the same remark about yourself," said Bernice, playfully, putting her finger in the dimple on her brother's chin. "I didn't ask you to tell me a story," laughed'Oswald; "You needn't have exerted yourself." "Oh, Oswald," began Bernice, suddenly, "now is the very time of times for you to tell me something. I've just i thought of it; and you promised last week you would, the ^: first time you had leisure and we thought of it." "What is it?" asked Oswald. "Why, about that cunning little lock of brown hair I a found in an envelope in your old pocket-book. You said i you would tell me all about it when you had time." ! "That," said Oswald, with his old theatrical tone and ges- ture, "was a tress severed from the head of my then youth- ful bride, your future sister, my dear girl, the embryo Mrs. ! Oswald Kent, Esq." . - "'Oh, nonsense, Oswald! Do be serious, and tell. me about it. Where did you get it?" "Get what?"The boy affected levity, yet something half serious shone in his face, and he looked momentarily as abstracted as if he had stumbled headlong into one of Aure- ola's reveries i "Oh, Oswald, you know I mean where did you get the lock of hair. Do be reasonable, and tell me." "I severed it from her fair, young head," rejoined Oswald, shaking off his seriousness. "Whose head? What was her name?" asked Bernice, impatiently. :I ROMANCE AND EALITY. 83 "Her name was Ollie," answered Oswald, looking abstract. edly into the fire. "Oh, tell me the story at once, Oswald, and don't make me pick it out by piecemeal, as if you were a witness in court being cross-questioned." "Well, if you won't be cross, I can't be cross-questioned." Oswald laughed, pinching his sister's cheek. "Oh, now, Oswald, do be good, and commence regularly, 'Once upon a time,' and tell me all about it. I won't speak another word until you have finished," Bernice said, half coaxingly and half impatiently. "Well, 'Once upon a time,"' Oswald began. "What time? When?" interrupted Bernice. "It was the time I came up from southern Kentucky to Louisville, eight or nine years ago, while you were visiting at Cincinnati. Do you remember?" "Yes, I remember! Go on." "Well, I was with aunt Eunice Folger, and she was not in the slightest degree companionable to a young man of my years. I went wandering up and down the steamboat in the most ennuied condition imaginable. After a time I saw one of your regular handsome men coming into the ladies' cabin, leading a little girl who could not have been more than five years old. "She was a dignified little creature, yet when her father lifted her into a chair, and said: 'Now stay here until I come back,' she looked frightened and uncomfortable. As I had nothing to do with myself, and nobody seemed to be doing anything with her, I concluded to cultivate her. "I began by asking her name. She eyed me steadily a moment, and then whispered in a scared, startled way, 'Ollie!' 'Ollie what?' I asked. But she did not seem to know any other name than Ollie. "Then, for want of anything better to say, I asked, 'Where is your mamma?"She gave a hurried, scared glance in the direction her father had gone, and said, with her little mouth and chin quivering: 'Her's at home.' page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] 84 ROMANCE AND REALITY. "'Why didn't she come with you?' I asked. I shall never forget the little creature's answer: 'Her did cry and scream, and hold me by the legs, and papa pulled me away, and her screamed, and I screamed. and papa said'- the child stopped, and took her under lip between her teeth, and seemed horrified with her own reflections. "'What did papa say?' I entreated. 'He said-damn it,' whispered the child, and then clapped her hand over her mouth. and opened her eyes very wide, and looked as if she could never get over being shocked. "' Then what did papa do?' I went on, determined to find out all that he did do. She took down her hand, and said: 'He didn't take me that time, but last night he took me when I was asleep, and I did not see mamma, for I did not waken until we got in the carriage, and then I cried; and then papa said it again.' "'Said what? I asked. "'Said-damn it," she whispered again, and put her hand up again, and seemed so shocked. It was very funny to see how she looked and acted." l "Well, and then what?" asked Bernice, impatiently, as Oswald paused in his narrative. "Why, I kept on talking with her until I had made up my mind that her father was a rascal, who had separated from Ollie's mother, and broken her heart by taking the child away from her. After determining this, I tried to console the little creature, who was really looking very des- olate, by getting up a romp with her. "We played hide and seek until bed-time, and though I told her my name a dozen times, she would persist in calling i: me 'Boy,' in the most delightful little voice that was ever ; heard. I was very tired at bed-time from romping, for she seemed totally inexhaustible, and kept me chasing around the boat furiously ; but when she said: 'Good night, boy,' and kissed me, I said: 'We'll play again in the morning, Ollie,' and she nodded her cunning little head at me as if we had established a secret understanding for life, ;: ROMANCE AND REALITY. 85 "Her father looked so thoroughly villainous as he led her away, that I wanted to follow them, and throttle him, but there was Aunt Eunice, saying: ' Come, Oswald,' and I had to let my little charmer go her way with an unmutilated parent, though I did so want to follow him and do him a slight personal injury of some kind. "The next morning, I found Ollie waiting for me in the ladies' cabin. As soon as she saw me, she said: 'Oh, boy, I thought you'd never get up." "Then we had another romp, and if Aunt Eunice hadn't kept saying, 'Dont be so noisy, Oswald,' I should have enjoyed myself much more than I did. "Ollie's father seemed perfectly contented to leave her with me so long as the child appeared happy; yet at times he would caress her in a fierce, passionate way as if he was really very fond of her, but was too thoroughly embittered by something or somebody to allow himself to be as caress- ing as he felt like being. He certainly appeared to be very wretched, yet he kept himself about half intoxicated during the whole trip. "When the boat got to Louisville I was so loth to part with the child that I felt almost ashamed of my attachment. "Ollie,' said I, 'you will have to go with your papa now, and leave me. Are you sorry?' "She nodded a very disconsolate assent, and on the im- pulse of the moment I put my arms around her and kissed her a dozen times. Then, by way of experiment, I said, 'Ollie, would you leave your papa and come and live with me all the time if I would take you?' 'Yes,' she answered very emphatically, 'but you'd have to pull me away from papa, by the legs, like mamma did, or he wouldn't let you have me.' "I laughed so at this that Ollie seemed very much aston- ished, and seemed more serious than ever. "I suppose that in those days, Bernice, I must have been a trifle sentimental, for a young man of my years, for I cut page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] 86 ROMANCE- AND REAUITY. . a lock of hair from Ollie's head as she sat on my knee and looked wistfully up in my face. "When she saw her father coming towards us, she said quickly, and with something in her voice that made her , : seem years older than she really was, ' Oh boy, I do love you :: "She had a peculiar way of saying boy; a kind of boy-ee, as if she crowded any quantity of dimpled ees into the word. "Then her father came and took her away, and I went back to Aunt Eunice, who was preparing to leave the boat. I was anxious to leave too, for everything was beginning to look fearfully desolate, and my youthful existence was only barely tolerable on account of the little brown tress of Ollie's . hair in my jacket pocket. Oswald tried to laugh as he concluded, but his eyes were ;r so still and solemn that Bernice, looking into them, had rev- : elations of her brother's nature that made her say to him, ;: with a burst of sisterly tenderness, "Oh Oswald, it is the most beautiful little story I have:-ever heard. You are the very dearest brother in thie worlcd'- "Why Bernice, what ates yoi- think so?" "Oh," answered the romantic BWrnice, " it was so beauti- ful of you to take a lock of her hair and to try to interest the poor little thing. You have a heart, after all, Oswald; true, deep, loving heart, and you are not all foam and sparkle, as you sometimes seem. You are the dearest, dear- est brother." Then Bernice Kent, being wrought upon by her sympathy for the little unknown, and her affection for her brother, burst into tears, to the utter dismay of Oswald, who could never be brought to regard tears as anything but a domestic calamity. "Tableau!" exclaimed Oswald, affecting the dramatic for i, the purpose of diverting Bernice's mind and changing her mood. "Tableau!" he repeated, striking an attitude, and * Pl' ROMANCE AND RErALTY. 87 pointing to his sister, "Miss Bernice Kent, as she appeared in her favorite lachrymose condition." Bernice could not refrain from laughing at this, and the brother took care to keep her in a laughing humor for the balance of the evening. "Bernice," said he, " why are you frequently like persons at the theatre?" "Why am I?" asked Bernice. "Because you are in tears" (tiers.) "Why am I like the usher?" asked Bernice. "I know, something about giving me a box. "It is a box," rejoined Bernice playfully, boxing her broth- ther for teasing her so much, she said. "There's pa and Ola," said Oswald, catching her hand and intercepting its passage to his cheek, as he heard a night- key applied to the front door. "Are you going to tell Aureola about your little Ollie," asked Bernice. "No," rejoined Oswald half playfully and half impatiently, "Why should I? Aureola would not be interested unless I could tell her whether any of the child's relations ever did anything themselves, or married anybody else who did." Aureola came in looking fresh and rosy with a happy look on her face that Oswald and Bernice remembered afterwards, but noticed at the time with their usual gay indifference. Dr. Kent asked cheerily, "Well my children, how have you enijoyed the evening?" "Oh pa," Bernice began, "Oswald has been telling me--" Oswald covered her mouth with his hand, for truth to say, he was just -a trifle sensitive about his little romance, and shrank from having his father regard him as being at all sentimental. "What is it?" asked the father, turning as Bernice stopped so abruptly. "Why," said Oswald, "she asked me to tell her a story, and I told her she was pretty, and she accepted it as truth." page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] 88 ROaMANCE A ND REALITY. Dr. Kent smiled, and Bernice said: "You are a story-teller, Oswald. I didn't accept it as X truth, and if I had it wouldn't have been because you said - so; for I know I'm not hideous. Am I, pa?" - "To me you are beautiful," returned the father, with his ? wonted tenderness. - "There, Oswald! now behave yourself, and don't con- tradict your father, who knows a great deal more than you ever imagined," said Bernice, with playful triumph. "If he knows that you are beautiful, he certainly knows more than I ever imagined," rejoined Oswald, mischievously. ;- ; "I suppose, my son, you have heard of the owl who de- clared himself unable to see any beauty in that ugly lumi- nary, the sun?" suggested Dr. Kent,coming to the rescue, as he saw Bernice somewhat at a loss for an answer. "Yes, I know," laughed Oswald, rising and walking to a mirror, "but I'm not like the owl, I can see beauty in the son, it's the daughter that I fail to discover in possession of beauty." ' "Oh, Vanity, thy name is Oswald Kent!" ejaculated Ber- i nice, as'she rose to bid her father and brother good-night. "That's right, Bernice," returned Oswald, " always address : your remarks to your bosom companion." "Who?" asked the girl, with surprise. 0 "Why, Vanity, of course! Didn't you speak to Vanity, i and isn't it your bosom companion?"f "My dear Oswald," said Bernice, with mock compassion , "you deserve to be witty, for you do make very great efforts,' !t considering what meagre success you have." !t "If I could succeed as well wit an effort at being witty as I some persons do at being stupid without an effort, I should be; satisfied," returned Oswald, kissing his sister good-night. i "Poor fellow! How tired you must be after all that," i was the parting affectation of commiseration as she went out A of the room. "My dear pa," said Oswald, as soon as his sisters had ROMANCE AND REALITY. 89 gone, "you are looking very serious. What is the mat- ter?" "The truth is, my son," returned the father, emboldened by the boy's brave, hopeful face to confide in him, "I am very much pressed for money. I am paying a heavy premium on my life-insurance, my expenses are heavy, and our income is so small that I can by no means see my way clear." In an instant Oswald Kent was serious and thoughtful, and he asked with some surprise, "Why, how about your practice? You are always busy." "I cannot collect, my son. There are a great many poor persons owing me, but of course I have not the heart to dun them for money, when I know that they need it more than I do." "T Why, I thought Brenthy was collecting for you. Iheard him tell you that he had collected about a hundred dollars for you. Why don't you get that?" "Brenthy has run off with the money," rejoined the father. "Brenthy run off!" ejaculated Oswald; "I thofught if there ever was a reliable man, Brenthy was one." "Yes, I too thought him reliable; but I do not doubt that the poor man was sorely tempted. - He has a large family of helpless children, and it is very hard for a man to be pressed for money when he has children. A man never really feels poverty, I think, until he finds himself limited in his plans for his children by poverty." "Yes, I know, pa, but he ought to think of his children's feelings on finding their father a thief. Honor is above wealth," said Oswald, warmly. "True, my son; but Brenthy was really very much pressed for money, and his necessities doubtless drove him to despe- ration." "But you too are very much pressed for money, pa!. Don't you intend to have Brenthy arrested?" Dr. Kent shook his head, and said, "He is not a bad man, page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] 90 ROMANCE AND REALITY. and he has children. For their sakes I cannot brand their X father as a thief. He is already, no doubt, sufficiently miser- ; able, and to force upon him the additional burden of life- i long shame, because he yielded to impulsive desperation, would be too heavy a punishment. Poverty is very terrible, v my son, and men are not always strong enough to resist the temptation affording ever so temporary a relief." "Pa Kent," said Oswald, adopting a childish expression - of endearment, " you are the best man in the world." -y "It is pleasant to have you think so, my son," returned the father, "but your conclusion is a very hasty one." "No, it isn't hasty, pa!"Oswald Kent thought he felt a girlish mist in his eyes, and by way of dispelling it and - turning the conversation into another channel, he said, "There's Trenton, pa; don't he owe you something?" ;! "Yes, but Trenton has a small salary and an expensive . family, and he is looking so harassed and has so tough a ; time of it, that I really don't suppose the man has anything ? to pay." i- "That is just it, pa! You're too sympathetic. You're too easily imposed upon! You ought to make people pay their debts," said Oswald, energetically. "Would you have me bring suit against Trenton for the -. fifty odd dollars he owes me?" "Well, no-o," Oswald hesitated; "the poor fellow does "! seem hard run, but take somebody else, pa. This way of j being imposed on has always kept you poor. You have i made money enough to have been a rich man, but you are !? swindled either directly or indirectly out of- it. We can barely manage to live respectably, and just think how much money you have made. Quit being so tender-hearted, pa, ) and insist on having every cent that is due." "Would you have me pursue Brenthy?" asked the father. "Well, no." Oswald again hesitated. "cI think I'd let him hi go, but don't let everybody go in debt to you." I Dr. Kent smiled as he said, "It is a very easy matter to i ]. ROMANCE AND EAUPY. 91 talk of not being imposed upon, and making persons pay their debts. You advocate the theory very energetically, yet I see that you would no more pursue Brenthy or bring suit against Trenton than I would. In the abstract you can be very hard-hearted, butfwhen it comes to reducing your theory to practice, you find it a very different thing." "Yes, I know," Oswald mused; with a rising flush at his own inconsistency, " it is hard; but you do really need money very much, and I am sure we live very economically. If it were not for paying the policy on your life-insurance, and the insurance on your property, and taxes and such ex- penses, you could be more comfortable, couldn't you? Why not sell your property, and live comfortably yourself. Let the insurance and taxes go." "No, my son," returned the father, "I want to leave my children something when I die. Would you have your sis- ters thrown upon the world wholly dependent?" "Oh, I'll take, care of them," said Oswald. "I'd rather do it than have you so harassed." "You are very generous, my son; but I would not have you so burdened. I always undertook too much, and I want you tod start fairly with the world." So the father and son talked for some time; traversed theoretically many paths to success; yet there was always a great If, a doubtful contingency, a something harassing and unescapable. The father, accustomed to such perplexities, did not find his rest broken, nor his night, sleepless on account of the present discussion; yet long after. his deep, regular breathing indicated that he had found sleep's blessed oblivion, Oswald Kent lay awake, revolving again and again the plans for the fu- ture that had been discussed, the unsolvedproblem of success. Ollie and romance were forgotten, and the boy struggled in the doubt and darkness of a rugged reality. The night wore on, and in its weary stretches of silence and perplexity he seemed to grow years older. *? page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] 92 NEW RESOLU IONS. : CHAPTER XIL As NEW RESOLUTIONS. ! T strikes me, Oswald, that you're looking very serious. I never saw you look so before. Do tell me what ails you." Bernice Kent put an arm about her brother's neck, and searched his face with anxious eyes. X "If I tell you, Bernice, you will not speak of it in pa's presence, will you? He does not want you to be troubled, and perhaps would not like for me to tell you. You must not even tell Aureola." Hi Bernice gave the required promise with the eagerness of suspense. X "Well, the city has made improvements op pa's property and he has not- the money to discharge the debt. Real es- tate is very low now, and he can sell only at a great sacri- fice. Money is hard to get. A great many have failed in : business, and pa cannot collect what is owing him. I have v never seen him so discouraged. He tries to hide it from you and Aureola, because he says you cannot help affairs, ! and it will do no good to make you unhappy; but I know you are a brave girl, Bernice, though you do seem such a baby at times. Don't worry pa by letting him know that !tf you suspect anything, for he likes to see you happy. Be :: more cheerful and economical than you have ever been, and !J make home as pleasant for him as possible. That is all you can do." ? "Poor pa, poor dear pal"Bernice began, with her eyes J. full of tears. "I noticed last night that he looked pale, but he said his head ached when I asked him what ailed him, ; and I thought that was all. Oh, I have been so thoughtless I and selfish! I was saying only last night, and in pa's pres- ence, too, that social position without wealth was only axn jl I , NEW RESOLUTIONS. 93 aggravation; that persons who were poor ought to be in the middle and lor classes, for then their associates could not tantalize them by displaying luxuries and elegancies that they themselves could not afford. Oh, Oswald, I do hate myself!" Bernice broke down in sobs of penitence. "Never mind sis," said the brother, soothingly, " you were only thoughtless. You did not know how worried pa was; and now that you do know, I am sure that you will do all you can to make home pleasant for him. "' He has been burdened all his life, and instead of being merely perplexed for money we should have been utterly destitute years ago if pa had not possessed untiring energy and industry. He has made a great deal of money, but his expenses have always been heavy. Almost any other man would have relinquished years ago ah hope of leaving his children any property. "No man can have the burdens pa had and be both gen- erous and w-ealthy. "I sometimes think nobody really appreciates pa. I try to, I think we all love him more than any other father was ever loved; yet we are not capable of fully appreciating him." Bernice wept silently and penitently for some time; while Oswald passed his hand caressingly over her hair. "Oh Oswald," she said at length, "I am going to be a different person. You shall see that it was best to tell me these things. You are the dearest brother in the world, and I am going to be worthy of you. Oswald Kent kissed his sister, and again enjoining secrecy in relation to what he had told her, left her to her own reflec- tions. "Let me see," she began ' soliloquizing after a time, "there's my drawing, fifty cents a lesson. Two lessons a week, that's a dollar. French another dollar, that's two dollars. Oil painting a dollar and a half a lesson. Music seventy-five cents a lesson. One painting lesson and two page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] " NEW oRESOLUTIONS music lessons amount to three dollars a week. Three and two are five. That's five dollars a week I can save for pa! "Five dollars a week isn't much for you, my poor darling pa, but it is something. "To think how hateful and exacting I've been, and poor pa secretly worrying himself for the means to gratify my whims. It shall never again be as it has been." Bernice Kent indulged in many tears and self-reproaches and her penitence so increased with reflection, that she was not satisfied with merely saving, she wanted to be adding something to the general fund, of her own earning. To make money; to find some way to lift the burden of debt from her father. "Women do make money," she said to herself. "I wonder how they do it. Some of them sew, I know, but f I couldn't do that; for besides not knowing enough about sewing, pa and Oswald would not let me, and Aureola would think the Kents ruined forever, to have a seamstress in the family. What can I do? Oh what can I do?" Bernice Kent buried her face in her hands, and her anxiety was more intense from its very novelty. She had hitherto been so shielded and sheltered by her father's love and care that she was all unused to such perplexity. "Am I really anxious?" she asked herself, at length, "to I help pa? Would I be willing to undergo any hardship to make him happier? Am I in earnest? Can I bear anything, everything for his sake?" Bernice Kent searched the very depths of her heart for the answer to these questions, and it broke over her lips ' with a sob, attesting its truth. "Yes, yes," she exclaimed, as if making a covenant with her tutelar saint; "I could do anything for my darling father. I have loved him most and best of all the world. I would do anything, everything." Then she prayed for assistance, and after that the way seemed clearer. A light shone across the future. It was no torch-glare of . ! S NEW RESOLUTIONS. 95 aspiration, nor mere glow-worm of desire. It was steady and unquenchable-the eternal star of faith. When Dr. Kent came home to dinner that day he thought the house had never seemed so tidy and pleasant, nor Ber- nice so thoughtful for his comfort. "Here, pa, let me put more sugar in your coffee," or "Do, pa, have some more sauce on your dumpling," or "You dear dearest pa, let me help you to something," she would say at the table, with so compassionate an air that Oswald smiled, thinking of "Great Expectations," and how Joe used always to help Pip to more gravy by way of compensation when Pip's sister was on the rampage. "Do you remember, Bernice," he said, at length, "how Joe Gargery used to offer Pip gravy as a compensation for the miseries of having been brought up by hand?" Bernice smiled, and said, "Yes, I have pictured to myself many times Joe's sidelong glance of pity for Pip's trials, and his expressive offering of gravy." "It is a singular fact," said Dr. Kent, "that the most stupid persons occasionally stumble upon a truth that wise men pass unnoticed. In Pip's case, for instance, philosophy could not have reached his immaturity. A discussion on the 'final good" would have been powerless to reconcile him to present evil and real pain. A philosopher might have been puzzled concerning the best means of comforting the untutored boy. But Joe, with the wisdom that is called instinct, understood what Pip was capable of enjoying, and what was in his reach, and gave it to him. It was gravy. Metaphysics would have been no mitigation. Theology wouldihave been an aggravation. I do not think a substi- tute could have been found for gravy." "After all," said Oswald, "the wisest are not insensible to creature comforts." "Certainly not," rejoined Dr. Kent; "the physical well being must not be disregarded though the mental be in ever so high a state of culture. page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] 96 NEW RESOLUTIONS. "Physical discomfort enhances mental inquietude. He is wise who gives himself the advantages of the best possible physical condition. "Plenty of sleep, exercise, and nutritious food will in nine cases out of ten be found more sustaining than volumes of logical proof that our trouble is ' all for the best.' : When the mind is active with pain, and overburdened I with anxiety, we should devote ourselves to the physical. We should endeavor to enjoy 'creature comforts,' so called, ::: that the mind may rest and the body be made an instrument i? for support. "We become less sensitive as we become more material. "Our aim should be, therefore, to preserve a happy me- dium, so that neither mental nor physical shall unduly pre- dominate to the disadvantage of the other." "In that case," said Bernice, "I should not think persons ! could succeed in the literary world. By becoming so ma- 'il terial their etheriality would be decreased, and with it their intellectual success." "That," rejoined Dr. Kent, " is one great error of many who devote themselves to literature. They neglect their bodies! Their minds, from over-exertion and deficient physical support, become spasmodic in their efforts, and burn out prematurely from sheer injudiciousness. "The vigor of thought and strength of intellect that is :i most desirable can be found only where there is adequate physical support. I: "True, the mind is imperishable; yet, as its labors in time are circumscribed by the body, to neglect the body is to cripple the mind. i "It is not the over-wrought, spasmodic intellectuality that t promulgates great truths and benefits mankind to the greatest extent. "The evenly-balanced, well-poised, physically-sustained mind is most useful and luminous. A meteor is brilliant but evanescent. It is the-clear, steady day-light that redeems the world from darkness. BERNICE KENT'S PLANS. 97 "He who neglects the body for the sake of the mind may be compared to a man who scorns the assistance of wheels because the wagon-bed alone contains the grain." CHAPTER XIII. BERNICE KENT'S PLANS. ISN'T this Wednesday?" asked Dr. Kent, a few days after the conversation in the preceding chapter. "Yes, sir," returned Bernice, seating herself be- side her father, with a coaxing air, as if she divined what he was going to say. "Then why do you not go to Mr. Perring for your draw- ing lesson?" asked the father. - "Well," said Bernice, trying to look very matter of course, yet succeeding only in looking very conscious and excited, "Mr. Perring thinks I have progressed so well with my drawing that I need only practice; therefore I do not need a teacher any longer, for I can practice at home." Dr. Kent searched his daughter's face for her meaning, but could discover only that she desired to dispense with the services of her teacher. "But your painting, how about that?" he asked. "I thought," stammered Bernice, "I would not take any more lessons in painting until I had sketched more, and ac- quired a more skillful use of my pencils. Mr. Perring says drawing must precede painting, and it will be much better for me to devote myself to drawing for some months yet before I resume my painting." Bernice Kent was accustomed to having her own way, and the present case was no exception to the rule of her life. In like manner she disposed of her French, and music; 5 page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] 98 BERNICE KENT'S PLANS./ and by convincing Dr Kent that she was undergoing no pri. X vation; that she understood music perfectly, theoretically, and needed only practice; and that with the aid of her X French dictionary and Phrase-book she could get on with ? French, she succeeded in making the father acquiesce in her l: plans. -:! "Yet that is not enough," she said to Oswald, when they - were alone together; "I am not satisfied with merely saving, ' and I've made up my mind to be earning something." I Oswald laughed with incredulous fondness, and twisted a : button from his sister's sleeve, as his mind went off after some bubble imagination sent out a trifle in advance of him. ; "I don't see, Bernice, how you could earn anything ex- x cept by economy, 'for a penny saved is a penny earned,' you -I know." X "I know; but I'm not satisfied, aid after thinking it over ? a great deal, I have made up my mind that I could teach school, and I'm going to teach; though I won't mention it to pa or Aureola until my arrangements are entirely corn- pleted; for as I am quite determined in my course, I don't g want to be harassed by opposition." e Bernice looked so self-reliant that Oswald/ had new faith a in her ability to accomplish what she proposed. "You are a brave girl, Bernice," he said, "and if pa j doesn't object, it might be a good thing for you to teach a! while, at least." i: "Oh, Oswald, I was so afraid you would opposenme. I ambe so glad you don't, for I am feverish with impatience to be doing something to help pa get out of debt. He looks so care-worn and anxious that my heart almost breaks to look 'l at him. I would do anything to lighten his burdens." "I know it," returned the brother, "but I am afraid you would not like teaching. It is exceedingly laborious, every- i one says, and you are not very strong. Pa has always been ! so careful of your health, that I am sure he will object to your teaching before spring." BERNICE KENT'S PLANS. 99 "I' cannot wait until spring," said Bernice excitedly, "I must be doing something now. I cannot burden pa any longer. You are earning money." "I know, but you are not expected to do anything. Peo- ple of any kind of social position don't expect their sisters or daughters to go out like boys or men, to earn money." Bernice said " stuff," and beat her foot impatiently on the hearth rug. Oswald smiled proudly at her contempt for mere conven- tionality, and said with mock seriousness, "My dear girl, there is one way to make money," Bernice listened attentively, "It is considered perfectly genteel and is much practiced in highly respectable families"- "Never mind that, tell me what it is," said Bernice, im- patiently. "It is the only conventional method for a- lady to obtain money. It is simply to marry it." "Oh, Oswald"---Bernice burst into tears. Wrought up as she had been for weeks by nervous ex- citement, and impressed, too, with a desire for money and the necessity for obtaining it, her brother's suggestion had roused her expections to the highest, and the method named struck the chords of her sensitive nature like a rude blow, and with mingled disappointment and nervousness she felt a sudden rush of tears blinding her. "Forgive me, sister," said Oswald, "I was only jesting. Of course I did not mean that I wanted you to marry for money. ' On the contrary I should lose respect for you if you were to do so." "I know, Oswald," she rejoined, "but for a moment after you spoke it seemed almost as if I ought to marry for money, for poor dear pa's sake: and the suggestion was so sudden that my whole nature revolted at the idea." Oswald Kent took his sister's hand caressingly, and neither had ever known an hour of more perfect love and confidence than the one that followed. page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] 100 BERNICE KENT S PLANS. "How will you tell father of your intention?" asked Os- wald. "I have thought it all over, and I have made my arrange- ments accordingly." "Made your arrangements?" exclaimed Oswald, in aston- ishment. { "Yes," returned Bernice, coloring a little lest her brother should censure her for not having told her plans sooner, X "I thought I would not ask any one to endure the suspense I with me; so I have waited for something definite before ' worrying you with what might after all be only vision- ? ary." . -A "Well go on, what are you going to do?" asked Oswald, X eagerly. "In the first place I wrote to our cousin, Fanny Murdlain, 2 to know if the village school at Snubbleton had a teacher, and if not, if she would send in my name as an applicant for the school. She has written back that there is a vacancy; and as her husband is one of the trustees of the school, there is no doubt about my getting the situation" Bernice paused triumphantly, and waited for her brother - to speak. i "But you can't go," he -said at length, "without pa's con- sent; you should have managed that first." "No," rejoined Bernice, "pa would think me too delicate for drudgery of any kind, so I have concluded to try awhile ti without his knowledge." !:1 "Without his knowledge!" exclaimed Oswald. "How can you?" "I wrote to cousin Fanny that I would take the school, but that she must write me a note of invitation to go and visit her and I would show it to pa and leave home on that pretext. Pa said yesterday that I was looking nervous and a little pale, and that I needed cheerful society--something to keep up my spirits. He said he would take me to see the Keans to night, but the extravagance of places of amusement J BERNICE KENT S PLANS. 101 I couldn't think for a minute--so I told him I didn't care fof the theatre." "By the way, Bernice," rejoined Oswald, laughing, "It strikes me that you are indulging in a great many white fabrications of late. You do care for the theatre, and your tell- ing pa that you didn't, is about like telling Aureola, in pa's presence, that you would not have a new bonnet- because your old one is so much more becoming than any of the new ones." "My old one is much more becoming, considering pa's circumstances. Extravagance in any direction would be very unbecoming, and I don't care for the theatre when I go at pa's expense. I am very nervous, but I shall get over it -soon. Snubbleton, the village where cousin Fanny lives, is so small that I shall be the same as living in the country; and the fresh air and regular hours I shall be obliged to keep will be good for my health, you know." Bernice looked up with so hopeful a smile, that Oswald felt inspired by the contagion of her expectations. "As I have confided my plans to you, Oswald, you will promise not to mention them, won't you?" said Bernice, put- ting a hand through her brother's arm, and leaning her head on his shoulder with what Oswald had frequently explained playfully as, "'Miss Bernice Kent in her favorite attitude of despair, as performed with great success on divers occasions." "I promise," said Oswald in reply to Bernice's remarks. "Now, Oswald, I shall depend upon your promise. You must let me manage the whole affair, and you must not seem to know a word more than I tell pa and Aureola." Oswald agreed, and Bernice said, with one of her April- day smiles, "I shall be certain to succeed, for you know 'Ber- nice ' means 'bringing victory.' With such a name I shall not fear being vanquished." "I sincerely hope you may not be," returned the brother, "If my wishes could control your destiny you would always be Victor." page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] 102 AN HOUR OF RESERVE. CHAPTER XIV. ' e)2^ AN HOUR OF RESERVE. , } A^ HAVE never seen you look so depressed as you have 4Aid^^ looked lately, Bernice. I cannot imagine what ails you. Phi; Can you tell me?"Dr. Kent's voice was full of ten- derest solicitude, and Bernice thought with a pang how she ? was increasing his anxiety instead of helping him with his ! burden. Her voice, however, made an effort at cheerfulness as she replied: "I think I am not very well, pa. I have led such a roving, gipsy kind of life that I cannot be contented very long at a time in one place. I pine for a change of scene." i The father's face clouded for a moment, and he said, with : something like wounded feeling, "I thought you could be contented with me. I did not imagine you would weary of the society of your father, and brother, and sister." "I don't weary of you, my own dear pa, but indeed I am not well, and I do need change of scene for a little while. Don't be offended, pa. Don't think I weary of you. Don't doubt my love, for indeed--I could not endure a doubt of-my-affection-for-you." Bernice could scarcely speak for her sobs. Her nervous system was in that over- wrought condition that made her express almost every emo- tion more readily by tears than words. i- 4 "Well, there, there! Don't be hurt. You shall do as you choose. Housekeeping is annoying, and you shall have i recreation. Where would you like to go?"f Bernice Kent was deceiving her father for the first time in her life, so she dropped her eyes, unable to meet his steady I glance, and said she would take a few days to consider. "I cannot tell him," she said to herself, " what I am going to do. He is too generous to be willing for me to sacrifice any comfort for his sake, and so if I were to tell him I should be obliged to chafe all winter with the consciousness j, AN HOUR OF rESERVE. 103 of being only a burden to him. It will be hard to leave him, my precious father, that I love more than all the rest of the world, but I shall be all the braver if I do leave him, and instead of being a burden to him can help him, even if ever so little. Oh, my dear home, my dear, pleasant, home, that I used to dream of years ago, it will be so hard to leave your rest, and peace, and perfect freedom, and go back again into the cold, stranger world; and sit an alien in other homes. It will be so hard to leave my precious father, and brother, and sister, but it will be right, and if I really want to do my duty I shall not hesitate." While these were Bernice's thoughts, Dr. Kent struggled with something very like pain, that might have been trans- lated something like this: "I have given'the best years of my life to my children. I have looked forward so long to having them all with me, and to resting as it were in their affection-; but I am getting old. They weary of me. Even Bernice, that I thought the most devoted, is wretched because she cannot get away from me." The thought pierced with dagger-like cruelty the great, generous heart, and the past came crowding back. The loveless boyhood, the struggles of early manhood, the toil he had endured to benefit others, the faint glimmer of evan- escent joys, and the crushing weight of persistent griefs, came back like the phantasmagoria of a dream. a The sitting-room in -- Square faded, the dimmed eyes sparkled again with the olden light of their lost manhood. The bowed, despondent-orm beside him melted into the twilight shadows, and a lithe, childish figure came dancing up to his knee, and turned a face unto him all light, and trust, and affection. The old child-tones came back. The little fingers of the fairy hands combed out his whiskers, and put his hair back from his forehead. A fresh, velvet cheek pressed his own, and the old joy and throb was in his heart, for he held in his arms the child Bernice, and knew that she loved him as no other father was ever loved. page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] 104' AN HOUR OF ESERVE. A moment it was there. Then it faded, and a darkness and void and yearning fell into his heart, so that on the I impulse of sudden pain he clasped the despondent figure beside him, and exclaimed, almost imploringly, "My child, my child!" * ; "What is it, father?"Bernice asked, with astonishment: ? but the father did not speak. . A "Father," she exclaimed, in alarm. She never called him "father " except under a strong excitement of tenderness. "Speak to me! What is the matter?" ; "I must have been dreaming," he, answered, trying to smile. i "It would do no good to tell her," he reasoned, "she X would only reproach herself with ingratitude. She cannot a help wearying of me. It is only natural. I am growing old. When my work is accomplished I shall die. Why should I ,: want any fresh young heart so bound to mine that after my i death it could only break over my grave? "No! no! She shall have change of scene, or anything she wants, to make her happy. Nothing like a complaint from me shall disturb her. "It is natural she should weary of me. I'm growing old, growing old. Yet life has been very short, and my heart is hungry, as it was in my boyhood!" i "My own dear pa," said Bernice, as she left her chair and sat down on her fatler's knee, "don't you know I love you more than everybody else in the world. Say you do, pa!" "Yes, yes, my precious child," he answered; and as she nestled her cheek close to his, and assured him of her affec- tion and her gratitude for all his love and forbearance, a light shone over the dark places in his great, hungry heart; i and closing his eyes, he said to himself, "I will cheat my- self for a while with the dream that I am not so old, andy n child not so weary of me. Not merely compassionate and remorseful, but really not weary of my presence." Bernice was more affectionate and caressing than usual, AN HOUR OF RESERVE. 105 because of the secret fancies tugging at her heart with gnawing pain. What, if after all the sacrifice of feeling, all the anxiety and toil, she should return home to find him dead, to find the warm cheek ice-cold, and the heart she leaned against still? "I couldn't bear it," she said to herself. passionately; "I could never live. God knows how much I could endure, and He would not take my father from me.' No, no! that could never be. I should have nothing to live for. I have had one dream all my life, and that was to be near him. I cannot tell him so now, or he will ask me why I do not stay with him. He would not let me bear part of his burden, but I will, I willf even though it should break my heart to leave him, just as I used to feel little fine tendrils break and bleed because of our separation in my childhood. "Pain is the proof of love. I can endure anything. for your sake, my precious father; yet, oh if you should die while I am away from you, I should want to die too, and be buried in the same grave with you." Yet these thoughts had no other outward expression than such as her caressing hands and cheeks could give. They were hidden, though a revelation of them would have filled the father's hungry heart to the overflowing fullness of joy. ' "How full of tended remorse she is," he thought. "She is trying to hide her real feelings from me, that they may not wound me. She was never more affectinate and caress- ing, yet she is not happy. She is not satfied here. The long, inevitable separations that necessity forced upon me, estranged my-child, and she wants the excitement of change. She is in the bud and bloom of her life's spring time, and I, I'm growing old. The yellow leaves are falling." Ah, if father and daughter had spoken unreservedly to one another! They did not; yet there came an hour when one of them, at least, wished it had been an hour of confi- dence instead of reserve. 6* i page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] CHAPTER XV. A WOMAN OF A THOUSAND. THE letter from Mrs. Murdlain came in due time. The invitation sent was discussed and accepted, and Bernice was going to Snubbleton. Then came the hurried preparations, a feverish haste on the part of Ber- nice that Aureola was utterly unable to understand. "I should have thought, Bernice," she would say, " that after being without a home all your life, you would have learned by this time to appreciate one. You won't f!id another spot on earth where you can do exactly as you choose, and have nothing to do but amuse and improve yourself. I cannot understand such restlessness upon your part." " Can't you?" Bernice would answer, evasively. " No, I cannot," Aureola would return, indignant at what seemed her sister's ingratitude. "Pa has made so many sacrifices for us; and now that we are all together, and ought to be so happy, you become discontented, and want to go off and leave us. Visiting is expensive when one goes off from home, and I think it very inconsiderate of you to act so. I feel it my duty to tell you, though I'm sure I don't want to be unkind." After which Oswald would ask playfully, "What is it? What's the matter ? I've often told you, Aureola, that ora- tory isn't your forte. What is the matter now ?" To which Aureola would reply with dignity, " I was only discharging my duty, Oswald, in telling Bernice that I think her leaving home very ungrateful." Then Dr. Kent would offer some soothing remark, and Bernice would busy herself with something that required her face to be partially concealed; and Oswald would say, in his airy way, "If you must be doing something, Ola, just take my revolver and discharge it out in the back yard. 'The noise will be more agreeable than so oratorical a discharge of your duty, and the effect will be less unpleasant." All the little discussions-were over at last. Oswald's jesting became more forced, and less genuinely gay. Aureola's censure was turned into tender regret, and she affectionately urged her sister to return home soon, and to write twice every week. Dr. Kent affected cheerfulness, yet as he bent over for the last good-bye kiss, something so full of pain and tenderness and pleading shone from Bernice's eyes that the father was quite overcome, and could only whisper, "You will not stay long, my child, will you?" "Not long, and yet it will seem so long to be away from you, my own pa," she sobbed, with uncontrollable emotion. "Don't go, then. There's no necessity. If you have changed your mind you can get off now. The cars do not start for three minutes yet. Come! What do you say?" The father held out his hand eagerly. Of course he was "not like any father you have ever seen," reader. He was more tender and devoted than any mother ever was, than any other father ever was; yet he was Berice Kent's father. He lived in and for his children, and even at the last moment he would have kept his daughter with him if he could have done so with her consent. "What do you say?" he asked, eagerly, seeing that she still hesitated. "Oh, I want to go back with you, my precious father," she said to herself. "You might die while I am gone. I want to stay with you, but I must be brave and prove my love for you by helping you. You are so burdened. I will conquer my feelings." So she said aloud, quite resolutely, "No, pa, as I have started I think I'll go. Kiss me good-bye again, pa, you dear pa." The father kissed her, and turned away with the pain of f ; page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] 108 A WOMAN OF A THOUSAND. loneliness, while Bernice watched him from the car-window, and sobbed, as distance at last hid him from her view, "Oh my pa, my own pa, if you should die while I am gone, I think it wouldl kill me." Then the speed of the cars increased, and Bernice found herself borne on so rapidly that trees and houses and fences went flying past as ,if they too were out in the world, the cold, desolate, stranger world, driven on by a merciless ty- f rant named Duty. What a mad, hurrying, impetuous world it seemed! Dizzy X with pain, and reeling under the weight of the inevitable. "I know I am doing right. Why then am I so wretched?" she asked herself, again and again, yet the dreariness of des- olation was about her, and reason was powerless. It was after sunset when the train arrived at the station, H two miles distant from the village of Snubbleton. Then S came a new anxiety. Suppose Mrs. Murdlain had not re- ceived her letter requesting some one to meet her at the S depot? Suppose she should find no one there? These and other perplexing queries that depressed spirits suggested to I Bernice were set at rest, however, when she found the Murd- lain carriage awaiting her. and the well-known face of her L "cousin Fanny " smiling at the carriage door. The little excitement of greeting and welcoming had a tendency to temporarily divert Bernice's mind from her il melancholy. i!: The weather was unusually mild for the season, and the t drive to Murdlain mansion was delightful. ?i Alrs. Murdlain was a large, corpulent woman, in her i thirties, whose flow of animal spirits was in accordance with i her organization. The atmosphere of her presence, in its healthful, purely X physical joyousness, was the very reverse of Bernice's ner- i vousness and morbid melancholy. She was evidently a woman asking very little in this life beyond creature com n forts, while the life to come was too much enveloped in vague i speculation to elicit much of her attention. 2. A WOMAN OF A THOUSAND. 109 "I am so glad you did not disappoint us," she said, in her brisk, jovial way. "I told Mr. Murdlain that as the roads were good and the distance so short, I'd just take the car- riage and go out for you myself, instead of sending a horse, as lye proposed." "It was very kind of you," rejoined Bernie, " besides I have my trunks, and I should think it much more convenient to have them taken with me on the carriage." Mrs. Murdlain said "Yes," with an air of well-fed com- placency, as if it had not been a great while since she had dined to her entire satisfaction. Then she leaned forward to tell the driver to put the horses in a brisker trot, where the road was good. The direction seemed superfluous, as they were already going as rapidly as seemed prudent. Mrs. Murdlain, however, was wide awake, and appeared determined to push, pull, crowd, crush, force every drop of enjoyment out of life that was by any means to be got out. The motion of the carriage, the breath of the cool evening wind, the very consciousness of existence, seemed to thrill and fill her with sensuous enjoyment; and every effort on her part, physical or mental, seemed to be made with a view to that end. Murdlain mansion was a white frame house, situated in the suburbs of Spubbleton. Its external appearance did not strike Bernice as remarkably prepossessing, yet the moonlight smiled above the evergreens in front of it, seeming so calm and peaceful and altogether disposed to forgive exter- nal imperfections, that Bernice felt a softer mood upon her, and entered the house with a hope that shaped itself in prayer for the untrod future. "Mr. Murdlain, let me introduce you to our cousin, Bernice Kent," Mrs. Murdlain exclaimed, as a sandy-whiskered man came/forward to greet the new-comer; for although Bernice was acquainted with Mrs. Murdlain, she had never seen any of her family. It was a way of Mrs. Murdlain's'to hunt up distant relations who might be desirable acquaintances, and page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] Lv A WOMAN OF A THOUSAND. visit them at every convenient opportunity. She had Ad visited the Kents, and Bernice had met-her at different places: for Mrs. Murdlain was well acquainted with many who were utter strangers to her husband and children. n "Well Mr. Murdlain," said she, in her brisk, complacent !S way, as soon as tea was over, and the family fairly settled for the evening in the sitting-room, cousin Bernice has come to take the village school." Bernice looked up in astonishment at Mrs. Murdlain's tone of voice, for she spoke as 'if making an announcement 1: of a very surprising and entirely new circumstance. "Ah!" returned Mr. Murdlain, regarding ,3ernlce as if her coming had been a point that had given him no little concern. : "Yes," rejoined Mrs. Murdlain, as if she had never men- 0 tioned, nor so much as thought of mentioning the circum- k stance before, "she has come expressly to take the school; and we must see what can be done. There is not likely li to be any difficulty in her getting the school, is there?" , Mr. Murdlain thought not. His thoughts, however, were of little consequence to Bernice, who was lost in amazement at the manner in which her host and hostess spoke of a ! matter that she had every reason to believe entirely settled. "Then there is doubt," she said,- after some hesitation, "about my getting the school." 1, "Oh no," rejoined Mrs. Murdlain, confidently, "not the ! least doubt. Mr. Murdlain is one of the trustees, and every- body about here looks up to me, and whatever we are in fa- vor of the neighbors will indorse. There is no one who has more influence than we have. I didn't think it worth while to take any steps about getting the school till you came, as I did not know but that you mioht get out of the notion and then there would have beep all the trouble for nothing, if you had. A few days delay, will make no difference. You know I wanted you to visit me, anyway, ha, ha, ha!" Mrs. Murdlain laughed, and Bernice blushed, at the allu- A WOMAN OF A THOUSAND. " sion to the innocent deception she had practiced upon her fathier. "Let me see," began Mrs. Murdlain again, after a pause, "Bagshaw's will send two; and Melbourne's will send five, if Melbourne is managed right. Bernice could not but couclude from Mrs. Murdlain's manner, that Melbourne was a person, for the most part, very difficult to manage; yet Mrs. Murdlain's Iresolute air indicated a consciousness of being equal even to this emer- gency: and indeed an emergency could scarcely have hap- pened within the range of human probability, to which she would not have felt herself equal. So strong, resolute, self-contained, and self-sustained, she seemed the personification of health and contentment. "Melbourne is thoroughly unreliable," she went on, " but flatter and watch him, and you can lead him anywhere," Mrs. Murdlain smiled, as if she considered the last a redeem- ing trait in his character, quite proper when her powers of leadership were taken into consideration. According to her convictions of the state of society, the world was divided into two separate and distinct classes; that which ruled and that which was ruled. She belonged to the first, and as a matrimonial sequence, Mr. Murdlain belonged to the last mentioned class. None knew his particular niche in the domestic arrange- ments of his own house better than Mr. Murdlain. He re- cognized the transcendent power of governing belonging to his wife, and was her most loyal subject. That a world could have been made complete without some such spirit as that possessed by Mrs. Murdlain, would have been considered an absurdity by the husband of that lady. He listened to al her remarks with an air of meek at- tention, a kind of submissive adoration, as if oppressed with a sense of his own unworthiness and her superiority. If she had taken into her head to say to him, with her habitual confidence and complacency, "Murdlain, you have page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] "2 ' A WObAN OF A THOUSAND. been taught that the moon is a planet, reflecting the light i of the sun; but I affirm, upon my own responsibility, Murd- lain, that it is made of green cheese, simply green cheese, you may depend upon it," Murdlain would have instantly set- : t tfled it in his own mind that astronomy was a humbug, and ! green cheese capable of very great illuminating properties ? if sufficiently far off. X "No, no," Mrs. Murdlain resumed after a time, in a mu- sing tone, as if she had been working it out in her own mind and had become thoroughly convinced of it, "1 Melbourne is not at all reliable. He couldn't tell the truth if he were to E try, but he can be led anywhere by flattery. Just anywhere by flattery, Mr. Murdlain, you may depend upon it." Murdlain nodded his head as if he considered the question settled beyond a doubt; for when Mrs. Mturdlain used the ! latter form of expression, Mr. Murdlain considered himself fully authorized to ' depend upon it.' X "I'll see Melbourne to morrow," he said, "and find out what can be done with him." - "Tell him you know he has plenty of money, and can s afford to support a school well; for if there is anything that i tickles his vanity, it is making him think you know he is rich," Mrs. Murdlain suggested with a view of instructing Mr. Murdlain how to proceed; for truth to say, the very intimate knowledge she possessed of the gentleman, in the conjugal and affectionate relationship existing between them, gave her no reason to found very extravagant anticipations upon the result of his unaided efforts. Indeed experience seemed but to have confirmed her in the belief that she and Murdlain belonged to different classes of society; she to rule, he to be ruled. Without her, Murdlain was a cipher; with her, their re- presentation of society was not to be scorned. 'Mr. Murd- lain minus Mrs. Murdlhin, was nothing; Mr. Murdlain plus, Mrs. Murdlain, was the first member of an equation to be finished with immensity. "I DO NOT IKE YOU, DR. FELL. 113 Mrs. Murdlain was a woman of a thousand, and the asser- tion does no discredit to the fair sex. CHAPTER XVI. 'C I DO NOT LIKE YOU, DR. FELL." 5 ERNICE was wakened early the next morning by the energetic voice of Mrs. Murdlain calling her two elder Ad daughters, who had slept with Bernice, or rather with whom Bernice had slept; for there seemed to be no separate room, nor even a separate bed for Bernice, apart from that usually occupied -by the Misses Murdlain, who were aged respectively twelve and fourteen years. "I am afraid I must have crowded you last night," said Bernice, sitting up in bed and looking at her companions, who were lying so very close together and occupying jointly so small a space, that Bernice felt quite like an intruder in having slept with them, though the arrangement had been under Mrs. Murdlain's immediate direction and approval. "Oh no, we were not crowded at all," answered the eldest, a pleasant faced, blue-eyed girl, whose habitual expression was a kind of innocent astonishment, as if she hadn't quite got accustomed to living in the world, and required a little more time to comprehend just what existence meant. "I had plenty of room," said the younger, by way of con- firming what her sister had said: she seemed equally good tempered, yet was of an altogether different type. Her fea- tures were sharper and more regular, and she seemed to un- derstand perfectly what existence meant and exactly what was required of her. She inherited her mother's confidence, and had apparently a tinge of her father's submissiveness. The latter charac- page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] "4 "I DO NOT LIKE YOU, DR. FELL." teristic may, however, have been simply the result of associ- ation with her mother, or rather of submission to her; for Mrs. Murdlain's children were no less perfectly trained in the one law'and gospel of obedience than Mrs. Murdlain's husband. "How long has it been since you attended school?"Ber- nice asked the elder of the sisters, while the three were making their toilet for breakfast. "How long has it been, Mel?" the elder asked, turning her large, wondering eyes upon her sister, as if she didn't remember just how long it had been, but relied fully on her sister's memory. "Oh, I don't know; weeks and months," rejoined the the other in a sharp, decisive tone, that was perfectly in accordance with her cast of features. "Did you have a lady or gentleman teacher last?" queried Bernice. Cordelia, the elder, tied her shoe, dreamily, and seemed to wait, with the innocent wonder in her face, for her sister to reply, who, although younger, always appeared to go a trifle in advance of the other. .A "We had'gentleman teacher," replied Melvina Murd- lain, with an air of being very positive on that point, and of considering the person mentioned deserving of emphasis in some direction. "Did you like him?" pursued Bernice, with a view of learn- ing whether they were studious or otherwise, as her creed was, good scholars invariably loved their tutors, while bad ones did not. "I did," replied the younger, "but Deely didn't." The innocent wonder on the elder sister's face, was tem- porarily supplanted by a flush, mantling her brow in roseate discomfiture. "Why did you not like him?"Bernice asked, fixing a kind, steady glance upon the elder sister. "I don't know," she answered, a long shiver running through her frame, and seeming to fill her with secret aversion. I DO NOT LIKE YOU, DR. FELL" 115 "I'm sure I don't see why she don't like him," said the other, in her clear, decided tone. "He gave her a great many handsome presents, and me, too, and all of us." Cordelia's lip curled, and her innocent wonder liad a shade of distrust and dislike darkening it. "Seehere," said the younger, opening a small, velvet- lined w ting-desk, "he gave Deely this, and it's all fur- nished with paper and everything she needs." "Yes, it is very pretty," rejoined Bernice, regarding Cor- delia Murdlain with no little curiosity, who sat tying her shoe, as if-it were the most perplexing and dangerous thing she had ever undertaken, or cared to undertake of her own accord. ! "Do you not think the desk very pretty?" asked Bernice, hinding that the young lady did not seem inclined to speak unless spoken to. "Yes, I think it very pretty," returned the girl, regard- ing the article mentioned with an air of knowing more about it than she chose to explain, and of knowing nothing in the slightest degree agreeable. "I should think you would be very much pleased with it," said Bernice, with another effort at probing. "I should, if"- The girl paused, searched Bernice's face, with her innocent wonder intensified into something like anxiety, as if she would give worlds to know if Bernice were to be trusted, and as if she could on no account finish her sentence without a conviction to that effect. "You should, if-what?" queried Bernice, throwing as much kind encouragement into her face and voice as she could command. "If-any one else had given it to me," she concluded, in a lower tone, glancing furtively and half deprecatingly at her sister, as if she didn't want to arouse any one's displeas- ure, and especially Melvina's. "Wasn't he kind to you in school, that you dislike him so?" pursued Bernice. page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] "6 "DANDY LYONS." "Yes, he was kind, and Deely knows it," with a tone she might have borrowed from her mother, on account of having heard it adopted with great success when her father seemed in doubt whether to "depend upon it," or only speculate X concerning it. ' "I did not say he was not kind," said the elder, as if in turn imitating her father, and denying an unwillingness to "depend upon it " if the other insisted. "Then why do you not like him?' queried Bernice, with a persistency somewhat astonishing, even to herself. "I don't like his eyes. When he touches my hand I shiver. When he comes near me I am afraid. I don't like him," said Cordelia, at length, with quiet emphasis, and a look of f fear and aversion settling on her face whose signification was unmistakable. "That is strange," said Bernice, speaking as much to her- self as to her companions. "Yes," rejoined the elder, catching at the expression, as if it were the very one of which she was at that precise mo- ment in search. "It is strange, but it's so. I don't know what makes me feel that way, but I do." "'I do not like you, Dr. Fell,"'" said Bernice, laughing. "His name is Lyons," rejoined Melvina, not understand- ing Bernice's allusion. CHAPTER XVII. 'DANDY LYONS." IT was a peculiarity of the little Murdlains that, not- withstanding their mother's active, joyous go-ahead- tiveness, they looked melancholy and neglected, as if they had objected to being born, but had had existence "DANDY LYONS." ' 117 forced upon them like a dose of very bad medicine, at whose bitterness they could never get over making faces. "What is your name?" asked Bernice, when breakfast was over, and the prospect of an unemployed day stretched wearily before her, as she drew one of the neglected, moth- erless-looking children towards her, and smoothed out the tangled mass of golden hair. ("My name id Maymie," answered the child, mournfully looking up, as if she realized that she was very unfortunate in some direction, she scarcely knew what just yet; it might be her name, it might be anything else, she was not quite clear on that point. "Maymie! Why, that's a very pretty name," said Ber- nice, with an effort to please the child, who looked up after it, as if a trifle relieved to be assured that it wasn't her name that was so bad, though everything else was exceed- ingly unfortunate, and at times almost unendurable. Bernice could not but smile at the child's unhappiness. It seemed so very exaggerated that she was amused as well as compassionate. "What pretty, curling hair you have," she exclaimed, lift- ing the child on her knee, and trying to separate the tangled ringlets with her fingers. The little girl smiled, and seemed to think existence a trifle more tolerable for this praise of her abundant tresses. "Get me a comb," said Bernice, " and I can curl your hair beautifully." The child obeyed with alacrity, and exhibited most re- markable patience while the troublesome tangles were combed out, and the glossy brightness of the golden ringlets combed in. "There, now, you are as pretty as a peach blossom," ex- claimed Bernice, surveying with admiration the improved appearance of the child, whose bright hair seemed to have entangled the morning's gayest sunbeams in its meshes. "Well," said Bernice to herself, when she had wearied of page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] "8 "DANDY LYONS." the child, "I may as well get out my crayons and sketch a little. The day will be a week long if I don't do something to amuse myself." She took out her portfolio, and sat down by a window to sketch a bit of landscape that she thought romantic. "Come, now," said Mrs. Murdlain, bustling into the room at this moment, "you must put up that. Mr. Lyons has come, and you'll have to entertain him." Mr. Lyons was a man whose age it was impossible to guess. He might have been anywhere between twenty-five and forty, and could have supported the character of a ma- ture young man of twenty-five, or a youthfully-disposed per- son of-forty with equal propriety and success. He had a certain maturely melancholy expression and primness that might have indicated much experience crowded into only twenty-five years. His hair was black and glossy, and had the appearance of a well-conditioned wig-yet it was not a wig. His eyes were also dark, and had a veiled, dreamy ex- pression at times, as if he had been all his life accustomed to sleeping with his eyes open, and was a thorough somni- loquist as well as somnambulist. ' Yet with, all his primness and mature melancholy, he was given to spasmodic bursts of hilarity; as if he suddenly realized how ridiculous he had been appearing, and was amused to see how readily a young man of twenty-five might pass for a staid gentleman of forty, if he but-inclined to mas- querade as such for his own amusement. At such times-his youthful periods-he would exhibit all the bombast and boisterous hilarity peculiar to half-grown boys when desirous of making an impression on some di- vinity in crinoline. He was made up of contradictions, and his very clothing seemed to partake of his character. His cravat had a firm, settled, " touch-me-not" look, as if it only wanted to be "let alone," while his shirt-front, as if in contradiction to the cravat, had an expansive " come-rest- Al "DANDY LYONS." 119 in-this-bosom" air, as if it desired only to shelter some one, and boo-hoo over the sheltered with melancholy sobbings of affection and despair. His pantaloons came down over his boots with an air of saying, with solemn dignity and warning, "My son!" at which the boots, shining and brisk, came out from under the pantaloons, in sharp, irritated little jerks, as if saying, "Oh, bother! What do we care for your foolish old fogyism? Get out of the way. Here we go; regular 'two-forties' we are;" and away they would go in. a brisk little trot, as if im- mense stakes had been put up on their speed. Mr. Lyons was presented, and, according to rustic cus- tom, was coming forward to shake hands with Bernice, when observing the young lady merely bowing, he stepped back quickly, recognized her amendment of rusticity by drawing hisitwo little feet together, and looking a very French dan- cing master in his attitude and expression. "Fop!" exclaimed Bernice, mentally, while Mr. Lyons looked down at a suspicion of mud on his boots, and made some frivolous, sprightly remark, indicative of his exceeding displeasure at such a condition of affairs. Then Bernice thought how if Oswald were there he would probably propose a conundrum something like "Why does Mr. Lyons belong to the vegetable instead of the animal kingdom?"And of course, Bernice thought, every one must give it up, and she pleased herself fancying Oswald's pe- culiar expression as he would reply, "Because he is dande- lions." "Yes, he is dandy Lyons," she said to herself, with a de- gree of emphatic disapproval that she found it somewhat difficult to repress. "And here is my little friend, Mel. Why, how do you do, Mel?" exclaimed Mr. Lyons, briskly, as Melvina Murdlain entered the room. "I'm very well," she answered, seemingly delighted to meet the gentleman. page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] 120 "'DANDY LYONS." "This is a little girl, Miss Kent, who used to be a pupil of mine," said Mr. Lyons, evidently more desirous of getting up a conversation than of being particularly brilliant. Bernice said, "Yes, so I have understood." Mr. Lyons evidently considered this an opening, and came up -gallantly. "Oh, yes, a pupil of mine," he said, " and rare old times we used to have, eh, Mel?" The girl smiled, and said, in her little sharp, decisive way, "I think we did." "Oh yes," pursued the gentleman, " rare old times ; and sometimes I used to have to com-pel-mel, eh, Mel?" . "I think you did come pell-mell, sometimes," answered the girl; at which Bernice smiled, and Mr. Lyons laughed uproariously. "Oh, yes," he exclaimed, at length, as if there were only one approved method of beginning a sentence, and he knew it perfectly; "rare old times we used to have. See here, Miss Murdlain!"At this he sprang up with so natural an air that the girl involuntarily started. "Look at that black- board, Miss," he exclaimed, pointing at vacancy and eying Melvina with well-assumed ferocity. The girl understood his humor, and laughed to see him caricature himself as he appeared in the school-room. "Here dunce, blockhead, ninny, nincompoop, come up to this blackboard and work this example." Mr. Lyons got up, seized Melvina's arm and dragged her to the opposite side of the room, and pushed her against the wall that was' made in these impromptu private theatricals to do duty as a blackboard. "Yes, that is the way you used to do, Mr. Lyons," ex- claimed Cordelia Murdlain, who had hitherto been sitting, al- most unobserved, in a quiet corner of the room. Mr. Lyons laughed, and after a few exhibitions of unex- ampled ferocity, subsided from the tragic pedagogue who might have been forty, into the hilarious youth who could not, by any possibility, have passed his twenty-fifth year. u DANDY LYONS." 121 "Oh, yes," said Mr. Lyons, still adhering to the approved method of beginning a sentence, "I dare say I was very ferocious in those days. Very ferocious," he repeated, rub- bing his hands and laughing, as if Bernice were to under- stand from his manner that he only counterfeited severity, at times, for his own amusement, but was really at heart very amniable. The household of Murdlain lionized the gentleman, appa- rently to his heart's content. Mrs. Murdlain, in particular, laughed immoderately at his jests, and seemed the personi- fication of edified sweetness. A certain Mr. Melbourne, or "Bill Melbourne," as the Murdlains contemptuously termed him, was Mr. Lyons's especial aversion, and, of course, Mrs. Murdlain's method of being agreeable to Mr. Lyons was to abuse Melbourne un- tiringly. Mr. Lyons informed Bernice that she would probably have an opportunity of exercising all her skill, as preceptress, upon " the wooden-headed little Melbournes," as the chil- dren of the gentleman were designated. Bernice listened attentively. She was so anxious to hear- something about the school. Feverish to begin teaching, and ease the dull, heavy pain in her heart by activity. "Oh my precious father," she said to herself, as an under- current of love and memory bore her out of the foam and sparkle around her, " if I could help you some. If I could earn money and send it to you, with a little note saying that it came from your own loving Bernice, how glad I should be!" Bernice Rent's face was clouded, and Mr. Lyons became abstracted, -as if he had gone off into a trance for the pur- pose of finding out, by supernatural means, the subject of Miss Kent's thoughts. "As a general thing, I think you will find the school a ,pleasant one, Miss Kent," he said, at length, looking dreamily into the fire, as if he saw the young lady in the 6 page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] 122 "DANDY LYONS." coals, but scarcely knew whether he might reasonably expect an answer. "Do you think so?" Bernice asked, suddenly, displaying animation and looking eagerly at the young man, who had now arrived at his habitual medium of mature juvenility that made his age so enigmatical. Mr. Lyons saw that to discuss the school would be to in- terest Miss Kent. Acting upon the strength of his convic- tion, he described, at length, everything pertaining to the school. Bernice was informed what" the people expected;" whose children were blockheads and whose were not; and as she had been feverish with anxiety to hear something concern- ing her new life, she became quite interested in the young old man's or old young man's conversation, and was chat- ting with so much animation, and listening with so much : interest to Mr. Lyons's remarks, that when dinner was an- nounced she was surprised at the flight of time, and asked Mrs. Murdlain if it was not early for dinner, with a naivete that made Mrs. Murdlain laugh audibly, and Mr. Lyons smile with gratified vanity. Bernice saw his expression, and exclaimed, with a rising flush of embarrassment, "The morning has seemed long enough, for that matter; but then I'm not hungry, and so I imarined it could not be dinner-time." Whether or not Mr. Lyons penetrated her motive, he replied, with an amiability that Bernice thought the most laudable effort she had known him to make: "Dinner ! must be earlier than usual. I never knew a morning to pass away more rapidly." Bernice felt a trifle rebuked, as one is apt to feel when amiability answers ill-humor, and remained silent. I: / LOVE'S POOR RELATION 123 CHAPTER XVIII. LOVE'S POOR RELATION. ON inquiry it appeared that a majority of the trustees of the village school, having no suspicion that Mr. Murdlain had other views, had engaged a teacher without consulting that functionary. Their not consulting Mr. Murdlain, Mrs. Murdlain could have forgiven, but their not consulting Mrs. Murdlain she could by no means be led to pardon. "If the other trustees want to get a teacher without con- sulting you, Mr. Mardlailn," said the lady, with an air of according a contemptuous permission much more galling than any severity of refusal could have been, "let them get one. I'm sure if they can do without us, we can do without them." Mr. Murdlain looked up as if he could already see the other trustees falling into a pit of their own digging. The triumph of a gigantic intellect successful in a stupen- dous enterprise, was perceptible in Mrs. Murdlain's counte- nance as she exclaimed, "I can fix it. I can come up with them." Murdlain seemed to be regarding the victims of his wife's displeasure with a melancholy sense of satisfied justice, as he requested a further development of the lady's plan. "Well," she rejoined majestically, "We can make up a school at the Long Branch school-house. It is only two miles from here. I have walked that far to school many a time, and so can these children. We can get Bagshaw and Melbourne to join us, by a little management; and I'm quite sure a-very good school can be got. It must be done, too. We'll let Snubbleton see that the sun don't rise and set in the other trustees." Mr. Murdlain looked at Mrs. Murdlain as if impressed page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] la4 LOVE'S POOR RELATION. with the conviction that if it were possible for the sun to depart from its usual habits of rising and setting, and that luminary wanted a person worthy to rise and set in, it : couldn't very easily do better than to take Mrs. Murdlain and if the lady herself had perfectly coincided with this : oryinion, her expression of countenance would have been precisely as it was. . She went on to speak of her plan, and to show how it was perfectly practicable. She counted the pupils she was certain of, and the pupils she was not certain of. Those who would pay, and those who wouldn't. Those who had influence without brains, and those who had brains without social position. (For even in Snubbleton there was soi disant "social position.") She decided that Mr. AMurdlain should take a subscription paper and get as many names as possible signed for the regular school term. "While, as to the board," she ex- claimed, fired by the enthusiasm naturally attendant uponi the success of one of her own plans, "Bernice can board around." "What's that?" queried Bernice. Mr. Lyons struggled with repressed amusement, and Mrs. Murdlain' explained, "Why, board with the patrons of the school. A few weeks with each of them. Your board won't cost you anything in that way, so that all you make .. will be clear gain." Bernice Kent saw a vision of her father's anxious care- worn face, and felt strong enough for anything that would Lighten his burden, and make him happier. This conversation had taken place at the dinner-table, md as Mr. Lyons and Bernice returned to the sitting-room, : he gentleman remarked with a smile, "I imagine that four experience 'boarding round' will prove very amusing, f not too disgusting to strike you as ridiculous." "Did you ever board around " asked Bernice, with a hiver of apprehension. "OVE'S POOR RELATION. 125 Mr. Lyons had commenced poking the fire immediately after entering the room, and did not seem to hear the query. At any rate he did not reply to it, and Bernice felt a loneli- ness and homesickness creep over her that ill-disposed her to repeat her remark. Mr. Lyons concluded his arrangement of the fire, threw himself into a chair, and sat gazing into the red coals with his habitual melancholy coming after his smiling, as if the latter had been merely a conventional pretext, and by no means indicative of his real feelings. "The. distance to the school-house," he exclaimed sud- denly, "is two miles. You cannot walk so far, can you?" "I don't know. I have never tried to walk so far," rejoined Bernice. "Then I am sure you could not do it," replied Mr. Lyons. "I could do anything for you, my poor, dear pa," Bernice was saying to herself, and saying with such a tide of ten- derness and homesickness that she could make no reply to Mr. Lyons. The effort she was making to restrain her tears and look indifferent quite overpowered her. "It will be very disagreeable, having to walk so far in the winter-time," pursued Mr. Lyons; "and when the weather is inclement, I'm sure I don't see how you could endure having to go so great a distance." "' Fortune favors the brave', you know," quoted Bernice, feeling that she must say something, out of civility, though scorning her remark as excessively trite the moment she had made it. "Then fortune must assuredly favor you," rejoined Mr. Lyons, gallantly. Bernice shrank involuntarily, and mentally called herself a fool for having said anything, and mentally called Mr. Lyons a fool for having said anything. She began to understand the nature of Cordelia Murdlain's aversion to the gentleman. Then she resolved to be monosyllabic in page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] 126 LOVE S POOR RELATION. the extreme, and on no account to be drawn into a conver- sation that could prove in the slightest degree interesting to Dandy Lyons, as she persisted in calling him in her self- communings. Mr. Lyons, however, did not appear at all disheartened by Bernice's reticence. On the contrary, he seemed to take a livelier interest in the acquaintance since it presented slight difficulties. There are men, and the majority of them are so, who, from a certain latent, unacknowledged contempt for their own powers, attach little value to anything that can by them be easily obtained. As some ladies are unable to judge of the value of lace until they hear the price of it, so most men are unable to judge of the value of a woman until they know the price set upon her regard. If a great deal of exertion be required, they immediately conclude that the article is genuine, and are willing to undergo very great efforts to win smiles they would have considered valueless if obtained with less exertion. Bernice Kent, however, was not at that period sufficiently versed in qaaires de coeur to understand his morceau of wis- dom, so that her indifference was not feigned, but genuine weariness and heart-hunger. She remembered Oswald's affectation of a gayety he was far from feeling, as he told her good-by and assured her that the laundry would do a thriving business in the way of handkerchiefs after she had gone, as he should miss her so, and weep so copiously because of her departure. Yet notwithstanding his forced gayety, Bernice knew that he must miss her ; and her eyes filled with tears of affection and yearning as she thought of his roguish dimpled chin, and mischievous, incredulous mouth, that at times seemed to say life was all a joke any way ; a very short farce, that would end in a laugh, and wasn't worth worrying about. The bright- ness of the face was only the more tantalizing for being so "OVE'S POOR RELATION. 127 far away. A moment Aureola's happy, dreaming expression floated before her; and then her spirit knelt in memory's gallery of portraits before the face of her father. A face so careworn and anxious, that Bernice involuntarily bowed her head to conceal a sudden rain of tears that came stealthily over her cheeks. She brushed them off, hastily, and darted a rapid glance at Mr. Lyons, to see if he had noticed her weakness. He look- ed quickly in an opposite direction, as if his course were un- decided, and then turned upon Bernice a look so full of ap- preciation of her feelings, and compassion for her melancholy, that she was forced to turn away from his mute sympathy even while grateful for it. He was a stranger. Personalities on her part would have been a breach of conventionalism; for though she was in that depressed state of mind that renders one confidential at almost all risks, Mr. Lyons unconsciously repelled and restrained her. She grew ashamed of having displayed any emotion in his presence. "Yet you are a good little Dandelions," she said to herself, with a smile, as she watched the brisk little jerks of his un- easy feet, as if they had got into a controversy in their lan- guage with his pantaloons, and were excited by the fervor of the debate. Mr Lyons found Berniee's expression of mingled mirth, melancholy and leniency a difficult one to understand. [That she was beginning to regard him more leniently, and that she was melancholy, he was certain; yet, as to the cause of : I her mirth, he was by no means clear. As he continued, however, to express dumb pompassion, Bernice repeated her remark to herself with a slight addition. "Yes, you are a good little Dandelions;" she said, men- tally, fastening the sobriquet more kindly, yet firmly upon him; "' to be sorry for me because of those foolish tears of mine. You are very kind to care ever so little if I am un- happy. I wonder what you'd think if you knew it all; all page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] 128 RS. MURDLAIN'S DISCOVERY. the ache and pain in my heart when I think of poor, dear pa's perplexities, and the home I've left, the dear, dear, old home, that may after all be sold for debt, or given up again for strangers to live in. Oh, Dandelions, good little Dande- lions, if you're sorry for me now, I wonder what you'd be if you knew it all?" Bernice hearing, at this juncture, a deep, long drawn sigh, observed, for the first time, that Mr. Lyons was looking very melancholy. Then she began wondering if he had secret grief or perplexity as she had. The thought touched her sympathetic nature, and she said to herself: "Poor little Dandelions, maybe you are not any happier than I am. I won't be hateful to you any more. You were sorry for me a moment ago. You are kind-hearted, and I won't be cross to you again." It is said that "Pity is akin to Love." If so, it is a poor relation, a vagabond relation, a genealogical outrage that Love should blush for. No genuine love, no free, glad, joy- ously spontaneous love ever yet sprang solely from Pity. The emotion is merely Love's 'poor relation,' and who does not sneer at poor relations? CHAPTER XIX. J^Newi I MERS. MURDLAIN'S DISCOVERY. R . R MURDLAIN," said Mrs. Murdlain, "Mr. Lyons has offered himself to Bernice Kent, you may de- pend upon it." "Why do you think so?" asked the gentleman, with sur- prise. "Why do I think so? I tell you I know it. Close that door, and come nearer, if you want me to tell you a secret." Mr. Murdlain obeyed his wife's injunctions, and the lady I X EMRS. MURDLAIN'S DISCOVERY. 129 continued, in a confidential undertone, "You see, last Sun- day evening I went into the parlor, suddenly, and found Bernice looking very red in the face, precisely as if she thought she had broken somebody's heart and was sorry for it. Then Lyons was looking very much excited and ial very melancholy, and seemed startled and embarrassed when I entered the room." "But, my dear," interposed Mr. Murdlain, "they have not been acquainted two weeks yet." "No matter, he proposed to her. You may depend upon it." When Mrs. Murdlain said Mr. Murdlain might depend upon a thing, he seldom ventured to do otherwise. Merely nodding his head in token of acquiescence, he asked, timid- ly, "Did you hear them say anything?" "Nothing; only as I listened outside the door, I heard Bernice say, 'I hope, at least, we shall always be friends, Mr. Lyons;' and then Lyons said, 'Yes, friends, if that must be the extent.'" "Oh, well," rejoined Mr. Murdlain, quite convinced that he might depend upon it, "There must be something in the wind, then, though I didn't think Lyons would offer himself to a girl he had known so short a time." "He has done it, certain as you live, and Bernice has re- jected him, you may depend upon it," returned Mrs. Murd- lain, with an air of satisfaction at her own penetration in making the discovery. "Have you said anything about it to Bernice?" queried Mr. Murdlain. "No," rejoined the wife, "I thought I would not try to quiz her until Lyons had left. I heard him say this morn- ing that he intends leaving next week, and after he has gone I can have a better chance to find out all about it." "Well," said Mr. Murdlain, after a pause, as if he had been thinking the matter over, and had fully digested his thought before putting it into words, "if she did reject him, page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] 130 MRS. MURDLAIN'S DISCOVERY. he takes it better than any other man I ever saw. Every day he watches for her at the window, and when she gets home from school he gives her the warmest corner by the fire, and seems to do everything he can to make her com- fortable. He is as polite and kind to her as if they were engaged." "Yes, I have noticed that," rejoined Mrs. Murdlain. "Lyons is a smart man. Because Bernice has rejected him that is no reason they should be enemies for life. He knows that the best way in the world to get around her and make her sorry she refused him is to be good and kind to her." Mr. Murdlain looked at Mrs. Murdlain as if he considered her ability to understand Mr. Lyons's motive very remark- able. Mrs. Murdlain looked at Mr. Murdlain as if she fully coincided with his opinion in that respect. "Yes, indeed," she continued, with a gesture expressive of both emphasis and complacency, "Lyons knows that it would not do any good to become angry, and he knows, too, that because a girl says 'no' the first time she's asked, it is no sign she will say it the second time." "That's true," returned Mr. Murdlain, thoughtfully stroking his whiskers, and looking into the fire. Mrs. Murdlain took a paper from her pocket, and glanced over its contents with a gratified smile. "What's that?"Murdlain asked, trying to look over his wife's shoulder. "Sh-sh! Don't speak so loud," rejoined Mrs. Murdlain, glancing towards the door, as if debating the probability of eavesdropping. "It is a paper Mr. Lyons wrote and handed to Bernice when she came home from school yesterday. I watched her read it, and then lock it up in her portfolio. I was just bound to know what it was, so last night, after Ber- nice went to bed, I slipped her keys out of her pocket, and got this from her portfolio. I was just bound to know what it was." "Read it," said Murdlain, with an eagerness that was en- I;! dMRS. M'UEDLAIN'S DISCOVERY. 131 tire approval of the manner in which his wife had obtained possession of the paper. Mrs. Murdlain smoothed out a crumpled half-sheet of buff- colored note paper, and read: NOBODY S DESCIPTION OF A YOUNG LADY. ", Your beauty does not consist in the perfection of your features as it does in the play and expression of your countenance. Your forehead displays a love for the intellectual, and your eyes can eith earkle with mirth or flash with anger, as the case might be. Yourp is fine Your temperament is nervous. At heart you are truly noble and gen. erous. "None would be more ready to resent an insult or redress a wrong; and as you are very tenacious of your own honor, so you would be of another's. "Nature has done much for you, and you have lost no time in culti- vating the golden soil of your intellect. "Your mind is a mental Ophir; and would that I couldlive long enough to see what modern Solomon (I forget now who was the 'smartest' woman,) will import its rich treasures to adorn your heart's temple. "Be careful how you exert your power. Remember that most of the revolutions of Rome owed their origin to woman. Look at Troy, and travel to the regions of glory, and the enchanting voice of an angel will be whispered in your ear, saying, We wept within the realms above, When earth was lost for woman's love.' " "Is that all?" asked Murdlain, breathlessly, as if he scarcely considered it sufficiently pointed. "No," rejoined the lady, " there is more on the other side. It is headed, ' Supposed Thoughts of a Young Lady.' Murdlain rubbed his hands together with complacent at- tention, and Mrs. Murdlain read aloud: !"After working all day at teaching, pent up in a schoolroom, dark, dingy and dirty, that has confined my ambition for the last eight hours, and which, though well ventilated, was oppressive with many breaths; tired with dull, stupid, or negligent children; wearied with the ceaseless droning hum of-voices, I love to get into the fresh air and wander away by myself in the fields, or"-- page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] 132 MRS. MURDLAIN ' DISCOVERY. "She would have a right cold time of it wandering away by herself this weather," interrupted Mr. Murdlain. -"by the water-side," Mrs Murdlain continued, unheeding the inter- ruption, " and drink in new force of heart and mind and body. At such times I feel that I had never till now duly savored nature in her benefi- cence -and beatitude." "How's that?" interrupted Murdlain. "I feel that I had never till now duly savored nature in her great beneficence and beatitude," repeated Mrs. Murdlain, forcibly, as if emphasis made the meaning more apparent. What does he mean?" asked Murdlain. "Duly-savored--nature-in -her - great - beneficence- and-beatitude," Mrs. Murdlain reiterated, slowly, as if by dwelling upon the sound of the words she could obtain some clue to their meaning. "Lyons is a smart man," she said at length, "and it isn't to be expected we should know what he meant. Be-nef-i- cence and be-at-i-tude." Here Mrs. Murdlain paused and looked thoughtfully into the fire, as if consulting an oracle. Suddenly her face brightened, and she turned her beam- ing countenance full upon Murdlain, and exclaimed, "It's French, Mr. Murdlain. That's what it is, it's French!" "But he says he is writing the supposed thoughts of a young lady. Do you suppose Bernice ever thought in French? It don't stand to reason that a person would think in French." "Oh, well," said Mrs. Murdlain, a little annoyed that Murdlain had received her announcement so passively, "it is French, you may depend upon it." The crisis had arrived. Murdlain was told he might de- pond upon it, and he offered no remonstrance, but looked as dependent as could have been expected, I had enjoyed nature before," Mrs. Murdlain went on reading; " no I loam to feel grateful for it; inhale its draughts of purity, drw vigor MRS. MURDLAIN'S DISCOVERY., 133 and refreshment from its free, open expanse. I revel in its gracious, de- licious influences, and steep my senses in the exquisite sounds and sights and perfumes that salute them each in turn." "Perfumes, does it say?" asked Murdlain, with surprise. "Yes, perfumes," repeated Mrs. Murdlain. "That means the smell of flowers, man, don't you know." "Ye-es, but I was thinking," said Murdlain, hesitating, as if considering whether his wife might construe his remark into a refusal to 'depend upon it,' "how she would manage to smell flowers in the winter time wandering away in the fields by herself." "Nonsense, Murdlain, you don't understand these things!" Murdlain's countenance certainly testified strongly to this fact. "You see," Mrs. Murdlain continued, with a magnificent wave of her hand, "in fine writing people never mean all they say. It's like men in love calling their sweethearts angels. Of course they don't mean that they are angels, and can fly, and all that sort of thing, but it sounds well to call them so. "Now, of course, Lyons did not really mean that Bernice could breathe perfumes in the fields in winter time, but you see it sounds well, and in writing a fine piece like this it has to be made to sound well. Lyons is a smart man, and this is ajam-up piece, you may depend upon it." Mr. Murdlain, metaphorically speaking, collapsed, and seemed to be ' depending upon it' for the remainder of the evening. Mrs. Miurdlain folded the half sheet of buff-colored note- paper carefully, replaced it in her pocket, and fell to musing how she could get it back into Bernice's portfolio without having her theft suspected. "Bernice will never suspicion me," she said to herself, ignoring the word "suspect," as if it were her deadliest enemy she had resolved to cut unconditionally; "I can get the key of her portfolio every night, after she retires, and page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] 134 A NEW ERA. find out all I care to know. I am bound to find out all she knows; and when she is in my power she will be afraid to do anything I don't want her to do. There is nothing like making people afraid of you. They can't be managed any other way." Thus ran the current of Mrs. Murdlain's thoughts, while Mr. Murdlain sat dozing before the fire, as if he had fallen asleep " depending upon it," and did not leave off even in his dreams. CHAPTER XX. A NEW ERA. R. LYONS had gone! Bernice felt it the moment she entered the house the afternoon succeeding his departure. The fire was not blazing so bright as usual. There was no dark eager face at the window watch- ing, half like a child and half like a mother, for her coming. There were no quick, restless, little feet trotting to open the door the moment she reached it. No eager smile of wel- come, nor hurried whispers of how long the day had been without her. No chair in the warmest corner, designed especially for her. No tempting magazine with the love-passages marked. In short no Mr. Lyons. Busied with school duties during the day, Bernice had not realized the exact meaning of Mr. Lyonis's impetuous adieu of the morning. He had promised to come again very soon, and she had not felt his departure to be a very serious matter. It is true she thought of him several times during the day. He had made occasional trips across lakes and mountains A NEW ERA - 135 as she heard the geography class recite. He had not been wholly forgotten in the arithmetic and spelling classes. nd when the verb " to love" was conjugated, the class in grammar seemed to be making especial allusion to Mr. Lyons. is Then, at recess, and at noon's intermission, he had been in Bernice's thoughts; yet he had not been remembered un- comfortably. On the contrary, Bernice had that con4placent, gratified feeling peculiar to very young women when they realize, for the first time, that somebody is adoring them. She adopted a more conciliatory manner towards her pu- pils, somewhat as if they too were the victims of her fascina- tions; martys to an intense, exhausting and unrequited passion, such as Mr. Lyons had represented as his own. She unconsciously became pretentious, and walked and talked and smiled with an air of being on exhibition. A new era had dawned. Prior to the avowal of love from Mr. Lyons she had been girlish and unaffected. Simple, earnest and childlike. Love had been wrapped in white, dreamless slumber. Only her hero could waken Love, yet Mr. Lyons had dis- turbed him, and as Love's slumber became less sound he be- gan to dream. Bernice's childhood was gone, and young ladyism came up like a mushroom. Very ludicrous, too, were some of its manifestations. At- titudinizing in the little country school-house, smiling gra- ciously at vacancy, turning her head one side with a bewil- dering air of deference, while the classes recited, were perhaps the most harmless result of this newly-grown young ladyism. It had lightened the labors of the day, by making Bernice feel like a heroine. The story of her life seemed to have be- gun. How beautifully arranged the opening chapter: A dark-eyed knight adoring her. She, impervious to passion, listening coldly to his suit, giving only ice in return for his page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] 136 A NEW ERA. flame. That, or something to that effect, Bernice thought chapter first. Chapter second, she imagined would be increased devo- tion upon his part, and a slight, it must be a very slight, she stipulated with herself, relenting on her part. Chapter third, she thought, should have something like an obstacle, some approach to high-tragedy. What ought it to be? Ah yes! An obdurate parent! That would be the most honored as well as approved method of prevent- ing the course of love from running too smooth. Her father must object. Bernice tried to imagine Dr. Kent looking very stern and cruel, but somehow she couldn't quite reconcile the expres- sion of kindness and placidity, habitual to her father, with the ferocity of the cruel parent of her imagination. The wildest flights of fancy could not make Dr. Kent cruel and uncompromising as he should be in a romance.' Nevertheless there must be an obstacle. Bernice thought of the novels she had read, and the heroines whose parents had objected to the hero. She recalled those objections and found them in most cases to be on account of the hero's poverty. Ah that was it! She had found a proper obstacle at last. Mir Lyons was poor, she was poor! Was it not her duty, for poor dear pa's sake to manry some 'one who had money? She could arrange the chapters now. The heroine must be torn by conflicting emotions of love and duty. She must remember her father, her own dear father's poverty, and be very miserable that it prevented her from marrying the object of her young affections. Bernice composed a synopsis of the entire romance, the day succeeding Lyons's departure. She had forgotten to be " pensive with the memory of his last adieux" as she afterwards concluded a heroine should be, until she entered the Murdlain domicil and found no A NEW ERA. 137 little welcoming attentions, such as Lyons had lavished upon her during the two weeks he had spent with the Murdlains. The house seemed intolerably lonely. Mrs. Murdlain was busied with domestic duties. Mr. Murdlain had gone to the village; Cordelia and Melvina Murdlain were studying their lessons for the next day, so that Bernice, being left en- ftirely dependent upon her own resources, began imagining herself in love with Mr. Lyons, and existence very dreary be- cause of their separation. At the tea-table she was so abstracted that Mrs. Murdlain began to rally her about Mr. Lyons. Bernice's blushes and evident confusion Mrs. Murdlain considered sufficient provocation for her to nudge Mr. Murd- lain's foot under the table. Whereupon Mr. Murdlain, feel- ing called upon to make a remark, asked with a show of solicitude, "Do you think your father will have any objec- tions to Mr. Lyons, cousin Bernice?" "I'm sure I don't know," Bernice stammered. "By the way," exclaimed Murdlain, suddenly, "I have letters for you. I went to the post-office this afternoon, but forgot to mention about the letters until just this minute." Mr. Murdlain took some letters from his pocket and hand- ed them to Bernice, who excused herself from the table and left'the room to read them. Letters from home! One from Oswald, written in his own inimitable, racy style, with an undercurrent of tender- ness that assured Bernice of her brother's love and remem- brance. One from Aureola written with her own dreamy peculiar- ity. Full of abstractions and theories, moral and intellectual, "all of which," Oswald wrote, "Bernice would doubtless find quite as interesting as a chapter from that highly re- spectable volume, ' Watt's on the Mind.' " There was also a letter from Dr. Kent, saying how pained he' was with Bernice's course. In the first place, if she were tired of study, why had she not said so, frankly? In page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] 138 A NEW ERA. the second place, if she wanted to get away from her father, why had she deceived him by pretending to leave home for a short visit, when in reality she had planned a separation of months? It was the first reproachful letter Bernice had ever received from her father, and homesick and lonely as she was, it sank heavily into her heart. To know that her father thought her guilty of deception and a lack of affec- tion was bitter knowledge. Thoughts of the sacrifice she had made in leaving home, the pain she had felt at being separated from her father, and the terrible homesickness she had been enduring crowded over her, and she wept long and bitterly. Her motive had been so brave and generous that censure seemed of all things least deserved. She knew that her father was conscientious in his severity; that he believed her capricious and guilty of deception, and felt it his duty to reprove her promptly and uncompromisingly. Nevertheless, pride ill-disposed her to explain her motive for the course she had taken. She shrank from pleading her own merits, and, like many another proud, injured heart, endured injustice with a dumb, passionate pain, for which she had no words. "Make a boast of my own actions? No, I cannot, I will not! If pa does not know me better than to think I prefer this miserable place, and this wretched school-teaching to home and his society, explanations will seem a mere pretext on my part, a cowardly subterfuge to escape censure. No, let it go! I can bear it." Bernice's tears came thick and fast. Instead of her father's praise for her self-sacrifice and generosity, she had received only censure and disapproval. The signification of her name, "bringing victory," seemed a miserable satire. Never had she felt more thoroughly humiliated and vanquished. WITH THE MELBOURNEB. 139 CHAPTER XXL WITH THE MELBOURNES. HE four weeks allotted for Bernice's stay with the XiH ^ DMurdlains having elapsed, and Melbourne's family being agreed upon as Bernice's next boarding-plate, she took a formal leave of the Murdlains, and prepared to take up a residence for four other other weeks with the Melbournes. What a world of conjecture she indulged in concerning her new abode. Mrs. Murdlain had said that Mrs. Melbourne was silly and amiable, and Mr. Melbourne knavish, and not at all to :be depended upon; yet Mrs. Murdlain had also said that the little Melbournes were very stupid, disagreeable children, and Bernice had found then quite the contrary. Consequently her faith in Mrs. Murdlain's description of the heads of the house of Melbourne was not so strong as it might have been, had her experience with the little Melbournes been different. "I hardly knew what to have-for supper, to-night," Mrs. Melbourne said on the evening of Bernice'^ arrival, as they sat down to the tea-table; "I suppose you have been feasting so high at Mrs. Murdlain's, you can scarcely eat common fare like ours." Bernice looked up with surprise, for the Murdlain bill of fare had been of the plainest, so very plain, indeed, as to be at times almost unpalatable. Mrs. Melbourne's remark elicited so much surprise that Mr. Melbourne laughed outright. " hy, I'm sure everything you have is very nice," stam- imered Bernice, with slight embarrassment at Mr. Mel- bourne's enigmatical mirth. "Oh, but then Mrs. Murdlain has everything so much page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] "O WITH THE MELBOURNES. better," said Mrs. Melbourne, with so satirical an accent that Bernice could not fail to understand her meaning. Mrs. Melbourne was unmistakably sneering at Mrs. Murdlain. "I am sure no one could complain of your bill of fare, no matter what another's might be," said Bernice, pleasantly, determined not to notice Mrs. Melbourne's satirical allu- sions to the Murdlains. "Then you have such good company over there, I am afraid we can't entertain you here at all," sneered Mrs. Melbourne, snapping her eyes, and perpetrating a very sour smile. "Oh, I dare say I shall be very well entertained," rejoined Bernice, amiably; "I am not exacting, and should be quite uncomfortable if I thought myself a tax upon any one." "No tax; but then I'm sure we can't entertain you here, at all," persisted Mrs. Melbourne, with another very sour smile. "I am sorry you feel so," returned Bernice, quietly; yet secretly feeling very much irritated, and an almost over- powering inclination to tell Mrs. Melbourne that she thought her a very sour, cross, satirical nuisance. "Oh, I know so," Mrs. Melbourne went on; "it is not to be expected we could entertain you after you have been used to such good company as Mrs. Murdlain and Mr. Lyons." Mrs. Melbourne emphasized the last name in a way that Bernice thought excessively disagreeable, and then darted a look at her husband, who was smiling approval. If Bernice had fancied herself less interested in Mr. Lyons she could have replied readily, and with becoming dignity, that she had found both Mrs. Murdlain and Mr. Lyons quite social and pleasant. As it was, she felt inadequate to a dis- cussion of Mr. Lyons, and could only blush, and stammer out something about having scarcely any acquaintance with Mr. Lyons. WITH THE MELBOURNES. 141 "Well, 've had acquaintance with him. I know him, i've known him to my sorrow," exclaimed Mrs. Melbourne, darting a ferocious glance at vacancy, and then transferring it to Bernice, as if indirectly, yet none the less surely! avenging the wrongs she had received at the hands of Lyons. "Indeed!" was Bernice's confused exclamation, as she dropped her eyes to escape the fury of Mrs. Melbourne's flaming orbs. "Yes, indeed," retorted Mrs. Melbourne, "to our sorrow we've known him. A grander rascal never lived." "Why, what did he do?" Bernice found herself inquiring, before she was scarcely conscious of what she was saying. "Do!" Mrs. Melbourne echoed the word with a sound very like the report of an exceedingly spiteful popgun; "I couldn't tell you in a month all he did. For one thing, though, he cheated us out of the price of five children's tuition. Took our money and never took any pains with our children; never taught them anything, and then told it about that they were wooden-headed dunces, and hadn't the sense to learn. Oh, I could kill that man when I think how he slandered my children; and how he took pains to teach the Murdlain children out of school-hours, and in school- hours, and all the time, and never took any pains with my children." "I am sure I should not have thought Mr. Lyons would have acted so," said Bernice, still keeping her eyes on her plate, and dreading to meet Mrs. Melbourne's fiery glance. "Well, he did act so, and that isn't all. I can tell you a great deal more. He is a grand rascal, if there ever was one. I am glad he didn't pay my children the attention he paid the Murdlains. I'd beg to be excused from such." Mrs. Melbourne smiled with malicious meaning, and Mr. Melbourne, having finished his supper, pushed back his chair from the table and left the room. Bernice forgot for a moment the fury of Mrs. Melbourne's page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] "2 WIT THE MELBOURNES. "Yes, I'd beg to be excused from any such attentions for my children," Mrs. Melbourne reiterated. "Kissing and hugging and such little innocent attentions with great girls in their teens, like Cordelia Murdlain." Mrs. Melbourne sneered and smiled, and nodded and winked at so fearful a rate that Bernice started back in hor- ror, and shivered with disgust. "It was all very nice and pleasant, all very harmless and respectable, you know, being as it was fr. Lyons," Mrs. Mel- bourne went on, "only Cordelia Murdlain did not like it so well, and she hates Mr. Lyons to this day; and her mother scolds her for it, and is willing to put up with anything so long as Mr. Lyons makes them handsome presents; but as for me, I don't sell my soul and my children's souls for presents; and what's more, I wouldn't consider any woman respectable who would associate with Lyons after knowing all about him that I know." Mrs. Melbourne was so violent, and seemed withal so ma- licious and reckless, that Bernice dreaded her as if she had been a tigress. Excusing herself as soon as possible, Bernice retired to her room, and sat down by her solitary fireside with a new weight burdening her heart. "Caution" must be her watchword, prudence her motto. Mrs. Melbourne, she felt convinced, was a dangerous, slan- derous woman, and on no account to be offended. New-born doubt of Mr. Lyons, and slow, sickening disgust of Mrs. Murdlain crept over her and made her doubly deso- late. "Ah well!" she said to herself, with a struggle to clutch Hope's garments, " it cannot last always. The toil and dis- comfort must end sometime, then I shall go home again and be away from these. miserable, quarrelsome plebeians, whose ferocity frightens me, and whose coarseness disgusts me. Oh, my dear, dear far-away home, my precious father and brother and sister, if I could only see you all once more." - - ruMR'S. MURDLAIN'S RESOLUTION. 143 Bernice broke down in sobs at this juncture. The thought of her father's reproachful letter and cruel misunderstand- ing of her motives, filled her with intensest pain. "Yet it must all come right sometime," she said to herself, soothingly, as she laid her aching head on her pillow and tried to compose herself for slumber. CHAPTER XXII. MRS. MURDLAIN'S RESOLUTION. BERNICE KENT shows partiality in school to the Melbourne children, Mr. Murdlain, you may depend ..if " upon it. Mrs. Murdlain folded her arms across her capacious chest, and assumed a severe expression of countenance. "Does, eh?" returned Murdlain, hugging his knee as if he had established a secret understanding with it, and was 'depending upon it.' "Yes," rejoined Mrs. Murdlain, excitedly, "Melvina has been below Annie Melbourne in her classes for two days. It never was so when Mr. Lyons taught there, and wouldn't be so now if Bernice Kent wasn't partial; and for my part I don't intend to stand it." Mr. Murdlain said, "No, no; certainly not," as if imploring my lady Murdlain not to mistake him for the offender, and annihilate him suddenly and without remedy. "I won't stand it," reiterated Mrs. Murdlain. "Bernice Kent don't know which side her bread is buttered when she fools with me; but she'll find out to her sorrow. She don't seem to consider that if I were to tell the Melbournes that she is in love with Lyons they would withdraw their support, and the school could not be kept up without them. She is in my power. Pshaw! She is no more than a lump of page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] "4 MS. MURDAIN-S RESOLUTION. dough in my fingers; I can make her tell me anything ] choose." Mrs. Murdlain laughed with malicious triumph, and Mr. Murdlain regarded her with mingled awe and admiration. "She's a perfect baby, and can be quizzed without the least trouble. Why, Lyons wrote her a little note once that said, 'Bernice, Bernice, your innocence and intellect have won me, and I love you devotedly.' I picked her pocket, and after I had read the note I told her that I picked it up on the flour, but that she need not care for my knowing it; and then I quizzed the whole story out of her. I told her that I knew it anyhow, and that she need not try to hide it from me. I could see very plainly that it was her first se- cret, and that she was almost dying to talk to some one about it. Girls are always so when they are in love." Mrs. Murdlain looked steadily at Mr. Murdlain, and Mr. Murdlain, from sheer force of habit, dropped his eyes sub- missively. "Did Bernice say she intended to marry Mr. Lyons?" asked Murdlain, at length, avoiding his wife's eye, as he al- ways did when addressing her, lest, becoming embarrassed by her glance, he should make awkward blunders in his remarks. "No," rejoined Mrs. Murdlain; "her mind does not seem to be made up about marrying him. A great deal depends on her father's opinion; and then she is not quite sure that she really loves Mr. Lyons. I know she does, though. It's not in human nature for a woman not to love a nice, good- looking man who is in love with her." Mrs. Murdlain spoke from experience, having married the only man who had ever loved her. "You think she loves him, then?" queried Murdlain, not that he felt any interest in the matter, but it was the rule of his life to treat none of his wife's remarks with indiffer- ence. "Yes, I know she must love him. I don't see how she can help it." MRS. MURDLAMn'S iRESOLUTION. 145 Mr. Murdlain frowned at this, and suddenly decided that Lyons was the most disagreeable of men. "I mean," exclained Mrs. Murdlain, observing her hus- band's contracted brow,!'I don't see how she can help loving him. She's not married. A woman must love some one, and as there is nobody else near, I don't see any reason why she should not love Mr. Lyons." Mr. Murdlain's brow cleared, and Mrs. Murdlain smiled with a cheerful confidence in the magnitude of her own at- tractions. "Yes, indeed," she said, at length, "It will be a sorry day for Bernice Kent if she falls out with me. I can put the Melbournes against her by saying she is in love with Lyons, and I can tell Lyons that she is only flirting with him. You can tell him, Mr. Melbourne. You just tell him you are a friend of his, and don't want to see him imposed upon. Tell him Bernice has shown me all his notes and letters, and has her own fun at his expense. You can tell him these things, and if he seems to doubt, then just send him to me." "But you would not have me tell him these things now, would you?" asked Murdlain, deprecatingly. "No, wait awhile," said Mrs. Murdlain, with an air of con- sidering herself excessively magnanimous. "I'll try Ber- nice a week longer, and if Melvina still keeps below Annie Melbourne in her classes, I'll show Bernice Kent what it costs to be partial to the Melbournes' or anybody else's chil- dren. She will wish she had kept on the good side of me, you may depend upon it." Murdlain looked meekly reflective, and her ladyship went on, "You see Bernice would not have Lyons visit her at the Melbournes' for any consideration, so they are to meet here next Saturday. I'll conclude by that time whether to have you tell Lyons what I've told you to tell, and break off the match between him and Bernice, for there's nothing spites a woman like crossing her in love." ' page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] "6 TH SPIDER AN) THE FLY. Murdlain acquiesced, as usual, and Mrs. Murdlain seem to regard him as rather a comfortable bit of docility, in i place. CHAPTER XXII. C"THE SPIDER AND THE FLY." SHY how do you do, Bernice? How do you do? I am so glad to see you. Take off your things." Th ran Mrs. Murdlain's welcome to Bernice Kent t Saturday following the events recorded in the precedi chapter. "Thank you, cousin Fanny, I am equally delighted to a you," rejoined the unsuspecting Bernice, taking off her be net and looking about the room with childish gratificati at the warmth of her welcome. "How is Mrs. Melbourne?"Mrs. Murdlain asked, with confidential a smile that Bernice was quite charmed w It the contrast to Mrs. Melbourne's suspicious manner a I malicious expression. "Oh, she is as well as usual," laughed Bernice. "I know Mrs. Melbourne don't like me very well, bu just go along as if she did," said Mrs. Murdlain, with anotl confidential smile of magnanimity. "That is much the best way," rejoined Bernice; "I dc I think it would do any good to irritate her." "You think her a dangerous, malicious woman?" quer ;it Mrs. Murdlain with an amiable, insinuating air, that pr erly translated would have been-"Will you walk into -i parlor, said the spider to the fly." "I think her a very dangerous woman, Cousin Fan She is so violent in her anger, and seems so reckless ab what she says of persons, that I am really quite afraid of he THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 147 "I lnow she talks about me; I have heard it from a good many sources, but I've just made up my mind that I will never say anything to her about it," said Mrs. Murdlain, with an air of cheerful resignation, that was only another phase of her excessive amiability. So the conversation progressed, until, by means of cross- questions, insinuations and craftily-worded assertions, Mrs. Murdlain had extracted all that she cared to know. When she began to recapitulate, and state the main facts she had learned, Bernice was alarmed, and exclaimed: "Did I tell you all that? Indeed I had no intention of gossiping. Do promise me you will never mention it to any one. Please do promise solemnly, or I shall be miserable." "I'll hold up my hand, Bernice, before high Heaven," ex- claimed Mrs. Murdlain in her impressive melodramatic tones, "cthat I will never mention anything you have told me. I know you are in my power, but you can trust me the same as if I was your own mother." Bernice was thanking Mrs. Murdlain, when a servant an- nounced Mr. Lyons. "Good morning, Mrs. Murdlain! How do you do, Miss Kent?"Mr. Lyons shook hands with the ladies; pressing Bernice's in so ardent a clasp that she felt the impetuous blood forced to her cheek by the hurried beating of her heart. Mrs. Murdlain left the room,- after a few moments' conver- sation, and Mr. Lyons and Bernice were alone. "Have you thought of me since I saw you last?" asked Mr. Lyons, a moment after the door had closed on Mrs. Murdlain's retreating figure. "Yes," blushed Bernice, with that awkwardness peculiar to very young women when they first fancy themselves a to the tender passion. Mr. Lyons seemed to consider the opportunity a favorable one to kiss Bernice, and made a motion for that purpose. Bernice's maidenly intincts rebelled, but remembering page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] "8 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. that heroes in novels were frequently represented as "pres. sing a hurried kiss upon her crimson lips," or "snow-white brow," or "lily hand," thought better of her shyness and permitted the caress. Heroines were always represented as submitting grace- fnlly to such things, why should not she? He "loved" her. He had the stereotyped' midnight orbs" and " raven locks," so Bernice permitted the caress, thus enabling Mr. Lyons to boast of the power of his fas- cinations and the generosity of Miss Kent. Young lady reader, make a note of this; there are times when generosity is a mild form of idiocy. Mr. Lyons immediately concluded that Miss Kent was not quite the incomparable creature he had fancied her. Of this, however, Bernice had no suspicion. She imagined Mr. Lyons must understand what a sacrifice of maidenly modesty she had made for his sake. He must know that she was trusting him a great deal, and thus understand the depth of her devotion. She had not learned that the more a woman regards a man as her natural enemy, the more she distrusts and denies him, the more she is admired by that class of men who are unworthy of confidence. "Child of my heart," exclaimed Lyons striking an attitude, a la third-rate, actor, "I love you! I adore you Say that you love me in return." "I think I do," faltered Bernice. "Bless you, angel, bless you!" Mrs. Murdlain was heard coming, and Mr. Lyons's benedic- tion came to a sudden termination. Bernice's tell-tale com- tenance however was crimson with confusion, and Mrs. Murdlain smiled maliciously as she observed it. "We'll fix all that, young woman," she said to herself, "I'll show you how to be partial at school to the Melbourne children. I've told Mr. Murdlain what to say to Lyons and you'll see what will come of it." Mrs. Murdlain's face had changed from the "will-you- THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 149 walk-into-my parlor" expression to such as an intelligent spider might be supposed to sport after seeing the fly se- curely fastened. "The weather is just delightful to day for this time of the year," said Mrs. Murdlain, regarding Bernice with cheerful diabolism. "Yes," faltered Bernice, struggling to recover her self possession. At this juncture Mr. Murdlain entered the room, and Mr. Lyons rose to greet him. After a few moments of general conversation, and a great many significant glances from Mrs. Murdlain, Mr. Murdlain proposed to Mr. Lyons that they should go out and look at some fine new stock lately pur- chased. Lyons acquiesced, and the gentlemen left th e room, and did not again make their appearance until sent for when dinner was on the table. Mrs. Murdlain had never seemed more comfortable. She laughed, and ate, and talked, and appeared to be the personi- fication of cheerful amiability. Mr. Murdlain was a trifle more thoughtful than usual. Lyons seemed to be annoyed, as if chafing with secret irritation; while Bernice wondered why she, herself, was so stupid. "Bernice," said Mr. Lyons, entering the sitting room where she sat alone after dinner, "I have concluded that perhaps it will be best for us to separate. You have said you do not love me, and if that be true, it will be best for us to part." "Very well," returned the young lady, not deigning to lift her eyelids. c "I shall always be your friend," said Lyons, essaying to take her hand. Bernice turned quickly and left the room. Wounded pride and "shocked sensibility" (as Ike Marvel denomi- nates the feeling) made her giddy and wretched. The weather was unusally mild and pleasant, and she walz- ed the front piazza with rapid, nervous paces, for some time. page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] *.O THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. What could have caused Mr. Lyons's sudden change of feeling towards her? She guessed every reason but the right one! That the Murdlains had betrayed her she never imagined. "I did wrong," she said to herself, " to ever mention this affair to cousin Fanny, but then she knew it all, anyhow. She was always finding notes on the floor that I was sure were locked up safe in my portfolio. How can I ever tell Mr. Lyons that I was so careless with his notes? I ought to tell him that cousin Fanny knows all about it, and yet : how can I?" , Bernice paused in her walk, and tried to think what she ought to do. "I'll write him a note," she said at length, "and hand it to him before he goes. I'll tell him all about it." With this intention she got her portfolio and lead pencil and had written, "I know you have ceased to care for me. I have read in your face that,"-- when Mr. Lyons came out on the piazza, took the paper from under her pencil, read it, and said hurriedly, "No, no, you misunderstand me. I hope we shall always be friends, but the only lady- like way, the only generous way for you to do is never to mention this affair to any one. That you do not love me I am convinced. Good-by." Bernice stood with downcast eyes, too much choked by a rising sob to speak. At the prospect of losing Mr. Lyons she began to feel that she was really, and truly, and wretch- edly in love with him. She did not speak. She could not. Mr. Lyons pressed her hand hastily and hurried away. "Oh, cousin Fanny, cousin Fanny, it is all over!" she sobbed a few moments later, throwing herself into Mrs. Murdlain's arms, after the most approved fashion of fifth- rate actresses. "Why, what on earth is the matter?" asked Mrs. Murd- lain, with well feigned surprise. l Bernice related the affair with some genuine tears of mortification. THE MSERABLE Fi. . 151 "Pshaw, child!" said Mrs. Murdlain, c" you need not pay any attention to that! Mr. Lyons was only trying to find out how much you loved him. I would just be as indiffer- ent as possible, and he will come around all right, you may depend upon it." Bernice dried her eyes and tried to be comforted; yet, as she tragically expressed herself to Mrs. Murdlain, "a presentiment of something terrible crowded darkly over her." Her r6le for the afternoon was the "broken hearted," and like Lavina WilFer's fainting, was "highly successful, re- garded as a first performance." CHAPTER XXIV. THE MSERABLE FLY. E g ES, Mr. Murdlain," said Mrs. Murdlain, after a i^^s pause in long conversation they had been having o one mor ing. "I have made up my mind to tell Mrs. Melbourne everything that I managed to worm out of Bernice Kent when she was here. I think Lyons is about cured. He will never make it up again with her, though she loves the vey ground he walks on. She will find out how it works not to please me, not to put my children ahead of the Mel ournes' or anybody else's. If I can't man- age a teacher, Mr. Murdlain, what's the use of having one?" Murdlain nodsed with submissive' appreciation, and seemed to find w rds inadequate to describe his position. Thisis not surprising when the fact is taken into consideration that he himself did not thoroughly understand his position. He felt that Mrs. Murdlain had honored him with a confes- sion of her private intentions ; and that a due appreciation page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] 152 THE MSERABLE FLY. on his part might not be inappropriate, under the circum- stances. Yet what part he was to perform, or whether he was expected to perform any part in the great drama about to be enacted, was a point upon which he was very far from being clear. "No, Mr. Murdlain," exclaimed Mrs. Murdlain, waving her hand with an air of being severely in earnest, "I don't intend to give my support to a teacher that don't appreci- ate it, and take pains with my children accordingly. I told Bernice Kent that we had more influence than anybody else in this county, that our family was the best, and that it was our influence that kept up the school, that we could rule Melbournes, and Bagshaws, and all the rest of them, and if we didn't like a teacher, that teacher might as well leave the neighborhood." "What did she say to that?" asked Murdlain. c Oh, she said 'Yes,' in a dreamy way, at first, and after I kept on hinting awhile, she looked me very boldly in the eye, and said something about persons having only one course to pursue in order to succeed at teaching, or at any- thing else, and that was to do their duty. She said con- science was her guide, and looked at me as much as to say that she intended to have her own way about things, no mat- ter what I thought. Then, when I said that the Melbourne children were wooden-headed little dunces, she said she thought them quite as intelligent as the generality of chil- dren, and as for amiability, she thought them far above the average. Oh, I can see very well that they are her favorites, and I have made up my mind that it cannot and shall not be. Bernice Kent must give up the school. I'm bent and determined on that. I heard the children say that she is going to Bagshaw's to-morrow evening to stay all night She will go home with the Bagshaw children from school; so I'm going to Mrs. Melbourne's to-morrow, and I'll fix up things just as I want them. THE MSERABLE FLY. 153 "You see, will tell Mrs. Melbourne that Bernice loves Mr. Lyons, th t she was engaged to him until Lyons told 8 i her he would ot have her, and that will just disgust Mrs. Melbourne utt rly. Then, you know, I can tell her Bernice talked against ]er, and she has such an awful temper things will be in a p:etty pickle for Bernice. She will find out, may be, that a ittle of my influence would be rather a good thing as wepll s so much 'duty' and 'conscience. Mrs. Murdlan's accent had a severe emphasis that Murd- lain seemed to Writhe under. Meanwhile ernice Kent sat alone in her little chamber at the Melbournes', reading her father's last letter. The Kents had broken up house-keeping, and the house in - Square as for rent again, so the father wrote. He had ind ged the hope," tBernice read, with hurried tears, "of ha g his children all with him, and giving them what he had imagined they would esteem life's great- est earthly goo ; but since he had seen how little Bernice had appreciate that effort on his part, and how anxious she had been t leave him, preferring even school-teaching to his society, ]e had become quite discouraged, feeling that he had over-estimated her affection for him; and so, yielding to the pressure of debt, had given up the old home- stead, and he an, his children were again out in the world." This, and muc] more of a similar character, Bernice read with the wildest?ain she had ever known. "No home, no home," she sobbed. "Nothing but this miserable place, this wretched drudgery of teaching, and withal pa's displeasure, pa's misunderstanding it all. Oh, if I could die ; if I could only die!" She wept unti the hot pain in her heart was cooled by tears. Then eizing a pen, as in the old child-days of loneliness and de pair, she began a letter: "Oh, my father, my own dear, darling pa;" then remembering Oswald's rid- icule of "that style of performance," as he called it, she tore up the fiantiq beginning, and commenced more calmly; page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] 154 THE MSERABLE FLY. yet, as she wrote, calmness and Oswald were forgotten, and as in the old child-time, her pen ran races over the paper as if trying to escape the tears and blots that somehow always seemed to overtake the pen, retarding its move- ments, and making the traces of its journey confused and at times almost illegible. Pride vanished, and affection became importunate in its pleadings that the poor little bruised heart should have its due. "I have dreamed of your dying," she wrote, "I have stood by your coffin and pleaded in vain for a smile of recog- nition from your cold, dead lips. I have sobbed in the dark- ness of prospective orphanhood. I have wakened in the ghostly quiets of the night with a blessed shiver of relief that your death was only a dream; only a dream, dearest pa ; though the tears on my face were real tears. "Oh, how many midnights I have lain awake thinking, I mean trying to think what life would be without your love, my own pa. I say I have tried to think how it would seem, yet there was always a blank, a darkness, and a void in which my brain whirled with the giddy pain of a broken heart. "I could never imagine my living without your affection, and only death, I thought, could take it from me; yet, oh, my father, I never dreamed of a pain like this, my own, own father living and estranged from me. "I cannot bear it. My heart breaks. It is all a cruel misunderstanding. I thought I was doing a brave, beauti- ful thing in leaving home when I did. I wanted to stay with you. I did appreciate my home, but you were looking so anxious and careworn; you had seasons of abstraction so gloomy that I thought your burdens too heavy, and I wanted to help you. "I bound Oswald to secrecy, but I release him now from his promise not to tell you why I left home. Ask him if my heart ached to leave you. Ask him if caprice or lack of affection drove me from my dear old home. BERNICE VISITS THE BAGSHAWS. 155 "Oh, pa, my own pa, you must write and say that you understand me at last. Say that you love me, and by the memory of my whole life, know that my affection for you is infinite as it is imperishable." Page after page she wrote. No more pride. No more reserve. The whole story was written out. Every particu- lar of her acquaintance with Mr. Lyons was detailed. Her heart was laid bare with all its hope and pain and cheated affection. After this she felt relieved, and said her prayers prepara- tory to retiring, with a new faith in their efficacy, a closer leaning unto the compassionate Father who could never misunderstand her, nor doubt her, nor give her undeserved Ad: :blame. The blessed mission of her suffering was a new revelation of the Infinite love that at all times and under all circumstances she felt to be unfailing. "It will be all right," she said to herself the last thing before going to sleep, "when pa gets that letter." How could she dream that that letter, of all letters, should mis- carry? CHAPTER XXV. BERNICE VISITS TEHE BAGSHAWS. EVERYTHNG at the Bagshaws is in apple pie order I Not that the circumstance is a rare one, for Mrs. Bagshaw is a notable housewife, the neatest of women, and in every respect a domestic jewel-the kind of woman that unmarried literary men, and many other men, think a paragon of a wife, She could make home so cheerful, the house was al- ways so tidy, the table linen so spotless, the china and silver so bright, and indeed every thing in a state of do- page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] 156 BEINICE VISITS THE BAGSHAWS. mestic comfort that would set an old bachelor half crazy with envy to contemplate. Mrs. Bagshaw has been spending he day at the Mel- bournes; and having heard, while there, that Miss Kent is coming with the children from school, to spend the night at Bagshaw's, has hurried home in the middle of the afternoon, to be sure that everything is as it should be. The front porch must be washed, though it is already a miracle of polished cleanliness. The hearths must have fresh paint though they are al- ready blushing like the rouged cheeks of a city belle. The path to the front gate must be swept, though scarcely a dead leaf or dry twig mars its smooth surface. In short "everything was to be done," Mrs Bagshaw said, though in what respects the premises needed amendment none but the very neatest of women cld have discovered. The tall old clock in the Bagshaw sitting-room, dropped its slender hands at half past five before Bernice Kent ar- rived. Mmr. Bagshaw shook hands in his own inimitable, myste- rious manner, as if recognizing Bernice as a member, in full faith and fellowship, of some secret organization met together for the purpose of excuting some terrible affair of retributive justice. Bernice was thoroughly at a loss to understand his manner, and regarded him with undisguised astonishment. Mrs. Bagshaw's greeting, however, was so cordial and free from mystery that Bernice felt more at ease, and gave her- self up unrestrainedly to the pleasant influences of the glow- ing fire and cheerful sitting-room. Then, when supper was announced, Bernice thought the coffee might properly be called nectar and the viands am- brosia, so delicious did she find them. Supper was over! Everything that Mrs. Bagshaw could put upon Bernice's plate had been put upon it. Every apology for the fare that good-humored simplicity BERNICE VISITS THE BAGSHAWS. 157 could make had been made, and the party returned to the sitting-room, Mrs. Bagshaw regretting that :MXiss Kent ( could not make out her supper," and Bernice assuring the hospitable woman that she had never before partaken of so hearty a meal. Mr. Bagshaw evidently considered these remarks trivial in the extreme, and not at all appropriate to the solemnity and importance of the occasion. Staring into the fire, as if looking a condemned man steadily in the eye, Bagshaw remained as gloomily silent as if the condemned were his own brother whose execution justice demanded at Bagshaw's hands. Bernice grew exceedingly uncomfortable with a contempla- tion of Bagshaw, and turned to Mrs. Bagshaw for relief. Mrs. Bagshaw, however, now that supper was over, and the little excitement of domestic duties quieted, began to look a trifle perplexed, as if she understood Bagshaw's gloomy abstraction and was deliberating upon the proper method of mentioning it. Bernice, observing this, grew more uncomfortable; and the charm of the tidy sitting-room, the glow of the pleas- ant firelight, and everything at all satisfactory merged into a growing sense of uneasiness, when Bagshaw turned to Mrs. Bagshaw and said in a sepulchral agony of tone, "Shall I tell her about it?" Mrs. Bagshaw glanced quickly at Bernice, who was star- ing with unfeigned amazement at Bagshaw, and then said, C "Fix he fire, Mr. Bagshaw," with so palpable an evasion that Bernice grew more nervous than ever with suspense and apprehension. A silence however having fallen, after Mrs. Bagshaw's evasive remark, Bernice did not feel at lib- erty to break it, and so sat nervously awaiting an explana- tion of the mystery. "I think we had better tell her," said Bagshaw, with the same emotional and mysterious air that had grown to be a chronic complaint- with him. e i page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] 158 BERNICE VISITS THE BAGSHAWS. "Pray do tell me!" exclaimed Bernice, unable to control her feelinanv longer, and regarding Bagshaw with an ex- pression of ssp ie that he seemed to enjoy intensely, and, desiring to prolong his ecstasy, became more profoundly gloomy and mysterious than ever, relapsing infto a death- like silence, from which there is no knowing wheh he would have been aroused had not Mrs. Bagshaw said soothingly, "Oh it isn't anything worth your feeling badly about." Bernice was beginning to draw a long breath of relief when Bagshaw plunged her fathoms deep in apprehension by remarking, with his chronic melancholy, that Mrs. Bag- shaw had spent the day at Mr. Melbourne's. "Well," interrogated Bernice, impatiently. "Mrs. Murdlain was there," said Bagshaw, with an air of having brought himself to make a heart-rending announce- ment. "Well!" interrogated Bernice again ; this time, however, turning to Mrs. Bagshaw, since Mr. Bagshaw's lips seemed hermetically sealed by pent-up emotion. "Oh, well," said Mrs. Bagshaw, looking at Bagshaw with an air of saying, "Do behave yourself, Mr. Bagshaw!" "Mrs. Murdlain was telling Mrs. Melbourne that you had engaged yourself to Mr. Lyons, and that you are just dead in love with him now, but that he does not care anything for you, and never did intend to marry you." Bernice's cheek burned with indignation, and her lip curled with ineffable scorn, as she replied with a forced, bitter laugh, "Never did intend to marry me? No, I should hardly imagine he would have such intentions without at least informing me of them." "Maybe he has informed you of them," suggested Bag- shaw, with exasperating inquisitiveness. "It is hardly probable that Mr. Lyons would have the presumption to so address me on so short an acquaintance," rejoined Bernice, with a view of silencing Bagshaw by her frigidity. BERNCE VISITS THE BAGSHAWS. 159 Bagshaw, however, was totally unmoved by Bernice's 'dignity, and asked, with the most extraordinary coolness, "Then you say he never asked you to marry him? I have not made such a declaration, for the reason that I have not been aware of any necessity for so doing. I merely remarked that my acquaintance with the person mentioned is very slight," rejoined Bernice, with increased frigidity. "Yet you don't deny being engaged to him?" persisted Bagshaw. "I have said that I do not recognize the necessity for my saying anything about the matter," returned Bernice, with a slight emphasis of impatience. "No, no," said Bagshaw, patronizingly, "You needn't say anything. I understand it all. You are engaged to Mr. Lyons." "I am not engaged to Mr. Lyons," Bernice exclaimed, indignantly, goaded to desperation by Bagshaw's insuffera- ble manner. Bagshaw rubbed his hands with every manifestation of delight at learning this much definitely. "Mrs. Murdlain told pretty much all she knew, to-day," said Mrs. Bagshaw. "I never saw Mrs. Melbourne so excited." X " "Why, what excited her?" inquired Bernice, becoming every moment more uncomfortable. S 'Oh, Mrs. Murdlain said you had talked awfully about the Melbournes, and that you hadatne everything in your power to make mischief between the Murdlains and Mel- bournes, when the two families had been living so near together for years, and never had a disturbance." Bernice Kent's face burned with indignation, and when she tried to speak, the words died in her throat. Mrs. Murd- lain's treachery astonished her, and the thought of being in- volved in a plebeian difficulty was humiliating in the extreme. To graciously condescend to them had been hard enough, page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] 160 BERNICE VISITS THE BAGSHAWS. but to have that condescension unappreciated and to be buffeted as an equal was the very gall and bitterness of mor- tification. "Mrs. Murdlain says," Mrs. Bagshaw went on, " that she !? has copies of letters you wrote to your father and Mr. Lyons 8 about what a virago Mrs. Melbourne is. She says that you L have pretended to be a friend to the Melbournes, but that you have talked against them from the first." "I did not know anything of the Melbournes half so bad I as Mrs. Murdlain told nae before I had ever seen them," - rejoined Bernice. "Well, from all I could find out there is going to be a pretty big fuss. Mr. Melbourne is one of the trustees, Mr. Murdlain is another, and Mr. Bagshaw is the other one. Unless you can get two of the trustees in favor of your keeping the school you will have to give it up," said Mrs. Bagshaw. "I heard Melbourne say," said Bagshaw, "that he never intended to have a falling out with another school teacher. =X He and Lyons had such a row that Melbourne is pretty well cured, and will be the last man to want you to give up the school." "Give up the school!"Bernice repeated with intensest scorn. Oh how she wanted to give it up! What a wretched affair it was! She had tried to do her duty. Surely noth- ing more could be required of her. She had submitted daily A and hourly riot only to the drudgery of teaching but to the plebeian companionship about her. Surely she had doneaher whole duty. She might relin- quish all now and go to her father as she had always done in every anticipation of a conflict With the world. Yes, she would go to her father; yet even while she so de- termined, the thought of how she should increase the bur- den of'that father by so doing, fell with chilling force upon her heart and decided her to fight the battle alone; to make an effort to keep the school and struggle through the inter- minable days and weeks and months as bravely as possible. i O1ArPODKRDA. 161 Mrs. Bagshaw went on with the story of what Mrs. Murd- lain said, and what Mrs. Melbourne said; but Bernice listened as one in a dream, returning no answer, giving no token of having heard. She was thinking; treading the rugged way of the future, planning paths through the untrod forest of difficulty that she was entering. So the evening wore on, and when the hour for retiring came, she had a look on her face that made Mrs. Bagshaw say, after she had left the room, "I feel sorry for Miss Kent, she looks so troubled." / "Oh, I'll insure she keeps the school," rejoined Bagshaw; with an air of melancholy patronage that seemed to say, Bagshaw might be gloomy, Bagshaw might be mysterious,- yet Bagshaw could be magnanimous. And "Magnanimous " in staring capitals, seemed to be-written on his forehead as he retired for the right. Meanwhile Bernice Kent was praying "Let the right, oh God, be victor, and the wrong vanquished." CHAPTER XXVI. A' OLLAPODRIDA! IT was as Bagshaw had said; Mr. Melbourne declined having a difficulty-with another teacher and insisted that Bernice should retain the school. So the weary days went by! The same monotonous round over and over again, from the red cheeked little blun- derer, in his a, b, abs, to the head boy in arithmetic, who had gone up painfully, through a long series of ferulings and stayings in after school hours, to his dizzy eleva- tion. Of course the little Murdlains left school, though not un- til they had clung about Bernice's neck and assured her page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] 162 OLLAPODRIDA. that ever and forever they would love her, no matter what their mother said. Bernice reciprocated this affection; for the little Murd- lains were really very bright lovable girls. She had felt more tenderly towards them, perhaps, for the motherless air they always wore. . Mrs. Murdlain, never seemed to regard her children in 4 any other light than as slaves to her will. She wanted them to excel at school; she insisted upon a due attention to their personal appearance ; she resented a real or fancied injury done them by another; yet in all this she was prompted by no less selfish feeling than she would have ex- perienced towards an ornamental piece of furniture, made expressly for her comfort and convenience. As to her children's feelings, she never gave a thought to them. Their being satisfied, or dissatisfied, was a matter of little consequence to her. So long as they were slaves to her will, so long as they reflected no discredit upon her, she was satisfied. Bernice understood this perfectly; and was more kindly disposed towards the little Murdlains on account of feeling that in reality they were motherless. Motherless, as regards that infinitude of tenderness and self-sacrifice that is gen- erally believed to be inseparable from motherhood. It was over at last, all the commotion attending "the famous Murdlain and Kent case," as Oswald roguishly termed it in a letter to Bernice. Over, at last, the exchange of notes and messages. Bom- bastic missives from Mrs. Murdlain, telling Bernice to think of "Judgment Day," when she would be made to account for breaking the peace between two families, that had lived neighbors for years. Excasperated replies from Bernice, warning Mrs. Murdlain of a sometime retribution for her treachery and unprovoked cruelty. Surreptitious child-notes from the little Murdlains, assur- ing Bernice of their sympathy and deathless affection for her. OLLAPODRMDA. 163 Other surreptitious notes back again from Bernice assur- ing the Murdlain girls that their love would be always remem- bered sacredly, and entreating them to burn the notes lest Mrs. Murdlain should read them. Then, too, there were tempestuous epistles from Mr. Lyons. Sometimes that he would magnanimously assure Bernice that he could "throw the mantle of oblivion over all her past misconduct and love her with all the wild fervor of his nature! The next day, after this, perhaps, he would visit Mrs. Murdlain and become so wrought upon that he would imme- diately write again on buff-colored note-paper, endeavoring to annihilate Bernice in dashing hieroglyphics, containing the tragic information that Lyons, Love, Hope and Despair were all merged in the one regret that he had ever met Ber- nice Kent. "He would to Heaven they had never met!!" Moreover he was convinced, CONVINCED that Bernice had the face of an angel and the heart of a demon. She had seemed a child to him, Lyons would write, with his mature t melancholy that made him seem rather young for forty. He had fancied her artless and incapable of deception, but, (here Lyons would drop down to the mature young man of twenty-five) she had been other than he. dreamed her! She had never been worthy of his love, never appreciated it, and HE WOULD CAST HER OUT FROM HS HEART FOREVERMORE. Lyons was decidedly emphatic in his underscoring. Al- most every other line had one mark under it, and the major- ity of them had two. He evidently considered his missives robbed of half their terror when he left off the underscoring; so that Bernice learned to judge of his mood before she had read a word of his communications by simply glancing at the amount of italicising. But, as before remarked, the tornado subsided. The ferocious exchange of notes ceased. Mrs. Murdlain announ-. ced her intention to " quit talking." Lyons left for " parts unknown." Bagshaw sank into deeper gloom, and the dark mystery of page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] 164 . OLLAPODRIDA. his meditations became more apparent on his countenance. The "deathless affection" of the little Murdlains was no longer perceptible, and 'reft of Murdlains and Lyons, Ber- nice Kent's life, wonderful to tell, "went on." Winter melted into spring, and spring blushed into sum- mer. It was the latter part of June, and Bernice had given half-holiday in order to attend an examination at a neigh- boring school. " iss Kent," said Mr. Bagshaw, with his chronic mystery, as he entered the room where Mrs. Bagshaw and Bernice were awaiting his return from the village, "I would like to see you a few moments alone before we start." Bernice cast a nervous, apprehensive glance at Mrs. Bag- shaw and some neighbors, who were en route for the village school examination, and followed Mr. Bagshaw into an ad- joining room. Mr. Bagshaw took a seat wfth great deliberation, motioned Bernice to a chair, as if urging upon her the performance of a very painful duty, and said, after apause of three long min- utes, "Miss Kent I wanted to see you alone for a few minutes." "Yes, yes," said Bernice with nervous impatience. "What is everybody's business, you know, is nobody's," was Bagshaw's next oracular announcement. "Yes, ye, but what was it you wanted to see me about?" inquired Bernice, pulling at the ends of her gloves, with such an air as she might have adopted if -wrnging Bagshaw's nose. " Oh, now, don't get excited! I merely want to see you on a little private business. Don't get so nervous. Just keep cool," remarked Bagshaw, patronizingly. "Proceed," said Bernice, with freezing dignity. "I wanted to say to you, Miss Kent, and I hope you won't takeany offence at it, for I wouldn't like"- "No, no, I shall not take offence, pray go on," interrupted Bernice, exasperated beyond endurance by Bagshaw's cir- cumlowtion." OLLAPODRIDA. 165 "Now don't be so impatient, Miss Kent. Don't get so excited. I merely wanted to see you alone a few minutes, for, as I have said, what is everybody's business is nobody's, and because I don't want to say what I have to say before everybody, that is no reason you should get so excited." Bagshaw made a long pause, threw his forehead into great wrinkles that seemed almost bursting with mystery, com- pressed his lips, and began shaking his head at such a rate, that Bernice thought capital punishment then and there would have been too mild a retribution to be worthy of mention in connection with him. "Nothing to get excited about, Miss Kent," reiterated Bagshaw. Bernice had by this time folded her hands with the calm- ness of speechless exasperation, and sat awaiting Bagshaw's communication, with stony resignation. "I wanted to say," Bagshaw said, after a great deal more mystery and circumlocution, " that-if-you-need-any- money-I can as well-pay you now what I owe you for my children's schooling." Bagshaw's countenance at this juncture would have been a study for a picture of complacency. He seemed to feel that he had done his duty, his whole duty, and nothing but his duty. He had an air of having done that duty at an im- mense sacrifice of feeling and personal interest; and he seemed to expect Bernice to fall down and worship him on account of it. Bernice, however, with ill-concealed disdain, said, "Thank you! Do not trouble yourself about paying me until it is perfectly convenient." "It is perfectly convenient," rejoined Bagshaw, taking out his pocket-book and seeming to regard it emotionally, as being connected with the great mystery of existence. Bernice received the amount tendered by Bagshaw, nod- ded acquiescence to his query, "Is that right?" and went back to the sitting-room to find the party there impatient to be gone. page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] 166 OLLAPODRIDA. Mrs. Bagshaw was sure they would be late, and there was a general putting on of bonnets and gloves and hurrying to and fro, until at last the party were en route for the village school-house, Bagshaw heading the party with the solemnity of a pall-bearer in a funeral procession. The school-room was crowded. A violent attempt at private theatricals was perceptible in the rude platform and side curtains for dressing-rooms. The examination, it seemed, was to be interspersed with dialogues, declamations, etc. "The ornamental had been beautifully blended with the useful in the education of the pupils," the principal of the school announced with no little bombast. After which he called out the "First class in algebra," with the air of a necromancer, about to excite the unbounded astonishment of the audience. There was a little commotion of young ladies taking their places in the class, and then the principal, after asking one or two questions in a very loud tone, and having them answered in an inaudible voice that he would indorse by saying, "Right, quite right," walked to the blackboard, propounded a problem, and then asked, looking over the audience to observe the effect of what he seemed to con- sider remarkable erudition, "In the equation two x plus four equal to twenty-four what will two x be equal to?" "The half of twenty-four, which is twelve," promptly re- sponded the class, their timidity vanishing suddenly and apparently without any provocation. The principal was on the point of saying, "Right, quite right," when reflecting that, by the barest possibility, some one in the audience might know better, knit his brows, scowled fiercely upon the class, and said with overpowering severity, "You have mis- understood my question." , Bernice was smiling appreciatively to herself when, step- ping up in the door, and then trotting down. the aisle, whom should she see but Mr. Lyons? OLLAPODRIDA. 167 I Yes, there he was, with the same polished, brisk little feet, the dreamy, mournful eyes, and the same puzzling expres- sion that might have been rather young for forty or very mature for twenty-five. He walked down the aisle, passed Bernice and took a seat behind her. He remained there, however, nlloly long enough to collect his mind sufficiently to decide upon an expression of countenance. When he had it arranged to his satisfaction, he changed his seat for one commanding a full view of Miss Kent's face. The expression he had decided upon was that of a mature young man of twenty-five, melancholy with the ravages of a hopeless passion. Bernice's sympathy might have been excited, had she not remembered how he had joined Mrs. Murdlain in abusing her. A look of ineffable disdain was her answer to Lyons's imploring gaze. Seeing which, the mature young man of twenty-five smiled, seemed to become sudlenly hilarious with feeling rather young for forty, and then left the house, henceforth to be nothing more than a withered weed by the roadside of Bernice Kent's life. Young lady reader, given to sentimentality and cherishing the romance of something you name "love's young dream," note this episode in the life of Bernice Kent, and reflect that you may even now be making yourself ridiculous concerning that which you will one day despise. There is a great deal of nonsense, an immense amount of over-wrought feeling and most ridiculous sentimentality, named " first love," a miserable failure of a grand passion that love should blush to call even "a first attempt." page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] 168 "HOME WHERE'ER THE HEART IS." CHAPTER XXVII. "HOME WHERE ER THE HEART IS." HERE is in the growth of plants a similarity to the development of mind. There are days and weeks of rain and sunshine before the green calyx bursts and the perfumed petals. unfold teir loveliness. Yet when the time arrives for the advent of the flower, we marvel at what appears to be the suddenness of its blossoming. We forget the long days and weeks that it grew silently and imperceptibly in its green covering; and are surprised that we leave a bud at night and find a flower in the morning. So with mind. Experience disciplines it so gradually. It develops so silently and imperceptibly that we do not realize its growth until some bitter experience bursts its calyx and we marvel at what seems to be its sudden maturity. We say sorrow has matured, whereas sorrow has simply expanded the folded petals that joy would perhaps have kept hidden, but whose growth joy as well as sorrow has assisted. So it was with Bernice Kent. Childhood lingered in the lap of womanhood so long, that she seemed more immature than she really was. Her mind had been disciplined so gradually, and the occasion for its exertion had been so meagre that it had lain like a folded floweret, giving no evi- dence of its development. Her first contest with the world, however, called into ac- tion every latent faculty, and she seemed to develop in a few months from childhood to the maturity of womanhood. The transition of the bud to the flower, or the worm to the butterfly, is not more wonderful nor rapid than seemed her transition from girlishness to that marvellous maturity suffering ever induces in a strong nature. "HOME WHERE'ER THE HEART IS." 169 She had left her father with all the unreasoning impulse of a child, never doubting her strength for the heroism she contemplated. She had learned by the bitterness of experience the magnitude of her undertaking; and in her struggle to rise with the occasion she had become, in every sense of the word, a woman. Her knowledge of human na- ture was increased; her impulsiveness tamed; her caution developed, and at the same time her self-reliance inten- sified. She had suffered and struggled, and when the last long, long weary day of school was ended, and she found herself "homeward bound,"a thrill shook her heart with a trem- ulous joy that was half like a return to the girlhood that now seemed leagues back in the shadowy past. Homeward bound," she said eagerly, as she sat looking out of the car window at the trees and fences and houses that seemed hurrying by. That was a lingering trace of girlhood's enthusiasm; then womanhood, maturely sad, full of all tenderness and yearn- ing, mused, "There is no longer a home to welcome me: no longer a cosy sitting room or a table all to ourselves-nothing of that kind; yet oh, there's my own dear father, who has been misunderstanding me allthese weary months, and whose i arms will clasp me all the more closely for our long separation. Then there's Aureola, who has sacrificed her feelings a great many times for my comfort. I shall be so glad to see her again and be kinder to her than I have ever been. And then Oswald, my dear darling brother, who teases me sometimes, but who always heals with actions the wounds he makes with words. How glad I shall be to see them all! What matters it that I have no home? 'Tis home where'er the heart is,' and I, oh, I am going home." Bernice Kent turned her eager expectant face and glanced over the car to see if anybody was looking as happy as. she felt. No, not one, she decided. There was the usual number of well-disposed old women 8 page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] 170 "HOME WHERE'ER THE HEART IS. "going to see my son Jeemes in lllinoy," or ". daughter Car- o!ne, who married and moved to Indianey," who looked about with deprecating timidity, as if assuring the passen- gers that they meditated no personal injury upon any one present. The ordinary quantum of newspaper devotees, and rest- less young ladies conscious of wearing becoming travelling suits. Also were there anxious mothers with troublesome children; and in, short, just such a car-full of passengers as one might find every day of one's life, if one chose. Bernice called out, to their fullest extent, her powers as a physiognomist, and amused herself making a mental es- timate of those nearest her; yet even this recreation, added to some papers and magazines, and a luncheon she had brought, failed to make the time pass so rapidly as she could have desired. "Oh pa, my own dear, dear pa, it is such an age since I left you, she said to herself, at anxious little intervals of ten and fifteen minutes, as the day wore on. "Oh pa!" was all she could utter when the cars stopped and she found herself clasped in her father's arms. What joyous greetings there were among the Kents! and Oswald, and Aureola too were at the depot to welcome her. Bernice thought she had never before been so happy. The long, weary months of trial and toil and separation seemed like a dream, and she remembered only' that she was back again with her heart's nearest and dearest. "We are boarding now, Bernice," said Aureola, sadly, as the party was being driven through the busy streets. "Yes, I know, but never mind; it is so nice to be with you all again!" rejoined Bernice, with enthusiasm,Slooking up at her father for the habitual smile of tenderness she had been accustomed to find on his face. Dr. Kent's brow, however, was clouded, his eyes were averted, and to Bernice's hilarity he returned very few remarks. He was thinking how she had left them all, ISHOME WHERE'ER THE HEART IS." 171 deceived them in regard to her going, and then preferred teaching to their' society. Bernice's long letter of explana- tion had miscarried, and between father and daughter was an impenetrable cloud that both felt, yet neither could dispel. "Bernice," said Aureola, after the sisters had reached their boarding-place, and were alone in their room, "You must be very dignified and not talk to the landlady, and all of the boarders, as if you considered them your equals. Plebeians must be taught their place or they will impose upon you. Do, for once, be dignified, and remember that gi you are a Kent. Do, for my sake, Bernice, this once be exclusive." '"I will," returned Bernice, "I am perfectly cured of any undue condescension! Such. a time as I have had, Aureola, you wouldn't believe it! It was just terrible." The sisters were interrupted by the entrance of Dr. Kent ! and Oswald. The gas was lighted, and when the party were seated in their private sitting-room, "It seemed almost like old times again," Oswald said. C "Oh no," Aureola rejoined, "Nothing like old times, when we had a house of our own. Boarding is abominable, and, for my part, I should prefer living in two rooms by ourselves, to any amount of luxury in a boarding-house." "Why, what's the matter? Don't you like your boarding- lplace?" asked Bernice anxiously. "I detest boarding," said Aureola, energetically, -" unless one could board at a first-class hotel. This private board- ing is -abominable. I have been trying to persuade pa, if he cannot get a house, to rent some rooms and let us live to ourselves, if we live ever so humbly. This boarding in a large city, where we are thrown in contact with everybody and can't tell who is who, is just terrible." "It is so," rejoined Oswald, with mock seriousness. "How do we know what their great grandfathers did, or whether they ever had a cousin, or an uncle, or any other relative page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] 172 "HOME WHERE'ER THE HEART IS." to do anything remarkable in any way? mTe don't know who is who, and we can't find out. There is no way to detect the difference in persons except by their geneal- i ogy. ! Bernice laughed proudly and appreciatively at Oswald's merry satire, and even Aureola smiled as she said, "I know good blood As soon as I see it. I can just see it in one's face." "Sometimes, though, ladies sail under false colors,. and what seems to be very good blood is only a prime article of rouge," suggested Oswald. "Oh, nonsense,' Oswald! Do behave yourself," said Aureola. , So they chatted until supper was announced. Oswald offered his arm to Bernice, and Aureola went out with her father, as she whispered, "Now do, Bernice, take my advice." "I never take advice," said Oswald to Bernice, as they followed Dr. Kent and Aureola. "Why not?" queried his sister. "Because it is the only kind of vice that .has nothing agreeable about it." "If that is original, just consider your head patted, as a reward for brilliancy," rejoined Bernice. "It is not original," said Oswald, " and if it were, I should not encourage you to pat my head; the habit of patroniz- ing should be avoided." Oswald was in his element, so to speak, when he had Bernice to laugh at his puns and encourage' him in his extravagance. Dr. Kent was looking a trifle distrait. Aureola was so intensely haughty, and glanced around the table with so frigid an air of disdain, that when Bernice asked her if she would have tea or coffee, as she did not appear to hear the waiter's query to that effect, Oswald whispered merrily, "What kind of tea does Ola most frequently indulge in?" r I !, : OF THE RENTS, KENTISH. 173 Belmice shook her head, and he replied "Frigidity." Bernice was about to reply, when Aureola pulled her sleeve and entreated her to be more quiet and dignified, and get through eating as soon as possible. Bernice eadeavored j to comply with her sister's request, but Oswald was so chatty and so funny, she thought, that it was impossible not ig to notice and reply to him. !"Watch our landlady scowl at Aureola," whispered plg Oswald. "Evidently does not like her turn of mind.'" IBernice smiled, and Oswald added, "Thinks she is taciturn, perhaps." CHAPTER XXVI. Ig e^'^ ^ OF THE KENTS, KENTISH. I , i:1 the city is so crowded that we cannot get a :' H g house' before spring, let us rent a suite of rooms. There at least we can have some privacy, and if we cannot entertain company, and mingle a great deal in the gay world, we can, at least, have the comfort of being free from the intrusion of vulgarity." So urged Aureola Kent, until the plan was carried into execution, and early autumn found the Kents occupying very pleasant apart- ments engaged for the winter. I What fleeting, joyous days they were! What cosy, com- i fortable, home-like evenings, of music, or reading, or chess- playing, or social conversation! "We have very little society, comparatively speaking," said Dr. Kent, "yet it may be that in after years we shall look back upon this period as one of the happiest of our lives. We have a great deal of genuine enjoyment that we shall fail to recognize as such, until it is passed. We have page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] 174 OF TIE EENTS, KENTISH. each other's society, we are not dependent; my practice is X increasing, and we have every reason to be grateful and ! happy." "We are, pa, indeed we are," said Bernice, looking up , with a rush of eager tears. i Dr. Kent said '"I hope so," but there was something X like constraint in his voice. It was always so of late when Bernice addressed him. He seemed to distrust her; to regard her warmest expressions as evanescent impulses. Bernice felt his coldness; day after day she sought to melt it. Day after day she carried' the heaviness of unworded pain. Not that Dr. Kent was not kind to her; oh, no! He was thoughtful as ever for her happiness. Patient as ever with her whims. Just the same in action, yet Bernice felt that he was not the same in feeling. His eyes were averted so often. His caresses were less fre- quent. His voice had a pained tone, as if from disappoint- ment most cruel. "Bernice is not the child I thought her. I have loved her so dearly, and trusted so infinitely in her affection for me, and she has repaid me with distrust. Pretended to be going away last winter on a visit; deceived me as to her real intentions because she had not confidence enough in my judgment to consult me as to what was best for her to do. I have never loved a human being more than I have loved that girl, and yet she has given me more trouble than both my other children." Cruel, cruel words, Bernice thought, as she heard them from the lips of her father, in a conversation with Oswald, while she sat in an adjoining room. "You misunderstand Bernice, pa, I am sure you do"- Oswald was beginning energetically, when Dr Kent inter- rupted him with freezing irony, for the father was hurt at Oswald's tone, "Well, my son, as you are so much older and wiser than your father, and can understand so much better than he can what certain actions indicate, perhaps you had better enlighten him." 1OF TE KENTS, KENTISH 175 "Now, pa Kent," said"Oswald, taking his father's hand with an affectation of jocularity he was far from feeling, "You are not to be angry with me. I only meant that I know Bernice loves you, and tries to please you, and what- ever mistakes she makes, she intends to do right. Her motives are always good, pa, I know they are ; and no one could love you more than Bernice does." "Well, perhaps I am not capable of inspiring more affec- tion in my children than Bernice gives me yet, if that be U true, I certainly receive very much less Than I give," returned Dr. Kent, with a sorrowful dignity that went into Bernice's heart an additional weight of pain. "Pa Kent, I say you are not to talk so. You know I love you, and have no higher ambition in life, than to be worthy of being your son," said Oswald, beginning play- fully and concluding seriously. "You have a noble heart, my son, and any father might be proud of you," returned Dr. Kent, with pride and tender- ness. Bernice sat listening in the adjoining room, until father and son went out the street door; then her self-control was gone, and tears bitter and passionate came to her relief. "I did not deserve such words from pa," she said to her- self, at length, wiping her eyes, "I was trying to help himr; and even if I did mistake in acting without his advice, he has no right to consider that I cast contempt upon his judg- ment. I sacrificed my own feelings. I suffered and strug- gled for six long months, and, after all, this is my reward; this coldness, this reproach, this utter misapprehension of my motives. I have loved pa so dearly, I have never known the time when I would not have given my very life to lighten his burdens or make him happier; yet, after all, he is so un- just. He is cruel! Just to think of that long heart-broken letter I wrote him, explaining everything to him and en- treating him so passionately to understand me, and write back to me that he did understand me and did love me with page: 176-177[View Page 176-177] ' 176 OF THE KENTS, KENTISH. the same trustful affection he had always given me. How I ' pleaded with him! Did he write anything tender in answer to that appeal? Did he try to heal the wound in my heart with assurances of affection? Did he even mention the re-. , ception of that letter? No! He treated it with utter con- ; tempt, and simply wrote back that he had learned from Oswald i something of one Lyons, that it seemed I was acting very foolishly about. Then, coldly and formally, he issued his commands, and my heart has been breaking ever since with the weight of his coldness and injustice. I can't do anything more. I have done all I could, yet even though my own father will misunderstand me, there is One who knows." Bernice Kept bowed herself in prayer, and the One who knew her heart comforted her. i The " peace be still " of a clear conscience rang out unto the troubled waters of her soul, and over the great deep thereof " arose a great calm." Dr. Kent and Oswald did'not return for some hours; and Bernice had abundant leisure to conceal the traces of tears E and appeal as cheerful and smiling as usual. "I will do my duty," she resolved; " he is my father, and : I owe him respect. He has always been my own dear pa, and I love him, independent of that respect, and I will be just as amiable and pleasant as I can be, anyhow, no matter what he thinks of me." i! "Bernice is my child," thought the father, " and thdugh I have been sadly disappointed in my estimate of her affec- tion for me, I will do all in my power to make her as happy as possible." I So father and daughter kept up a show of tenderness, yet the coldness and distrust became more tangible, and Ber- mce's expressions more guarded and less frequent. "You have not forgotten that we are going to the Phil- harmonic this evening, have you?" asked Oswald, as Ber- nice got out the chess men and proposed a game. "I had forgotten," rejoined Bernice, "but I am so glad i - OF THE KENTS, KENTISH. 17t ^ you reminded me. I wouldn't have missed going for any- thing.". "Of course it is genuine appreciation of the music that prompts your enthusiasm," laughed Oswald. "No consid- eration of what you are to wear, and who will be there, has the slightest effect upon you. No regard for Mrs. Grundy's comments that the Kents were or were not there. No an- ticipations of innocent raptures that the remembrance of it will enable you to indulge in when speaking of the affair to Jones or Brown; who--aw-yes-aw-were not there- aw--that particular night-aw--but who were there every other night-aw-.except that-aw"--- Bernice laughed, pinched her brother's chin, and said, playfully--"No, none of those considerations have weight with me. Not even the thought of being escorted by a handsome brother, and being envied and ogled accordingly, can distract my mind from the musical treat I shall enjoy." "Honestly, sister," said Oswald, with mock seriousness, "is it the music you care for so much as the respectable habit of attending such places?" "What nonsense," rejoined Bernice. "Your query merely proves your own non-appreciation of the music. I should never have thought, but for this' of accusing you of going for any other purpose than to enjoy the performances." / "Oh, I enjoy the performances," returned Oswald; "that part on the programme and that given by the audience. I find it excessively refreshing to' have what young ladies would call a perfectly heavenly' strain of music, broken into by some whispered comment on that 'fearfully unbe- coming opera-cloak, dear, just in front of us,' or that 'per- fectly splendid man in the second tier, love, who has been levelling his opera-glasses at us the whole evening.' "I enjoy the performances-oh yes, who wouldn't? If I ever get so lost in admiration of the music that language seems a failure in the way of description, some laboriously got up young woman always considerately brings me out of page: 178-179[View Page 178-179] 78 AT THE PHLHARMONIC. R my dumb ecstasy by asking somebody else, in an audible whisper, if that wasn't ' perfectly spellendid ;' and as opera- cloaks, and men in the second tier, and the new opera house, and the music are all designated the same way, I find that everything is pretty much the same, and there is no more % necessity for ecstatic admiration for one thing than another." The expression of Oswald Kent's face was a mingling of merriment and disgust. "The brilliancy of your remarks is only equalled by the wisdom of your conclusions," laughed Bernice, with merry satire, as she left the room to prepare for the Philharmonic. CHAPTER XXIX. AT THE PHLHARMONIC. , WE are early," said Oswald, consulting his watch, Seth while the party sat waiting for the opening exer- cises "I like to, be early," returned Bernice, glancing towards her father, who was saying something to Aureola, and evidently did not hear her remark. "Why?" asked Oswald, who was always attentive to Bernice, and seemed to depend a great deal upon her for comfort, conversationally. "Oh, I can look around and see who is here and who isn't, and finish staring aboet before the performances begin, so that when they d6 begin, I can give all of my attention to the music. I love to lose myself in the music; and of course you would say I could not very well yield myself to it unrestrainedly, without first deciding who is looking better than myself and who isn't, you know." Oswald smiled as he rejoined, "Pray look around, and tell me who is worth looking at. Explain to me the differ, AT - * ?HULwA0 NIC. 179 AT THE P.!"HARMONIC. 179 ence between a 'perfectly fearful costume,' and one that isn't perfectly fearful. Point out a live specimen of the article that, in young lady parlance, is a 'perfectly splendid fellow.' Tell me who are the 'shoddyites,' and teach me how to distinguish between them and ' our best people.' Instruct me concerning who is in ' our set,' and how they came there. Tell me what ladies are passee and what gen- tlemen are distinguE. "I am so ignorant of such things. I have sometimes found those that I considered very amiable persons, 'mere parvenued ;' while others that I thought intensely disagreea- ble were among 'our best people.' I give it up, Bernice! I shall never be able to decide, from mere observation, 'who is who,' and who isn't. "According to your own confession, you do a great deal of staring, therefore I should think you might enlighten one if you chose." Oswald spoke jestingly, but Bernice rejoined, quite seriously, "You forget' that I have been in the country for the last six months, and am thoroughly imbued with the verdancy of rusticity. I refer you to Aureola for the infor- mation you wish., I find that I have lost interest in many things that once interested me a great deal. The past few months have seemed like so many years, and in them I have matured astonishingly." "Well, my antiquated relative," laughed Oswad, 1" since you have lost interest in the subjects to which I have alluded, will you be kind enough to explain the object of i your staring, and the subject of your meditations after so doing." "How gay you are, Oswald," said Bernice, with a smile that was almost sad. "How abstracted you are," rejoined Oswald. "You seem so far away from me. What are you thinking of? Why do you stare around in that eager, questioning way if it be true that you have lost all interest in the affairs of ' -d page: 180-181[View Page 180-181] 180 AT TIE PHMLHBRUMONIC. le beau monde, as Aureola would say, when she could just as well speak English.", "Well, to confess, Oswald," returned Bernice, with a smile and a blush, betokening a mixture of jesting, embar- rassment and seriousness, "I am looking for my hero. Studying faces with a view of understanding physiognomy, and finding my soul's other half, as sentimental heroines say." "Your hero, indeed," rejoined Oswald, with mock indig- nation. "I'd like to know what use you have for a hero until I'm married and in a measure consoled for the loss of your socie ty." "You're a dear, good brother, Oswald,'; said Bernice, with increasing seriousness, "nevertheless there *are times when I realize that we are not always to have each other's society; and I suppose it is natural then that I should wonder where my hero is, and feel some desire to see him. If I could find him as I have pictured him a hundred times, I think I could be very, very happy." "Ah, but your imagination is so extravagant an artist that you will never find your hero as he has been pictured, I am afraid," returned Oswald. "I am afraid not," rejoined Bernice, sadly. "Nonsense, sister! Don't look so melancholy, or Mrs. Grundy will think you need peppermint drops, or sal-vola- tile, or something to relieve physical ailment, for of course Mrs. Grundy is not expected to understand your 'spirit- longings' or 'heart-sobbings,' or anything of that sort, you know. "Look brighter! I see 'a perfectly spellendid fellow' looking at you; what Miss Lydia Languish would call 'so distingue.' 'Midnight orbs'-' raven locks'--Regular satanic moustache-Expression decidedly 'grand, gloomy and peculiar.' Make a first-class hero for a sensation novel." "Don't look at him just yet! Put on a happy uncon- AT THE P1ILRHARbM]OIC. 181 I scious look, as if you had no idea any one could b-e looking at you. There! that's better! Brighten a little more! Don't have him think you are the victim of 'blighted affec- tions,' or diseased hope, or inactive digestion, or anything of that sort." ti Oswald's undertone of raillery had the desired effect, and Bernice brightened astonishingly. The consciousness of being scrutinized by cold, critical eyes, will make almost any one bury sentimental griefs deeper out of sight and assume an expression of complacent indif- ference. The world, notwithstanding its coldness and heartlessness, has suffered: has known its hours of real grief and genuine pain; has felt the smartings of thwarted love and secret disappointment; yet because of its suffering has it become callous-sneering at any reminder of former weakness and torture. It loves gayety and excitement, and everything that diverts it from the remembrance of its own madness and misery. "You may look at that gentleman now," said Oswald, after a time, "and read me his physiognomical signs of character." Bernice looked in the direction indicated by her brother, and bent an earnest steadfast gaze upon the stranger's face. "Well?" asked Oswald, at length, "what of him?" "I should think," she returned dreamily, and speaking as if reading very fine print, or a foreign language with which she was not familiar, "that he is a man who has suffered. Suffered from deception, perhaps. At any rate suffered from some infuriating pain that has embittered and hard- ened him. He has the look of one who knows the worst side of human nature and regards it with a ningling of contempt and compassion. "See his expression! A forgiving sneer, a good-humored spurning, if I may so express it, a cynical tolerance of the world. An utter disbelief in anybody's goodness, yet no / page: 182-183[View Page 182-183] 182 AT THE PrHARMONIC. disposition to punish the world farther than by sneering at it. He evidently knows the weak side of every heart, and un- derstands taking possession, be the fortress weak or strong. His smile is a mingling of disgust and forbearance. If he thought it worth the trouble, he would use any and every means to get one thoroughly in hispower; and though he is incapable of wanton cruelty, he evidently considers self-sacrifice, to any very great extent, entirely unnecessary." "In other words has the selfish faculties well developed," suggested Oswald. "Yes! And yet this very development imparts force of character, energy, stamina, you understand." "I understand! Go on!" said Oswald. "His intellectual faculties are vell developed. I should think he could be a very fascinating man, if he chose. No- tice, too, the lower part of his face, how expressive of deter- mination it is! He is full of purpose, and has not only the brain to plan, but the will to accomplish. Victor is written on the man's face, yet withal there is a revelation of how he might be vanquished." "How?" asked Oswald, as Bernice paused, and began look- ing dreamily into vacancy. "By love," she returned. "If some deep and deathless affection should take hold of the very foundations of his soul, and compel him to tenderness and gentleness for its sake, he would be a better and a happier man; for with all his pride and obstinacy and cynicism he has boundless affec- tions, and through them could be strongly influenced." "Why, how very visionary and romantic you are to night, Bernice," said Oswald, regarding his sister's flushed face and glittering eyes with surprise. She made no reply, but seemed to be lost in a reverie. "Symphony in C minor, Bernice," said Oswald, thrust- ing a programme into his sister's hand with an effort to rouse her, as the musicians took their places on the stage. AT THE PHHARMONIC. 183 What an orchestral revel it was! Fantasia and romanza, quadrille, polka and overture! And what weird though fantastic shapes floated through the brain of Bernice Kent, as she sat apparently absorbed in the music. Parquette, dress-circle, box and gallery, with their sea of faces,' faded and were forgotten. Gay costumes, happy smiles, and the sweet breath of beauty's bouquets were dis- solved until there was no longer palpable shape and per- fume, but the whole atmosphere seemed insensibly to have grown more intoxicating, and to be so natural a concomitant of the delirious music as to be inseparable from it. There was one face, however, in the sea of faces, that did not fade, one form that did not dissolve and lose itself in the atmosphere. That face was the stranger's opposite Ber- nice Kent. She never quite lost sight of it. It seemed to have forgotten her. The eyes never once sought hers. The pale, firm features seemed to grow paler and firmer, rigid as marble, when the music wailed and sobbed; anon almost tender when the melody was loving and pathetic, as if half relenting towards a childlike, clinging pain, very far down. The cold, glittering eyes softened, and the cynical mouth half forgot its haughty curve, and something warm and heartfelt stole over the rigid face when the music seemed to plead with it, and force it to listen almost forgiv- ingly, half tenderly! Yet when the sob died out of the music, and the wailing echo was lost in gayer notes, the dark face sneered more cruelly than ever, as if it saw the frivolous world dancing over a new-made grave, and that new-made grave had a live human heart in it, buried fathoms deep out of sight, and that same human heart was his own, and ached with the weight and chill upon it, until a weaker person might have shrieked out with the pain. He might have been urging the world to gayer dancing page: 184-185[View Page 184-185] 184 AT THE PHLHATONIC. and wilder mirth, that they might not suspect it his grave, H this stranger might, with that smile and that sneer and that defiant pain upon his face. p He was conquering the pain. In a short time there would be no pain. The bitter anodyne of scorn was strengthening him. Bernice Kent watched him and shivered. She had read of such faces. This was the first of its kind. she had ever seen. A bloody footprint on an unknown shore could not have filled her with more awe and wonder. She dropped her eyes, and a chill ran through her frame as if she had lifted the hand of a corpse. When she looked up again he had conquered the pain. The orchestra was playing the Grand Galop Infernal, and the grim, triumphant smile on the stranger's face might have I !2een Satanic glee over a combat of the Furies. Bernice Kent watched the face until every vestige of ten- ? deaness and suffering had left it. The grave seemed not more cruel, nor death more relentless. Yet, strange as it may seem, the face fascinated even while it repelled her. She ' could not take her eyes away from it. Awe-stricken as she had been by its pllor and gloom, curious and interested by its evanescent tenderness and gentleness, she had felt nothing compared to thy emotion that possessed her when the fea- -i tures hardened into their intensity of cruel triumph and frozen scorn. The emotion she felt was compassion. She understood that he had suffered. She recognized tragedy where she had simply imagined vicissitude. The revelation of the man that his face had given had not been lost upon her. A starved soul had looked out from its captivity, and Bernice Kent wanted to answer its signal. The music had wooed a Better Self to peer through its prison-bars of pride, and she had recognized that Better Self, and though it might go down again out of sight, she could not forget the humid glow of its pleading eyes nor the transient quiver of its beautiful mouth. It had been there, AT THE PHLHARMONIC. 185 there on that dark, cold face, and though all the rest of the world might have been blind to it, Bernice Kent saw, recog- nized and remembered it, though it came and went without a suspicion that any eye had marked the traces of its pris- tine splendor, and known it as a princely captive held in bondage by ambitious demons of Pride, who laughed to scorn the prodigality of love it would waste upon a sneer- ing world. - Bernice Kent felt that she understood it all! The heart, the soul, the Better Self, the Good Angel of the man's life, had not always been a captive. Once it was Prince Royal. Once it kept the keys of the castle and reigned supreme. Pride was a subordinate then, a good-natured, high-spirited fellow, who, surfeited by enjoyment, was never troublesome nor dictatorial. Yet when the eager, ardent, prodigal Prince gave Love a banquet, and Pride was wounded, and the Prince was tram- pled upon and left prostrate in his own blood, Pride became combative, and closed the banquet-hall and shut out the in- truders, and told the Prince, severely, that he was a wretched spendthrift, wasting his substanceupon prodigals, casting his "pearls before swine." Then the Prince, delirious with pain, and dizzy with the fever of his wounds, wanted the bacchanalians to come again and drink of Pleasure's wine, and sit at Love's banquet, and enact again the old revel and madness, even though it ended in bloodshed. Then, importunate with pain and loneliness, the Prince became delirious, and Pride confined him as a hopeless ma- niac in strong fetters of determination. The Prince was vanquished. Pride was victor. This was what the stranger's face revealed to Bernice Kent. $ The eager, trusting Better Self had been fettered so long that it had grown weaker, day by -day, and its voice was seldom heard. Pride half believed it dead, and grew colder and sterner for the belief. page: 186-187[View Page 186-187] 186 AT THE PHLHARMONC. Bernice Kent knew that it was not dead, and she watched the cold stern face for another glimpse of the captive soul, until the music ceased and the scene of enchantment was only a tide of human beings surging towards the street, blocking up lobby and stairway, buzzing with suppressed remarks, and full of life and frivolity, as if it had not so lately been sublimated by music that was tragedy and ecsta- tic pain. Bernice Kent and the stranger were side by side in the vestibule. Their eyes met, and each seemed to take in, eagerly, the glance of the other. The soul of Bernice Kent was answering the hasty signal, when Dr. Kent caught the stranger's eye, bowed, smiled, and, while the recognition was being returned, Oswald drew Bernice's hand through his arm, and hurried on. "What gentleman was that you recognized to-night, pa, just as we reached the vestibule, while Aureola was speak- ing to Mrs. Tremaine," asked Bernice, so soon as she had an opportunity. "Do you mean the one who stood at your right, with a heavy moustache and dark eyes," asked Dr. Kent. "Yes, sir," returned Bernice, eagerly. "That was Dr. Rashton," replied the father. "What of him, pa?" asked Bernice, strangely interested. "Oh nothing, only I have met him at the Medical Society, and have merely a speaking acquaintance with him. I know nothing of his antecedents, and have never met him socially." "I wish you had. I wish you knew something about him. He has a very striking face. Can't you find out something About him?" asked Bernice. "Oh, I suppose so! He is a married man, I think," re- turned the father. Bernice Kent was silent the remainder of the way home. t MSS FANNIE BRAINARD. 187 CHAPTER XXX. UA \/ ^ifMSS FAXNIE BIAINARD. h ' g ERNICE, said Aureola, the day after the events of the preceding chapter, "Miss Fannie Brainard has called, and I want you to make yourself as agree- able as possible tqiher, for the social position of the Brain- ards is unquestioned." "Stuff! What do I care for their social position? If I like the young lady, individually, I shall be as amiable as possible.' If I do not like her, I shall not trouble myself for her social position." Bernice's tone was a trifle petulant, as it always was when Aureola's hobby, social position, sought to restrict her. "Oh, well," returned Aureola, "don't go into the parlor until you can get rid of that scowl. It isn't at all lady-like. I am going in now. You can come when you get ready." Left alone, Bernice Kent began speculating concerning Miss Brainard, and already the wish was formed to find in the young lady a friend thoroughly congenial and com- panionable. Miss Fannie"Brainard was apparently twenty, or there- abouts. Was tall, slender, and exceedingly graceful. She had large, brown eyes, whose chilklike trust and inquiry rendered them peculiarly fascinating. Sunny brown hair, matching the eyes, except that the golden tint gleamed and sparkled in the shining meshes of hair, with all the glory of a June sunset, while it was softened and shaded in the eyes until it seemed blending with something gentle as twilight and beautiful as starlight. Her nose was rather small, denoting a lack of efficiency, yet very pretty and attractive for all that. Her mouth indi- cated firmness, self-esteem and reserve, yet Aid not lack ten- derness. Bernice noted these details while Aureola was presenting page: 188-189[View Page 188-189] 188 MSS FANNIE BRAINArD. her, and explaining to Miss Brainard that "sister had been out of the city for some time and had just returned, and scarcely felt at home yet," etc. "I caught a dissolving view of you at the Philharmonic, last evening Miss Bernice," said Miss Brainard, "I presume, A! of course, you enjoyed the concert very much." "Yes, I found it very delightful," rejoined Bernice. "I am so passionately fond of music, that I always enjoy the Philharmonics intensely," said Miss Brainard, with an air of innocent enthusiasm that was very becoming to her and apparently habitual. The Misses Kent smiled, and expressed similar tastes. "How did you like that ' Romanza from'L'Eclair?' asked Aureola, with a winning air of amiable inquiry. "I don't remember now which it was," returned Miss Brainard; "I scarcely noticed the programme; but I thought the whole thing perfectly grand! I do so love music that I ?, go into ecstasies over it, upon the slightest provocation. I spent last winter in New York, and oh, such musical treats as I enjoyed! I had the most perfectly elegant time one could well imagine. It was just one round of gayety the whole time, so that when I got back home again everything seemed so stupid, and I grew so dissatisfied, mamma scarcely knew what to do with me. New York is the garden spot of the world to me; but then I suppose one's first season always invests the place where one spends it with unusual attractions. At least mamma says so. Mamma thinks her first season in society the most delightful period of her exis- tence. One is so glad to be out of school, you know, and at liberty to do as one pleases, you understand," concluded Miss Brainard, with a toss of her head and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, that were all the more beautiful for their innocent remnant of childhood that the world had not yet taken from them. "I understand,"' returned Bernice, smiling, " doing as one pleases, if I remember aright, is translated by school-girls MSS FANNIE JERAINARD. 189 to be flirting ad libitum, and no, necessity for a clandestine correspondence with the college-boys." 'f Yes, yes," said Miss Brainard, smiling and nodding her head, "I remember how we girls used to write surreptitious notes upon the slightest provocation, and how perfectly elegant we thought it to have the answers poked through the' fence and hid under a rock in tee grass. Not that we cared for the boys, oh no," (here Miss Brainard laughed, and seemed to imply merry- satire,) "but it was all just for the fun of the thing, you know, and just because we were for- bidden to catch anything more than dissolving views of the boys as we went down the aisle at church, or back to school again, always with a body-guard of teachers, as if we had been culprits, you remember." Bernice smiled acquiescence and was charmed in spite of herself ; for although- Miss Brainard did say " slightest pro- vocation," and ,' dissolving views," and "perfectly elegant," whenever she could possibly bring them in appropriately, her very affectation Bernice thought innocent and attrac- tive. It was no greater crime to have pet phrases and stereo- typed speeches, than have becoming dresses made to order. And even though she lacked originality and depth of char- acter, she did not lack the sweet, womanly, amiable virtues that are after all most attractive to a large majority of the world. Who cares for originality? What matters it if one makes an appropriate remark for the first or fiftieth time, so that it is appropriate? Then "original people," you know, my dear Miss Frivo- lous, are " so egotistical." "Such a nuisance," you know, continually challenging one's admiration, and calling one "envious" if one doesn't humor their whims and acknowl- edge their superiority. Always trying to eclipse one by saying something startling and brilliant. Offering diamonds- when -paper currency would do as well; page: 190-191[View Page 190-191] 190 MSS FANNIE BREAINAD. and nobody who has only paper currency, wants sharp, i disagreeable diamonds thrust continually in one's face. How much better it is to have commonplace paper currency, or even sprightly little pennies in circulation than pretentious diamonds. Let there be pennies, dimes and half-dimes, something within everybody's reach, and neither calculated to excite envy nor demand admiration! Give us, by all means, charming Miss Frivolous, the cur- rency of society! Let a large proportion of the things in this world be "perfectly splendid," a smaller number " perfectly lovely " or " perfectly grand." Another class of persons or things may be "perfectly fearful," or "perfectly awful," or perfectly anything one chooses. At any rate on no account omit the "perfectly." In this way one can comment on the generality of things readily and volubly, without being accused of expecting anybody to fall down and worship one on account of one's originality. When one offers coin so small he is not seeking to buy up a great amount of society's admiration. He does not attempt a monopoly of trade. He is not endeavoring to prevent Jones or Jenkins from obtaining a small portion of society's con- sideration with their dimes and half dimes of "perfectly grand, and " perfectly fearful," and " perfectly elegant." He doesn't elbow any one to obtain his " dissolving views' He does not make a stepping-stone of any one's appro- bativeness, upon "the slightest provocation." He does not imply contempt for any one's platitudes of currency by of- fering the diamond of originality. Original mind! If after this you are so far lost to a sense of your own odiousness as not to remain quiet in society, you are incorrigible and deserve to be " cut," even in a way not strictly diamond cut diamond. Aureola and Miss Brainard were having an animated dis' MSS ANNIE BRAINARD. 191 cussion concerning the "perfectly lovely" and "perfectly hideous" and perfectly elegant "'things of this life, ad were going into " dissolving views " upon "the, slightest provoca- tion," when by some unexplainable process a certain Mrs.. L. Mortimer Brown suggested herself to the minds of the ladies, and AIiss Brainard did not hesitate to declare her "the most perfectly lovely woman in the world." "Yes, Bernice," said Aureola, " she is a charming acquaint- ance. I am anxious for you to meet her. I met her for the first time last winter, soon after you left home." "Oh yes," chimed in Miss Brainard, C" you would be per- fectly delighted with her. She is one of our very best peo- ple, and really to visit Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown is to get in- to society.' She is one of the most perfectly elegant women you could well imagine. Though she is so very reserved that one can only catch dissolving views, so to speak, of her real heart." What a rattle of shining pennies was there, my country- men! A gleam half like the golden sparkle of the genuine ore. : Bernice was silent a moment, looking for a change! Dimes or half-dimes, where were they; all? strange she could find none! "Yes," Aureola went on, 'matching pennies' with what seemed to Bernice just then wonderful dexterity, " but one is not repelled by her reserve. She is so perfectly genuine and so thoroughlyappreciative, and tries to make it so plea- sant for her friends when they visit her, that I confess to no little enthusiasm on my own account concerning her." "Yes indeed," rejoined Miss Brainard, producin g currency with a facility that was almost dazzling, "you have a social treat in store, Miss Bernice, in the acquaintance of Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown, that I am sure you will find perfectly de- "I presume so," rejoined Bernice, feeling that her pre. sumption was, to say .the least, a very extravagant one, and page: 192-193[View Page 192-193] 192 MSS FANNIE BAINBARD. the remark made without the shadow of a foundation, as she did not feel that she hal the slighest reason to presume she should like Mrs. L. 2MVortimer Brown. That the lady was "a peffectly lovely womaLn,' might be wholly attributable to her being one of "'our best people." "Yes," Miss Brainard we t on, addressing herself to Ber- nice, "And then she has an adopted daughter, Olive Brown, that is just the dearest, most extravagant, romantic little curiosity you ever knew. She is so original and so very ro- mantic that positively some of her expressions. are just per- fectly killing." Miss Brainard laughed here, as if to express what she meant by " perfectly killing." ; "I should like very much to meet her," said Betnice, prof- fering thus a very dilapidated bit of currency that seemed for the moment almost an insul to Miss Brainard's gleam i and rattle of sprightly pennies. "The most original little witch in existence," laughed Miss Brainard, "and just the most confiding creature you ever knew. I really believe the child unveils the inmost recesses i of her romantic little heart to me." "( Child?" echoed Bernice involuntarily, " how old is she?" "c Oh well," Miss Brainard blushed as if she had been al- most guilty of afaux pas, " she is sixteen years old, and I suppose ought to be called a young lady, of course, for I think one old at sixteen. Don't you?" Miss Brainard looked at the Misses Kent as if that being her precise age, she was forced to consider it very old. "Some persons are older at sixteen than others are at twenty," returned Aureola, as if she did not altogether repu- diate sixteen, but was inclined to be forbearing towards twenty. "Yes, yes," said Miss Brainard, " and Olive Brown is young for sixteen. She is so confiding! Just think of her assuming a high tragedy air and telling me that she was doomed to carry one hatred to her grave. That there was MSS FANNIE BBAINARD. 193 one person in the world that had wronged her more deeply than all the rest of the world, and that person she could inever forgive-'No, Miss Brainard, never forgive,' she said, as if speaking in italics. And then her look and tone and man- ner, as she made the confession, were just perfectly killing." "How very singular," said Bernice, beginning to be inter- ested. ," Very remarkable!" exclaimed Aureola, with polite en- thusiasm, yet never leaving off her winning air of amiabil- ity for the sake of surprise or any other emotion. "Yes, and the strangest of all is that the person she hates is her father," explained Miss Brainard, with a dram- atic effort-to heighten the effect of her words upon her listeners. "Her father?" echoed both the Misses Kent, with genuine horror and astonishment. "Well!" said Miss Brainard, "perhaps I ought not to have gone so far, yet as I have made a remark that involves an explanation, I hope you will not accuse me of gossiping if 1 explain just how it is, for of all things I do think gossip the mrost perfectly odious, and I would on no account have you think me -guilty of it." The Misses Kent said, "Oh no, certainly not! Pray ex- ercise your own pleasure," and regarded their visitor with. polite attention. "Well, as I have said, Olive is Mrs. Brown's adopted daughter, though what her real name is, nobody knows. Mrs. Brown, says she never'took any pains to inquire; she is distantly related to Olive's mother, but never knew her father. He was a very dissipated man, and deserted Olive's mother so cruelly, I have heard, that she became/ insane. It is a terrible story, and Olive seems as if she can never get over it. The Browns have done everything for her, and have spared no expense with her education, yet she is so morbidly sensitive and proud-spirited that she says she can never forgive her father, either, for deserting her mother or for making her dependent upon strangers for every- 9 page: 194-195[View Page 194-195] 194 MSS FANNIE BRAINARD. thing. Just as if f Browns were not as kind to her as own parents, you know." "I wonder what could have induced her father to desert her mother," said Aureola with an eye to Olive Brown's ancestors, and proof concerning their being among our best people. "I am sure I don't know! The whole affair is perfectly shocking," said Miss Brainard; "Mrs. Brown never likes to mention it; and strangers do not, as a general thing, know that Olive is not Mrs. Brown's own daughter. Even Dr. Rashton, 0ho"-- Bernice started so violently that Miss Brainard looked up in surprise, and asked, "Do you know Dr. Rashton?" "c No," returned Bernice. "Oh, then you ought to know him," Miss Brainard began with enthusiasm, evidently oblivious of Olive Brown, "He is the most charming enigma you ever knew. Pays one the most delicate compliments in the most gentlemanly way. Is so perfectly agreeable to his friends, yet a cynic and an incorrigible critic so far as most persons are concerned. He will ridicule them to their faces, and they never suspect what he is doing. Indeed I myself should not suspect some- times but for his side glances, that seem to say, ' See 'what fun I'm having.' Oh, he can be just perfectly killing when he tries. He is so funny and so entertaining." "But what were you going to say in connection with Olive Brown and Dr. Rashton?" asked Bernice, who had not lost sight-of the broken thread of the conversation. "Oh," rejoined Miss Brainard, "I was going to say that even Dr. Rashton, who is so very shrewd, said that he should aevei have suspected that Olive was not Mrs. Brown's daughter, if he had been left to judge, either by the resemblance between them, or their apparent affection for each other. Though so far as I am concerned, I cannot see the slightest resemblance between them!" '"Nor I," said Aureola; "Mrs. Brown has a purely Grecian cast of face, while Olive's features are rather irregular." Mss FANNIE BRAINArD. 195 ! "Her features correspond with the irregularity of her, character," remarked Bernice. "Yes," acquiesced Miss Brainard, for she is just the most irregular, unaccountable creature I have ever known. She is like most of the world, however, in one respect, she is not insensible to flattery. I told her that Dr. Rashton said she was really a genius, and she has conceived a enviolent friendship for him since then. She is the strangest creature! "I was so amused to hear her say the other evening, with perfect seriousness, ' I suppose I may as well like you, Dr. Rashton, to help cancel the hatred I bear for another man in the world. If I owe humanity a certain amount of good feeling I may as well pay you a portion of the debt.' Then she went on to say that if she had been blessed with a father worth loving she could have loved him a great deal ; but as she hadn't perhaps she would let Dr. Rashton take his place in her heart. "You ought to have seen Dr. Rashton color. You see he fancies himself quite youthful and fascinating, and the idea of being regarded in the venerable character of a parent by a young lady he was trying to flirt with, was a little funny. i I laughed immoderately, for I could see that it embarrassed him terribly to be thought so old." "What did he say?" queried Bernice. "Oh he rallied as soon possible. Told Olive that he wasn't over fifty, and perhaps they had better wait a year or two before he assumed the role of parent. He said, however, that in the meantime, he hoped they would be very good friends." "That I suppose was highly satisfactory to Miss Olive," said Aureola. "Oh well," said Miss Brainard, "Olive is very romantic and very extravagant, and being wrought up to a very high state of excitement, burst into tears and said, P 'Oh Dr. Rashton, I do so want a friend! I do so need a friend!' Wasn't it ridiculous, when the child has everything she can need?" page: 196-197[View Page 196-197] 196 , MSS FANNIE BRAINARD. Miss Brainard paused, quite out of breath, and Aureola said "Very ridiculous, when Mrs. Brown is so kind to her! I should think her very ungrateful." "Yes," rejoined Miss Brainard, "Dr. Rashton, however, said it was all nervousness on her part, and that she needed relaxation from her studies. "But what a visit I am making! Now, Miss Kent and Miss Bernice, you will both call very soon, won't you? I should be so happy to have you!" "We certainly shall avail ourselves of the privilege ' very soon," said Aureola, " and shall be very happy to see you at any time." "Oh, thank you. I am very social. I shall come often, and shall hope to see you frequently; and as for you, Miss Bernice, I have heard your brother and sister speak of you so often, that I really feel as if I knew you intimately., \I hope we shall be friends. I should really be so happy if we could be." Miss Brainard proffered her hand as she sp ke, with so winning an air that Bernice pressed it warmly,h d replied with genuine enthusiasm, "Thank you! I assure you noth- ing would give me more pleasure." Miss Brainard smiled, kissed both of the young ladies, and, after she had gone a brightness seemed to have van- ished from the room. Bernice thought the house darker for :r her going, and yet brighter for her having been there, since a prophecy of frienship w as left. Ah, Fannie Brainard, if your face might never have changed from the innocence of that happy girlish period! i Brief, joyous season, speedly merged into the whirl and dis- sipation of ' society ;' yet remembered perchance sometimes after the fitful fever of conquest with outstretched hands of longing for the peace and rest forever gone. CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. 197 CHAPTER XXXI. CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. MRS. L. MORTIMER BROWN, lived in a marble front house adjoining other marble front houses equally imposing and indicative of 'our best people ;' among which favored class Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown was by no means a lesser light, and beyond which favored class the light of Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown's coun- tenance never shone. Hence to be on Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown's visiting list, was to get into society, while to be excluded from that beatific enrollment was to be out of the world'; for of course there was noworld outside of Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown's, or at least none worth mentioning. Any world that had not a marble front residence, a box at the opera, a pew in Grace Church, the inclina- tion and ability to travel during the summer months, and give sumptuous entertainments when at home, was too insignificant an affair to attract Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown's attention, and consequently unworthy of mention. , Painting and sculpture, also music and literature, were meritorious because Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown so decided. "Aureola Leigh" would doubtless have been a failure had not Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown approved it. The opera would without question have speedily been voted a nuisance had Mrs. L. Mortimer refused to attend it; for such was the confidence that "our best people" had in Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown, that the mercury in the thermometer of their appreciation of a person or thing rose or fell according to the temperature of Mrs. L. Mor- timer Brown's opinion thereof. Yet it was not Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown's worded expres- sions so much as her general bearing that affected persons. She was not noisy, nor vindictive, nor gossiping 2 ' . ^M page: 198-199[View Page 198-199] 198 CONCERNING OUB BEST PEOPLE. She did not indulge in coarse denunciations. She merely lifted her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders E and had an air of withdrawing herself, that, going beyond C words and shaming the expressiveness of language, indicated that Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown had contempt for the person I or thing mentioned. Furthermore, Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown's manner said very plainly that Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown's opinion was by no means a trivial circumstance. Strangers were always impressed with this air of superi- I ority, a kind of shrinking superiority, as who should say, "I I pity your insignificance. I will not crush you. I veil my superiority that I may appear for the time not only among, but of you. I have no disposition to wound you by forcing upon you the full extent of my importanle and your own in- - significance. I am too thorough-bred to be arrogant, at least offensively arrogant, and shall be very Vmiable to you, shall make things exceedingly pleasant for you if you only prove I to be one of our best people." And Mr.. L. Mortimer Brown's opinion was the mould which one must fit, to be " one of our best people." Mrs. L. 0 Mortimer Brown had only to compare the customs and opinions of persons with her own in order to decide where they belonged, and after she had decided there was none dare question. ' "Our best people " considered her a very happy'woman, or at least one having every reason to be exceedingly happy. Her establishment, her face and figure, her equipage, her social position, and even that unimportant item, her husband, were alike unexceptionable. What more could a woman de- sire? Is there anything else that constitutes feminine hap- piness? Some one, who already'has an eye to the minor details of the enjoyments of " our best people," intimates that having no children may have been a drawhack to the perfect hap- piness of Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown. AMy dear madam (for I am sure the voice is a woman's CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. 199 "our best people " do not as a general thing consider children really essential to one's happiness. Think of the wear and tear of constitution. Think of the sleepless nights and anxious days. Think of the expense too. The shoes and stockings and slate pencils and music lessons that consume the means for just so many balls and trips to the sea-side and elegant opera costumes. Think of the worry and trouble of getting them suitably married and settle'd in life. Not to mention their mushroom growth that proves one's age in spite of cos- metics. How silly you are to mention being childless as a draw- back to any one's happiness! You are behind the age, my dear madam. The dimpled hands, and innocent eyes, and trusting "Now I lay me's" that you contend take a mother's soul nearer Heaven, are unworthy ,of mention. The baby heart fastening the fragrant tendrils of its first love upon you and wooing you to tears and prayers, is very well to talk of ; but clearly, my dear madam, your making this suggestion, and intimating that .there is any happiness in purity and affection, or any brighter light in a child's eyes than in a wax doll's eyes ;-proves that if you are among "our best people " you have been there a long time, and are, to say the least, very old fashioned. "But to be old and childless," did you say?"To have no immortal record of your life's work, the mind you have formed, the soul you have trained, the flower of Heaven you have watched and tended in your own garden; no blessed companionship of inseparable love for Time and Eternity?" "Nonsense, woman! You, whoever you are, thrusting you invisible presence into my meditations, do you presume to preach to " our'best people?"Have you the audacity to indulge in cant to them about maternity being a privse as well as a duty ; or being in fact anything but a miserable mistake to be confined principally to the lower classes? page: 200-201[View Page 200-201] 200 CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. If one want a daughter; if one consider the society of the young essential to happiness; in short, if one have any inclination, such as you, romantic woman, would call the in- finite yearning of holy motherhood, why, thenfit is quite allow- able among our best families to adopt some one. No one had a higher appreciation of what is comme il faut than Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown. Consequently Mrs. L. Morti- mer Brown had an adopted daughter. And herein lay the secret of Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown's discomfort; for according to her mortified, yet nevertheless genteel (for Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown could never be any- thing but genteeD convictions, the young person designated as Olive Brown, was the most waywaid, unmanageable, in- comprehensible creature in existence. That a thing was indorsed by " our best people," so far from being a recommendation to Olive Brown, seemed rather to place the affair at a decided disadvantage. That it was coventional and in perfect accordance with the accepted code, to preserve a cheerful dignity and amiable reserve, seemed to decide Olive Brown upon being as spas- modically melancholy and confiding as possible. That it was not au fait to exhibit a superabundance of enthusiasm, appeared to be a convincing argument to Olive Brown that she should be as demonstrative as possible; consequently the genteel agonies that Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown endured, on account of this troublesome young per- son, are not to be described within the limits of this volume. The redeeming feature of the case was found in the fact that Olive Brown, not being Mrs. L. iMortimer's own daughter, had a chance of inheriting disagreeable propensi- ties from those not in the least related to Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown. Sequence: It must have been from her father that Olive Brown inherited her entire propensities, since he was not related to Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown except by marriage.' Had Olive been an own daughter, Mrs. L. Mortimer's ex- CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. 201 istende would have been intolerable. Yet that lady's own daughter would have been a different creature from Olive. At least Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown was very sure of it, and ! we are equally sure of it. For when did a wild, luxuriant, fragrant, extravagant sweet-briar-bush ever spring from the puny root of a gen- teel pansy? "I thought I would have a little company next Tuesday evening, L. Mortimer," said Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown, for how could the genteel creature ever address that fashionable appendage, a husband, by so commonplace a name as Brown? It was not to be thought of. Mr. Brown was always L. Mortimer, and Mrs. Brown was Mrs. L. Mortimer. Anything so vulgar as Brown was not to be mentioned without some redeeming feature; something to distinguish it fromthe plebeian Browns, who live, move, and have their being outside of the charmed circle, " our best people." "Well, my dear, as you please," returned L. Mortimer, regarding his wife with just that amount of genteel prefer- ence that betokens a dozen years or so of married life. Nothing extravagant, nothing demonstrative, nothing ap- proximating to an uncomfortable intensity of feeling, you understand; but merely a cool, calm, complacent pref- erence, as if to say, "I will foot the bills, madam. Pray have things as will make you most comfortable. We are past having any enjoyment outside of money and 'our best people.' Malting things pleasant for ourselves and others in our set is the summum bonum of existence. If we ever thought love or endearments constituted happiness, we were younger then than now, and passed that stage years ago. So it came about that Mr. and Mrs. L. 'Mortimer Brown were at home on a certain Tuesday evening; and various others were not at home on that Tuesday evening, but spending it at L. Mortimer Brown's. 9* page: 202-203[View Page 202-203] 202 CONCERNING OUR BEST IECIIE. Among the number were the Kents, the Brainards, and Dr. Rashton and lady. There were the usual number of young ladies perfectly overcome by meeting each other, yet really looking as if they were never so much excited by any meeting as the meeting of their dress waists; the pressing contingencies of which had almost rent them in twain, and until they re- sembled nothing so much as amiable wasps, with very in- geniously colored masks of cosmetics, that by gaslight were unexceptionable. Then there were the dowagers addicted to tender melan- choly, and, a la Mrs. Micawher, a ravishing "air of genteel languor." The married flirts of both sexes, and various other clashses and individuals. "Isn't Olive rather young to be attracting so much atten- tion?" asked L. Mortimer Brown of his wife, as he noticed the young lady carrying on an animated conversation with three or four admirers. "If she were my own daughter, L. Mortimer," returned Mrs. L. Mortimer, with an air of endeavoring to conceal the ravages of a consuming care, "I should keep her out of so- ciety for a year or two yet; but I am convinced that we shall never take any comfort with her, therefore it is best she were married and out of the way." L. Mortimer regarded Mrs. L. Mortimer with his habitual expression of genteel preference, and then strode away from her with that well-bred air of finding nothing to keep him tied to his wife, that is altogether a la mode. "Do you know," said Olive, a few moments afterwards, as she went promenading, with Oswald Kent, "that I always feel when with you a kind of vague remembrance, as if I had met you sometime, ages ago?" "I too have the same feeling," returned Oswald, "and can only account for it upon the theory that bur souls had an existence prior to the present one, in which we lived, oved, etc." CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. 203 "Fie! Mr. Kent, you are poking fun at me. I ipeak seriously. I do feel as if we were old, old friends." "I trust we are very good friends," rejoined Oswald, a trifle tenderly. "Yes," replied Olive, "but you don't understand me. Everything you do seems rather a remembrance than any- thing new." "There are souls, I think," returned Oswald, "whose every manifestation seems rather a recognition than a reve- lation." "Yes, and yet that isn't what I mean. I mean simply that I must have had a previous acquaintance with you even in this material. world of ours," said Olive; smiling and flushing. "Have you a strawherry mark on your left arm?" asked Oswald, with dramatic burlesque. "No," returned Olive, laughing, "nor on my right arm either. You can't identify me by strawherry marks. Yet I feel certain I knew you at some time way back in my desolate childhood." It was a peculiarity of Olive Brown's, as it is of all genius such as hers, to make rapid transitions from hilarity to mel- ancholy, so that she frequently began a sentence with the greatest seeming exhilaration of spirits to end it in a gloom profound as inexplicable. "Was your childhood very desolate?" asked Oswald, sym- pathetically. y "Oh, very desolate. My father was a wicked, cruel man, who stole me away from my mother, and she went deranged with grief. Sometimes, even now, I fancy I hear her raving as I heard her once,' Oh, Ollie, my little Ollie."- "Ollie!"Oswald echoed, with a start. "Yes, tOlhe was my childhood's name," returned Olive. "If you could only know what a pitiful childhood it was, Mr. Kent." "I am sorry if it was pitiful," rejoined1 Oswald, "yet we page: 204-205[View Page 204-205] 204 CONCERNITG OUR BEST PEOPLE. are told that grief develops genius, and perhaps your un- happy childhood contributed to make you what you are." "Oh I don't know," said Olive, wearily, "It seems some- times as if I had suffered more than there was any necessity for suffering. I remember how my mother screamed and cried when my father attempted to take me, so that he was forced to relinquish his hold, and then she hushed me to sleep in her arms and kissed me and cried over me ; but it. seems that my father, the demon, came and stole me away in my sleep, for the next thing I remember is of being in a close carriage, in the dark, and afterwards of travelling on a steamboat, and after a long, long time of being taken back to a stern old lady that they said was my grandmother. And afterwards they told me my moter was dead--and then Mamma Brown adopted me. Wasn't it sad, Mr. Kent?" "Very sad," returned Oswald dreamily. It was all plain to him now. The vision of the boat, and the little Ollie, and the wretched father came back to him. He had forgotten the form and features of the man, but memory held the child Ollie in immortal childhood. "Do you not remember your father's name?" asked Oswald. "No," she returned, "Mamma Brown does not even know it. When she asked my grandmother what it was, she said, ' Let the name be blotted out forevermore. The man has forfeited all claim to his child. She shall never know his name,' and so I don't even know my own name, Mr. Kent, isn't that sad?" "It is very, very sad, yet I do not wonder now that we have never seemed strangers to each other. We have met before, my little Ollie." And then he recalled the memory, and Olive Brown laughed and wept by turns, and declared that she remembered it all distinctly, and Oswald promised to show her the lock of her hair that he was sure must be somewhere among his private papers, even yet. There is no knowing how long they might have talked, or CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. 205 how happy they might have been, had not Oswald been en- gaged to waltz with a Miss HErgrave--"A doll faced non- entity," Olive decided, as she watched the young lady's movements, " but then I suppose of course he will marry her. She is pretty and wealthy. I am poor. I have no pride of birth to boast-no money, no beauty, nor anything but orphanhood. Oh, if I had died when my mother' did- If I only could have died then!"Olive Brown sat plunged in profoundest melancholy for a few moments, and then de- termined, as she said to herself, " to hide the pain and wear a mask of smiles!" "*Miss Brown is an original young lady," remarked Dr. Rashton to Bernice, in a conversation, that had somehow come about between them, and which was at times slightly, very slightly assisted by Mrs. Rashton, whose chief enjoy- ment seemed to be in refraining from mental exertion. "Yes," returned Bernice, "she is very original. She seems to have a great disdain for conventionality and a firm determination to act according to the dictates of her own inclination. She is Impulse personified." "And yet she is very mature, sometimes. I am not sure whether this impulsiveness of hers is thte result of her pe- culiar training or an inherent quality that no amount of ex- traneous pressure can subdue," returned Dr. Rashton, look- ing a moment at Bernice, and then letting his eye fall upon his wife as if she were a very well meaning apple dump- ling that was not at all in his way, but rather a good thing in the present instance. "Her training, II should think, would have a tendency to quell rather than develop impulsiveness. I should think Mrs. Brown's code would subdue demonstrativeness, if anything could," rejoined Bernice. "Pardon me if I differ from you," returned Dr. Rashton. "That very system of straight-laced proprietyis of all others most calculated to foster extravagance." "A certain amount of liberty, a certain latitude, I may page: 206-207[View Page 206-207] 206 CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. say, is necessary to a young person. A current that has full scope scarcely ever gets beyond a certain impetus; but dam up the waters, allow them no freedom, and they gather strength by being pent up, until, when they do escape, their confines and burst out, they sweep everything before them." "See those curls Mrs. Camdell has on, Robert! Aren't they splendid?" asked Mrs. Rashton, at this juncture, dis- playing a truly conjugal indifference to her husband's pre- vious conversation. "Oh, I suppose so," returned Dr. Rashton, the metaphy- sical expression of his countenance changing to one of posi- tive disgust. "Mrs. Camdell and her husband are just married;" ex- plained Mrs. Rashton to Bernice, with an air of conveying a very important, as well as very entertaining piece of in- formation. "Indeed," returned Bernice, accepting Mrs. Rashton's re- mark as one would accept the gift of a brass button from a child, smiling amiably upon the motive, yet despising the gift. "Yes," resumed Dr. Rashton, as if desirous of taking up the broken thread of conversation that M[rs. Rashton had entangled in Mrs. Camdell's curls. (' It has almost become a proverb that ministers' children are worse than any other; and the reason, I think, may be ascribed solely to their being so strictly reared and having religion so crammed and forced into them, that so soon as they have any liberty it is a new thing to them, and they scarcely know how to use it. Never having had any freedom of choice, or any experience that left them entirely dependent upon self-control, they have learned none, and plunge into all manner of excesses by way of testing the extent of their new, strange liberty. Miss' Brown's case is somewhat similar. She does not require re- straint so much as direction of her faculties. She is intensely active, and must be employed and interested. To give her feelings no outlet is to make her feed, as it were, upon her own heart, and render her morbid and extravagant."' CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. 207 "I believe your reasoning is correct," returned Bernice, "though I had never so regarded the matter. We are very liable, I think, to overlook what ought, after all, to be mainly considered, the precise method adapted to the mind we wish to influence." "Yes"--Dr. Rashton was beginning, as if lie were becom- ing interested, when lirs. Rashton, evidently considering it her turn to say something, and never having quite lost sight of Mrs. Camdell's curls, clutched Bernice's sleeve and said: "That Camdell amounts to just nothing at all. He married that little white-faced thing without the least idea how he was going to take care of her; and she is always talking of the 'silvah' she got for bridal presents, and what her trousseau cost, and everything of that kind. She is a per- fect little ninny. Her husband is a little ' one-horse' edi- tor, and so they get tickets for nothing for the opera and theatre, and put on as much style as if they were some- body; but ain't those curls of hers just perfectly splendid?" Bernice politely acquiesced, and Dr. Bashton sneeringly remarked: "Mrs. Rashton is kind to furnish you with par- ticulars of the Camdells. Did you contemplate writing a biography of them, that their history should interest you so?" Mrs. Rashton laughed with a vague idea that her husband was saying something funny, though it was evident that she was not quite clear concerning its precise meaning, as was indicated by her remark to Bernice: "Doctor don't like those Camdells, and is always making fun of them." "They belong to that class of persons who never suspect that they are making themselves ridiculous," said the gen- tleman, with a glance that might have 'expressed a double entendre at madam's expense. That lady, however, replied, "That's so," with a com- placency that was egotism's own child. Bernice smiled, then dropped her eyes, lest she should seem to understand more than was exactly polite to do. page: 208-209[View Page 208-209] 208 CONCERNING OTUR BEST PEOPLE. "And ave you noticed how those Camdells always think they mut be saying something, whether or not anybody wants to hear them?" asked Rashton of his wife, with a I sidelong gance at Bernice, as if to note the effect upon her. "Yes! Gnat did I care about how much silver she had i ' silvah ' as she called it?" interrogated Mrs. Rashton, with, a comfortable consciousness of sustaining her share of the conversation. "Of course you didn't take any interest in what she was saying. How stupid to force commonplace personalities upon one, when one might be talking of something inter- esting," was the reply. "That's so!" acquiesced Mrs. Rashton, who, not being at all clear concerning the term 'personalities,' as used in con- nection with Mrs. Camdell's silver, seemed to derive an im- mense amount of satisfaction from the exclamation, "That's so," when she was at a loss for an idea. "' Oh wad some power the giftie gie us,'" quoted Dr. Rashton, looking at Mrs. Camdell as if he had special reference to her. "That's so!" again exclaimed Mrs. Rashton, while Bernice looked intently in another direction to avoid smiling. "I believe it is your turn to say something, Miss Kent," said Dr. Rashton, lightly, "Pray let us have it." "I should be stupid indeed not to have profited by the example of the unhappy Mrs. Camdell, especially after your comments," returned Bernice. "How so?" he queried. "Why, if I should not heed the warning she has been to us all, not to make remarks without duly considering the amount of interest they may contain for our listeners." "You are cruel, Miss Kent,") said. Rashton, a to take so unfair an advantage'of a ' burst of confidence' on my part. Do you suppose I would have commented on the stupidity CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. 209 of another's remark, to you, if I had esteemed yours stupid?" "I am not sufficiently acquainted to judge exactly what you would do. Mrs. Rashton, who knows you more intima- tely, can perhaps tell whether you ever comment on anoth- er's stupidity to one whom you place in the same category." Bernice looked mischievously at Dr. Rashton as she gave this home-thrust. He colored, laughed, and said,." Vanquished, 'Miss Kent! A truce." "What is it you're laughing at?" asked Mrs. Rashton, who was evidently desirous of an opening to say "That's so." "I was telling Dr. Rashton that I was going to ask you whether he ever said to a person whom he considered stupid, that someboby else was stupid." "Do I, Lelia?" he asked, with a smile. "No, he never does," she returned. "If he thought you was stupid he would never tell you that any one else was." "There!" said Rashiton, triumphantly, "Now shall I tell you any one is stupid, in order to convince you that I do not so regardyou?" "'It is not necessary," rejoined Bernice. "No, there are facts that it is needless to put in words! And I suppose in case you should meet a thoroughly stupid person, you would know it without being so informed, eh?" "Perhaps! At any rate, I think I should not be any wiser or more comfortable, for your telling me so. One always shrinks from a critic, be he ever so just." "'Oh wad some power the giftie gie us, To see ourselves as others see us.'"' quoted Rashton, this time looking steadily at Bernice. "How cruelly the pleasant egotism of half the world would be shattered, and how many who are complacent and happy, would be wretched with a knowledge of their own insignificance," she replied. - page: 210-211[View Page 210-211] rVu CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. "No allusions to present company, of course, Miss Kent?" asked Rashton, glancing towards his wife, as if to force a confession from Bernice. "Do you mean to ask whether I allude to yourself?" queried Bernice. "Certainly! Who else is there? I was sure you could never mean MZrs. Rashton," he returned, ironically. "Your perception is so remarkably acute, that I shall allow you to judge for yourself, whether I referred to you when I spoke of the cruelty of allowing some persons to see themselves as others see them. There are very few who would find it pleasant." ' "Among which favored few, allow me ,to say, I think might be found Miss Bernice Kent," said Rashton, gallantly. "Of course I cannot prevent your saying so, yet perhaps I value myself more highly than one would imagine who could deem me susceptible to flattery." "You evidently do value yourself very highly," said Rash- ton, making a pause long enough for Bernice to flush, and feel that she had been appearing very egotistical; "yet, even your opinion of yourself would be exalted could you see yourself as others see you." "Thank you! By way of digression, will you allow me to ask why it is that gentlemen imagine no conversation with a lady complete unless they compliment her at every opportunity." "I will certainly allow you the privilege of asking that, if you will permit the query why a gentleman may not be candid occasionally without being accused of flattery 9" "Simply because we live in so degenerate an age, that one never expects to find anything so precious as candor in polite society." "Are you an advocate for this odious candor, that is always destroying one's comfortable egotisms and intruding itself upon one's complacency with some boorish fact that is better kept out of sight. Do you not think that we I CONOCEUNG OUR BEST. PEOPLE. 2" should make those about us as comfortable as possible? tAnd do not the courtesies and amenities of life contribute largely to our enjoyment?" "Certainly they do,! I should be very far from depre- ciating them. And though I refuse to accept the amiable little make-believes of society as genuine, when I know they are not, I enjoy them very much," rejoined Bernice. "Then you can enjoy that which is not genuine? You can be pleased with hypocrisy-eh?" "Allow me to illustrate my meaning," said Bernice. "Certainly! I shall be highly favored," returned Rash- ton." "' When you attend the opera, and see the prima donnas wring their hands, and sob out -the very perfection of agonized melody, you know that the emotion is feigned, the passion counterfeited, the tragedy very good acting, and you are much more entertained than if the sorrow were real, and the pain genuine. You'know that the landscapes, and blue waters, and moon-brightened skies in the play are only make-believes, coarse paintings, that by daylight would be abominable. You know that the love-inspired maiden, whose melody of passion and despair invests her with poetic charms, is no maiden as she seems, but a coarse prima donna of forty, who, by daylight, is disgustingly vulgar. And when she stretches her white hands heaven- ward, and faints over the body of her dead lover, you krow that it is only a stage-trick. Yet, because it is all art, does your love of the dramatic refuse to be gratified? Do you say, 'I will never go to the opera, because I know the tragedies are not real, and the scenic effects are very coarse when seen by daylight?'" "No, because the music and the dramatic talent tend to gratify, as well as cultivate aesthetic tastes," returned Rashton: "So in society," rejoined Bernice, "There is really no deception. Every one understands just what the amenities page: 212-213[View Page 212-213] 212 CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. and amiable make-believes mean, just as readily as one understands a dramatic performance. Our love of the graceful and amiable is gratified and cultivated by these agreeable pretences, that are just so much better than nothing. It would be quite as silly, I think, to complain of the painted landscapes and prima donnas at the opera, as to complain of society's hypocrisy, and affect to despise society's efforts to make us pass the time pleasantly. We should be exacting, were we to ask the polite world to mean all it says when it is so agreeable. Since it cannot give us, upon so short an acquaintance, such an amount of genuine feeling, it is very amiable to manufacture agreeable pre- tences for our benefit." "Then, Miss Kent, since you express yourself as so very lenient to the customs of society, why do you object even to what you term flattery?" queried Rashton, with a smile. "Simply, because to flatter is to premise that one likes flattery, and as a sequence is vain. Therefore, to flatter one directly, is, as a general thing, equivalent to declaring a belief that one cannot be so well entertained by any other kind of conversation." "Then your theory is, that none ever flatters without veiled contempt p' "No, there are neophytes who do not know that it is premising one to be exceedingly vain when they flatter him. They have an innocent desire to please, and do not consider that none but the vainest person would be gratified by such remarks. To such I grant absolution. It is when a person of discrimination flatters me that I feel annoyed and humil- iated." "If I were a person of discrimination, M-iss Kent, I should not only disclaim ever having flattered you, but should pledge myself never to do so," returned Dr. Rash- ton, gallantly. "Pray then consider yourself a person of discrimination,' said Bernice, smiling. CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. 213 "-I should certainly consider myself anything you sug- gested, Miss Kent, if by that means I might be assured of never incurring your displeasure." "Consider yourself excused, then, from any more appeals to my vanity," rejoined Bernice. Didn't suppose you had any," returned Rashton. "Ah," said Bernice, with mischievous irony, "you must have been judging me by yourself. In that case I am not surprised at your supposing I hadn't any." "A truce, Miss Kent! I cry enough," laughed Rashton, as Mrs. Rashton pulled Bernice's sleeve by way of attracting her attention to the query, if she didn't think somebody's dress across the room was "just splendid." Bernice acquiesced; and while Mrs. Rashton was explain- ing what it cost and who the wearer was, Dr. Rashton went promenading with Olive Brown, and Mrs. L. Mortimer Browa presented Mr. Bainbridge to Miss Kent, and Mrs. Rashton found the opportunity to say-"That's so," to Mrs. L. Mortimer's assertion that a flirtation seemed to be in- evitable between Dr. Rashton and her daughter, since the Doctor seemed of late to have taken such a fancy to Olive. Behold, oh ye sons and daughters of simplicity, the wis- dom and warning contained in Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown's remark. There was a revelation to Bernice Kent, an ami- able young person, whose innocence Mrs. L. Mortimer evi- dently compassionated, that Dr. Rashton could, would and did flirt, and "Prenez garde, Miss Kent," could not have been more expressive. There was also a genteel boast, to any outsiders who might be eavesdropping the party, to the effect that Miss Olive Brown was a very captivating young person, and, as a natural sequence, had fascinated Dr. Rashton. In addition, there was a caveat to Mrs. Rashton, saying, as plainly as hidden meaning can say anything, "Take care of your husband, woman. Can't you see that he is being captivated? I don't want to be bothered looking after him page: 214-215[View Page 214-215] 214 CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. and Olive. Watch them yourself! You have nothing else to do." So you see, sons and daughters aforementioned, how "our best people" manage to crowd two or three meanings into one sentence, and, in an apparently trivial remark, say all that they desire. No one understood this more perfectly than Mrs. L. Mor- timer Brown. She knew when and where and how to say the thing that was most effective, while no one would ever suspect her of having touched a vital spot, save by the merest accident of which she herself was utterly uncon- scions. Having affected Bernice so that she devoted herself to Mr. Bainbridge with astonishing animation; having put Mrs. Rashton on the qui vive so that her eyes never left her husband for the remainder of the evening; and having im- pressed the lookers-on with a sense of her own and her daughter Olive's superiority, Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown's mission in that direction was accomplished. Meantime Olive Brown was hanging on Dr. Rashton's arm, seemingly absorbed in what he was saying. - Mrs. L. Mortimer endured this state of things until she could find an opportunity to say, with apparent carelessness and ingenuousness, "You are positively cruel, Doctor, to make yourself so entertaining to innocent girls who don't know how deceitful married men are." "And who are just as happy not to know," chimed in Olive, with something like impatience at what she consid- ered a thrust at herself. "Positively cruel," Mrs. L. Mortimer went on, amiably) ignoring Olive's remark. "There's poor Miss Kent per- fectly inconsolable for your loss. Really, you have been carrying on so desperate a flirtation with her that I tremble for the consequences." Olive hung her head and colored with annoyance. Dr. Rashton had been flirting with Miss Kent, then? What did ^ CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. 215 they call flirting? Telling Miss Kent, perhaps, that she was a genius, but needed training: Dr. Rashton's training, per- haps? Had he been vowing friendship, pure and exalted and imperishable to Miss Kent, as he ha4. been vowing it to her? "Your benevolence does you honor, my dear madam, yet you would cease to compassionate the ladies, on my account, if you would but give them credit for half of the stony- heartedness possessed by yourself. Just think how long I have been endeavoring to ingratiate myself in your esteem, and how poorly I have succeeded, when you can call me cruel, and accuse me of flirting. You drive me to desperation, Mrs. Brown. What have I left to live for?" "Hypocrite!" exclaimed Mrs. L. Mortimer, with an air of being complimentary in her use of the word, as she smiled and glided away with her own inimitable grace. "I hate her!" said Olive, vehemently, smarting under the remark that Mrs. L. Mortimer intended should do its double duty of flattering Dr. shton and making Olive suspicious of his attentions. "Hate whom, little girl?" asked Dr. Rashton, with a caress- ing tone, that Olive could not but wonder whether he had ever used to Bernice Kent. "Hate, Mamma Brown! She is always interfering with whatever she thinks gives me the least particle of pleasure," returned Olive, with suppressed vehemence. "Well, never mind it! She is gone now!" said Dr. Rash- ton, attempting to soothe her. "But have you been flirting with Bernice Kent? I want to know," asked Olive, with decision. "No, no, little .irl! And if I had been, I'm not flirting with you. How often have I told you, that you are my little sister, my child, if you will-anything, everything sacred and pure-my own little girl, whose affection nobody must take away from me. I mAy flirt with other women. I may say agreeable things to even Mamma Brown, yet I'm page: 216-217[View Page 216-217] 216 CONCERNING OUR BEST!PEOPLE. not inl earnest with them, as I am with you, and you must have confidence in me. You must tell me all, everything you know, and you must understand that though I prove false to all the rest of the world, to you I shall be true; and though I am hypocritical in my professions of regard for all the rest of the world, I am sincere to you." "Bult how am I to know this?"Olive broke out, passionately. "I tell you I want a friend. Somebody I can believe in, and confide in unreservedly. How are other people to know that you do not mean what you say to them, and how am I to know that you do mean what you say to me?" "I have no other proof to offer than my word, Olive! If you cast off my friendship for this reason, you will cast off the truest friend you have ever had." "Oh, I know it! I mean I want to know it'! I want to believe you the truest friend I have ever had. I should be so lonely without your friendship. I have been so much !" happier since I have known you. I could not live without some one to confide in, who understands me. You are so much older and wiser than I am! You seem to know just B how I feel, and you. seem to sympathize with me so. Tell me truly, Dr. Rashton, as you hope for mercy, are you trifling with me?" Dr. Rashton had drawn Olive into the conservatory, and as they stood a moment where they were screened from : observation, he lifted his right hand to heaven, and said:' "As God hears me, Olive, I am not trifling with you. Andi as I hope for mercy, I swear to you, that I will be to you friend, brother, father; will sustain any pure and holy and "! sacred relationship that you desire. Are you satisfied, Olive, my own little girl?" "I am satisfied," she returned, laying her hand in his, and uplifting a face pure and trusting enough to have almost shamed the Prince of Darkness, had he meditated wrong against it. "I shall never doubt you any more, Dr. Rashton, dear Dr. Rashton." . CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. 217 "Bless you, Olive, my own little girl. I am so much happier for the assurance," returned Rashton. "Why do you care for my friendship, Dr. Rashton?" asked Olive, almost abruptly, after a pause. "I have often told you, Olive," said Rashton, in a sub- dued tone, "that the thought of you is like a prayer in my heart. Your affection makes me a happier and a better man. Your happiness is my study, always." "You are so generous, so kind to me," said Olive, with vehement tears in her eyes, " and indeed I do love you as I should love a brother, or a father, or somebody as near and dear to me as if I had never lived without them, and never could live without them. I should die if I didn't'have you to tell my troubles to. I should never get on with my studies if you did'nt help me. I should have no courage to live if I didn't feel that you were caring for me and watching over me, and understanding when I was miserable, and knowing how to make me glad and happy by letting me feel that I am not all alone in the world, with no real. father and mother, and no human being to truly care for me." "My dear little Olive, my own little girl, you will never distress me by feeling again as if you had no one in the world to care for you, will you? Promise me that you will not!"Rashton caught the girl's hand in his own, and held it until she answered, "I will try not to; but there are times when I can't help thinking that when my own father forsook me, I have no right to ask any one else to love me, and then I get very miserable." "You need not ask any one else to love you. You need not ask me to love you. I will love you anyhow. You need not feel that you have no father and mother. I will be both to you. I will love you for both; and, promise me, Olive, that you will trust me, and love me in return." "I promise. Oh, you know I promise. You know I have only your friendship in all the wide, wide, wretched world," said Olive. 10 page: 218-219[View Page 218-219] 218 CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. "You must not say wretched world. You make me mis a erable by being unhappy. You shall be happy. I have said it, and I have never been vanquished but once," returned Rashton, with an emphasis peculiarly his own. "When wore you ever vanquished, and how?" asked i Olive, anxiously. "It is a long story. I will tell it to you some other time. Come! That is a waltz the band is playing. I engage your ? company. And remember, you are never to waltz with ! any one but me, without my permission." , ' They left the conservatory, and in a moment more werel ' among the dancers. "Positively," Miss Brainard laughed, as she tapped Bernice with her tablets. " it is just perfectly killing to S see what a flirtation Dr. Rashton is carrying on with Olive Brown. And she believes it all genuine on his part, ' inno- cent yoting scorpion,' that she is." There were others, who likewise commented upon the Si circumstance, and seemed to consider it an excellent joke. Bernice Kent was not among the number. She did not - understand what amusement there could be in breaking an innocent, trusting heart. Dr. Rashton could not marry Olive Brown. Every. one knew that. Every one must see e that she placed unbounded confidence in him, and spent much time in his society; yet, who, amongst "our best people," striving to wear the Victor wreath in the great social conflict, had any time to consider that any innocent, helpless creature might eventually sit down after some fierce, unequal contest, among the dust and ashes of the E Vanquished? Ah, Olive Brown, there was one heart aching for you, even the heart of Bernice Kent! "' What does ail you, Robert? I never saw you look so?" asked Mrs. Rashton of her husband, as they leaned back in separate corners on opposite sides of the carriage in which they were being driven home. I l @! CONCERNING OUR BEST PEOPLE. 219 "Why, how do I look?" asked Dr. Rashton, rousing him- self as if from bitter reverie. "You look as if there was something on your mind," said Mrs. Rashton, who could reduce all grades of expressed wretchedness, from intensest agony to mere annoyance, to the proposition that the person " looked as if there was something on his mind." "And do I generally look if there was nothing on my mind?" queried Rashton, with a forced, hollow kind of laugh that was a mingling of disgust and defiant pain. "No, but then you look different from what you have looked to-night. Any one' could have told from looking at you that there was something on your mind," returned 5rs. Rashton with an air of complacent discernment. "Well, I am sure I have no objecttion to any one's telling that there is anything on my mind. I never trouble myself as to what persons will think." "That's so," said Mrs. Rashton with what she appeared to think tremendous effect. "What's so?" asked Rashton, not a little irritated by his wife's tone. "That you don't trouble yourself as to what people think," returned the lady with an injured emphasis. "It was very plain to be seen all the evening that you didn't trouble your- self with what people thought of your carrying on with Miss Brown. Everybody could tell that if there was something on your mind, it wasn't trouble as to what people would think of you." ' Rashton looked out of the window in moody silence, as if determined not to be forced into an argument. After one or two more thrusts, however, on the part of my lady Rash- ton, the gentleman became infuriated to the extent ex- pressed in the outhurst, "Confound it! I am tired of this cursed nonsense! I shall do as I please!" "That's right! It does a body good to have a good curs- ing once in a while. It makes a body feel better." The exact meaning intended to be conveyed by Mrs. Rash- page: 220-221[View Page 220-221] 220 CONCERNING OUR .BEST PEOPLE. ton in this sentence has never been elucidated. It is to be presumed, however, that she used it in lieu of "That's so," or something equally effective and expressive of strong ! emotion, Rashton sneered and was silent, while Mrs Rashton was also silent, with an air of refraining from saying all that she might say ; restraining herself' solely from motives of the loftiest magnanimity, such as could be possessed only by one endowed with immense capacities for martyrdom. Meantime Bernice Kent was saying to Olive, "I must go ! now, Olive, but before I go, believe me when I say thaf a new, strange interest for you has crept into my heart to- night, and you must, you must let me be your friend." "Do you mean it, really? Or are you only being agreea- ble?" asked Olive, in her own abrupt way. "I mean it, really. Look in my face: and see how earn- estly I want to be your friend. You never had a truer friend than I will be to you if you -will only let me ; yet whether or not you allow me, I cannot help caring for you." Bernice Kent's eyes filed with tears, and Olive said, "How strange, how very strange, Miss Kent, that you should really care for me! Yet I will believe you. I think I can trust you." "Oh, you must trust me, you must,-more than any one," said Bernice, "Won't you?" "Yes, more than any one except one person," returned. Olive. "And that person?" "Dr. Rashton, my dearest, best, truest earthly friend," returned Olive, solemnly. Bernice Kent kissed the girl good night, and went home saddened. t 221 A SURPRISE. 22 CHAPTER XXXIL A STURPRISE. :i"O of all the world, Bernice, would you guess is in the parlor waiting to see you?" asked Aureola Kent, smiling mischievously upon her sister. 'I can never guess; tell me!" rejoined Bernice. "One of your very particular friends from the country," said Aureola, with playful irony. "One of my particular friends? Nonsense! I have no par- ticular friends from the country. Don't keep me in suspense, but tell me who it is," returned Bernice, a trifle impatient. "Mr. Herschel Bagshaw, he announced himself with most comical air imaginable. Bridget told me that a gen- tlemen wanted to see Miss Kent, so I went in to see him, and of al the green looking specimens"-- Aureola finished the sentence with pantomime; and Bernice laughed outright as she asked, "Well, and what did he say?" "Oh, he got up and came towards me in a mysterious way, as if he were going to tell me some very profound secret that I was on no account to mention." "What did he say?" asked Bernice, who had very little patience with circumlocution. "He didn't say anything at first. He looked at me with a very mysterious expression of countenance, and kept advancing towards me until I said, 'Well sir, I am Miss Kent. Here you any business with me?" He shook his I head again, wrinkled up his forehead and seemed to be suffering from some kind of gloomy agitation that kept him from speaking for a few minutes." "Well, what did he say when he did speak? I know his way! Tell me what he said and not how he looked," urged Bernice. , "He said, ' It is Miss Bernice Kent I want to see.' page: 222-223[View Page 222-223] 222 A SURPRISE. ' Well,' I asked, ' what do you want of her? Perhaps I ; can attend to you just as well. She is engaged.' 'Oh,' said he, 'I'm a married man. Her being engaged won't make no difference. Just tell her to come right along. She knows me. Bagshaw, Herschel Bagshaw is my name."' Aureola paused to laugh with uncontrollable mirth. "Then I suppose you came out to send me in to see His Majesty," returned Bernice, with a disdain*notun- mixed with annoyance. ' , "Yes, and he is waiting for you; so you had better go and dispose of him as soon as possible. It would be too provoking if any callers should find him there; " rejoined ? Aureola, forgetting her amusement in an agony of appre- hension caused by the last reflection. "How do you do, Mr. Bagshaw? This is indeed a sur- prise," said Bernice, as she entered Bagshaw's presence, i loathing the necessity that compelled her to shake hands with him. He had a cold, smooth hand, whose touch was peculiarly disagreeable, and his manner of shaking hands conveyed an impression of gloomy patronage that was odious i in the extreme. "Yes," he said, releasing Bernice's hand, after a prolonged pressure, and looking at her as solemnly as if holding a coroner's inquest over her dead body. "It is a surprise." Here his feelings seemed to overcome him, and he stared at the carpet with a melancholy acknowledgment of having no more to say until wound up, so to speak, by a remark ! from Bernice. "I suppose Mrs. Bagshaw and the children are quite well," said Miss Kent, feeling desirous of getting through with Bagshaw as soon as possible. "c Quite well," returned Bagshaw, with an air of realizing that there was something very terrible in the admission, yet no more than he had nerved: himself to endure. "Is Mrs. Bagshaw in the city?" asked Bernice, with an effort to be as civil as possible under the circumstances. a i A SUBPRISE. 223 , She is," replied Bagshaw, with an expression that plainly said, "And thereby hangs a tale." Bernice waited some moments for him to speak, but seeing no evidence of any such inclination on his part, ventured to inquire, "When does she leave the city?" Bagshaw rose from his seat excitedly, walked to the win- dow, beckoned Bernice to follow him, and pointed to a newly- erected building opposite. "Do you see that?" he asked; his gloom and mystery merged into triumph, and his voice became unsteady with emotion. "Well?" queried Bernice, regarding him with unfeigned astonishment. "We've bought that house, and paid for it, and are going to move into it as soon as we can get in! Speculation done it! Speculation has made me a rich man! There! What do you think of that?" "I am surprised, of course! Who wouldn't be?" rejoined Bernice, with a smile. "We'll be neighbors to you," said Bagshaw, with cheerful patronage, as if he expected Bernice to derive an immense amount of satisfaction from that feature of the case. "Yes. I shall call so soon as you get fairly settled;" re- turned the young lady, thinking, of course, that Bagshaw's visit was about to terminate, as he had imparted the im- portant information of his rise in the world. Bagshaw, however, having passed the Rubicon of the first confidence, was disposed to expatiate on the means by which he had acquired his wealth. "Speculation done it," he reiterated, as if no one could deny that there was something very mysterious about that. "I'll tell you just how it all came about, Miss Kent," he exclaimed, at length, rousing Bernice from a reverie into which she was falling coicerning Dr. Rashton and Olive Brown. "' Yes, yes, pray go on!" she said, in a tone that might have been interpreted, "Yes, yes, pray go home!" , page: 224-225[View Page 224-225] 224 A SURPRISE. Bagshaw, however, not being endowed with the keenest of human perceptions, recognized nothing in Bernice's words save an overpowering interest in the precise method by ,which he had acquired wealth. This belief, added to an in- tense desire to talk the affair over and patronize some one on account of it, made Bagshaw exceedingly loquacious, so that Bernice, finding it unnecessary to wind him up, as usual, with a question every other minute, leaned back in her chair to resume her reverie concerning Olive Brown and DI t Rashton. The morning sunshine struggled dimly through the heavy i window-curtains, into the Kent parlor; and in the subdued light of the room phantoms trooped unrestrained. Bagshaw's account of how he first came to think of specu- lation, and who opposed and who favored -him, and who E joined him in his enterprise, and who refused to join, and i who lost money and who made money by the transaction, i became to Bernice Kent a confused murmur that strangely enough set itself to Dr. Rashton's voice, and made the Kent i parlor Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown's parlor, and brought up ( Mrs. Rashton and Mrs. Camdell and all of them. The dancing had begun, and there was Dr. Rashton whirl- ing Olive Brown through a waltz. The L. Mortimer Brown establishment faded. The pic- tures and ornaments dissolved in thin air, and there were only two figures perceptible; the eager, flushed face and girlish form of Olive Brown, and the pale, resolute features of Dr. Rashton. Now he bends over and says something to her. Some- thing that, be it ever so commonplace, has yet in it an attri- bute of endearment. The giri smiles, lifts her childlike eyes to his face, and replies with an expression of perfect-rest and content. There is no vestige of passion on her pure face. No expression that might not be worn by the Madonna her- self; yet, oh! the unutterable confidence she places in that X man. Row infinitely she trusts him! How supremely con- tented she is in that faith! A SURPRISE. 225 Now the dancing has ceased. He leads her to a seat. He sits beside her, and the stern face melts into tenderness with the beams of herchildlike eyes. How pure, how trusting, how happy she is! Ah! the phantoms keep coming, and now Bernice Kent sees the watchful, anxious eyes of Mrs. Rashton, as they turn their hot glare upon the unconscious pair who seem to have neither eyes nor ears for any but each other. Ah, this phantom, this jealous wife, what a fierce pain burns in her heart, and writes itself in characters of flame in her eyes and on her features. She loves that man. He is her husband. He reaches her heart to the inmost, and wrings it to the uttermost, as he listens with that air of tender protection to the girl Olive Brown. Oh, the love and agony of this phantom, the neglected wife! - And the other, the girl Olive, how she trusts him! How unhesitatingly she gives him the first fruits of her heart! The whole world could not make her doubt him! Strange, how strange the magnitude of that man's power; the inexplicable mystery of his influence! Bernice Kent, even Bernice Kent, who is only a spectator, thinks of him and shivers. Shivers with a long, shuddering sigh that dis- perses the phantoms and leaves her sitting opposite Bag- shaw, who is rising to take his leave with the final and satis- factory exclamation, "Speculation done it!" Bernice smiles, says "Yes," with an effort to look appre- ciative, and bids Bagshaw "good morning," with a seise of relief, even though she has heard scarcely a word of his discourse on success and its causes and effects. Now that he has gone she goes back to her room, locks the door and sits down to finish her reverie, to invoke the phantoms again and puzzle herself with the query what to do with them. The phantom of the girl, Olive Brown, seemed to plead with her, saying, "See how pure I am! See how desolate I am. See how I confide in this man. Can you do anything page: 226-227[View Page 226-227] 226 A -SURPRISE. for me? Can you have patience to watch until I reach the very edge of the precipice? Can you spring to my relief at ! the precise moment when I need you? and, oh, can you a save me?" So it pleaded, all unconscious of its pleading. So it clung and fastened- itself upon the heart of Bernice Kent until she cried out in the solitude and silence, "God of mercy, make me the instrument in Thy hands of saving this child, this motherless Olive Brown!" Close, close on the footsteps of the girl-phantom, came ;: the other. Always together! Were they never to be sepa- rated? Oh the stern pallor of that resolute face so close to i i Olive Brown. And yet it looked better beside her than away g from her. It was softer, more compassionate. Even the ?H sneer it habitually wore melted into a, smile, ineffably sad yet sublime, with something like forgiveness, when Olive Brown's eyes shone upon it. Was it simply a reflection of the girl's own pure soul that illuminated the man's face, or was his good angel wooed and strengthened by the holy i childlike trust and affection? ! Bernice Kent did not know. She covered her face with - : her hands, " and, out of the great darkness that enveloped : her, longed for another light than the light of day," to guide if her soul out of the labyrinth of perplexity through which it groped. . :n The girl-phaintom had ceased to plead. The other was pleading, "See how I have suffered. Read in my face the tragedy I have lived, and by which I have grown embittered. Read the language of my habitual scorn, the solution of my cynicism, and pity me. Pity me, Bernice Kent, and do not seek to estrange from me Olive Brown. You see how she trusts me. I am happier because of that trust. It appeals to all that is holiest and most tender in my nature. Spare it unto me. See how utterly alone I am. Notwithstanding my coldness and seeming indifference I suffer, for my heart is starved. The woman I call wife does not realize my -"UN BALLO IN MASCHEA." 227 dream of womanhood. I am alone. The crse of soul-isola- tion is upon me. c"This girl, this pure, childlike Olive Brown, drops the splendor of her saintly eyes into the great void of my life, and the darkness smiles with her presence. Look at me and see that I am a better and purer man because of her affec- tion, and oh, pity me. Pity me! If I seem to sneer, if I seem to be cold and cruel, it is because I have suffered so. 5 wrap myself in this prouid stoicism because fate has been most unkind, most cruel. The thing to,be considered is that I have suffered. Suffered, Bernice Kent! Think of tat, and pity me." So the phantom pleaded with her; at least thus she inter- preted the wordless eloquence of its gestures and expres- sions. And with this interpretation was born a compassion that deepened and widened through all the length and breadth of the soul of Bernice Kent, until, for the time, every other emotion was smothered. CHAPTER XXXIII. G ^ -aA "UN BALLO IN MASCHER. I RiRE you going out this evening, Bernice?" asked , ', Oswald Kent, as he, found-his sister walking the s^ -parlor with nervous, anxious paces, as if impatiently expecting some one. "Yes, I am going to the opera with the Rashtons. Mrs. Rashton sent me a very pressing invitation to accompany them. I cannot imagine why she has taken so great a fancy to me.") "I can," returned Oswald, vexatiously, "but do sit down; you prance up and down the room fearfully! What ails you?" page: 228-229[View Page 228-229] 228 "UN BALLO IN MASCHERA." "' Nothing, only I'm a little nervous," said Bernice, sinking into a chair and beginning to regard Oswald somewhat curi- ously. "But you say you know why Mrs. Rashton has taken such a fancy to me. Why is it, pray?" "She is jealous of Olive Brown. If she invites you to ac- company them to the opera it is not probable that Dr. Rash- ton will invite Olive Brown at the same time, as he could not, very conveniently, escort more than two ladies at once. Mrs. Rashton does not care for you, but she is jealous of Olive Brown, and she has reason to be, too. I don't see what has become of everybody's eyes and ears that some- body don't notice the flirtation between Dr. Rashton and Olive, and put a stop to it. If she were a sister of mine I'd let Rashton know, very soon, that it is: time for him to let her alone. The scoundrel! NWhat right has he to trifle with her? Somebody ought to blow his brains out V" Bernice looked up with astonishment. Oswald was very much excited, and commenced walking the floor with rapid strides of impatience and disgust. "Why, Oswald!" she said, " you asked me a moment ago what ailed me I What ails you?" "I want to know what right a married man, a regular man of the world, a blase scoundrel like Eashton, has to trifle i with her?" demanded Oswald, fiercely, as if Bernice were the aggressive party. "How do you know he is trifling with her?" queried Ber- nice. "How do I know? How do I know anything? Doesn't he spend half of his time with her? Doesn't he take her to the opera and theatre? Doesn't he take every occasion to flatter and cajole and caressingly patronize her? Didn't she refuse to waltz with me because she had promised Dr. Rashton never to waltz with any one but him? Isn't his word law and gospel with her? Doesn't he send her books and music, and insist that she shall sing -this and learn the other, and read something else, and be molded as wills; and for what? For what, I say!" "UN BAILJO IN MASCHERA." * 229 Oswald glared at Bernice as if he did not recognize his sister, but saw only a demon who was luring him to destruc- tion. t " - don't know, I'm sure," returned Bernice, regarding her brother with a mixture of awe and'amazement. "Bah-! Don't talk as if you were born yesterday, and did'nt know anything about ,the would you had come into. I tell you the man is a villain. He is ensnaring that girl day by day, and after awhile she will be completely in his power. She is even now. Sihe has been cool to me for a week past, because I told her that I believed him to be ut- terly devoid of principle. Oh what a rage my lady was in! How her eyes flashed and her words shot out as she defended him. I never saw any one so excited as she was. Nobody could know as she knew. She didn't suppose any body could understand it. "She did not ask anybody to understand it. But he was her friend, her very nearest and dearest friend on earth, and she should be a coward and a traitor if she refused to defend him against any and every aspersion. And them she wound up -bychursting into tears and saying, I have looked upon you as a friend, and I have not deserved to be so wounded by you?' Wounded? Was there ever anything so absurd? As if I could not say that I believed Rashton to be a scoundrel without wounding her. Was there ever anything so absurd, I say?" - Oswald Kent paused in front of his sister, and looked as unlike the gay, careless, accustomed Oswald Kent as could well be imagined. "It was absurd! But if she chooses to be romantic and morbid and silly, why trouble yourself about her? You are not to blame for her foolishness, are you?" rejoined Ber- nice. "No! only she would not be foolish, nor morbid, nor silly if he would let her alone. She is wondrously gifted. She is a genius. She has a deep, true loving, sympathetic heart page: 230-231[View Page 230-231] 230 e "UN BALLO IN MASCHERA" She could make a man unutterably happy ; and I want to - know what right Rashton has to spoil any man's happiness? What right to win all her heart when he can give her nothing in return but a miserable bit of sentimentalism in the shape of platonic love? Bah! I should think she could see it ; but no, she goes on prating of friendship and ' intel- :, lectual sympathies,' and ' the kinship of soul,' and all that stuff that he has taught her and that she repeats parrot-like until she believes it, and falls to pitying anybody that Rashton tells her is too coarse to understand their friend- ship for each other. I tell you, Bernice, hanging is much too good for that man." Oswald paused out of breath, and looked at Bernice as if the whole thing might be influenced by convincing her of the truth and justice of his remarks. The door-bell rang violently and Bernice sprang to her feet. "There! They have come for me," said she; "I must go! Kiss me good-by, Oswald. I will see what I can do to help you. Something must be done! I will try. Have patience, darling." "Why, how sweet you look! Look at her, Robert! Doesn't she look pretty?" exclaimed Mrs. Rashton with childlike ingenuousness, as Bernice seated herself opposite the lady and gentleman. "I can't tell! I can't see very well," returned Dr. Rash- ton, looking very intently out of the carriage-window, as if he experienced a gloomy defiance in regard to a lamp-post in the range of his vision. "You do look just as pretty as you can," said Mrs. Rashton, her girlish face lighted with a contentment that meant obliviousness of Olive Brown. "Thank you," rejoined Bernice. "If you discover any beauty I am sure it is simply a reflection of yourselfthat you see." Mrs. Rashton smiled with an expression of innocent gratification, while her husband sneered, as if to say, "If "UN BALLD IN MASCHERA." 231 you want to scratch- each other's eyes out, as of course all women do, don't refrain on my account. Don't affect amia- bility with a vew to impress me. I can see the bitter pill of satire under every sugar-coated compliment you women force upon each other. Amiability is all a pretext. I under- stand. Don't bore me with your nonsense." Mrs. Rashton failed to read this expression, as she failed with the majority of her husband's expressions, and devoted herself wholly to being agreeable to Bernice. She had a. generous, social warmth of manner, that in certain moods one could find more than compensatory for any lack of intellectual brilliancy. She was young and pretty and loving. There are many men that she could have made supremely happy. She could have controlled the current of some lives; but in the life to which her own was united, she floated merely on the surface, kissed by its foam but reaching never unto the deep caverns of its hidden gems ; comprehending not the impenetrable mists and shadows of its great deep; nor the glory and grandeur of its infinitude; looking never on the wrecks of richly laden barks whose freightage lay tangled amid ,the seaweed memories of the Past. He looked upon them. The gloomy brow and compressed lips, the arms folded sternly across his breast, and the dreary abstracted eyes told the story. They said that the man was looking even then -upon the dead face of some pallid "Might-have- been," whose sightless eyes haunted him persistently. Conversation was a failure. After a few sprightly sen- tences on the part of Mrs. Rashton, and a few constrained replies on the part of Bernice, a dead silence reigned, save as it was broken by the rumbling of the carriage-wheels and the noises from the street. There at last! Such a blockade of carriages in front of the Opera House! Such a glitter of brilliant costumes . Such a happy little feminine commotion on the stairway, in the ves- tibule, cloak-room and lobby! Such a flutter of ringlets and f page: 232-233[View Page 232-233] 232 C UN BALLO IN MASCHERA." fans, and faint, sweet perfumes! Such an assemblage of small headed young men and large headed old ones, and slender young ladies and stout old ones as had to' hb got through before they were fairly seated. "There," said Mrs. Rashton, so soon as she had arranged her shawl and adjusted her bracelets, and concluded that she was in a comfortable condition for the evening, "You take the libretto, Miss Kent, and read the plot of the opera, before it begins. It is so much pleasanter, I think, to know all the argument before the curtain rises." "The opera is "Un Ballo in AMaschera," said Dr. Rashton, "but you need not read the argument now unless you pre- fer to. You can read it just as well after the curtain rises." "Yes I know I can, but I prefer to read it now ," said Bernice, feeling desirous of giving due deference to Mrs. Rashton's suggestion. "Very well! Read it now, then! You will enjoy it if you like tragedy," returned Rashton. Bernice was absorbed in the libretto, and did not reply for some moments; -then she closed the book with a shiver and said, "I do not like tragedy," as if Rashton had spoken only the moment before. "You should not read the argument then. You should give yourself up to the music and scenic effects, and not enter so fully into -the meaning of the play, if it affects you unpleasantly. If you do not read the libretto, you will not always understand just how terrible the play is. The masquerade and the dancing, would seem a very happy, brilliant affair if you did not know the tragic denouement." Dr. Rashton spoke more earnestly and seriously than his mere words would imply. "True," returned Bernice, " at the opera as in society, a great many things would impress us pleasantly, if we did not know their hidden history, and the certain sometime tragedy of their termination." "I have often thought, Miss Kent," pursued Dr. Rash- I^ "UN BALLO IN MASCHERA. 233 ton, " that in society's great masquerade, it is best that there Yea are no librettos of the play, telling the secret histories and hidden sorrows of the masked dancers no argument of just how the tragedy begins, progresses and terminates." "It may be best," returned Bernice, "and yet I think t many of us would regard our fellow-creatures more kindly, and look upon their faults more leniently, if we could only know that in nine cases out of ten even recklessness and cruelity are engendered by the irritation of secret pain. We should no doubt turn many a masked partner in the dance of life more kindly, and regard their blunders more charitably, could we peep under the mask and see the plead- ing eyes, and tremulous mouth, where the indices of the real life may be found." "That is very pretty, Miss Kent," exclaimed Dr. Rashton, as he bent a searching glance upon the young lady. "Thank you," said Bernice, coloring with momentary confusion. It was only momentary, however, for she re- covered her self possession almost instantly and added, with ironical gayety, "How very acute you are, Dry Rashton, to understand that I was merely saying something that I thought was pretty. Of course I was impelled, to speak only by the conviction that an opening was presented to say something ' pretty." -* There was a mingling of bitterness, pique, rebuke and disgust in Bernice's tone and face. "How satirical you are, Miss Kent," said Rashton, smiling, and slightly shrinking from Bernice's emphatic scorn. "Satirical? Preposterous! I mean it, of course! Should I not confess myself the veriest neophyte to profess any earnestness, or real feeling? Does anybody ever say any- thing generous, or disinterested, or approximating to the poetic who is not talking for effect, simply for effect, Dr. Rashton? Did you suppose, for a moment, that I should care, really care, if I could lift Society's mask and read her secret sorrows? Do you suppose that I would earnestly ^ page: 234-235[View Page 234-235] 234 "UN BALLO IN MASCHERA." pity any one for suffering? Of course you don't suppose so! You understand that he or she who pretends to have a heart, is only so much worse than the rest of the world by being a hypocrite. I congratulate you, Dr. Rashton, upon having passed that innocent period of existence that supposes anything in this world to be genuine." Bernice fanned herself violently after this satire, but the flames in her cheeks and eyes, seemed only to rage more fiercely. "You at least have proved yourself genuine," returned the gentleman, in a low, earnest tone. "How so?" queried Bernice, in astonishment. "By resenting so earnestly the imputation of affecta- tion. Had you been guilty of affectation, you would have considered my remark complimentary, and would have en- deavored to gush, as it were, more extensively, seeing that your object was so well accomplished, Your resenting, however, my not chiming in with your mood, proves that you were in earnest, and however you may disclaim and blush for your-enthusiasm, it was genuine, and I honor and admire you for it." "I am glad to know that, as it is quite worth one's while to cherish generous enthusiasms if one is to be admired ant honored for them. Of course one could have no other motive. And after one has made so great an effort as to get a genuine enthuiasm, or generous emotion, one should be rewarded by flattery immediately. One should be sustained after so great an exertion, by the assurance that somebody admires, and honors the effort, and thus rewards it." "What a very proud woman you are, Miss Kent. You evidently consider it presumption for any one to admire you, and high treason to dare mention that admiration," re- turned Rashton, with a cold, calm deliberation that was very far from any approach to flattery. Bernice colored painfully, with a conviction of her own egotism, and said, "I think you scarcely do me justice. It "UN BALLO IN MASCHERA." 235 is not that I am insensible to judicious praise, or that I un- dervalue the good opinion of others. It is simply that. I feel a sense of humiliation when I succeed only in extracting a compliment where I hoped to find intellectual sympathy. I must be exceedingly egotistical if I so constantly intrude myself and the thought of my own individuality upon per- sons that they do not become imbued with my thought and forget me. It pains me to have petty externals forced upon me when I am in love with an idea and inspired with a pet theory, and want my listener to be so too." s"I understand you perfectly," said Dr. Rashton. "You are not an egotist./ You do not talk for effect. Will you pardon me if my remark a few moments ago seemed to con- vey such an insinuation? You will forgive me, won't you?" Bernice Kent said, "Certainly," in that constrained tone that one invariably adopts when one feels more than one wishes to express. "Say, dear," said Mrs. Rashton, addressing her husband at this juncture, "I wonder who that couple is with the Camdells?" "Married people, no doubt," answered Rashton, smiling, and glancing at Bernice, who sat between him and his wife. "Why?" queried madam. "Oh, because they are not saying anything to each other, and have been totally indifferent to one another the whole evening. Married people generally act so, you know." "That's so!" said Mrs. Rashton, as if her husband were to acknowledge it a personal matter, and feel condemned accordingly. "See, he is talking now to a young woman in pink. He doesn't look towards the one on the other side of him. She is his wife, you may depend." Rashton was not bitter, only playful. Mrs. Rashton, however, seemed to accept the remarks in all seriousness, and replied, with an evident sense of injury, "That's just like some people." page: 236-237[View Page 236-237] 236 "UN BALLO IN MASCHERA." Rashton smiled and sneered, as if he considered the ex. pression, " some people," a marked allusion to himself, as, in- deed, he had good reason to do; for it was an amiable ec- centricity of MSrs. Rashton's to make particular mention of her husband's short-comings as being " very much like some people's." She seemed in the present instance to discover a remarkable similarity between the person with the Camdells and " some people." She kept her eye on him for the re- mainder of the evening, and told Bernice that she was sure the young lady in pink was very designing, and if there was anything she did hate it was a designing woman. She was also quite sure that that man was very fickle, and very neglectful of his wife, and, as a consequence, his wife was a very miserable woman. This conviction preyed upon her mind to such an extent that she employed almost the entire intermission between the acts in commenting upon how fickle men were, and how foolish women were to marry; and how designing some women were; and how, if anybody wanted to flirt with Dr. Rashton, they were perfectly welcome to, for all she cared, as they would be certain to get the worst of it.. All this was said in an undertone that did not reach the ears of Dr. Rashton, but effectually prevented for the- time any conversation between him and Bernice. The curtain had just fallen on the second act, when Mrs. Rashton touched her husband's arm with her fan and asked, "Who is that with Miss Brainard, Robert? I can't think, and I've seen him somewhere, too." "I have not seen Miss Brainard to-night. Where is she?" he asked. Mrs. Rashton pointed out the young lady in question, and said, "There, at her right. Don't you see him? His face is so familiar, but I can't think where I've seen it. Haven't you seen him before?" Dr. Rashton evidently had seen the person, for he stared at him with sudden horror and surprise, and seemed almost "AUN BLLO IN MASCHERA. 237 gasping for breath as he replied, "His name, I think, is Philip Arion." Bernice Kent notic'ed his agitation, and also that he excused himself a few moments later, and did not return until near the close of the third act. Mrs. Rashton became silent after telling Bernice that Dr. Rashton thought Mr. Arion fell in love with her the first time he ever saw her. She was sure he had no reason to think so, but then he said it was a clear case of love at first sight, and of course -he ought to know. Bernice merely nodded. She was studying the stranger's face, and conversation became a disagreeable interruption. "In love with Mrs. Rashton? Could that be the cause of her husband's agitation?"Bernice asked herself. She could not credit it. In the first place Dr. Rashton was scarcely weak enough to be jealous. Next, the stranger's face belied Mrs. Rash- ton's assertion. He in love with her! That face, that fore- head, and that head? Bernice said "Never" to herself very empiatically. The deep, luminous eyes, and fastidious mouth, and broad poet-forehead, indicated such a soul as could never be affected by mere clay, though that clay were . ever so perfect. of its kind. "And yet," she reasoned, " the noblest minds and deepest hearts are ever most generous. He might have met the woman in her girlhood, and, wearied with the lofty flights of genius, found relief in her freshness and innocence. It might have beenl that he loved her. Loved her not because she was'capable of appreciating such a love as his, but loved her because his heart was over-full of love, and reason was silent while imagination invested her with the shining robes of his ideal." Somehow the thought was painful to Bemice Kent. The face interested her strangely. Contrasting it with the commonplace fea- tures and expressions of those around her, it grew sublime in the serenity of its superiority; and when Dr. Rashton came back she could but contrast the dark passion and pain, the gloomy defiance and cruel scorn of his face with the proud strength and pure purpose of the stranger's. page: 238-239[View Page 238-239] 238 "UN BALLO IN MASCHERA." Both had strong, passionate natures: both were men of i deep feelings and profound intellects, yet between the two there was just the difference that there is between purpose and passion, between soul and body, between heaven and earth. The body of Robert Rashton wrote its struggles and triumphs upon his face, while the spirit's record was blurred and almost illegible. The soul of Philip Arion illumined his features, and they were glorious with all strength and victory; crowned with the sublime mystery of the siprit's infinite, to which the body, though a vigorous and healthful subject, was yet a loyal one. There was patience and courage in the face, and none could fail to recognize therein the master-spirit. It was to Bernice Kent a revelation of a higher life, the translation of vague, dim dreams that had haunted and yet mocked her with the grandeur of their intangibility. Even Miiss Brainard, whose better nature the world was fast withering with its simoom breath, appeared for the time to be redeemed from frivolity, and the remnant of childhood in her eyes seemed to grow into new grace and beauty. Gone her attitudinizing; and in its stead came an earnestness that was an apocalypse of the angel she might have been, had society been less exacting, or society less her idol. Oh, the ineffable yearning of aspiration that poet- ized her features as Philip Arion bent his graceful head to talk to her, and oh, the vague, sweet revelation that came unto her, of a Something beyond even the idol, society. A triumph overreaching conquest, and a happiness underlying vanity. Her soul felt, for the first time, the length of its wings, and she longed to try them. Longed for a moment to leave the glare and heat of the Opera House; to get away from the painted faces and hollow hearts of the gay world, and under the pale, sweet, shimmering stars begin a new and purer life. C UN BALLO IN MASCHERA. 239 The yearning was there for one wild, deep moment of in- tensity, and then, oh world! you sneered, and the dove- eyed aspiration folded its wings and was gone. Then, oh Society, you uplifted your painted face, and the stars faded from the soul of Fannie Brainard, and the fever of con- quest burned in her pulses, and she was the same studied, stereotyped "Miss Brainard" that you adored, oh world! Philip Arion knew when the aspiration came and went; pleaded with it when it looked at him from the dove-brown, child-like eyes, and turned away with an expression of dis- appointment and pain when it faded and left only clay, the world's Miss Brainard, in its stead. Bernice Kent read the face as she would have read a poem all pathos and tenderness, and when it turned away from Miss Brainard as if baffled in its search for the good and true, tears swanm in her eyes, and she seemed to have before her a translation of her own soul's hunger and thirst; her own life's baffled effort. "And yet," she reasoned, "Miss Brainard's feeble will : must eventually bow to this one so much stronger. He would mould her by sheer force of determination into the woman she might be. He would crush her into submissive- ness until the world was forgotten, and she a loving, humble yet joyous portion of himself. He would expand and de- velop her capacities until she could comprehend even the infinitude of the love such a man could bestow." "Yet why, oh why," Bernice asked herself with something like a silent groan, "need this shallow nature be trained, and taught to understand a love that might crown a heart already capable of appreciating its grandeur and dignity? T Why, oh why, must love be worn on narrow souls 'like dia- monds on a threadbare robe,' when loftier spirits sit un- crowned and portionless?" The play was over. The count dead, and the unhappy wife of the secretary declared innocent. page: 240-241[View Page 240-241] 240 SOCIAL RAPTURES. Virtue was Victor, even though Happiness was Van. quished, and the wretched Amelia left disconsolate. Of two evils, the least had been chosen. Better unrequited passion than the hopeless misery of disgrace; yet the whole thing was harrowing and unsatis- factory. What necessity for tragedy when the play might as well have made only the good happy, and the wicked miserable? There was nothing pleasant to remember about it, Bernice thought. The sole impression left upon her by the evening was a gnawing discontent. O*- CHAPTER XXXIV. SOCIAL RAPTURES. THE Brainards are sociably inclined: sequence, the brilliantly lighted parlors are thronged, and mirth and music are the order of the evening. There are women of the Camdell school. The dwarfish, pale-faced, newly-married nonentities, who never outgrow a look of having been brought up on a steady diet of slate pencils and a poor article of chalk, added to a Kenwigsian maternal discipline, that has made them anxious and miserable because the world hasn't mamma's partial eyes. A ringlet or a button out of place can torture them with intensest vexation. A handsomer shawl or bonnet on a rival school-mate, can fill them with untold agonies of envy. A frown from Mrs. L. Mortimer Brown can send them into an illness of a fortnight's duration. A smile from the same lady can elate them to the extent of making them supercilious and patronizing for a month of ecstasy. They are they who never weary of recounting how much silver or jewelry they have. They are they who find out SOCIAL RAPTURES. 241 show much money a person has, and mention the person accordingly. Poverty being ever the signal for an elevation of eye-brows and shrugging of shoulders; while Wealth can gild any vulgarity, and cover more faults than Charity's mantle ever could. They are they, the women of the Camdell School, who go through the world alternately tolerated, despised and compassionated, with the compassion of uncompromising contempt. Then there are the men of the Camdell School. The iMessieurs Camdell, who wear eye-glasses, and part their back hair with painful accuracy. They are they who are always requesting a 'little more time' on their debts, and endeavoring to support a respectability on the strength of genteel pretensions. They are they who remind one of no other animal so much as an aristocratically disposed monkey, given to opera-going, from sheer imitation of his master. They, too, like the feminine Camdell, are pale and anxious with an uncertainty concerning the right thing that should be done in the right place. An immature look of suppressed apprehension 1 st some one should suspect their not being altogether au fait, and perhaps box them, or impose upon them, in some way, before mamma or nurse could come to the rescue. But to the various classes that may always e found among " our best people," we can only allude as being " too A numerous to mention." The reader doubtless knows many of them, a d would not be interested by a more lengthy dissertation. "How do you do, Mrs. Rashton? I am really sh glad to see you!"This was Olive Brown's greeting, as she extended her hand in genuine welcome. "I am very well," returned Mrs. Rashton, with mn air of considering it a very great concession on her part, to inform the young lady concerning her health. " page: 242-243[View Page 242-243] 242 SOCIAL RAPLJRES. "You are looking well! I am so glad you came. I'm just dying to be social with some one I really like; and, indeed, Mrs. Rashton, I really do like you. I am not hypo- critical. I never profess to like any one I don't like; and if you knew me better, you would understand that I really do want so much to have you for my friend." Innocent, impulsive Olive Brown. Childlike, pleading, desolate Olive Brown. Catching so frantically at a straw, as the billows of loneliness and orphanhood go over you, my heart aches as I write of you! "Oh, I don't amount to anything. I couldn't interest you. I am not brilliant, you know," returned Mrs. Rashton, with a commingling of emotions, and a complex expression that admitted of various interpretations. First, there was pique, as if some one had intimated that she was not bril- liant, and did not " amount to anything." Then, there was a tinge of humiliation, as if she felt a sense of insignificance, and chafed under it. There was also a modicum of generosity, as if she half pitied Olive Brown, and did not wholly repulse her over- tures, even though they irritated her. There was a strange combination in this woman's nature, as, indeed, there is in many natures, of generosity and sel- fishness. Her demeanor towards Olive Brown was a striking illustration of this fact. "Oh, don't say you are not brilliant, and don't amount to anything," returned the impulsive Olive, warmly. "I think truth and generosity beyond mere intellectual brilliancy. And, oh, Mrs. Rashton, I do so need a friend! I do so want one, if you could only know how much! Can't you love me a little, just a little, dear Mrs. Rashton? I am so desolate!" "Oh, yes, I do love you," she rejoined, with a burst of generosity, that for the time dashed aside even the demon jealousy. I SOCIAL RAPTURES. 248 : "Do you, truly? I am so glad you do. I've just been - so blue and miserable all day. I've scarcely known what to do with myself,"' Olive said, settling down as if for a confi- dential t&tee a tte." / "Yes, you look as if there wa s }ething on your mind," returned Mrs. Rashton, eying her keenly; "but I don't see what you have to be miserable about; I should think you'd be very contented and happy." "Oh, yes," rejoined Olive, with that highly wrought tone and manner peculiar to herself, "I know that I ought to be contented and happy; but, oh, Mrs. Rashton, my orphan- hood, and the cold, cold, cruel world I! I feel alone, utterly alone, sometimes. There are the very fewest number of persons I can care for. But, oh, when I do care for them I care so much, so very much for them." "That's so," rejoined Mrs. Rashton, compressing her lips as if she felt injured, but had no intention of com- mitting herself in any way that might not prove altogether advantageous. "Oh, it is, indeed, it is," rejoined Olive; "I think I should die, if it were not for the few dear friends I have in the world. Oh! There is Dr. Rashton, dancing with Miss K IZent. I'm sp glad he is here. It is the first time I have seen him for almost a week." Mrs. Rashton frowned, bit her lips, and seemed to find especial grievance in Olive's enthusiasm. Olive was absorbed for a moment or two in watching the dancers. "I do hate a designing woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Rash- ton, abruptly, as if she spoke without volition. "So do I," returned Olive, with innocent placidity. "Mrs. Camdell says," Mrs. Rashton went on, "that she knows a young lady, who is just as designing as she can be. Will try to win men's affections, whether they are mar- ried or not. And yet, she says, the girl looks as innocent as if she had never done any harm in her life. Mrs. Camdell page: 244-245[View Page 244-245] 244 SOCIAL RAPTURES. says that people just can't help loving her, she seems so confiding and affectionate. Nobody would believe she is so designing, and yet she is just as designing as a person could be. She don't think anything of winning a man away from his wife." "She must be very-wicked," returned Olive, without the slightest suspicion that Mrs. Rashton could be alluding to herself; " but then, if I were married, I should never suffer any uneasiness concerning such women, for I should know that my husband could not respect a woman who would degrade her womanhood. Knowing that he was married to me, and could not love any other woman honorably, I should feel perfectly secure." Mrs. Rashton looked up in astonishment. The frank, childlike eyes met hers fearlessly. There was no deception there. With all her romance, the girl had no morbid fancies that it was poetic to love another woman's husband. And yet she was interested in Dr. Rashton. What could the girl mean? Mrs. Rashton sat puzzling her brain for several minutes. Olive was evidently shocked at anything like a- debased love. Where could the solution of the mystery be? Mrs. Rashton was not sufficiently poetic to understand the delicate sensitiveness of such a nature as Olive Brown's. In her opinion a person with a sufficiency of creature comforts and a respectable social position had no cause for complaint. That intense craving for sympathy, that being denied, engendered gloom and extravagance, Mrs. Rashton did not understand, for the simple reason that she had never expe- rienced it. Olive Brown's veh'mence concerning loneliness and friendship-hunger Mrs. Eashton attributed simply to Miss Brown's way. It might mean an eccentricity. It might mean an effort at display. A stage-trick to elicit admiration. But wherefore to elicit admiration, since the girl seemed to so scomrn a love not canonical? SOCIAL RAPTUERES. 245 Mrs. R. B. Rashton puzzled over the problem a few mo- ments longer, and then showed by her remark that she had succeeded in 'arriving at a conclusion: "Oh well, there are X women who would scorn to do anything positively wrong. H They are too proud, I suppose, to allow a man who is mar- 3S ried to make love to them-I mean to say in so many words i: that he loves them, but they do everything they can to fas- cinate him so that they can get opera tickets and such t:! things from him." ' i 'i "Trade on the susceptibility of Benedicts, you mean ?i; then," laughed Olive, who, seeing Oswald Kent approach, was trying to seem frivolous and indifferent, as he generally seemed to be, and as he made others seem who were piqued at his apparent want of earnestness. "I think it is just perfectly shameful for a woman to act so. To estrange a man from his wife for the sake of a few C- opera tickets!" exclaimed Mrs. Rashton, with very imperfect- i ly suppressed indignation. ? "So do I," returned Olive, not suspecting that Mrs. Rash- ton's words contained the slightest allusion to herself. "There are plenty of women who act so," said Mrs. Rash- ton, severely. Olive supposed there were. Indeed she had frequently been told that it was a very wicked and perverse world, and she had so little experience to the contrary that she would have acquiesced to a much stronger proposition on the part of Mrs. Rashton. Oswald Kent greeted the ladies and evinced C desire to engage Olive in conversation. Mrs. Rashton, however, seemed to consider that the hour to avenge her wrongs had come, ,and immediately began so animated a conversation with Oswald that Olive had scarce- ly an opportunity to edge in a word. How she smiled, and lifted and dropped the same long- ago Lelia-Bonnivet-eyes with the suggestive flavor of nut- meg in them, that poor John Meggs had so admired, until page: 246-247[View Page 246-247] 240( SOCIAL RAPTURES. Oswald Kent found himself unable to extricate himself from 1 her attentions without positive incivility. Olive, finding no suitable opportunity to speak without seeming obtrusive, was forced into silence. Mrs. Rashton gloated over the fact, and, fancying that she detected in Oswald's eye a preference for Olive, deter- mined to quell it by intimating her belief that Dr. Rashton and Olive Brown were carrying on a regular flirtation. That was conveyed in an aside to Oswald, while Olive's attention was distracted for a few minutes in another direc- tion. Olive Brown should not make a conquest of Oswald Kent if Mrs. Rashton could help it. No, the designing creature should know how it felt to be superseded. A wise woman would have acted differently. Mrs. L. Mor- timer Brown, with her marvellous tact, would, under like circumstances, have done everything in her power to induce a match. Unsophisticated Mrs. Rashton, however, not only endea- vored to prejudice Olive's gentlemen acquaintances, but her lady acquaintances against the daring young person who : had provoked her wrath. Thus did she defeat her own aims. Depriving Olive of sympathy in other directions, she forced her again and again to the source that never failed, Dr. Rashton. The more indifferent and unsympa- thetic Olive found Mrs. Rashton and Mrs. Rashton's lady friends, the more she sought and enjoyed the society of Dr. Rashton, who always understood her and sympathized with her, and who alone never blamed her. Mrs. Rashton had not sufficient mental acumen to under- stand this. She felt that something must be done. What that something ought to be she had not the faintest conception. At any rate, to alternately repulse and cajole Olive seemed to be her role. SOCIAT RAPTUIRS. 247 It would not do, she decided, to reject Olive Brown's friend- ship altogether, for the girl seemed really to like her, and, an influence over her might be obtained in that way. Yet, while professing friendship, a stinted, guarded, piqued, forgiving kind of friendship, she never lost an opportu- nity to thrust, as she believed, the heart of Olive Brown through with a dart, by insinuations concerning "designing women." Sometimes she would tell Olive that Robert was not the same man he used to be. So cold, so neglectful, so different every way." Again she would assure her that she knew Robert to be a perfectly devoted husband; signifi- cantly adding that "any one who flirted with him would get the worst of it." On the evening of which we write, Mrs. Rashton seemed to derive immense satisfaction from her monopoly of Oswald Kent, into whose unwilling ears she was thrusting repeated insinuations concerning Olive Brown's flirtation with Dr. Rashton. 2 "What does make the girl such a simpleton? Why can't she see that she is being miserably duped and imposed upon?"Oswald would ask himself, as he listened, with intensest vexation, when chancing to catch a glimpse of Olive Brown's unhappy, thwarted face, his vexation would change to deepest compassion for her, and a burning sense of indig- nation against Rashton. Meantime Bernice Kent, roused by the sight of her bro- ther's disturbed countenance, and the thought of a desolate little figure whose eyes followed Dr. Rashton imploringly, found herself exclaiming, with sudden vehemence, "Did you ever grow sick, and faint and dizzy, Dr. Rashton, thinking of a wrong you could not remedy?" "I have, Miss Kent! Why do you ask?" "Because I want to know! I want to understand the sentiment you would feel to know that an innocent, helpless, desolate creatute was having her heart rifled of all that is best and holiest, to be turned off at last 'heart-bare, heart page: 248-249[View Page 248-249] 248 - .CIAL RAPTURES. hungry, very poor,' with no equivalent for her lost jewels of love and trust." "You are disposed to indulge your love of the dramatic," was the smiling reply, as Bernice made a gesture of im- patience. "Call the feeling what you will that inspires me;" said Bernice, in a suppressed tone of self-control. "But tell me, what emotion would be awakened in your breast to see cruel, selfish strength exerted to crush innocent helplessness and trust." "That would depend,' rejoined Rashton, speaking with great deliberation, though chafing secretly under her pointed query, "If you allude to the celebrated fable of the fly who walked into the spider's parlor by 'special request,' I would refer you to the moral inculcated by that affecting history as it is told in most juveline 'Readers.' Acting upon the les- son there taught, I should probably conclude that strength ought not to crush weakness, and that persons should not be deceived by flattery, as the unfortunate fly was. Is there anything more, Miss Kent?" Dr. Rashton smiled and seemed facetiously disposed. Bernice did not smile, but went on with greater earnest- ness, not unmixed with indignation and impatience. "Do you not consider, sir, that unrequited affection is the most terrible of all human suffering?" "Most certainly, Miss Kent;"Rashton returned, becom- ing serious, at once. "Then do you not think it unkind, to say the least, for a married man to use every effort in his power to interest a young and susceptible girl, who is not old enough to know that she is bartering away her birthright of womanly affec- tion and happiness for the miserable mess of pottage that is offered under the guise of friendship?" Bernice Kent, as she spoke, glanced towards Olive Brown, and Dr. Rashton seemed to comprehend at once. "To the pure, all things are pure," was his reply, as he smiled half sarcastically. Ig SOCIAL RAPTURES. 249 "Stuff! Nonsense!" returned Bernice, impatiently, "as if that were the smallest fraction of an argument. Arsenic is harmless, so far as a child knows, but if he eat it he dies. So there are evils that seem pure when veiled by sophistry; wrong that. seems right to the innocence that receives it; yet sooner or later the effect of that wrong will be made manifest and punishment must follow; for though he that sins knowingly shall be beaten with many stripes, even he that sins ignorantly shall not escape the few stripes, the in- evitable concomitant of all wrong doing. "He who administers poison to a child does not reason that the child cannot die from its effects because ignorant of its nature. The child, in being ignorant, escapes the crime of suicide, yet does not escape death. He who disguises evil until it seems good; he who veils falsehood until it seems truth; he who sweetens the bitterness of wrong- doing with the nectar of sophistry, and forces it upon inno- cence, is as surely forcing paintupon that person as if inflict- ing it with a dagger." "You seem to be excited, Miss Kent! Let us promenade awhile on the piazza, in the moonlight," returned Rashton with something very like a shiver running through his frame. "I am excited ;" said Bernice, when-they had reached the piazza, "there are some wrongs that seem crying out to me daily for redress. There are some evils upon which society smiles that fill me with an indignation for which I have no words, and, alas, no remedy." "Perhaps your imagination plays you false, Miss Kent, and makes you imagine wrong where there is nGne." "I am more practical than imaginative, Dr. Rashton," re- turned Bernice, curtly. "If that be true, you must be exceedingly practical," re- joined the gentleman; "but what social evil cries out to you, and what problem is it that you cannot solve?" "Whether friendship only, that and nothing more, can page: 250-251[View Page 250-251] 250 sOCAL RIPTURES. exist between a lady and gentleman when the lady is young and romantic and susceptible." "Certainly, Miss Kent, why not? I am capable of sus- taining such a relationship with any of my young lady ac- quaintances, and I am equally sure of their feeling." "Dr. Rashton, in your secret heart you know there is no such thing as friendship between persons of the opposite sex, especially when either is unmarried. There are some innocent young persons who are romantic enough to believe in this sort of thing, but it is wicked, it is diabolical to en- courage such a belief on their part, when it can end only in disappointment. No man has any right to win a woman's love under the guise of friendship, or any other guise, un- less he intends to marry her." "And how about the ladies, Miss Kent? They, I suppose, are privileged? That is Miss Brainard just before us with Mr. Arion. She has been devoting herself to making the young man miserable. Are not your sympathetics excited in his behalf? Can you see him become the victim of blighted affections without an effort to save him?"Dr. Rashton was becoming bitter and satirical. "She may not be endeavoring to make him miserable,' rejoined Bernice; "It may be a case of disinterested affec- tion." "The innocence of such a sentiment, Miss Kent, is vastly becoming to you, even though it be only a pretty affectation of yours," returned Rashton; "for I am sure you cannot be so ignorant of the world as to imagine one of its devotees capable of such folly as disinterestedness. Mr. Arion is a minister, yet though talented and no doubt exceedingly fas- cinating, is, nevertheless, poor, and I think Miss Brainard might be trusted in a flirtation with Cupid himself without becoming interested, if society did not indorse the match. She is impervious to all other considerations than wealth and position. He may be interested in her genuinely, for her father's bank account is a substantial good." N 8 + SOCIAL RAPTURES. 251 Ad "Oh Dr. Rashton," exclaimed Bernice, with involuntary indignation, "how can yoa accuse such a man of being mercenary? Do you suppose for an instant that money would influence such a soul as looks from that man's face?" /- "Certainly not, my dear Miss Kent," sneered Rashton, with bitter irony. "Nobody is ever influenced by money. Could you not see that I was jesting? Did you imagine me i-( sufficiently diabolical to seriously intimate that a man could be coldly, and cruelly, and deliberately mercenary? I am surprised that a young lady of your penetration should have so misunderstood me. The young man is doubtless influ- enced by the loftiest magnanimity, and the purest affec- tion." "Your irony is more painful than your candor, Dr. Rashton, yet your skepticism concerning that man's disin- terestedness cannot influence my faith in him. He carries his soul in his face, and none can doubt its strength and purity. i/i Your cynicism, when applied to the world in general, may be forgiven, but when applied to him becomes unpardon- able. You do yourself injustice by it, since it belies your penetration." a "Forgive me, Miss Kent. I had no intention of sneering at the young man. I was bitter merely from habit. I do not doubt his disinterestedness, though so far as Miss Brainard is concerned, even your charity, I think, can find her nothing but a hollow-hearted flirt." "I think Fannie Brainard does not realize what she is doing. She does not understand just how wicked itf is to sacrifice generous hearts on the altar of her vanity. She is fond of admiration, and does not consider that she wrongs others to obtain it." "She needs a mother, Miss Kent. You are motherless, but you are more fortunate than Miss Brainard, who has a mother in name, but not a true mother. Mrs. Brainard urges her daughters to make conquests. Points them to no I page: 252-253[View Page 252-253] 252 SOCIAL RAPTUES. higher aim than social distinction, and gives them for their article of faith, frivolity, flirtation and a wealthy husband." "That is very sad," returned Bernice-"not only sad for their victims, but sad for mother and daughters." "Oh, it is the way of the world, Miss Kent! You and I need not trouble ourselves about evils that it is out of our power to remedy. If persons do wrong, retribution will follow, you think, and if they do right their reward will come, therefore I suppose everything will balance sometime. Don't think of these wrongs if they make you uncomfort- able." "But I can't help thinking. I must think. Fannie Brain- ard is capable of doing a great deal of good in the world. She might make some man's house home, true home, heart- home, yet in a few years of such life as this, her affections will be frittered away, her moral nature deadened,; her physical attractions gone, her intellect sterile for lack of cultivation, and Vanquished be written against her name in every struggle for happiness. I want to save her. She has stirred my heart with more than a common interest, and I have felt sometimes as if I would make almost any sacrifice to enable her to become the possible angel she might be." "You cannot do it, Miss Kent. She is joined to her idols. Let her alone. You will not be held accountable for that which is beyond your power, you will not fail to receive your reward if your intentions be good, even though your action prove a failure." "I know," rejoined Bernice, (' butf aside from the reward of well-doing, it is a luxury in itself, As it is a pleasure to do good, so is it a deprivation to be denied the privilege." Dr. Rashton said "Yes," thoughtfully, as if that were rather an original view of the case. "As I said before," continued Bernice, 'I see daily a great many wrongs that seem crying out to me for redress, and yet I can do nothing." "Do you allude to the flirtation your sister is having with I. SOCIAL RAPTURES. 253 Mr. Bainbridge, as among the number?" asked Rashton, with a smile. Bernice started with surprise. "I had not noticed a flirtation in that direction," said she. "Ah, Miss Kent, I see that you are like many others; you have cast your eyes so far from home, that you have not observed the things nearest you. Every one else is com- Is menting upon the absolute certainty of your sister's marry- ing Bainbridge, and yet you have never noticed it. How very much occupied you must have been with your own affairs!" "I am tired of promenading, let us go in," said Bernice. "I have been selfish to monopolize you so long. Pardon me!" rejoined Rashton, leading her to a seat. "Who is that young lady with Dr. Rashton?" asked Philip Arion as Bernice passed. "That is Miss Kent," returned Miss Brainard, " the most fascinating creature you have ever met in the whole course of your existence. Dr. Rashton seems perfectly infatuated with her. I often tell her it is wicked to flirt so, especially with married men, but I suppose she thinks of sour grapes, when I talk so, for of course I never could aspire to equal Miss Kent, and therefore I am no judge of wlat I should do if I had her temptation to flirt." "If temptation be all that is required, I hope you may never be tempted," rejoined Philip Arion earnestly. "Oh, I don't think anything could ever tempt me to flirt with a married man," said Miss Brainard with seeming in- genuousness, " and least of all, with Dr. Rashton." "I am glad to have this assurance from you, Miss Brain- ard. Let me entreat you to be firm in this resolution. Dr. Rashton is a dangerous man, and no woman can flirt with him and remain uncontaminated." "Do you know him?" asked Miss Brainard, with sur- prise, "I did not suppose you and he were acquainted." I know of him," responded Philip, with increased serious- page: 254-255[View Page 254-255] 254 SOCIAL RAPTURES. ness," and I know that a will so strong as his can influence any woman with whom he is thrown. in contact; and I also know that his influence is far from being healthful or in- vigorating. Shun him, Miss Brainard! I speak earnestly and solemnly. For the sake of all that is good and true, promise me that you will avoid this man at all times. Tell me that you promise." Philip Arion's voice was low and impassioned, and Miss Brainard uplifted the gleam of her yellow velvety eyes to his face, and then dropped their white lids over them with an emotion half real and half feigned, as she replied: "Certainly, Mr. Arion, I will promise, since you desire it." There was the faintest emphasis of the 'you' as if ,Mr. Arion were to understand a tremulous, hidden, maidenly preference for his wishes. Whether or not he detected this, he replied, "Thank you, for the promise, even though it can affect only yourself." Then the two went back to the glare and crowd; and, looking into the eager, earnest face of Bernice Kent, Philip Arion said to himself, "A flirt with that expression? What actresses society makes of women, when theylearn the trick of expression so perfectly as to make a lie wear the mask of truth. I should have selected that face among a thousand, for truth, purity and constancy; yet she is only a flirt coun- terfeiting seriousness and earnestness as she would don a becoming dress. Oh vanity! oh mockery! Yet she plays with edged tools when she trifles with Rashton." And Bernice Kent, all unconscious of Philip Arion's thoughts, felt the magnetism of his eyes upon her face, and such a thrill shook her soul to its centre as if she had stood face to'face with destiny. "And how has my little Olive been enjoying the evening?" asked Dr. Rashton, a few moments later, of a very disconso- late looking person, whose face brightened a trifle at his approach. "I'm just wretched," returned Olive. "I have nobody in the world to care for me. I heard Mamma Brown say last ;/Igi SOCIAL RAPTURES. 255 night that she should think I might be happy and grateful, % considering all that she had done for me, and considering that I had nothing except what she gave me. I am no better :i than a pauper, Dr. Rashton, and people know it and patron- ize me. Even those Kents, who have known me so short a time, always look at me with an air of commiseration, as if X8 they were intensely sorry for me. I can't bear it, and I won t!" "Never mind it, little girl! The Kents compassionate you simply because they think I am flirting with you. They will no doubt tell you so if they have suitable opportunity. They if imagine that I am breaking your heart. They do not know that we entertain simply a pure and holy friendship for each other." "It is very strange to me that persons can't see things as they are!" returned Olive. "But they cannot, my dear little girl. The world is too coarse to appreciate our feelings for each other; and we must not expect it to understand us, for it won't, because it cannot." "Oh, I know, I know! And oh, I'm so tired! So tired of living. I am only a little pauper; the same as a little beggar; and Mamma Brown makes me feel it, when I don't please her;" said Olive, with an expression of unutterable loneliness and weariness settling on her face. "You are not a beggar, not a pauper, my dear little Olive. Why will you distress yourself with such fancies? You make rme wretched by being so unhappy." "They are not fancies, Dr. Rashton! I am only a wretched little pauper, without father or mother, or anybody in the wide, wide world to care for me except you, and I am bad- gered and scolded on your account." "Who dares to scold you on my account?" demanded her companion, with sudden vehemence. "Oh, Mamma Brown said you would get tired of me after a little, and she supposed she might as well let me make a fool of myself to the full extent of my inclination." page: 256-257[View Page 256-257] 256 SOCIAL RAPTURES. "Get tired of you," said Rashton, with a sneer. "What a coarse woman she is! She cannot understand the feeling between us, or she would know that I could never tire of my little sister, my own pure child Olive! Bah! There are some specimens of womankind that are a -disgrace to the sex." "Oh, I know, I know! It doesn't matter what persons say about our flirting. It doesn't matter who gets angry with me for defending you. I shall always do it. I will never give up your friendship from being persecuted for it. 0 It is all that God has given me in return for taking from me father, mother, home-everything that could have made me happy." Was it remorse that struck a sudden pallor into the face turned so quickly away from the pure eyes of Olive Brown, as she uplifted them to her companion? Something. made the man shiver, and say, in a low, pleading tone, "Courage, Olive! Courage, my poor child. A change will come some- time. You shall not always be desolate and dependent. Trust me! It shall all be right one day! Put your hand in mine and follow me, blindly if you must; but follow me, and trust me. I know what I am doing. Can you have faith in me, Olive, my own- dear little girl?" And the child, in her wondrous innocence, lifted her trust- ful, fearless eyes to his face, and said, ': When I lose faith in you, Dr. Rashton, I shall have lost faith in all the world." "Oh, my little Olive," was all the man could utter in reply. OPERA OF NORMA. 257 CHAPTER XXXV. OPERA OF NORMAB. X? Qi I seem very young, M1iss Kent?" ?At MX Olive Brown stood before her mirror in full opera 1 il?^ costume, as she propounded the query in her usual abrupt way. "You seem to be about seventeen years old," returned Bernice, with a smile. "Seem to be about seventeen," rejoined Olive, " and yet I feel so much older.. I feel so very old, Miss Kent. Do you think it strange that I should?" "No. You are precocious. You live rapidly. You feel too much, my dear Olive. Try to cultivate calmness. Don't feel that you must love or hate every one you meet. Steel yourself against too much emotion. Don't be wounded at trifles. Don't care so much for persons." Sometimes I think I don't care. Sometimes I've said after an aimed offence, 'There, now, heart of mine, you are not hurt at that. You must be dead. Yes, you must be. Too much storm has killed you.' Then I have sung a Te Deum over the poor little dead thing, and smiled to think it could suffer no more. Yet after a time there has always been a great bursting of grave-bonds, and my heart has come to life again. It had only fainted. Had been tranced, and I thought it dead." "My dear Olive, hearts don't die so easily, though they get very sore from being used so mercilessly. If you would try to feel less-if- you could only harden a trifle-you could be so much happier. But we must not stand here talking, Dr. Rashton is waiting for us." " Isn't Dr. Rashton kind to take us to the opera?" asked Olive, with a sudden and childlike obliviousness of her age and ' dead heart.' "Yes he is very kind. Let us go down." page: 258-259[View Page 258-259] 258 OPERA OF NORMA. "Let me look at myself once more, and see if everything is comme il fait," said Olive taking a last look at herself in the mirror. "And yet," she added as she turned away with a weary sigh, "what does it matter how I look? The muffled beats of my heart are heavy, just as heavy, any way!" "Nonsense," said Bernice, endeavoring to rally her com- panion, "You are a trifle morbid! That is all!" Olive shook head her mournfully, as she and Bernice went down. Dr. Rashton was walking the room, as if to quell exces- sive nervousness, when they entered. "Are you out of patience waiting for us?" asked Olive, extending her hand, with a look of welcome and infinite trust that smote the heart of Bernice Kent painfully. "The more earnestly we desire a thing, the more readily do we get out of patience waiting for it, I believe," return- ed Dr. Rashton, smiling. "Were you really impatient?" asked Olive, with a child- like pleading in her face that redeemed the question from coquetry, and made it simply the utterance of a hungry heart. "How could it have been otherwise?" he asked, in reply, looking at Bernice. "Why, by your being patient, of course," laughed Bernice. "Miss Kent is so thoroughly practical that one should be cautious about revealing one's extravagances to her," said Rashton as if adressing Olive. "She only pretends," rejoined Olive, "She is not really so cold and practical. She can feel. She does feel, I know." "I feel that we shall be late if we delay starting. It is almost eight o'clock," said Bernice with a smile, as she rose to go. After this Olive seemed to be absorbed in a reverie, whose poetic melancholy found consolation in the belief that she was "suffering and growing strong." OPERA OF NORMA. 259 The brilliantly lighted Opera House, the showy costumes and the music, seemed only the necessary concomitants of a dream. A dream of grandeur, wherein the soul of Olive Brown was bound, Tantalus like, unappeased and unsatisfied. Sometimes she fancied herself the wretched Norma, shrieking and sobbing with the hunger and pain of unloved desolation. She thought she could understand the fierce agony of a mad, deathless, unrequited passion. She believed she under- stood what it meant to give flame, and receive ice in return. "Wretched, wretched Norma, to love, unloved again!" ?: Again Olive fancied herself Adalgisa, and shrank and cowered away from the outraged Norma, with an agony something akin to what she imagined remorse to be. Miserable Adalgisa! Thwarted, baffled Adalgisa! Loving, suffering, waiting, only to see at last Pollio's love for Norma revive! Olive Brown's deduction from the play was, that very few men can be relied upon for constancy. Bernice Kent's conclusion was something after this fashion: "A woman is very unwise who allows love to become a mad- ness-a passion that must rule or ruin her." "How do you like Norma?" asked Dr. Rashton of Olive, as the party was being driven home. "Oh I thought it gorgeously terrible!" exclaimed Olive, lifting up her pale face and glittering eyes with an expres- sion that could only have been born of intense excitement. "And7 what am I to understand by 'gorgeously terrible?' asked the gentleman, with a smile. "Oh there was grandeur in the depth of Norma's agony. There was sublimity in the intensity of Adalgisa's pain. I liked it. They suffered, and they had the privilege of scream- ing and sobbing. They could translate their agony in that haunting music. They could shriek and wring their hands-and draw daggers-and give their feelings vent. page: 260-261[View Page 260-261] 260 OPERA OF NORMA. They were not obliged to sit still, very commonplace people in white, with lorgnettes and librettos. They were not compelled to smile and look amiable when they felt like going mad with pain. There is relief in expression ; mad- ness in repression." "You have made a rhyme, Olive. Kiss your hand, and ac- cording to the popular superstition, you will see your sweet- heart before Saturday night;" said Bernice with a smile, and an effort to restore the young lady to a healthly condition of mind. "My sweetheart!" exclaimed Olive, with a dramatic burst of indignant sarcasm. "As if I had a sweetheart! As if I had any one to Tare for me, through any other motive than gen- erosity, commiseration, patronage, so-called friendship, or some other such stuff! As if I was anything but a pauper, a miserable little charity girl." "My dear Olive," said Rashton, taking her hand with an effort to soothe her. "Why will you talk so? You are not a pauper-not a charity girl. You have every comfort, every luxury; friends, youth and genius. You have every reason to be grateful and happy." "My father was a villain. My mother died in a mad- house!" burst from the girl's lips with sudden vehemence. Her sensitive nature had been, so wrought upon by the music and the tragedy, that she had quite lost control of herself. X Dr. Rashton remained silent, and Bernice Kent seemed petrified with astonishment. "You needn't stare at me, Miss Kent. My father was a wicked, cruel man, and stole me away from my mother in the night, and when she found I was gone, she became in- sane; and when he, in a fit of remorse, sent me back, I had no mother, but only a raving maniac, whose hot eyes burn into my soul yet, even yet!" Olive Brown covered her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud. s4: OPERA OF NORMA. 261 'My dear Olive, my own dear little girl. Don't do so. You have been unnaturally excited by the play to night, but for Heaven's sake control yourself!" said Dr. Rashton. The girl only sobbed convulsively, with her head resting against his shoulder. "Miss Kent," he continued, with pain and entreaty whitening his features; "for God's sake, say something! Help me to divert her mind. Such intense mental excite- ment is a permanent injury to her." "Olive!"Bernice gasped, but the words she meant to utter died in her throat, and she could only stare at the girl with dumb helplessness. "What do you want, Miss Kent?" asked Olive, taking her head from Dr. Rashton's shoulder, and disengaging herself from his arm. "You-must-control-yourself;"Bernice uttered with difficulty, as if something choked her. "Control myself! of course I shall. Do you think Ishould have gone insane if I. had been in my mother's place? of course I shouldn't! I should have suffered, and shrieked, and raved around for a time; but then I should have grown cool and deliberate. I should have followed my father to the ends of the earth to have visited retribution ipon him. Oh how I hate that man, though he is my father! If I knew the veins that contained his blood, and his alone, I would open those veins and let their contents be spilled on some accursed spot of earth!" "Olive, Olive!" remonstrated Dr. Rashton excitedly. "I would!" repeated Olive. "He broke my mother's heart, and made me, his only child, a dependant on the charity of-- strangers; and I cannot forgive him for it. If he should i send for mejwhen he was dying and implore my forgiveness, I would shake the bed posts, and say, as Queen Elizabeth said : 'God may forgive you, but I never can!' A person who would deliberately and wilfully wrong me so terribly, I would re- proach on his death-bed." page: 262-263[View Page 262-263] 262 OPERA OF NOEMA. Dr. Rashton shivered, and said almost imploringly, "O No one could deliberately wrong you, Olive. Only a demon could wilfully make you unhappy!" "What a horrid thing that opera was to night!" exclaimed Olive abruptly, drawing her opera-cloak closer about her, as if from cold. "Terrible;" was Rashton's reply, relieved at any change in the conversation. "Did you like it, Miss Kent?"Olive asked, with sudden calmness, as if by way of showing what complete self-con- trol she could exercise when she chose. "I did not like it," returned Bernice. "I have been hat- ing Pbolio, ever since I first knew of him, for his detestable inconstancy. When he was married to one woman, what right had he to make love to another?" "Perhaps his love for Adalgisa compelled him to speak against his better judgment, and made him mad with a desire to win her love, regardless of consequences," said Rashton. "Fudge!" ejaculated Bernice, as if she were expending a great deal of pent-up indignation. "Such love as that is no love. It is miserable selfishness! What has a man who is married to offer in exchange for the heart of a woman who is not married?"Bernice glared at Dr. Rashton as if he had been the veritable Pollio. "He can at least give her friendship," he returned, half deprecatingly. "Generous comfort! Noble offering! Magnanimous ar- rangement, truly! A woman must give her whole heart, with its wondrous depth of affection; must yield up every sweet dream of home, and the womanly happinesses that cluster therein; mfust endure the reputation of flirting; must be denied the sweet utterance of a generous and loy- al love, and receive in return-what? A married man's friendship-his wife's eternal jealousy and hatred-the world's maddening contempt for that greatest of all fools, the platonic fool! Magnanimous that, very." ? OPERA OF NORMA. ' 263 Xi s Bernice's features seemed temporarily sharpened by the. ! intensity of her scorn. "You speak as if the compact were a deliberate one," argued Rashton. "You do not consider that love is an in- sanity, a temporary aberration of the mind, and has no more regard for conventionalism than a maniac has for com- ': mon sense. Of course no sane man would ask a woman to " make so great a sacrifice for his friendship. Yet might he not !- so adore her as to be incapable of reason? Might not the / very intensity of his feeling make him a madman?" ? cc"Nonsense!" rejoined Bernice. "Love does not, mush- room like, grow to proportions so gigantic in a single night. rt: It is nursed and cultivated, and tended a great while before it becomes so formidable. "A man of intellect and experience, who has seen enough of the world to understand love's insanity, is too wise to 3 trifle with it, when it can result only in unhappiness to irs another, unless he is deliberately cruel or selfish. He is either A diabolical enough to intend to make the other unhappy, or is so thoroughly selfish as to seek temporary food for his vanity, regardless of another's suffering." "Temporary, Miss Kent? I was not speaking of tempor- ary emotions! I was speaking of a genuine affection, infinite as imperishable. A love that scorns obstacles and forgets mere conventionalism, and regards the universe, even, as a mere speck of creation compared to its own infinitude. Sup- pose a married man should feel such a love as that for an unmarried woman?" Dr. Rashton paused, with an expression that it was im- possible to decipher in the dimly lighted carriage. "I Ideny the possibility of such a thing," returned Bernice. "Why so?" queried the other. "For the simple reason that it is out of nature, and es- pecially a man's nature, to cling persistently to a perpetual irritation!" "Perpetual irritation, Miss Kent?" page: 264-265[View Page 264-265] 264 OPERA OF NORMA "Perpetual irritation ;" reiterated Bernice, looking stead- ily at Olive, as if particularly desiring her attention, "A married man who loves another woman than his wife, has the 'perpetual irritation' of his wife's jealousy to contend against. The 'perpetual irritation' of parting with, and being separated from the woman he loves." "But if he should have the temerity to leave his wife?" suggested Rashton. "Then he would have the deeper and more lasting sting of conscience, added to the perpetual irritation of the world's condemnation. In either case, there is no happi- ness in such a love, consequently, there can be no con- stancy. For what is constancy but satisfaction; and incon- stancy but dissatisfaction?" "You consider love a principle, then, instead of a passion? You hold that it depends upon conscience, and the world's approval, for its strength and immutability?" queried Rashton. "I contend that love is happiness, and in' the same ratio that it ministers to the necessities of our nature, is its infi- nitude. Tell me what a person's love is, and I will tell you what that person's nature is! One who can drown reason -and conscience in the delirium of love, proves how weak the voices of conscience and reason are in his soul." "Or, perhaps, how strong his love. Not that he consults reason and conscience less, you know ;" suggested Rashton, apologetically. "Love, as I said before, is simply a ministering to the various elements of our nature, and what we love, and how we love, is the proof of our predmoinant characterestics. The intellectual man loves that which his intellect needs and approves. The elegant fop, with more taste than brains, adores his counterpart in the graceful, empty-headed flirt. And so through the various grades of intellect and culture. "A man that can be happy with a woman who possesses OPERA OF NORMA. 265 gj no other attraction than physical beauty, proves how' !! narrow his capacity for loving ; while he who can be happy with simple affection, ' only that, and nothing more,' shows S at once the extent to which nature has endowed him. The more that is necessary to inspire one's love, the more is shown concerning that person's capacity." j"How, then, Miss Kent, do you account for the fact that so very many intelligent women marry commonplace men: while men of genius are proverbial for marrying inferior women? If they love their kind, how do you account for such marriages?" asked Rashton, smiling. "Genius has many phases, many needs. Mediocrity 1 ^ satisfies one phase. And as one will sometimes enjoy an article of food sufficiently'to make an entire meal of it, so genius, with its headlong impulsiveness, will attempt a life- long meal of mediocrity by wedding it. "Yet, by the experience of those who are married, do I prove my theory, that constancy is happiness, perfect satis- faction, and that persons are inconstant, so soon as they become dissatisfied with each other. In one frame of X mind, a handsome, neatly dressed, amiable woman is all that a man requires his wife to be. In another mood, a good housekeeper would be most desirable! Again, com- panionship, intellectual sympathy-and it is she who can minister to the greatest nuniber of his nature's necessities who has the strongest hold upon his affections." "That is true, Miss Kent, quite true. But do you not think that love, once inspired, is imperishable, even though there may be obstacles of conventionality and conscience." "That depends entirely upon one's regard for conscience and conventionality. If they are urgent necessities of one's nature, they must be gratified. Therefore, no love can be perfect, because not happy, that is not sustained by the voice of conscience and the world's approval, where one's conscience is awake, and one's approbativeness active. Say 12 page: 266-267[View Page 266-267] 266 OPERA OF NORMA. what you will about the omnipotence of love, it is omnipo. tent only when sustained by conscience, if it is worth any.- thing, if it is the offering of a reflective mind, and a deep, : steady heart." "Why, then, are not married persons happy, Miss Kent, as a general thing? They are sustained by conscience and con- ventionality," rejoined Rashton. "They are not happy, for the reason, that in nine cases out of ten they have married those who can satisfy only a few of their nature's necessities, and love being starved has a puny existence. Like an underfed child, it lacks vitality. Love must be nourished as carefully as a human being or it dies." "And yet when a man's wife fails to .satisfy the growing demands of his intellectual nature, you deny him the privi- lege of loving another woman who is better adapted to i him?" queried Rashton, with an enigmatical smile. "Most assuredly! If a man is unwise enough to marry a woman whose capacities are too meagre to satisfy him, he must abide by the consequence of his folly, and bear it as - patiently as possible. He has no right to make some one else miserable because he is unhappy," rejoined Bernice. "Pollio's love for Norma revived, notwithstanding Adal- gisa's attachment for him," said Olive, suddenly, rousing herself as if from a reverie. "Yes," rejoined Bernice, smiling, " so the play goes." "Miss Kent, what would you have done if you had been Adalgisa? Wouldn't you have killed Pollio?" asked Olive, with a dramatic intensity of account peculiarly her own. "What good would it have done to have killed Pollio?" rejoined Bernice. "Oh, I don't know; and yet it seems as if he ought to have been killed! What would you do, Miss Kent, similarly situated?" "I should not kill anybody, nor make any outward de- monstration, yet I should probably endure a great deal of REPENTANCE PROMSING REFORMATION. 267 self-contempt. I should be humiliated, beyond the power of expression, that I had made so foolish an expenditure of Heaven's best gift, my womanly affection. If I did not per- ish from the slow tortures of insatiate self-scorn, perhaps I might be a better and a wiser woman for the experience. I should know better than to trust fickleness another time. I can scarcely imagine myself so situated. There is no humil- iation so great as the knowledge of having loved one un- worthy of love. No torture equal to the torture of self-con- tempt. It is so great that I cannot imagine how I could live after my self-respect had received so mortal a wound." "Oh," said Olive, clasping her hands together, after the manner of Adalgisa, "I think if I ever should love any one as I could love, I should be either very, very happy, or in- tensely miserable." "Suppose you were to love a married man, as Adalgisa did," said Bernice, turning to Olive with sudden sternness of manner. "Oh, I couldn't bear it! I should become insane. I am sure I should. I never could bear it! No, no, I never could." Olive Brown lifted her hands with a gesture almost imploring. Dr. Rashton pulled his hat, closer over his eyes, and, by the dim light, peered at Miss Kent in silence. CHAPTER XXXVI. REPENTANCE PROMSING REFORMATION. 1ME, Bernice, let's have a game of chess. We have not played with each other for a long time. It seems to me that of late we never have any quiet home-pleasures as we used to have. What has come over us? We are not like the same family we were a year ago. page: 268-269[View Page 268-269] 268 REPENTANCE PROMSING REFORMATION. It is either opera or theatre, or company, or an engagement out, or the headache and early to bed at home, every even- ing. Why can't we be cheerful and contented with each other, as we used to be?" Oswald Kent arranged the chess men with an expression of extreme vexation. "I'm sure I'm very contented and happy," said Aureola, coming out of a reverie, with cheerful alacrity. "Oh, yes, your world is Bainbridge! Who couldn't be happy who was in love and engaged?" asked Bernice. Aureola blushed, took up a magazine and seemed sin- clined to pursue the subject under discussion. "It is a good thing Aureola can be happy with the pros- pect of marrying Bainbridge. But I can't marry Bainbridge, and you can't marry Bainbridge, Bernice, so I'd like to know what we are to do 1" said Oswald, with a soupron of a smile about his mouth. "Can't we be happy without marrying some one?" asked Bernice. "I don't know," rejoined Oswald, half gaily and half seri- ously, "That is about the only thing I haven't tried; and as everything else has failed, I can but imagine that might be a relief." "I have been thinking, for the last week or two," said Bernice, " that it is a very unsatisfactory kind of life we are leading. Being up so late at night makes us drowsy and stupid all the next day. Subjecting ourselves to so much false excitement makes reality seem tame, and everything genuine appear commonplace." "How mature you are of late, Bernice," said Oswald, moving a knight so as to protect a reckless little pawn. "Yes, I have grown old, it seems to me, very rapidly. My experience in teaching, short though it was, matured me astonishingly. I have never been the same person since, and shall never be again," rejoined Bernice, almost sadly. "Why, you seem gay and frivolous enough, for that mat- REPENTANCE PROMSING rEFORMATION. 269 said Aureola. "Mrs. Trenton says she never saw a gayer person than you seem in society, when you don't lapse into an attempt to be strong-minded." H "No one would ever accuse'Mrs. Trenton of such an at- I tempt," rejoined Bernice, capturing one of Oswald's bishops. ," I wish you wouldn't talk," said Oswald; "I can't play chess and listen to your conversation. That bishop was sacrificed on the altar of Mrs. Trenton's opinion. You are very mature, Bernice. Mrs. Trenton thinks you are frivol- ous. There! The subject has been ably and fully treated. Let it rest. I will take this pawn, by your leave." Aureola left the room, and brother and sister played in silence for some little time. Then Bernice, after yielding her queen, without a struggle, to her opponent's knight, ex- li! claimed, abruptly, "It's no use trying, Oswald. I can't play to-night! I'm not in the mood." "Sing something," rejoined Oswald. "The piano and guitar have a neglected look that quite goes to my heart." "I cannot sing to-night, Oswald. I have no voice when I am not inspired." "Will you read from Mrs. Browning, then, or one of A Willis's sacred poems, aloud?" asked Oswald, with the air of one endeavoring to escape the demon of Ennui. "Oh, Oswald," said Bernice, with something like a sob in her voice; "my heart-strings are all untuned to-night, and even poetry would be discordant on the loosened chords. I :; cannot read. I cannot sing. Perhaps I can talk, if you will listen. If you can have patience to let me say just what I feel. Ever since Aureola left the room I have been wanting to put away the chess-men and talk. Are you in the mood to listen?" "I am always in the mood to listen, when you talk. You are unhappy, and I am equally so. A strange, uncomforta- ble feeling has been coming over me for a week past, but to night it seems to culminate, and envelop me in impenetra- ble darkness. What ails us, Bernice?"Oswald Kent in- page: 270-271[View Page 270-271] 270 REPENTANCE PROMSING REFORMATION. voluntarily caught at his sister's hand, with a motion some. thing like that with which a drowning man would catch at a floating plank. "I think we are leading too frivolous a life, Oswald. Pa has always so inculcated the principle of doing some good in the world, that I think we are restless and unhappy because of the secret consciousness that we are doing none. Society, so called, is a very unsatisfactory thing. It is so full of pretence and hypocrisy, and very frequently pos- itive wickedness, that sometimes my very soul is sick within me. "The A --'s are among 'our best people;' none have more external finish of character, or a more elegant esta- blishment. Mrs. A-- sneers at everything not a la mode; and mentions the lovely Mrs. B-- as her most intimate friend. While Mrs. B--, at the same time that she pro- fesses the warmest esteem for Mrs A--, retails confi- dentially to every one of her dear five hundred friends, that Mrs. A-'s father was at one time a constable, 'a miserably low constable,' through he was afterwards a 'moderately respectable Justice of the Peace.' "And so it goes. If anybody's husband was ever ar- rested for embezzlement, or suspected of fraud, or had any- thing connected with his past history in the slightest degree disagreeable-that will be told to the community by one's nearest friends. "Mrs. A-- regards Mrs. B--- amiably, until she hears that Mrs. B-- has sneered at her former obscurity. Then being enraged by hearing that Mrs. B-- has said that Mrs. A- made her bridal calls in a borrowed shawl, Mrs. A-- imparts the startling information that Mrs. B-- is no better than she should be, as Mrs. A--'s own dead brother-in-law could testifly if he were alive. "So it goes! Nobody's skeleton is allowed to stay in the closet until it can crumble to dust. But everybody drags out somebody's else skeleton to keep his own skeleton REPENTANCE PROMSING REFOkMATTON. 271 company; and when everybody gets disgusted with the array of skeletons they are hustled back into their respec- tive closets until a new comer is introduced, whose skeleton must be found and dragged out and made acquainted with all the other skeletons. "Oh the hollow-eyed secret griefs that peer through the windows of persons' souls, and stare me into numbness and heart-ache with their dumb agony! Oh the under-current of pain that sometimes pulses through the sparkle and foam of a jest! "I am so old, and yet so young, Oswald! There are times when I seem to have lived centuries; when the very weight of my maturity oppresses me. Again the world seems a new thing to me, and I know so little that I ask myself 'Where have my years gone? Where is the wisdom I thought to have learned?' I am young, so young! I have seen so little. I know so little. I grope in a mist that seems the inexperience of childhood." "And you seem as you feel, Bernice. At times you are the most mature, metaphysical, far-seeing person, one could well imagine. Again you are reckless as inexperience could possibly be, and your very features have an immature, child- like expression. To-night you look anxious and worn and old," said Oswald, caressing his sister's hand. "To night I feel so," she rejoined, "To night the burden of life is upon me. I am extravagant. I feel like express- ing myself strongly. I have been keeping, of late, a great many thoughts to myself. I have been living in an artifi- cial atmosphere. "When I have attempted to talk, I have either launched into sokne metaphysical tediousness, because somebody tempted me to, or I have merely mingled with the foam of fashionable 'small talk.' But I am outgrowing frivolity. I cannot be happy pursuing one continuous round of gayety. I want work. I am not happy. The skeletons I have found in the closets of 'our best people' follow me and haunt me; and indolence is killing me." page: 272-273[View Page 272-273] 272 REPENTANCE PROMSING EFORMATION. "( Overlive it lower yet, be happy; Wherefore, wherefore should I care?' I myself must mix with action Lest I wither by despair,"' quoted Oswald. "Yes, yes, ' mix with action!' After all that is the recipe. I must get rid of the skeletons that follow me," rejoined Bernice. "What skeletons, sister? Tell me some that you have found." "Dr. Rashton and his wife, for example," suggested Ber- nice. "What a handsome couple they are. Their social po- sition is good. They seem to be happy. A superficial ob- server would imagine that they had every reason to be happy; yet oh, the green-eyed monster that torments that unhappy woman with the pangs of jealousy! The intellect- ual famine, the soul-starvation that renders that man a homeless husband; having no real home where his mind can revel, his soul expand, and his heart 'run and be joyous.' They seem so happy as they smile on the gay world, yet oh, the stifled cries of their respective tortures! "Then Mrs. B-, that anxious little woman in the elegant house a square beyond. She who smiles such miserable, pleading, deprecating smiles, as if she were always saying 'Spare my skeleton, oh world! Do not drag it out! I know it is there ; but spare me the hideousness of seeing it by daylight.' "She is fashion's devotee. She gives the most recherche entertainments of the season. She attends opera and ball and matinee with the wretched fidelity of a galley-slave. She smiles with painful pleasantness. She has an indulgent, wealthy husband. Everybody says, 'Fortunate Mrs. B .' Yet oh, those eyes! And oh, that smile, and oh those pinched features that seem every now and then to contract with secret pain! It is the bony filters of the skeleton that encircle her throat and extort from her a spasmodic contor- tion of feature more eloquent than words." I B REPENTANCE PROMSING REFORMATION. 273 C"What is her skeleton?" asked Oswald. "She has a lover, who is not her husband. She is jeal- 1 ous of his attentions to young ladies, and wretched with the fear that the world may read her secret. The pangs of conscience and jealousy, added to wounded affection and insulted vanity, make her a very wretched woman. 4I? "( Then Miss C , a belle and a beauty. Ah well I She is to be married soon. A brilliant match every one sarys. - i It might have been highly satisfactory, only that she broke : her heart two years ago, when she broke her engagement with a briefless barrister. "Charming Miss D --, who flirts with every one, and seems the gayest of the gay, cowers always when Mr. E - , who is a married man, looks at her. What skeleton she is imploring him to hide, I do not know. He knows some- thing to her disadvantage, I am confident. She dreads and hates him so. " Oh, the embezzlements and flirtations and broken hearts and goaded consciences and dark remembrances of early ob- scurity and poverty that haunt 'our best people,' would al- most make the stone heart in the breast of a statue beat i with compassion." c "You talk like a book, Bernice," said Oswald, with a smile. "Do I? No matter! I talk as I feel. If it sounds ex- travagant, remember that I feel so. Yet I find relief in being allowed to speak so unrestrainedly. I have had for so long a kind of pent-up feeling, a stifled, choking sensation, as if my heart were being smothered for a breath of God's air." '"Bernice," said Oswald, suddenly, after a pause, "I have been thinking that Dr. Rashton's influence upon us is bad. He makes me more uncomfortable each time I am with him. "He is never indignant at the wrong when it does not discommode him. He does not become excited from any sense of outraged justice, but passes evil with placid recog- page: 274-275[View Page 274-275] 274 REPENTANCE PROMSIN REFORMATION. nition, as if he knew it too well, and expected it too con- stantly to be at all startled by its presence. "When he advances anything generous or disinterested, he does it with an air of saying, ' This much for the sake iof argument, merely for the sake of argument. I know that a show of goodness is humbug, all humbug in. any one, but we sup-, pose the thing to be genuine, for the sake of argument.' Haven't you noticed this peculiarity of his?" B "Yes," rejoined Bernice, "I think I have." "Have you never noticed that he offers commendation as if he were merely trying an experiment with your vanity, to see how much you would believe of his ironical praise?" "I am not sure, Oswald. What you say may be true. My feelings towards Dr. Rashton have in them so large an element of compassion that I am perhaps more lenient in my judgment of him than I otherwise should be. "I have noticed, however, that the atmosphere of his presence is not a healthful one. He inspires me intellectu- ally. He rouses my brain to intensest activity. He appeals to my sympathy. He commands my admiration because of his mental endowments, yet he invariably leaves me uncom- 1 fortable. "His influence somehow withers my faith in human na- ture. The good seems farther off. The evil nearer by. He fascinates, yet he repels me. He seems to cripple my aspir- ation after the Infinite by covertly sneering at it. My re- ligion dwindles into fanaticism, and my faith into blind cre- dulity when he analyzes it for me. "The dark defiance of his mood seems to fold itself over me, until I do not soar Godward for light, but sit in the sul- len despair of something that is like, oh, terribly like un- belief." Bernice Kent covered her face with her hands, and seemed to shrink from some phantom-shape of terror. Oswald passed an arm about his sister's waist, and said, softly, "That acquaintance has sprung up in our path like " \ IREPENTANCE PROMSING REFORMATION. 275 an Upas tree. It will blight our plants if we do not uproot it. We will, sister, will we not?" Ii "Yes, Oswald, we will. We have been dazzled by a bril- liant intellect, and a passionate heart, whose cries of starva- tion could but win a compassion-akin to tenderness, but there is danger in submitting ourselves to any great power whose influence is not Godward. n "Some one, I think it was poor dear Winthrop, has said, 'Those who know evil best fly farthest from it.' "They do not tamper with it. They do not parley and compromise and let the beast through the door by inches, thinking its body can do no harm, so long as its ravenous jaws are outside the door." "Yes," returned Oswald, "that is the trouble; for when the body has been admitted the beast can force an entrance for its head, and when the ravenous jaws of destruction threaten, we can remember the little 'no harm' concessions. The end of the beast's tail and then his legs and body, and then the head, that would come after we had given the body so much power." "Oh, Oswald," exclaimed Bernice, "you are so much com- fort to me. You always understand me. You enter so readily into my thought and translate it for me so easily. You are truly my brother. You are getting to be more like pa every day, yet pa is not as he was. He is always busy of late, and I do not see him so much as I used to. He has seemed for months to love me less than he did when I was a child. Somehow he don't understand me. When I think of it I feel inexpressibly desolate and miserable." "Oh, I vmuldn't feel so, Bernice. It will all come around right with you and pa after awhile. If I were in your place, I'd stay at home more, and go into society less. It doesn't do you any good to be so frivolous. You are not happy. You cannot be so away from home. Pa is getting old, and we owe it to him to make home as pleasant as possible for him." page: 276-277[View Page 276-277] 276 REPENTANCE PROMSING EFO BMAT ION. "Dear, dear Oswald, I love you so much better for telling me these things," rejoined Bernice. "I know my duty. I will try to perform it more faithfully hereafter. I am going to stay at home. I am going to win back pa's affection and confidence. I hate frivolity. I am disgusted with the gay world. I loathe its envious, back-biting flirts, and its ego- tistical, empty-headed fops. "My spiritual eyesight is pained with the glare of its tinsel. The bitterness of its wormwood and gall maddens my heart's unquenched thirst. I am capable of a higher life than this, and I will live it. To be ' out of society' will wound my vanity for a time, but I shall be a better woman for it." Oswald Kent leaned his cheek against his sister's forehead and whispered, "We'll help each other, Bernice. We are both unhappy. We will commence over again." There was an unsteady step in the hall, a hand on' the door-knob, and in a moment more Dr. Kent entered. "Why pa, how pale you are? What is the matter?" asked Bernice, springing up in alarm. "I am not well-I am faint. I could scarcely get up stairs. Help me-to my room-Oswald." Oswald Kent assisted his father to his room, and Bernice hastily despatched a messenger for Dr. Rashton, as hi was the nearest physician. Dr. Kent was a large, powerfully organized man, who had never, within the recollection of Bernice, had a serious ill- ness. To see him so pale to hear him gasp between his sentences, and pant, as from over-exertion when he had finished speaking, seemed a very terrible thing to her. She tried to be calm. Tried to suppress any outcry. Tried to be reassured when Dr. Rashton- came, and told her that there was no immediate danger; yet she could not avoid following him to the street-door, and saying, with an ir- repressible sob in her voice, "Dr. Rashton, if my father were to die I should never get over it. You must not let him die." I: REPENTANCE PROMSING REFORMATION. 2" "I shall have to give you a morphine powder, Miss Kent, if you don't be more quiet," rejoined Dr. Rashton with a smile. "Oh you are so indifferent. Is there really no danger? Tell me truly. A presentiment crowds darkly over me. I could not bear it, Dr. Rashton, if my father were to die! I could not bear it!" she sobbed. "You are a very nervous young lady, but I shall deny you the privilege of being miserable, by assuring you that there is not the slightest danger of your father's dying of this illness. Take some morphine, and go to your room and sleep off this nervousness, or I shall have you for a patient shortly." Bernice tried to smile, tried to feel reassured as she bade Dr. Rashton good night, but a persistent pain clung to her with cruel strength. What if he should die? Die before she could prove to him that she was not frivolous ; not lacking in affection; not ungrateful for the years of toil and self-sacrifice he had given for her sake? Die before her repentance for frivolity and selfish indifference could shape itself in reformation, and repay him in a measure for his self-immolation? What if he should die? Die now, while her heart was bursting with filial affection so long pent up? What if he should even welcome the Death-river, and drink eagerly of the dark waters to quench the thirst of his fainting heart? What if he should die? The thought was madness! It haunted her as she walked softly into her father's room. The curtains shivered and trembled with the query! The carpet appeared to glow with crimson of hot pain as it reiterated the question. The very counterpane- seemed to shrink and palpitate with agony at the suggestion; while the pale face and closed eyes of Dr. Kent were like, so terri- bly like death, that Bernice sprang forward with an irre- pressible cry, as of one suddenly and mortally wounded, and sobbed, "Oh, my pa, my own pa, open your eye sone page: 278-279[View Page 278-279] Z; I REPENTANCE PROMSING REFORMATION. time, and say you are not sick much. Say that you will be well soon, my own dear pa, or I shall die." Dr. Kent opened his eyes, looked at Bernice in apparent surprise, and said, "No darling, not sick much! What makes you sob so?" "Oh pa, my own dear, dearest father, I know that I have been a frivolous, selfish, ungrateful child, but I was so un- consciously. I didn't mean to be so, pa, my own dear pa! I didn't intend to neglect you, and forget to make home pleasant for you. No, no, but I did; and I'm sorry for it now, so sorry. Say you forgive me, pa. Say you know I was selfish and frivolous, but never, no never, lacking in real affection. Say you forgive everything I have done from babyhood to wound or annoy you. Say you love me, pa Say that I am your own dear little girl! Say it, pa--for my heart breaks to-night." Bernice Kent sobbed convulsively, and the father whis- pered, "My own dear little girl. My precious darling daugh- ter, you know that I love you, and understand that your faults are of the head rather than the heart. I understand that you never intend to do wrong; and I could forgive you, even if you had intended to do wrong, so soon as you be- came repentant." "I never meant to be neglectful of you, pa, my own pa," but I am sorry for my carelessness, my gloomy selfishness that made me forget every duty in the desire to find some- thing to drown my own morbid unhappiness. I have not been myself for a long, long time. But I will commence over again, pa, and be better than I have ever been, if you will only get well, pa, my own dearest, darling pa." She covered her father's hand and cheek and forehead with kisses and tears as he whispered, "Yes, yes, my beau- tiful, my darling child. We will commence over. Nothing shall ever come between us any more. Nothing but death." "Not that, pa, not that! Don't say death! I could not bear it. You will not die, pa, say you will not," she sobbed I ]MRS. BAGSHAW'S HANDS. 279 "I did not mean that death would come between us now, my child! I meant simply that so long as we both live, we shall allow nothing to estrange us again ever so slightly." "Nothing, no, no! Nothing! I am going to rub out the memory of all the morbid, restless, feverish past, with its frivolity and unhappiness, and I will commence over again!" sobbed Bernice. "Yes, yes! kiss pa good night now, and go to bed! I hear, Oswald coming. He will attend to me. You must go to bed. You need sleep," whispered Dr. Kent. Bernice kissed her father many, last, last penitent times, and left him; yet the pain in her heart was persistent, and her dreams that night were feverish and unrefreshing. c Towards morning she dreamed that she gasped and pant- ed under a weight, a heavy weight that pressed on her breast and crushed the vital, throbbing portion of her heart, until she could scarcely breathe for the pain. She dreamed that it was dark, all dark, yet after a time she discerned that the weight was a coffin, a long black coffin, heavy as lead. Then she dreamed that a grey light came through the win- dow and she saw the outlines of her burden more distinctly. Then she dreamed of putting her hand over the edge of the coffin until it dropped down on the inside and touched a frozen face, that, by the sense of touch alone, she recog- nized as her father's. A groan of mortal agony burst from her lips and waked her. CHAPTER XXXVII. r MS. BAGSHAW'S HANDS EAR little Mrs. Bagshaw! Patient, kind hearted lit- tle Mrs. Bagshaw! What a faithful nurse she was! d How invaluable to the Kents during Dr. Kent's ill- page: 280-281[View Page 280-281] 280 MZS. BAGSHAW'S HANDS. ness! She it was who could always contrive some delicacy for the invalid's fastidious appetite. She it was who, never having seen a play, nor heard an opera, nor travelled through Europe, nor done nor seen anything to entitle her to the re-? spect of' our best people,' came into the household of Kent and brought the higher poetry of womanly tact and assistance. ? Her fingers were large, and rough with the marks of years of usefulness. Ad You would never experience any poetic raptures looking at those hands, on account of their symmetry or grace, yet i if you had seen discomfort disappear, and home loveliness grow from their ministrations, as the Kents saw and realized, you would have known what blessed hands they were. They never trilled an aria on a piano ; nor immortalized a landscape on canvas, nor thrilled a poet by their exquisite as shape and color, but oh the work they did, the grand, beauti- ful, dignified work they did! Angels of love smile on them for the work they did. I They were the hands that made the sitting-room tidy and inviting and home-like. They found and remedied the torn curtain, the spots on the window-pane, the stain on the table-cover. i They understood the thousand and one little things that produce a general sense of comfort or discomfort, as they are remedied or neglected. They were the hands that redeemed the sick room from dreariness. They understood that merely sweeping and dusting is a very small part of housewifery. They threw the snowy napkins over the little stand of medicines, until, catching a glimpse only of the glittering goblets and spoons, one could well fancy a dainty feast un- der the snowy folds of the concealing napkin. They put all the disagreeable things out of sight, and made all the agreeable things more conspicuous, and changed the hot, feverish, soiled pillows, for cool, fresh ones, and knew just when the medicines should be given, and had the sugar ? 4 : S a, MRS. BAGSHAW'S HANDS. 281 and ice always ready, and seemed never to weary bringing things up stairs, and taking things down stairs, and making everybody near them acknowledge their blessed mission. Oh, those hands, those hands! Hands that translated the poetry and sublimityof womanly skill and unselfislhnesg more perfectly than volumes of verse can ever do! Hands that sublimate a house until it is home! Hands, such as every woman might have, yet hands such as so few women, comparatively speaking, do have! " Now, Miss Bernice, I must run over home awhile. I ex- pect everything will just go to rack and ruin if I stay away much longer. You can find the directions on the medicines how to give them. You won't need to give any for an hour yet. I am so sorry I can't stay longer, but I must go now.)" Mrs. Bagshaw put on her bonnet and was leaving the room, when Bernice caught her hand and said, with a sob, "Dear, dear Mrs. Bagshaw, you are so kind! I don't know what we should have done without you!" Mrs. Bagshaw smiled, a little deprecatingly, and said, "Oh, I haven't done anything! I wish I coulid do some- thing!" She felt awkward and embarrassed, listening to Bernice's profuse thanks. You, my dear madam, would have nodded at the woman patronizingly, and considered her "a very well-meaning person," whose existence you might have tolerated in con- sideration of her newly acquired wealth, but for no other reason, I am convinced. Yet, right here, the query is born in my mind; Which is most truly and nobly the woman, you, or Mrs. Bagshaw? You can sing, and paint, and dance; but, oh, those blessed, patient, toiling, comfort-diffusing, peace-giving hands of Mrs. Bagshaw's! You haven't those hands, and, perhaps, when the Master comes, and the products of your five talents of culture, intellect, wealth, etc., are called for,. page: 282-283[View Page 282-283] 282 MRS. BAGSHAW'S HANDS. they may not compare favorably with Mrs. Bagshaw's one talent, and her blessed, blessed hands. Bernice Kent thought of them,/ and laid her wet cheek. against them so reverently and tenderly, that unsophisti- !s cated little Mrs. Bagshaw blushed, and hurried away with somethinglike a mist of tears in her own eyes. "I will be a woman, too. An earnest, unselfish, home- i glorifying woman, as well as Mrs. Bagshaw," Bernice Kent said to herself, as soon as she was alone. "I will learn the secret of home-comfort. The housewifery that is poetry , ^ and beauty. I am tired of frivolity. Tired of the so-called 'higher life' that means indolence, and a mania for art. Tired of metaphysical discussions, that mean weariness, and engender egotism and strong-mindedness, and crush out the holier gentleness of true womanhood, "True womanliness is patience, courage, self-sacrifice. After all, the true victory of life is to conquer self. I will try." "Bernice, my child," said Dr. Kent, as she entered her father's room, "Come to me." She approached him, and sat down by his bedside. "Wo will love each other, my precious child, won't we?" said the father, with an emotion so unwonted, that Bernice? thought it indicative of nervousness, and increased debility.' "Yes, yes, my own dear pa ;" she rejoined, soothingly, as she caressed her father's forehead. "It has been so cruel a misunderstanding, my child, but it is all right, now. All right, little darling. The letter miscarried, and was sent from the dead-letter office to the place where it was written, and from there it was forwarded here to you. We have misunderstood each other so long, my child, but it is all right, now." "Oh, my pa, my own pa!" exclaimed Bernice, with a burst of tears; " if you could know how wretched I have been in this estrangement, you would know how thankful and happy it makes me to be back again in your heart. MRS. BAGSHAW S HANDS. 283 You have always been so patient, and forbearing. You have been the very dearest and best father in the world. [f you will only get well, I will ba more dutiful daughter than I have ever been. I do so want to be worthy of your Offection, and prove to you that I am not ungrateful for all the years of your life that you have given to your children." The father said "( Yes, yes, my precious little darling," mnd lay quite still, with slow tears stealing from under his 1losed eyelids, that seemed to droop with physical weak- ness, and a tide of unsaid thankfulness. So long, so long, it seemed to him, that he had waited for that hour; an hour in which his great hungry heart could revel in an abundance of that purest of all loves, a daughter's love. Ah, the sere and yellow leaves of life had rustled dismally, and the winter of desolation had seemed drawing very near, yet, in this hour, the hour of renewed confidence and affec- tion, years seemed to roll, away and leave the father leagues nearer the vigor of youth. There had been manyhours in the unconscious childhood of Bernice Kent, when the father had dreamed of this hour, the hour in which he could feel that all toil and self-sacri- flee was more than repaid by grateful affection. The hour 9 in which he could recognize those traits of mind and heart he had most striven to cultivate. And Bernice Kent? The charred, unsatisfactory record of the past few months faded. The fevered pulse of restless discontent was soothed and calmed by the cool flow of i delicious tears, that were thank-offerings of joy. There are some hours- that are given. to be memory's balm for much after sorrow, and to Bernice Kent this was one of those hours. JFS . ei page: 284-285[View Page 284-285] 284 DR. KENT'S COMPENSATION. CHAPTER XXXVIII. I '^^^ DR. RENT S COMPENSATION. BAY^ OU are so much better this morning, pa, and the sun ,:% shines so bright, and the spring-flowers will soon ? ? be in bloom; and, altogether, I am so happy." Bernice Kent's expression, as she bent over her embroid- ery, was one of perfect contentment. - "I am glad you are so happy, my beautiful," rejoined the F father; "for you are beautiful, when you are happy. Your face is like the sky, beautiful when it is bright." "You dear, good pa, you were always such a flatterer;" said Bernice, fondly, as she leaned over and kissed him. "You deserve every good thing in life. You are the very best man in the world. When you get well, we can be so happy. Can't we, pa?" "I hope so, my child. My practice is increasing, and I have every prospect of success. In a few years we shall be independent. So soon as I get out of debt our income will I support us." 9 "Do you know, pa, that it has always been a matter of as- tonishment to me, not unmixed with rebellion, that you have not received more from the hand of Providence than you have received. I have often felt that other persons met their rewards and retributions in this world, but that you had never received any compensation. I do not see what God has given you in return for the life you have devoted to 7 Him. What compensation has He given you, my precious father?" ' i Bernice Kent bent over her father with an expression whose tinge of bitterness arose from her affection. "He has given me my children. He has made me happy in their devotion. He has more than compensated me for all toil and deprivation. God is just. ' He is ever merciful and giveth.' Do not ever again doubt His goodness. Do O DR. KENT'S COMPENSATION. 285 not rebel against Him, thinking that He has given me nothing but toil and poverty. He has given me the desires of my heart. The promise is fulfilled. ' Trust in the Lord and He shall give thee the desires of thine heart.' He, who knew me best, understood that to make me happiest would be to. give me such children as He has given me. I am satisfied." Dr. Kent closed his eyes, and some slow tears struggled down his cheeks. "Oh pa, my own, own, precious pa, if I ever had been worthy to call you father, my heart would not ache so now with the recollection of so much selfishness. I have been frivolous and ungrateful, but oh, I am going to be so differ- ent. You will be well soon, pa, my own darling pa, and then I will show you that I can be all that a daughter could be, so far as love goes." Bernice sobbed for a few moments uncontrollably. To see her father prostrated by physical weakness, to re- member all the years of his self-sacrificing life; to know the depth of his devotion to his children; to realize that God had not forgotten that father's compensation; and to regret her own thoughtlessness wrung, tears from her heart's deep- est fountains. "Yes, I know, I know. God has given me the best chil- dren in the world. I am more than compensated. He who accomplishes the aim of his life is Victor. Though I should die in comparative poverty and obscurity I should not be vanquished, for God has given me all of this world that I desired." Bernice Kent could only bury her face in her father's pil- low and sob a wordless thanksgiving to the God who, ruling nations and sitting on a throne high above the Heavens, and listening to the adoration of Cherubim and Seraphim, had not forgotten her father's compensation. The thought was - new life to her faith, new growth to her soul, and took her leagues nearer Heaven. page: 286-287[View Page 286-287] 286 DR. KENT S COMPENSATION. "I think," said Dr. Kent, an hour afterwards, c that I will get up and walk about the house to give me strength. I must get up soon. My patients need me, and I can gain i strength by taking moderate exercise." So anxious to be well. So eager for the unfinished work his hands had found to do. So determined to conquer dis- ease, and wrest strength from the invisible power,- that for more than an hour Dr. Kent walked up and down the room. At the end of that time he sank into an easy-chair and said, "I shall soon be well again, but I am tired now, very tired." He lifted his hand to his face, and brushed off a tear that seemed to have come from sheer weakness and nervousness. "Oswald, my son," he said, as Oswald entered the room, "c come here and sit by me." The tears came faster down the father's face, and his voice was unsteady, as he said, "Oh my son, you have been such a comfort to me. I have been so proud of you, my boy, my precious boy. You have done everything that a son could do. You are the best boy in the world." Oswald Kent laid his cheek against his father's hand with a mingling of love and reverence, and because his heart was so full he uttered no word. "Oh, my children, my children!" said Dr. Kent, looking up as Aureola entered the room. "I am so proud of all my children. They are God's compensation unto me. He re- membered me when He gave them to me." And these words engraved themselves in three hearts, there to be worn until the hearts themselves should be grave-dust. "You are weak and tired, pa. You had better lie down. I am afraid you have exerted yourself too much," said Ber- nice, so soon as she could speak for tears. "Yes, a little weak, a little tired. That is all. Let me lie down, children, my precious children." ! DR. KENT'S COMP3NSATION. 287 Oh the ineffable tenderness of that tone and that face; and oh, the God-given memory of that hour! Verily there are times when God pities and blesses us, and we know it not until afterwards. For hours Dr. Kent lay in a stupor. Once he roused him- self and said, "Bernice, you ought not to have let me walk so much. It was too much for me. ' Too much for me." Yet even while Bernice Kent bent over him to catch his words, he seemed to drop away into a slumber of peacefulness and to forget how tired he was. So the day wore on. The next day he was unconscious. Once, he seemed temporarily roused, and when Bernice said, "Pa, I have been sitting up so much that I must try to sleep a little before night, kiss me before I go," the father returned her caress and said, with evident difficulty, "Good night-darling-precious-daughter." And oh, there were nights of darkness and desolation, and days of pain and weariness coming afterwards, when unto the soul of Bernice Kent these words rung themselves like voices from the spirit-world. "How do you think pa -is this evening?" asked Aureola Kent, as Dr. Rashton stood by the bedside of his patient. "In twenty-four hours the crisis will be passed, and he will either be better or be dead. I think he will be dead," was the answer. "Dead! Did you say dead?" shrieked Bernice Kent, clutching her brother's arm with frantic pain. "Dead," was reiterated; and with the weight of that word she fainted. When she returned to consciousness she found Oswald supporting her in his arms, and when a groan of mortal agony burst from her white lips, he it was who whispered, "My poor, stricken darling, try to bear it." And oh, the brother-love, the brother-love that God gave into Bernice Kent, for the need and darkness of that hour I A love tender as a mother's, protecting as a father's, and ca- ressing as a sister's. A love such as could have been given by no other human being than Oswald Kent. page: 288-289[View Page 288-289] 288 DI. KENT'S COMPENSATION. "My poor darling! My poor, stricken darling, lean on me," he would whisper over and over again, unmindful of his own pain. Yet, for answer, Bernice Kent could only moan, "c Leave me, Oswald, darling. Leave me, everybody. Don't look at me. Don't speak to me. I can't waste time. There are twenty-four hours yet, let me spend them in prayer. Oh God, spare my father!" So the cry went on. Hour after hour, the breaking heart uttered itself in wildest petitions. Sometimes the pain was maddening and the echoless prayer torture. Then she would seem to totter on the verge of delirium, and grow de- D fiant. Then she would say fiercely, "If this prayer is refused, I will never pray another. If God denies me so little I will pray never any more. Oh my father, if I could follow you!" And the night wore on, with its alternations of petitions and defiance, that were equally expressive of intensest suf- fering. i "It is not the time for you to d-e, pa, my own pa! I was just commencing over, I was going to make you happier than I ever have made you. Oh God, two years, two little years more of life for my father!" The grey dawn struggled over the eastern sky; and the watchers who had sat by the bedside of Dr. Kent went outi to give place to other watchers who had been refreshed by! sleep. Some one going out whispered to Bernice, "For your brother's sake try to be more calm. See how you distress him by giving up so. You are selfish in your grief. See how calm your sister is ; yet she suffers, and your brother suffers. Be calm for their sakes." -Bernice roused herself from the stupor of her grief and said, "I will be calm, calm as the grave. Come to me, Os- wald, and see how calm I am." After that she sat up, supporting Oswald's head on her shoulder, while her arm encircled his neck. "You dear, brave sister," he whispered soothingly, while DB. KENT'S COMPENSATION. 289 Aureola stood, with clenched hands and a white frozen face, looking at her father, apparently unconscious of all the world save only him, and regarding him as if petrified by his pallor and quick uneven breathing. Hours dragged their slow length into Eternity, hours of most torturing silence, and then, as if a sudden madness had seized her, Bernice sprang to her father's bedside and shrieked, "Oh my pa, my own pa, you cannot die, you must not, shall not die! Speak to me. Look at me. Open your eyes one time, one last, last time, and look at me." But the eyes unclosed not. The lips spoke not. The great, generous heart beat more feebly, and Death seemed more cruel than a fiend. Then Bernice Kent raved. Then she demanded by what right God created human beings to torture them so. In her temporary madness, she defied and reproached any power that would separate her from her father. Those who heard were appalled, and shrank from her as from a maniac. Then they led her from the room, and forced her into bed. There was something like a lull. The noises in the street seemed to cease. Where the hot tears had been, burned fevered blisters. The world seemed to choke and gasp, and then stagger with pain. The town-clock struck one.' Oswald Kent stood in the doorway and looked at Bernice with such an expres- sion as the mother Mary might have cast upon her crucified Jesus. "Is your father dead, Oswald?" asked Bernice, with most unnatural calmness. A quiver of agony trembled on the boy's mouth, and he wiped it away with his handkerchief, as if he would hide his white lips from his sister's hot, swollen eyes. "He does not suffer any more," Oswald whispered, as he sat down by his sister's bedside. Aureola came into the room, and said, "He died so peacefully, Bernice. It would comfort you to look at him." 13 page: 290-291[View Page 290-291] 291 Bernice rose and tottered out of the room. Strange as it may seem, Aureola had prophesied truly. She was com- forted by the dead face that confronted her. When she had last looked upon it, it had been contracted with pain, and the fierceness of a struggle that was that unequal contest all must have with Death. Now a smile of ineffable peace and rest had drifted over the frozen features, and the weary head seemed to have leaned itself trastingly and gratefully on the breast of the Conqueror. The struggle was over. The conflict ended, and oh, the rapturous triumph of that face declared that however the soul of Horace Kent had been accounted in this world, in the other world it was joyfully proclaimed Victor. At last he had truly found his compensation for all sorrow and toil. CHAPTER XXXIX. (GOD S PROMSE FULFILLED. 'r -LMA BRAINARD, blue-eyed Alma Brainard, there were some hours of your life that would, I think, '? mantle a multitude of faults, even in a character less perfect. And they were the hours you spent with the Kents in the first bitterness of their bereavement. They were the hours in which you sought to be God's instrument to fulfil His promise, "c Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." Brave, sweet-faced, patient, Alima Brainard, though the cruel vortex called " society," should bear you down to des- truction, and the record of your life be a blurred error, even then, I think, compassionate angels would forgive you, because you did their bidding so faithfully when the dark- est hour of Bernice Kent's life fell upon her. "You and Aureola must go home with me, and stay until you are well. Dr. Rashton thinks it will be better for you," said Alma, as she bent over the half-unconscious Bernice. "Come, it is almost dark, and the carriage is waiting for you," she urged, still later, as the day was approaching night, and Bernice seemed reluctant to go. "How can I leave my father?" she asked, as if unable to realize that he had left her, and could never again be affected by her presence or absence. "I will stay with him. Go now, darling, for my sake," urged Oswald, leading his sister to the carriage waiting at the door. "My brain whirls, Alma. What shall I do?" asked Bernice, as they were being driven to the Brainards. Something must be done, or I shall go out of my mind. Do you know anything that would comfort me?" "You ought to think how much happier your father is, and be consoled!" suggested Alma. "Oh, if I knew that, if I only could know!" saidBernice. "But the Unknown is dark to me. I do not understand it. I do not know what .it means. I have been taught some- thing about a heaven and a hell, but it has been only theory. Only theory-that is vague and intangible, and unsatisfactory, now that my father is launched into the Unknown so suddenly. What is it? Oh, what is it, this terrible thing they call Death? It seems a new thing to me! What is the creed? What is the theory they call religion? I have forgotten. I remember vaguely some hard, hard conditions, giving something they call salvation, and something else they call torment, eternal torment, where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. "I have read, or heard, or dreamed some cruel threat about, 'he that offends in the least, is guilty of all;' and, my father was only human. No human being could avoid offending in the least, when the conditions are so hard. page: 292-293[View Page 292-293] 292 GOD'S PROMSE -FULFILED. ! Alma Brainard, I declare to you, that if I thought my! father in torment, I should want to go there too. I should! want to suffer with him, and soothe his pain with my love." "Oh, he is not in torment. He was a good man, Ber- nice, and you ought to comfort yourself with the belief that -he is happy," said Alma, soothingly, and compassionately. "Oh, if I could know; if I only could know," said Ber- nice, clasping her hands with the torture of doubt. "Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth;" whispered Aureola, with a peaceful resignation stealing over her face. "Oh, yes," said Bernice, bitterly, "I used to know those phrases by heart. I used to say them to persons who were afflicted, but I never knew what empty sounding, meaning- less things they were. - "I never understood until now, that they do not reach a pain that demands something tangible to relieve it. I want proof of these things. Something has happened to my father. He is cold and still. He cannot move. He cannot speak. He is what they call 'dead,' and they will bury him, and he will crumble into dust, and I shall not see him any more." Bernice Kent sobbed aloud. "Oh, yes, sister, we shall see him, again. He is 'not lost, only gone before," whispered Aureola. "Prove it to me," said Bernice, fiercely. "Prove to me that there is a God." "There must be a Power that gives and takes life ; some agency, potent as mysterious, must have been at work, for see how wonderful the results," said Aureola, with some- thing awe-inspiring in her face, that was like unto nothing so much as the sublimity of faith. "Yes, yes," returned Bernice, slowly, as if touched by her sister's argument. "I think I can believe that. There must be a God. A Power that is omnipotent. A Power that can give life and take it away. A Power that can create a soul, and control it. I understand that." GOD'S PROMSE FULMLLED. 293 "Then, sister, trust that Infinite Power." "Trust it?" echoed Bernice, pressing her hot hands to her throbbing forehead. "Trust it, when it is so relentless, so pitiless as to give me this pain, this suspense, this torture. No, no! It is a cruel Power, a wicked, merciless Power, that has made everything dark, dark, all dark and dizzy to me. I cannot trust. I cannot submit. I want to defy it. I want to reproach it with my pain. It may crush me into dust, but every atom of my body will be rebellion." "Oh, sister, sister, how insane you are!" exclaimed Aureola, shocked and troubled beyond expression. "Insane! Oh, yes! Your invisible, mysterious agency may goad me to insanity. May deprive me of my reason, as it has deprived me of my father, but I shall rebel. I shall die xebelling against this cruelty." Bernice Kent glared at her sister with unreasoning ferocity. "Oh, Alma, what shall I do?" sobbed Aureola, clinging to Alma Brainard's hand. "I will send for our minister to talk to. her, so soon as we get home. I am sure he can comfort her," returned Alma. "Comfort me?" sneered Bernice, with that bitterness that comes only from intensest suffering. "Comfort me? Can he give my father back to me? Can he make him look at me and speak to me? If he cannot do that, he can do noth- ing. I do not want him to pray with me, or for me. I have been praying all of my life, and what good has it done? What good has it done, I say?" Neither Aureola nor Miss Brainard returned any answer, and a silence fell upon the trio that lasted until they reached their destination. Mrs. Brainard was a large, fine-looking woman, who re- ceived the bereaved sisters with kindest hospitality, and a certain degree of cheerfulness that was intended to divert their minds from excessive grief. "We will take Bernice right up to Fannie's room, and let ( . r - U page: 294-295[View Page 294-295] 294 GOD'S PROMSE FULFILLED. her lie on Fannie's bed," said Mrs. Brainard, leading the way to a small cosy bed-chamber, that seemed to have been previously prepared to soothe and invite to rest. "There, you will just go right to bed. I am so sorry Fan- nie is not at home. She would be so glad to have you in her room. She loves you so dearly," said Mrs. Brainard, with a cheerful ignoring of Bernice's grief that sent its hot tides back, chilled, to their source, and was, perhaps, more effectual in quieting the turbulent pulse than any amount of warm, sympathetic demonstration could have been. Mrs. Brainard offered not a word of religious consolation, nor gave one token of understanding that Bernice was suf- fering from anything more than an ordinary illness. She went about with cheerful, dignified, graceful hospi- tality. Lighting the gas, arranging Bernice's pillows and performing other little offices with a composure iat made Bernice Kent stare at her aghast. What did the woman mean? Didn't she understand how terrible a thing had happened? Couldn't she realize that the world staggered through space, giddy with pain? What was the woman maae of, that she could be so cheerful and composed in the presence of such a sorrow? Bernice sat up in bed as she asked herself these questions, and stared at Mrs. Brainard as if studying the proportions of a monster. "You feel better now. Yes, a little better. I'll bathe your head with bay rum, and you'll lie down. Then you'll go to sleep. Yes, youll take a nice sleep, and you'll wake up feel- ing better, much better," said Mrs. Brainard, approaching the sufferer with her persistent cheerfulness. Bernice closed her eyes, with the dumb dreariness of a freezing pain, that seemed to numb her very soul, andsank back on her pillow. After all it was only her tragedy. What did Mrs. Brain- ard care? The pain was her own, all her own! What though her heart should break with the weight of that pain? ^\ GOD'S PROMSE FULLLED. 295 What mattered it? Hearts had broken and crumbled to dust centuries before, yet the world had gone on just as well without them. .The world was full of cheerful, complacent Mrs. Brainards, who could look agony calmly in the face and remain undisturbed by its writhings. These were the thoughts that banished tears from the white face of Bernice Kent, and made her silent as resigna- tion could have done. "Do you feel like praying now?" whispered Alma Brain- ard, entering the room and bending over the bedside. "No, no," moaned Bernice. "Do not mock me. If you know anything about the Hereafter I shouldn't mind hear- ing that, but I cannot listen to prayer." "I sent for our minister, Mr. Arion; perhaps he can tell you something. He is waiting in the next room. Shall I bring him in?" asked Alma, with tears glistening in her blue, blue, beautiful eyes like dew in the hearts of April violets. Bernice acquiesced with a nod, and in a moment more she was alone with Philip Arion. For a time he sat looking at her; as if, having taken no thought what he should say, he waited in that hour to be taught. -, The silence oppressed Bernice, and she opened her eyes. A face sublimated y faith, and softened by compassion, confronted her. It soothed her awh an expression that might have been, "Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." The wonderful eyes were steady and compassionate, yet oh, how full of the glory of strength, and the sublimity of faith! the faith that, in every time of need, is a rod and a staff to comfort and sustain the weak and distressed,- the faith that is not merely a theory but a reality. A some- thing active and sleepless as the beating of one's own heart. It looked out from the depths of those wondrous eyes, and page: 296-297[View Page 296-297] 296 GOD'S PROMSE 3FrIYD JD. going down into the soul of Bernice Kent, traversed with patient wing the great deep of her desolation. It touched her as no words could have done. It seemed half like the approach of glad tidings, and reaching out her hands with a passionate gesture, she sobbed, "Oh if you know anything about the Hereafter, tell it to me. My father has gone there, and I want to know something about him. I don't understand why God took him. I rebel. Can you comfort me? I am going mad with suspense." "There need be no suspense," rejoined the low, firm, soothing voice. "He who created us loves us. He gave his only begotten Son in token of His love for us, and he afflicts none of us willingly, but for our good." "Why did He take my father? He was a good man, an actively good man, and there is no one in the world that can take his place. Why did God take him?" demanded Ber- nice, with unreasoning pain and defiance. "Perhaps your father had finished the work God had giv- en him to do, and the Infinite Love gave him rest. We are told that "l He giveth His beloved sleep," was the answer. "Oh," exclaimed Bernice with a passionate rain of tears, "Did He take my father in love? Did He take him out of the world to give him rest and peace? If I knew that I could submit." "Trust God. Remember that He is good as He is great. Remember that not a sparrow falls to the ground without His care ; and trust your father to that love and mercy that is so infinite as to be mindful of even a sparrow." "Oh you comfort me, you comfort me," sobbed Bernice, as the white dove of faith dropped an olive branch of peace in the outstretched palm of her pleading soul. "Your father has entered into his reward. God has giv- en His beloved sleep," chimed out the low voice, soothing as the echo of a seraph's harp. "I believe. I know. I submit. Thank God the dark- ness has all gone. I understand the compassionate Redeem- PRECEPT AND PRACTICE. 297 er. God loved my father, and took him because He loved him. Oh, I can bear the pain and loneliness, endure the orphan- hood, since I know and am persuaded that God has made my father happier than I could ever have made him. The pain is gone. I understand now. Glory, Glory to God in the highest." Up, up on the white wings of faith, -the soul of Bernice Kent soared until it bathed in the sun-bright glories of the Eternal City and grew stronger with the Heavenward flight. She seemed to hear a murmur of music, and to feel a rapture of light that wiped all tears from her eyes, and gave her a sense of delicious ease and rest; soothing her into such a slumber as might have been born of angel-lullabies. The swollen eyelids closed, the tired heart forgot its pain, the hot fingers lost their fever in the cool waters of oblivion, and unto Bernice Kent came the blessed realization of the truth that "He giveth His beloved sleep." The promise of Divine love found its beautiful fulfilment, "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." CHAPTER XL. M PRECEPT AND PRACTICE. Vti1,HE funeral was over. The sickening details of r% coffin and hearse and burial service concluded. The t EKents, stunned and bewildered by their loss, were undecided how to shape their course for the future. "Of course you cannot think of staying where you have been," said Mrs. Brainard. "It would be utter folly for you three to try to keep house. You must go to boarding. You could never endure the rush of recollection that would come over you living there as you did when your father was alive. You must break up, and sell out everything as soon as pos- sible." page: 298-299[View Page 298-299] 298 PRECEPT AND PRACTICE. So it was decided that the Kents should go to hoarding again. Anything for a change. Anything to escape the in- satiate pain of persistent memory. It was a week after the funeral when Bernice Kent said to her sister, "Aureola, we ought to go over and begin packing up our things, so as to be out of the house as soon as pos- sible." "Oh," exclaimed Aureola, with a sob, "how can I bear it? How can I revive it all by going there, by seeing his clothes and handling his books, and remembering all that we have lost." "Well," rejoined Mrs. Brainard, with an air of consider- it ing herself personally and especially aggrieved by Aureola's remark, " somebody must do it, that's very clear; and I don't know anybody that's better able to do it than you are." Aureola looked up with a surprise that was silent from its very intensity : so that no one assured Mrs. Brainard, with freezing irony, that she was " very lady like, very refined." Indeed, had any one done so, she would have been the very last person to detect any approach to irony in such a senti- ment applied to herself. "Ve will go at once," said Bernice, rising to her feet, even though her brain reeled with the effort. "We all have duties to perform," began Mrs. Brainard, folding her hands with an air of congratulating herself upon the remark; " and we can't expect to shirk them. We all have our work to do, and we can't expect anybody to do it for us." Alma Brainard looked up a moment, with a suppressed smile about her mouth, and then bent closer over a dress she was making for her mother, while that lady sat regarding her with the cheerful equanimity of approving indolence. "No," Mrs. Brainard continued, with a wave of her hand that she seemed to consider wondrously effective so far as the argument of the case was concerned, " we can't expect anybody else to do our work for us." PRECEPT AND PRACTICE. 299 Alma Brainard gave the dress she was making a very de- cided twitch, as if forbidding it to make any reply. a Some people," said Mrs. Brainard with severe allusion to that much abused sect; "are always shirking duty. Always trying to put their work on somebody else. I've no patience with such selfishness." Aureola Kent stared as if the lady were having a very dangerous species of spasm, that was peculiarly distressing from the fact that no assistance could be rendered; and there was not the slightest method of determining how long it was likely to last. Silence was the best antidote. Mrs. Brainard's severe attack of ethics and oratory gradually subsided, and her last words as Aureola and Bernice left the room, were quite in accordance with her normal condition. "Alma," said she, "I'm so interested in that ' Mysteries of Paris, that I must go lie down and read awhile. When you finish putting the braid on my dress, look over the clean clothes and see if any of the children's clothes need mend- ing." "'Oh, consistency, thou art a jewel!'" exclaimed Aureola, when she had reached the street. "Have you seen any remarkable instance of consistency lately, that you should speak so?" asked Bernice, with an expression that might have been a smile had it been less mournful. "'Distance lends enchantment,' we are told," returned Aureola, "and I think in Mrs. Brainard's presence one might well be enchanted-by consistency." The sisters turned a corner, and came face to face with Philip Arion. This was the second or third time they had met; and he turned and walked with them, as if with an involuntary effort to protect them from the heedless, jost- ling passers-by. His manner was quiet, deferential, soothing in the ex- treme. The very essence of strength, which is Firmness page: 300-301[View Page 300-301] 300 PRECEPT AND PRACTICE. and Benevolence, did so permeate his nature, that the very atmosphere of his presence quieted and controlled as he willed. Bernice Kent realized with vague submissiveness that for such an influence as this her life had been waiting. An influence that unconscious of its power could control, and quiet, and woo her God-ward by the beautiful example of its imperishable faith. The conversation was not such as fixes itself upon the mind by sheer force of words. It had no striking sentences of sparkling mental effort. It did not deafen the aching spiritual sense with a cataract of high sounding bombast. It was gentle and soothing as the murmur of such a rivu- let as might be heard in a dream of Paradise. Musical and heart-healing as if it had learned its melody winding through the Eternal lilies that grow by the jasper walls." Philip Arion left the sisters at the threshold of their des- tination, and they were alone with torturing memories of the dead. What a shudder seemed to convulse the house as they entered the silent room where he had last been. The sisters clasped each other in a passion of sobs and tears. Memory cauterized the wound until it throbbed afresh with agony. What slow work that day's packing was! His slippers, his dressing-gown, his spectacles, or an odd glove turning up when the sisters were least expecting, and least prepared to look at the precious relics that in life were the- merest trifles. "We are in the midst of trifles that death may make relics of." Oh the relics that Death made in that household! The half-worn lead pencil. The pen-knife, whose broken blade was simply the evidence that he-had used it. The soiled handkerchief protruding from the pocket of the coat he had last worn. The button hanging by a single thread to the vest he had taken off that terrible night he came home PRECEPT AND PRACTICE. 301 ill. The medical work, with a mark where he had left off reading. The remnant of shaving-soap in his dressing-case. His combs and brushes. His visiting-list and prescription papers. A .half finished letter, and its envelope, lately, so very lately directed. The private papers tied and marked with his own hand. The inkstand, dingy with age, and the blunt gold pen he had always used. These were the things that kept confronting the sisters and making them weak and dizzy. These were the things that made packing such slow work. These were the things that brought such heart-ache as only they could bring. These were the things, oh, far-seeing and considerate Mrs. Brain- ard, that kept the Kent sisters from returning to your hos- pitable domain to lunch; and these were the things that sent them tottering into your presence, later in the day, with blanched faces and unsteady feet. You did not understand these things, my dear Mrs. Brainard, and the high-moral pressure you underwent, in - consequence of not understanding these things, was, to say the least, something very remarkable. The strong-minded emotion with which you expressed yourself to the young person, Alma, must have cost you an effort that it is to be feared, found no reward in this life. "The shiftlessness of those Kents, Alma!" you began with that air of saying something worth listening to, that was so peculiarly your own. "They won't be ready to move for a month to come. I could go- down there, I'll venture to say, and pack up everything on the place in two or three hours. But there they've been the whole day, and I can't find out what they've done. I can just imagine how they perform. They get everything out of one trunk or drawer, and sit down and cry over it. Then they get out something else and cry over that. Then they talk awhile, and work themselves up into a perfect fever. Then they cry some more, and by that time they are too exhausted to do any- thing. I've no patience Alma! positively no patience with page: 302-303[View Page 302-303] 302 THE REALmT OF STTFEBING. them. Here we have been trying for a whole week to make everything as pleasant as possible for them, and they per- sist in grieving as much as if nobody's comfort but their own was to be consulted. I've no patience with selfishness. It worries me beyond endurance." And at this juncture, my dear Mrs. Brainard, you remem- ber, your favorite yellow-backed literature came into requisition, and if you found sweet relief in an abduction or an elopement, there was not the slightest reason why you should not have done so, for your daughter Alma was -busy doing the family sewing, and it must have been immense satisfaction to a woman of your principles, and your severe system of ethics, to have a daughter who did not " shirk responsibilities," or evade duty in any of its multifarious shapes. This period of your existence must have been peculiarly felicitous, my dear Mrs. Brainard. Hdyou written an autobiography, the morality and self-sarifice you might have inserted at this juncture would, no doubt, have fur- nished the "American Tract Society" with material during the balance of your natural existence! CHAPTER: XlI. v^/^^ THE REALITY OF SUFFERING. EHERE are sorrows that carry with them something '^^]f half akin' to an antidote, in a poetic attribute that % fitsoothes the sufferer with a sense of grandeur. The soul that aspires to learn the sublime lessons of patience and courage, derives strength from a realization of the utility of its grief. It takes its experience as a bitter draught from the hand of the Great Physician who healeth all our diseases. THE REAILTY OF SUFFERING. 303 It is when we can recognize nio utility in our grief, when we lose sight of the poetic conviction that from our suffer- ing strength is to be born, that the burden is heaviest. It is when poetryand romance withdraw their support, and the cold, hard reality of our sorrow drops its dead weight upon our hearts, that we drink the bitter dregs of our pain. It is then that we learn what suffering means. It is then. that we have no tears, no words for our grief. The world hurries by so coldly and recklessly, that we can only fold our shadow closer to our hearts, and endeavor to hide it- from society's unsympathetic eyes. Such an hour had come to Bernice Kent. The subdued voices, the silent hand-pressures, the low, earnest tones of religious comfort, that in the intensity of her pain seemed meaningless, were, now that the madness of her agony had passed, what she most desired. Sorrow is the gay world's bete noire. Sorrow it regards with conventional consideration for a time; yet Sorrow must understand that its presence is not welcome, and must take its leave after one has endured it for a certain length of time. Mrs. Brainard enjoyed a serene conviction of having done her duty by the Kents. She had endeavored to alleviate their pain. Of course it was quite proper to manifest grief for the loss of a father. Filial affection, " our best people" did not object to. A certain amount of grief was interest- ing. One might even wring one's hands, and sink gracefully upon one's knees, and groan occasionally. To dramatize one's pain, provided one understood it, was allowable, but then to go about the house day after day with a still, solemn face, and a voice sadder than tears, and a quiet desolation of manner, was too much, quite too much for poor Mrs. Brainard's nerves. To sob, and shriek, and rave for a time, and then to get over it and be cheerful, and chatty, and entertaining, would have been, to say the least, no more than Mrs. Brainard page: 304-305[View Page 304-305] 304 THE REALITY OF SUFEPRING. thought she had a right to expect, after all her " efforts to make things pleasant for people." "I have invited Bernice Kent to spend an indefinite length of time with us," said madam to the young person ! Alma, "but I am afraid I shall repent it. She goes about looking so forlorn, that one might as well have a corpse in t the house for all the comfort one can have where she is. I am dingusted with such selfishness, Alma, perfectly dis- p gusted. I always did dislike a selfish person." "Poor Bernice! I can't help feeling sorry for her. She seems to miss her father so much. I thought I would take her out driving this afternoon, and perhaps it might help ? to divert her mind," rejoined Alma, as she folded her M sewing, and picked up the "Mysteries of Paris" that Mrs. Brainard had dropped in her disgust at " selfishness." "Well, you may take her out driving as much as you like, ; but it's my opinion, that the more you do for some people, the more you may. It's nothing but selfishness that makes a person grieve so, after one has done everything in one's power to make a person comfortable. - Why can't Bernice look pleasant and cheerful? She can't bring her father back by looking so woe-begone, and for my part I'm tired of it. She has no reason to be so miserable. After their estate is settled, she will have an income, a small one, it is true, but enough to support her without her doing anything, and I should think she ought to be comfortable and happy, or at least cheerful. Everybody's father has to die some- time. And the idea of acting as if nobody ever died before, and as if everybody was going to be 1: zg-faced forever and a day about it, is perfectly preposterous. It is pure selfish- less, and if there is anything I do hate it is selfishness." Mrs. Brainard rocked herself violently, and looked affec- tionately at the "Mysteries of Paris," as if it were the prin- cipal mitigating circumstance of existence. Alma said, "poor Bernice!" in a musing tone, as she took off her thimble. THE REAIITY OF SUFFERING. 305 "There, Alma! Don't take your thimble off. I want you to finish the baby's apron. That ruffling is so tedious to put on, I just gave up in despair, besides I've only two more chapters to read in this 'Mysteries of Paris' before I finish it. The baby needs her apron. Do finish it for me." Ah, madam, there was something sublime in your hatred of selfishness. The young person,- Alma, was always observed to smile when you expressed this righteous abhor- rence. Her smile, however, may have been approval of sentiments so exalted. Alma Brainard, blue-eyed Alma Brainard, you have no story in this book of mine, but you have one in my heart, and it is full of a pathos whose most appropriate utterance is tears. Of your struggles and sorrows, whose thwarted hope and secret pain made you plunge madly into the cruel vortex of society, I cannot write. In all the sad story of your life, compassionate angels, must understand that you were " more sinned against than sinning." They know how the sweet buds of love and trust were crushed in your heart when their fragrance was sweetest and freshest. They know how cruel and pitiless the world was to you, how it thwarted and baffled, and mocked you with its hollowness and vanity, how ruthlessly it trampled upon your idols, and while it crowned you with the brightness of social triumphs, left you stranded upon its barren coasts "heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor." They, whose temptations have been less than yours, may not write of you. If you degenerated from the truth and parity, and unselfishness of your nature into a hollow- hearted woman of the world, with no creed but conquest, the fault lies at another door than yours, oh, wronged Alma Brainard! It was a vague realization of this that made Bernice Kent page: 306-307[View Page 306-307] 306 TEE REALITY OF SUFFERING. say impulsively, as the two were out driving, "Are you, too, unhappy, Alma, dear Alma?" "Oh, no, I suppose I'm not any more so than any one else, though sometimes I do feel real bad, but then I don't give up to it. You wouldn't feel so badly if you just wouldn't give up to it. Think of something else. There is no use in brooding over trouble." Alma put down the carriage window and looked out with an air of being prepared for the scrutiny of passers-by. She had a cheerful, composed expression of face that seemed to say, "Get thee behind me, sorrow! Sadness is not becoming to me. It makes me look older and less attractive." Bernice read the expression and remained silent. Her grief might or might not be " becoming." It was none the less crushing and unescapable. Yet it found no utter- ance. There is nothing that more speedily and effectually silences the voice of our pain than the cold, commonplace assurance that "There is no use in giving up to it." There may be truth and courage in the observation, and it may be just what we need; nevertheless, it grates upon our nerves when they are unstrung with pain, and we feel too weak to do anything but " give up" to our sorrow. How the busy throngs in the street hurried by! How they seemed to parody pain, and make a farce of tragedy by their gayety and recklessness. After all, there was nothing strange in it, Bernice Kent . assured herself, when the pain seemed fiercer than usual, "It is only my father who has' died," she mused. "How can the world care? How can it understand that my eyes ache looking for his face among the crowd. There are so many faces, it almost seems as if I might find him among them! How does the world kaow that the tramp of its restless feet makes my ears ache with the unfamiliar sound that is not his step? And if it did know, it would not care. It THE REALITY OF SUFERING. 307 could not! It hasn't time. But oh, the pain. /have time for that. I shall always have time for it." The carriage stopped. Alma Brainard wished to pur- chase some stationery, and alighted for that purpose. Ber- nice Kent sat alone in the carriage, and despair, chill as the eternal' snows, lay over the trackless waste of the future. She tried to weep, but the fountain of tears seemed frozen. The season allotted to her grief had passed, yet pain was unquenched. Society expected her to smile, yet she only suffered. Thought no longer shaped itself in speech, but became numb as coffined hope. "Oh, yes, perfectly lovely! The loveliest of the season, decidedly," Alma Brainard was saying, cheerily, to some one who had evidenly been commenting upon the weather. Bernice Kent shrank farther back in the carriage for a moment, and then realized how futile. any effort to escape observation, as the door opened, and Philip Arion lifted his hat to her prior to assisting Miss Brainard to her seat. "Ah, you sat beside me the night after my father died, and told me of the goodness of God, and the peace and rest of the dead, yet here you are a part of the busy, crowding, heartless world," said Bernice to herself bitterly, as she returned his salutation. "You look with society's careless eyes upon my sorrow, and think, no doubt, a becoming crape bonnet sufficient evidence of my grief! But what do I care for your sympathy, or anybody's sympathy? Noth. ing, nothing! I am strong. Strong as a rock!" Philip Arion stood for a moment holding the carriage door with singular irresolution. The pale, despairing face of Bernice Kent confronted him in terrible contrast to Miss Brainard's bloom and vivacity. He seemed trying to shape some thbught in, speech, and then, as if abandoning the effort, made a commonplace remark or two, closed the carriage door and took leave of the young ladies. "I think he is just perfectly splendid," said Alma, as the page: 308-309[View Page 308-309] 308 THE REALITY OF SUFEERING. carriage rolled away, "cc It was so fortunate I happened to meet him. He was buying some new Theological work, when I went in to get my stationery, and I had the most elegant little chat with him you ever could imagine. He is a ! little tedious sometimes, I think. He talks rather too much about 'tendencies,' and 'normal, and abnormal conditions,' but still I like him. He seems to forget himself when he [ talks of those things. He is generally entertaining. Don't you think so?" "I have not met him a great many times," rejoined Ber- s nice; "I like his sermons very well, however!" t "Oh, yes, I think they are splendid!" said Miss Brainard. Bernice Kent's reflections became bitter. Those sermons, with their sublime teachings of the divine mission of sorrow, seemed such a mockery when she con- nected Philip Arion with Miss Brainard, and thought of him as only a portion of the world, that prated of sorrow as a beautiful and purifying, and God-given thing, and yet shrank firom its arc'. presence as so much selfishness. She was heart-sick, and was silent for the remainder of the drive home. Hitherto she had unconsciously exalted Philip Arion above the frivolity and selfishness of the world. Now, how- ever, that which she imagined his utter indifference to the existence of sorrow, filled her with new weariness, and he sank far below the pedestal whereon she had placed her ideal. She was convinced, however, a day or two afterwards, that she had done him injustice, when a note was handed her that ran as follows : "MY DzEAm Mss KENT : I regret to infer, from a glimpse caught of your pale, sad face on yesterday, that you are still weighed down with your great sorrow. "Are you not yielding too much to its influence, so much so that you are unfitting yourself for the performance of the duties whichyou owe to yourself and others? I fear so. Permit me to suggest that you have THE REAL1TY OF SPTRERING. 308 no right to allow yourself to become possessed with this single emotion, an emotion which unconsciously becomes a disease. "Cannot you do something to divert your mind from this one object? You should at least make the attempt. Shall I not call for you some. pleasant afternoon and give you a drive somewhere, where nature or something will make you forget for a brief time your sorrow? I shall be most happy to do so, if you will permit me. I will call for you, if you desire it, at any time agreeable to yourself. it Cannot I send you some books-or have you everything of this kind that you wish? In short if there is anything that I can do for you, I shall be most glad to do it. "Permit me to hope that time, while not making you forget, will speedily assuage the severity of your sorrow ; that it will point less to your father in the grave than to your true father, who is not in the grave, but among the glorified in a higher life. "Accept for your restoration to happiness my most fervent wishes, and for yourself my sympathy and kindest regards. Truly your friend, PmH-IP ARION." The delicate sympathy and genuine solicitude for her ex- pressed in this letter, touched the heart of Bernice, and tears warm and copious, and full of all gratitude, came to her relief. Walking alone, as she fancied, with the white seal of pain on her face, and the chill waters of repressed grief freezing her very soul, God had not forgotten her, but had sent a token of His love in the proffered sympathy of Philip Arion. The world had seemed so full of cheerful, complacent Mrs. Brainards, who could only forgive grief that was not sufficiently demonstrative to make others uncomfortable, that stie had ceased to expect sympathy and was looking for- ward to the weary stretch of orphanhood whose leagues of pain and loneliness lay between her and the rest of the grave. Philip Arion's note had come when she needed it most, and she could only lay her cheek against it anffob as if it were a live thing aglow with love and compassion, instead of mere pulseless paper that expressed, after all, only a stranger's sympathy. page: 310-311[View Page 310-311] 310 A DRIVE, AND HOME AGAIN. There are seasons of desolation when the merest word of kindness seems an epitome of all generosity and -appre- ciation. So it was with Bernice Kent, and as the note ex- . onerated Philip Arion from the charges of heartlessness and frivolity that she had preferred against him, so her an- swer, a- blurred scrawl, rendered almost illegible by tears, touched the heart of Philip Arion with justification of her; for, thinking of it, he said, "A woman capable of such love and such grief as this a flirt? Never! I will believe in her against the evidences even of my own senses." CHAPTER XLEI. A DRIVE, AND HOME AGAIN. ISS KENT was going to drive with Mr. Arion, which ,XW: was, "all very proper," Mrs. Brainard decided, as ^'- she watched from the window the lady and gentle- man on the sidewalk below. - "I think, Alma," said madam, " that it would be a very good thing if they should fancy each other. Bernice ought to marry, or she'll grieve herself to death for her father. I think she rather likes Mr. Arion. What is your opinion?" "I rather think she does," rejoined Alma, "but I don't know what Fannie will say to it, when she gets home. I always thought there was a little feeling between her and Mr. Arion." "Nonsense! How you talk!" rejoined Mrs. Brainard, with very perceptible irritation. "Fannie must marry money, and a great deal of it too. The idea of her marrying a poor man is preposterous." "Yes," assented Alma, " and yet I'm sure she likes Mr. Arion. I don't see how she could very well keep it." "Ridiculous, Alma! you talk like a country-girl in her A DrIVE, AND HOMn AMGAIN. 8" teens. What difference does her liking him make? She shall never marry him. He is very talented and attractive, and all that, I admit, and could make such a girl as Bernice Kent perfectly happy. She is rather demure and hum- drum, anyway, but then for a person as brilliant as Fannie, who was born to lead society, and who must have money, and cannot exist without it, such a life would be intolerable. A minister's wife, and no more money than he has! Bah!" Mrs. Brainard returned to her novel, and Alma went on with the family sewing, as she thought, "what a perfect shame it was that such a splendid fellow" as Philip Arion hadn't at least a million. Meantime the gentleman, in utter obliviousness of Ma- dame or Mademoiselle Brainard, was saying to Miss Kent, after some deprecatory remark on her part concerning her stupidity and inability to converse that afternoon, "I have often thought, Miss Kent, that the secret of conversation is the feeling that we have an appreciative, and sympathetic listener. "In the silences that fall between persons there is fre- quently no lack of thought but merely a doubt concerning its acceptability. "There are times when we can hide our feelings and prate of conventionalisms; yet when our soul's undercurrent is stirred by strong emotion," smalltalk " is a mockery, and un- less we have the sympathy of an appreciative friend, conver- sation is, a failure. "Yet thought is busy. A thousand fancies come and go; a thousand feelings plead for utterance, yet the cold, calm face of our commonplace listener is so poor a parody on the grandeur of our thought that we hide it deeper in our hearts, and call ourselves extravagant for ever having cherished it. "Your face expresses a whole volume of thought, Miss Kent. Your mind is active. Your heart is busy. You have a world of fancies that you do not, because you cannot ex- press." page: 312-313[View Page 312-313] 312 A DRIVE, AND HOME AGAIN. "Read me the expression of my face," rejoined Bernice. "I am curious to know how much of my heart shines through." "A whole Heaven of heart shines through," returned Philip. "Your eyes are full of all eagerness and yearning. Questioning as a child's, yet deep and imploring as a woman's. There is in them a blending of disappointment and expec- tancy : somewhat as though, weary and worn by fruitless watches, you still waited and hoped for the morning. "Your mouth is full of all tenderness and sadness. yet re- s solute with something grand as courage. "I have studied your face many times, Miss Kent, when your heart all unconsciously wrote out itself thereon, and I kn6w that though you may be silent, you are never stupid, never lacking thought-neither are you ever emotionless. "You feel now-now, though you are so silent and call yourself so stupid. You would give worlds for a love, strong and deep and true as that the grave has won from you, that you might lean your weary head upon it, and sob yourself into a restful dream of peace and trust. "You cannot deal in platitudes, for the voiceful ocean of your grief and longing utters itself in cries that make you dizzy and blind with their persistency. You have suffered intensely, my dear Miss Kent. You are suffering yet." Philip Arion paused to allow his words their due effect. He had meant to probe the wound in Bernice's heart, and comfort her by showing that he understood all the pain she fancied hidden. She did not say anything; she could not. Her grief had been uttered, her sorrow translated, and the blessed relief of tears came. She tried to restrain them; tried for a moment to regain her self-possession, and be the calm, pas- sionless creature she had felt herself to be before this new, sweet sympathy had broken up the fountains of her heart's , great deep. "She might have done this. Might have regained her 13 A DRIVE, AND HOME AGAIN. composure, and wrapped herself in the dreariness of silence, had not the low, firm, soothing voice of Philip Arion been there to influence her. "Do not restrain your tears, Miss Kent. You need them. They will cool your heart of its fe- ver and pain, and bring you such relief as nothing else can give. "Do you not know that there are certain diseases that if kept in the system produce death, but if induced to break out on the surface may be cured? So I think with cer- tain sorrows: restrain all expression and they wear one's very heart away. Talk of them ; weep over them; give them vent in speech, in tears, in sobs, in anything most natural, and after a time their poignancy is gone. Do not therefore, I entreat you, restrain the expression of your feelings. Restrain the pain, if possible. Do not cherish it. Do not harrow up yourself by dwelling upon your sorrow. Try to see the bright things and the beautiful things God has given-yet if you cannot see them-if the pain persists in following you, then express it." Thus he talked, entering so fully into her sorrow-dis- cussing it so freely and kindly, yet so gradually lea-ding her mind away from it-that almost unconsciously Bernice Kent came out of her shadow and sat in the golden sunlight of be- lief. The peacefulness of resignation stole over her, and the weight and chill of her sorrow was for the time forgotten. No one could have made her forget it ever so temporarily who had approached her in any other way than by dis- cussing it: it was the one emotion that possessed her, and to reach her heart it was necessary to first pass through its valley and shadow. Philip Arion understood this, and with rare tact comforted her, so that the afternoon wore away more like a peaceful dream of rest than waking hours of commonplace life. The time passed so rapidly that when they returned to the Brain- ards, Bernice was surprised at the flight of time. During her absence Miss Fannie Brainard had arrived. " page: 314-315[View Page 314-315] 314 A DRIVE, AND HOME AGAIN. ! The young lady had been visiting a neighboring city for some weeks; but as the time for her return home had been uncertain, Bernice was not a little surprised, on entering the I parlor, to find Miss Brainard there with a gentleman, that, after expressing a great deal of joy at meeting Bernice and C Mr-. Arion, Miss Brainard introduced as Mr. Lyons. "Could it be Dandy Lyons?"Bernice asked herself with S a start. It was indeed the veritable Mr. Lyons, looking, if possible, more mature for twenty-five and more youthfully disposed X for forty than he had ever looked. He had the same mrelan- ! choly eyelids ; the same meditative mouth ; the same brisk little feet. The same contradictory clothing. The same in- jured expression of having at some period of his life sub- mitted to a grievous wrong, that he might forgive, as a ma- ture young man of twenty-five should do, but that he could never, no never, as a youthfully disposed person of forty, be induced to forget. "Miss Kent and I have had the pleasure of meeting be- fore," he remarked, as Bernice stared at him with unfeigned surprise. "Oh, have you," rejoined Miss Brainard, in her most gush- ing and effective ways. "I'm so delighted! Bernice is one of my most particular friends, and I am so glad you know each other!" Meantime Philip Arion was speculating concerning the in- tensity of Miss Kent's surprise at meeting Lyons. Had she flirted with the fellow-or had she been genuine- ly interested in him? What did they know of each other, that Lyons should say, with what seemed peculiar signifi- cance, "I am happy to meet Miss Kent en ami?"And why did she say "Thank you " with a brevity so chilling? Mere commonplace acquaintances would scarcely have acted so, Philip decided. Mr. Lyons had met Bernice with the gallantry of a youth- fully disposed person of forty. Subsiding, however, into the A DRIVE, AND HOME AGAIN. 315 mature young man of twenty-five, he fonmd occasion, while Miss Brainard was telling Mr. Arion what a " perfectly ele- gant " time she had had, to say "That we have been friends, Miss Kent, je ne puis oublier." Philip Arion could neither avoid hearing this remark nor Bernice's ironical reply, "You are very kind," and he was more puzzled than ever. Meantime, Miss Brainard was deriving intense enjoyment from descanting upon what she esteemed "perfectly lovely," and what she considered " perfectly awful," and the habits she indulged "upon the slightest provocation," and the " dissolv- ing views " she had caught of persons, and the subjects and customs upon which she had gone "perfectly insane," and the "perfectly charming " times she had had visiting various places that she seemed never to weary of mentioning. And yet, my dear reader, she was by no means the least attractive of her sex. She was a young lady of most ex- quisite taste, exceeding gracefulness of manner, and more than ordinary intellect. The sole difficulty with Mademoiselle was that she had no higher aim in life than to be considered a belle. From her cradle she had been taught to consider conquest the chief end of woman's life. Youth, health, heart and mind, were laid willing sacrifices upon the altar of conquest. For the sake of having a host of admirers, for the sake of being mentioned as "the reigning belle," Miss Brainard would have sacrificed not only her own heart, but the hearts of every man and woman in Christendom, if so many had been necessary to accomplish her purpose. And so long as a collection of sprightly phrases, and grace- ful attitudes could attract sufficient adulation to feed her in- satiate vanity she was content to confine herself to pretences so shallow. Why should she cultivate her intellect, when three fourths of the world could not distinguish between stereotyped sprightliness and originality? page: 316-317[View Page 316-317] 316 A DRIVE, AND HOME AGAIN. Why mature her heart until it attained the perfection of ip all charity and patience, when nobody in le beaumonde would R appreciate anything so exceedingly rare? i Why preserve her womanly dignity and self-respect so ; scrupulously when by so doing she would be sneered at as prudish, or perhaps outree. ! To be graceful and polished and full of womanly tact and X secretiveness, to be as wise as a serpent in all worldly knowledge essential to self preservation, and to seem as harmless as a dove and as ingenuous as a child, she had - been taught to consider comme il fait, and as a natural result became what might be expected from such training, a hol- low hearted flirt, given to attitudinizing and sentimentality whenever the slightest opportunitv was offered. She who might have been true in friendship, faithful in love, and one of God's good gifts to humanity by the exer cise of all the noble qualities of heart and mind with which nature had endowed her, became through a, mother's pre- cepts, that falsest of all false things, a false woman, that most miserable of all counterfeits a counterfeit woman. Ah, Fannie Brainard, through the rubbish that hides your better nature, and beyond the fetters that bind your crip- pled soul, I can see the angel you might have been, and more in sorrow than in anger, more in compassion than in condemnation, do I speak of that which you might have been, yet were not. You are the type of many, my poor Fannie Brainard. You are the representative of a very large class whose '" feet go down to death and whose steps take hold on hell." You are beautiful and attractive as a dead sea fruit, yet, like unto that famed mockery, bringwoe and bitterness to the thirsty lips and fevered hearts that are deceived by your golden promises. Ah, the record of your life, the record of your life, what is it? Where are the hungry you have fed, the naked you have clothed and the sick you have ministered unto? i A DRIVE, AND HOME AGAIN. 817 Instead of these, you have," broken hearts," to show what your work has been. You have the wrecks of generous na- tures, who gave you their all of trust and affection in womankind, and went staggering down the dizzy precipice of ruin, blind with pain you inflicted for vanity's sake, Fannie Brainard, or her prototype, wherever found I How many ardent, impulsive young men took their first desperate step towards ruin, because weakened by the suf- fering you inflicted? - Those wondrous arts of dropping your eyelids and feign- ing diffidence and ingenuousness i the graceful clasping of your velvet fingers, and the studied smiles of your painted lips; those artful confidences of melancholy and soul-isola- tion; those hours of dissipation, such as wear the rose from heart and cheek; those draughts of wine to sustain ex- hausted nature; those cunningly-worded billet doux, feign- ing maidenly reserve, yet meaning premeditated treachery; ah, what meant they? Wherefore so much skill and harass- ing toil? Wherefore that prematurely faded face, and seared heart, and deadened intellect? Wherefore Madame Brain- ard? your maternal precept did this! This wreck of woman- hood is your work. Wherefore? You-answer, "Conquest." Ah, Juggernaut of "Society," crushing the life out of young hearts-the Hindoo mothers were less cruel to their offspring, than your devotees to theirs. How dare you, woman, rob your child of her birthright of womanly affection and peaceful happiness, for the miserable "mess of pottage" called "Conquest," upon which you feed the beast of your maternal vanity? Oh woman, woman, desecrating the sacred title of mother- hood by training your innocent, helpless daughter to be that vilest of abominations, a flirt, may God's retribution overtake you speedily, and purge you from your iniquity! Miss Brainard was evidently desirous of captivating Philip Arion. Lyons she had met and conquered, and brought home with her as a trophy of her skill; rather an insignifi- page: 318-319[View Page 318-319] 818 PERFECTLY SHABEFUL cant trophy, it is true, when compared to Philip Arion, nevertheless a trophy. She was willing that Bernice should engage the young I gentleman in conversation while she directed all her efforts to Mr. Arion. Whether or not the latter individual pene- trated her motive, he was sufficiently gallant and amiable to have been good-naturedly humoring her whim, or to have been possessed of genuine appreciation of her attractive- ness. ' Bernice Kent noted it, and her heart ached with so heavy a pain that when Mr. Arion made his adieux she could only respond in a cold, constrained voice, so unlike the tone in which she had addressed him an hour before, that Philip Arion could not avoid perceiving it and speculating con- cerning the cause of it. "No matter," he concluded, "I hope I am not so selfish as to refuse a kindness because I may expect no reward. She suffers. I can divert her mind from her sorrow; yet I shall not allow myself to become interested, since it can end only in disappointment. She is attractive, but I am not dangerously susceptible." CHAPTER XLIII. "PERFECTLY SHAMEFUL!" i T is shameful, perfectly shameful, the life I'm lead- ing," said Miss Brainard, with a pretty affectation of I, regret. "I never have a moment of time to read, or improve myself a particle." She was alone with Philip Arion, and the time seemed of i11 others most propitious for a declaration from the gentle- nan. "Why don't you take time?" he asked, as the young lady PERFECTLY SHAMEFUL 319 lifted hee eyes to his, almost imploringly, after her self ac- cusation: ( "Oh, I don't know. I think we owe something to soci- ety. Mamma goes out very little, and Alma's tastes are rather domestic than otherwise, so that everything devolves upon me-yet I know that it is a very frivolous kind of life that I'm leading.' Miss Brainard was looking pale and worn, with a wretched prophecy of premature age in her face, and Philip Arion's exclamation, "Poor little girl 1" was involuntary. "I am just as tired all the time as I can be," she said. "It seems to me I'm never thoroughly rested." "I would rest; I would not be so great a slave to so- ciety," rejoined her companion, energetically. "Oh, I shall be always just so until I have a home of my own, and something besides society to live for." Miss Brainard's eyes grew soft as velvet, yet a close ob- server might have detected a gleam under their glamour that watched every expression of Philip Arion's face. "Do you think you could live for anything besides so- ciety?" he asked. "Oh yes! If I should love some one," the young lady clasped her hands, glanced shyly at Philip, and then dropped her eyes to the carpet, with an affectation of endeavoring to conceal her feelings, "truly and madly as I could love, Mr. Arion, I should care for no society but his, and I could de- vote all my life to making him happy." "We are told that such is woman's nature," said Philip Arion, with a quizzical smile on his perfect mouth. Miss Brainard looked up with a quick, keen glance, that expressed both surprise and inquiry. The face, however, baf- fled her efforts to read it, and she could only continue to experiment blindly. "Oh, it is a woman's nature, Mr. Arion! When once she loves, it is forever! And oh, when she loves one who does not reciprocate her affection, .she has a wretched future to page: 320-321[View Page 320-321] 320 PERFECTLY SHAMEFUL. anticipate. I think I should die," she said, with a quick I drawn breath of pain, that was only half feigned, " if con- vinced that I had been cherishing a perfectly hopeless love i: for any one." "That would be hardly possible, Miss Brainard," rejoined .. the gentleman. , "What?" asked the young lady, innocently. ::; "Why, for you to cherish a perfectly hopeless love." "Oh, do you think so, Phil--Mr. Arion? Do you mean that any one I could love, must love me in return?"Miss Brainard's naivete was a trifle overdone. "We are told that love begets love," rejoined Philip eva- sively. "When I said, however, that it would scarcely be possible for you to cherish a hopeless passion, I meant that * you would most probably have a sufficient number of ad- I mirers to be induced to seek consolation in another direction, should any one of them prove obdurate." "Oh, Mr. Arion, you mean that I am not capable of a deathless affection!"Miss Brainard's personification of In- jured Innocence was highly successful. "Are you capable of a deathless affection, Miss Brain- ard? Has not the world so sated you with adulation, that any one heart, however deep and true, would seem a tame substitute for the feverish excitement of conquest?" ; "Oh, Mr. Arion, how cruel you are! As if I were to blame for having seen the world! It hasn't been my fault that I have devoted so much time to frivolity. Mamma always said we owed duties to society, and I could not help myself, indeed I couldn't!" Philip Arion relented, as what man possessing a spark of generosity would not have done in the presence of helpless- ness, and said impulsively : "Poor little girl, I'm sorry for you. I don't believe you could help it. Forgive me, if I seemed unkind." , "You never mean to be unkind, but you are unjust to me when you think I am not capable of loving truly and deep- l PERFECTLY SHAMEFUL. 321 ly." Miss Brairiard's words might have been more effective had her attitude been less studied. "Forgive me, if I have done you injustice! I have not so intended," returned Philip, kindly, yet by no means tenderly. Miss Brainard understood the diffierence between courtesy and ardor, as well as all the grades of feeling between the two, and exclaimed, with a vehemence that arose from desperation at the man's obduracy : "Oh, I know that I seem shallow and frivolous, but you don't consider that I have never had any one who cared enough for me to want me to be anything else. Nobody ever tried to make me differ- ent. It has been fashion and flirtation ever since I could walk. I could be different if I had any one to help me to be so, but no one cares enough for me to assist me ever so little." Miss Brainard almost sobbed, and Philip Arion said sooth- ingly, "If you earnestly desire to abandon frivolity, and be the true woman that Christianity can make you, there need be no fear that no one will help you. Every sincere effort upon your part to attain the higher life of which you are capable, will sooner or later be crowned with fruition." Miss Brainard did not reply. She had buried her face in her handkerchief, and she felt silence to be more effective than words. The door-bell rang, and in a moment more Mr. Lyons was announced. The young lady rose to greet him with a cordiality that arose from pique, and Philip Arion took his leave. "There!" said Alma Brainard, addressing Bernice, as the two sat at an upper window and looked through the closed blinds upon the street below, '"Mr. Arlon has gone at last. He has been here two hours, at least. He is just dead inlove, with Fannie, though there isn't the slightest danger of her marrying h n. He is too poor. She is so extravagant, and so utterly helpless about doing the least thing, that she will have to marry some one with plenty of money. Mr. Lyons "* page: 322-323[View Page 322-323] 322 PERFECTLY SHAMEFUL. used to be poor, but he had a fortune left him by a wealthy relative in England, and I suppose one couldn't well do better than to take him. He is just perfectly crazy about Fanny, though as to that, everybody is that knows her. Mamma says she can see that Mr. Arion is desperately in love, but Fannie has so little vanity she don't believe he is." Bernice Kent made some indifferent reply, and then fell , to musing upon the dispensation of this world's affairs.: Mr. Lyons remained to tea, and did not leave for some hours afterwards. A Hilarious or mature-youthfully disposed or wearing the sedate evidences that melancholy had marked him for her own-he was equally and at all times, apparently, Miss Brain- : ard's most devoted slave. There is in a fitness of things extreme gratification to or- der loving natures. Such gratification might have been found in contemplating the perfect assimilation of these two natures. They were eminently adapted to each other. Shallowness met shallowness. Frivolity embraced frivolity. Deception coincided with deception, and, as two negatives make an af- firmative, so between these two there was no deception. Each nature understood the other, yet imagined itself im- penetrable in the mask of its own artifice. "Mr. Lyons covets papa's money and position more than he covets papa's daughter," said Miss Brainard confidentially to Bernice, so soon as they were alone., "Why do you think so?" asked Bernice, not a little sur- prised at the expression of mature worldly wisdom that transformed Miss Brainard from the gushing, childlike, in- genuous person she endeavored to appear in society, into a shrewed looking woman, who counted the cost of everything, : and who failed to understand the true value of tings simply because she had false weights by which to judge.. Her con- elusions were wrong, because her standard was wrong. l' PERFECTLY SHAMEFULo 823 ( Oh I know, I know!" she answered, shaking her head, and lifting the lids from her yellowish eyes until their velvety expression of habitual languor changed to one keen enough to have been an outstretched claw. "I know Mr. Lyons," she repeated. "He is brilliant and rather fascinating; ardent enough to keep one from dying of utter stagnation; such a man as one would not be ashamed of. I intend to marry him, but, I do it with my eyes open." "You cannot love such a man! How, then, can you mar- ry him?" asked Bernice, with that energy of manner that may perhaps find a synonym in disgust. " L'amour fait beaucoup, mais l'argent fait tout," returned Miss Brainard with a light, laugh, as she put up her hair in crimping-pins for the night. "Then you really intend to marry Mr. Lyons for his money," rejoined Bernice. "Do you know, Fannie, that I have been suspecting you of designs upon Mr. Arion?" "The truth is, Bernice," said Miss Brainard, with that con- fidential proclivity so peculiar to young women after they have retired for the night, "Philip Arion is the smartest man I ever knew. He could make a woman just perfectly crazy with love for him, but, entre nous, ma chere, I must mar- ry money." "But you certainly take every pains to encourage Mr. Ar- ion. Why do you do this, if you have resolved not to marry him?" asked Bernice, with suppressed indignation. "Pour passer le temps, ma belle," returned Miss Brainard, with an air of absolving herself from all blame by giving her reason in French. "Do you not think he loves you?" asked Bernice, chafing, she scarcely knew why, with a sense of secret irritation. "I am not sure," rejoined Miss Brainard. "I have made him believf;hat he can convert me. I have convinced him that a little persuasion on his part would induce me to for- sake "the world, the flesh and the devil," suddenly and without remedy. page: 324-325[View Page 324-325] 324 PERFECTLY SHAMTFUL. "He pays me pious little visits, and I do the penitential upon the slightest provocation, but he comes on slowly, ma chere, i very slowly for a man who must be brought to the point so ! soon as I have determined that he must be brought. He . seems to be studying me. He is a very cautious man, as well as a very shrewd man. :e "Oh he is a foeman worthy of my steel! I have deter- mined to bring him to my feet. To be loved- by such a man is worth something, even though I cannot marry him. No :i no, I cannot marry him. Ilfaut de l'argent." : Miss Braiuard fell asleep soon after this; but Bernice found it impossible to follow her example. Thoughts crowded up thick and fast. A dreary, thwarted pain tugged at her heart with gnawing persistency. BVhat a miserable, unsatisfactory thing life seemed! The good and true simply victims of those who had all the power of wealth and influence, and the good things of this life. t Bernice Kent sat up in bed, and, by the struggling light of the moon, looked at Fannie Brainard, and thought rebel- liously of the bitter contrast between their lives. "Youth, beauty, wealth, home, father, mother, and the love of Philip Arion, God gives you! What more is there, girl, that you could have?" asked Bernice almost fiercely, in : the dim silences of the night. "You have everything, yet what good do you accomplish : with it? I have nothing. Father and mother both grave- dust, and strangers filling the old homestead. What else is there for me to do, but to sit down calmly in the dust and: ashes of the vanquished? What does life offer to op- portunities so meagre as mine?" D Bernice Kent covered her face with her hands, and sobbed convulsively. Every good and perfect gift seemed given to others, and she repeated to herself bitterly, ' To him that hath shall be given, and from him that hath *at shall be taken even that which he hath." It is the intensity of such suffering that purifies. Yet MRS. BEAIZNARD'S ETHCS. 325 "there is a limit to all human, anguish unless meant to kill," and towards morning the pain subsided, and Bernice Kent fell into a slumber whose perfect rest and peace might have been born of these words: "Fret not thyself because of evil doers, neither be thou envious against the workers of iniquity. For they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb. Delight thyself also in the Lord, and He shall give thee the desires of thine heart." ' 40, CHAPTER XLIV. y e' DIslMRS. BRBINARD S ETH8S. OW pale you are Bernice! Are you ill?" asked Os- !/- ^^wald. Kent of his sister, a week or so after the events recorded in the preceding chapter. "I don't know! I feel badly. Oh Oswald, I am so' tired!" Bernice leaned her head on her brother's shoulder and burst into tears. 'You poor darling! I never saw you look so!" "Oh Oswald, I want my father. I feel so utterly alone. The world seems so cold and pitiless. I have no more cour- age-no more strength." "You must not feel alone. You have me to take care of you, always. Lean on me, sister." "Dear Oswald, you are so young to have so great a re- sponsibility upon you as taking care of Aureola and me. I cannot bear the thought of burdening you." "Burdening me, Bernice? Why, how you talk I When pa's estate is settled, the income will support you and Aureola, and my salary is more than enough for myself. You are perfectly independent. We are not wealthy, but we shall have enough. It is not right for us to be sad. Try to be page: 326-327[View Page 326-327] 326 MRS. BRAINARD'S ETHCS. brave and hopeful! Pa is happy, so much happier than he could ever have been on earth, that we should be selfish in- deed to wish him back here again. I know you are: lonely, dear sister, but time will comfort you. I am trying to get a t place where we can all three board together." "Oh Oswald," sobbed Bernice, "I wish you could find a " boarding-place as soon as possible. Mrs. Brainard has in- vited me to visit here for an indefinite length of time, and is complacent with the belief that she is doing all that she can to make it pleasant for me, but oh, Oswald, I am just dying by inches!" "My poor darling! I had no idea you were so miserable. I have been consoling myself with the belief that you were very comfortable here," returned Oswald, caressing his sis- ter's hand. "I have tried to be, brother! Indeed I have tried to be; ! but pa's death has so crushed and subdued me, that I have . not been at all like myself. I have gone about the house with a dumb, heavy pain weighing upon me, and making me seem, no doubt, one of those excessively amiable, tame-spirited persons that coarseness is always tempted to impose upon. The consequence is that Irene Brainard, that fifteen-year-old abomination that belongs here, has been subjecting me to every petty annoyance that vulgarity could suggest. "Of course I am too proud to complain. I have too much self-respect to stay in a house and acknowledge myself ill- treated. Besides, Mrs. Brainard and Fannie and Alma are really very kind; but oh that Irene. I can compare her to nothing but a mosquito, insignificant, contemptible, yet so annoying!" :i "What does she do? How does she annoy you?" asked Oswald, indignantly. "Oh, she has a thousand little irritating ways. She is like one of Dickens's, characters, who was always putting little winks and nods and confidential whispers into pitchers and cupboards and things. MRS. BRAINABD'S ETHCS. 327 "For instance, if she knows I am in a room, she will come in as if she supposed herself alone, and will say to herself in the looking-glass, as she brushes her hair, that she was never so tired of any one as she- is of a certain person that she should think ought to leave, if they ever intended to do so. Or she will tell the soap-dish confidentially, while she washes her hands, that she is "just sick of the sight of some people." Of course she does not mention any names, and I have no right to suppose that the little nuisance means me. "I have always felt the greatest contempt for the girl, and I suppose that is the cause of her irritation. She is coarse, and stupid and arrogant, and perhaps I have not concealed my opinion so carefully as I should have done. "Fannie and Alma are always saying to me, ' Irene has the most hateful* disposition in the world, but we never notice her. She says the most oitrageous things to us, but we never notice her any more than if she were not in the house.' Sometimes she will sit in her mother's place at the tea-table and serve every one but me. I could not tell you half of the annoyances to which I have been subjectedby that girl. I have tried to be patient; thinking every day that you would find a boarding place after a little. But I cannot endure it any longer, Oswald, I cannot stay, here any longer." "You shall leave to day, darling," rejoined Oswald em- phatically. "I cannot leave to-day, she replied. "Fannie and Alma have both been ill, and Mrs. Brainard is not at all well. I have sat up with them three nights this week ; and some nights I have walked the floor for an hour at a time, hush- ing the baby in my arms; for Mrs. Brainard's nurse has left; and Irene cannot sit up with her sisters, for that would in- jure her complexion, besides she must go to school; so that night after night I find it devolving upon me to sit up and give the medicines. I am glad to do it for Fannie and Alm a, page: 328-329[View Page 328-329] 328 MRS. BAINBD'S ETHCS. for they appreciate it. Alma Brainard is the dearest, best : girl living; and Fannie is simply thoughtless. She means well enough, I think." : "But why do you walk the floor with the baby? What is Mrs. Brainard doing?" asked Oswald indignantly. "Oh she is either 'just dead for sleep,' as she phrases it, and does wish I would hold the baby, just for one moment, or else she is asleep, and does not hear the child cry, and I ' must either quiet it or be utterly lacking in compassion for -! the helpless little thing." . Gi "It is outrageous! No wonder you look pale!' No wonder X you have no more courage, nor strength. Sitting up all night ' waiting on sick people, and then being harassed to death X by a vulgar hoyden, in addition to the weight of your sor- row and bereavement. No wonder you feel desolate. It is shameful! Such visiting as this is not to my taste, and I in- d sist that you leave to-day." "But, my dear brother, I cannot leave to day. Mrs. Brain- & ard is still confined to her room, and now that Fannie is convalescent she must attend the opera, so that it would ! seem selfish for me to leave while Mrs. Brainard and Alma . are still sick. I will stay until they get well. :; "I will stay, for Alma's sake. She is the good angel of the household-generous, and unselfish as she can be. She has confided to me of all her trials, and I love her for that con- fidence with a love that prompts me to do many things I should not otherwise do. No, I cannot leave here to day. I will stay until they get well;-but oh, I must leave then, immediately." "You shall darling! I am exasperated beyond expression when I think how you have been annoyed," rejoined the brother. "I feel better now, since you know it and sympathize . with me;" said Bernice. "I do sympathize so much with you, my poor darling, l MRS. BRAIITARD'S ETHCS. 329 and I will shield you in future. I am so sorry you cannot leave to day. What ails Mrs. Brainard?" "I think it is rheumatism in her hands. She seems to suffer a great deal. I suppose I am heartless to laugh at her, but sometimes, in spite of my annoyances and sorrow, she amuses me infinitely with her performances. "Whenever the pain gets a little worse than usual, she begins to hint darkly at suicide. She will declare her in- tention, as if threatening a refractory servant,' not to stand this pain much longer, she knows a way to end it. She knows very well where there is some laudanum or a razor; and, 'if this pain isn't put a stop to,' she'll put a stop to it very shortly. Then she will sit up in bed, and glare about the room with an air of being very desperate and very determined, and dart ferocious glances into the closet, as if she were looking for some easily bullied power, that had charge of her pain, and who must be frightened into putting a stop to it. The first time I heard her threaten suicide if the pain kept on, I was quite alarmed, and went into the nexst room to tell Alma. I broke it to her very cautiously, fully expecting to see her rush frantically. to her mother's bedside and implore the desperate woman to desist, for her children's sake; but what was my surprise to see Alma smile, with a little flush of annoyance and con- tempt, as she said, ' Mamma always talks so when she is sick, but I don't think there's any danger.' "Then Fannie, who had been listening, began attitudinizing before the glass, as if rehearsing for a very especial occasion, and said, 'Oh there is not the slightest danger. Mamma is only trying to impose upon your credulity, Bernice. She may know where the laudanum is kept, and where papa's razor is, but she is in no danger of departing this life by suicide.' I was very much amused at Fannie's sprightly way of talking, and the graceful attitude she succeeded in effecting to her entire satisfaction; but nothing amused me so much page: 330-331[View Page 330-331] 330 MRS. BRIrNARD'S ETHCS. as Mrs. Brainard's confession to a knowledge of the where. abouts of the laudanum and the razor." , "You ought to tell her, Bernice, that suicide is very dan-! gerous and often results fatally. You ought to warn her -that r persons have died from it, and that she ought to be very care- ful, and should by no means go near any laudanum or any razors," returned Oswald, with that sparkle of mirth that is sometimes found in such natures as his during their seasons i of severest trial. "Oh she is very funny," rejoined Bernice, unconsciously i partaking of her brother's transient gleam of humor. "I- wish Dickens could know her. Pecksniff, Micawher and f the Podsnaps, would dwindle into insignificance, if she sat for a portrait by Dickens. Given as a woman of America i she would immortalize American women. "When she is well she is sufficiently comical, with her X dissertations on 'shirking responsibilities,' while she never does anything that is troublesome to herself. Then she has a way of sneering at Saratoga, and affecting exclusiveness, and classing herself, as a matter of great condescension on her part, among 'our best people.' "She adopts a cheerful complacency as she informs those ! about her what, is considered aufait and what isn't. "She alludes loftily to her family, as if everybody must i know who they were, when at the same time if she imag-, ined that her most particular friend had given me their en- tire history, she would be mute as a fish concerning them. "She tells what she believes as if repeating the ten eom- mandments by ' special request.' "She delivers lectures on selfishness, and all manner of evil, as if she were the sole representative of the cardinal virtues. "She is utterly shocked at any departure from rectitude upon which the world frowns; but any such legal indulgences as slander, falsehood, uncharitableness, and such evil as the law does not reach nor the world frown upon, she glosses I SEFISHNESS AND SUFFERING. 831 over with an amiability that would shame the angel of charity as a tyrant. t( "Wrong, with her, means inconvenience, or loss of repu- tation. Anything thatis expedient and respectable isright." "Queer kind of ethics, my lady. Brainard has," rejoined Oswald with a smile, as he rose to bid his sister good-by. "Do come soon again, Oswald. You are the comfort of my life!" whispered Bernice, as she parted from her brother at the door. CHAPTER XLV. y\X SELFISHNESS AND SFE ING. Aureola Kent has married Bainbridge. Well! I hope she will be happy!" Mrs. Brainard folded her hands complacently, and looked at Mr. Arion as if endeavoring to impress him with her magnificence. "If she loves him she will be happy," exclaimed Fannie, affecting an impulsiveness that she seemed to consider pecu- liarly becoming. "Strange as it may seem, in this conventional world of ours, I think it really a love match," rejoined Mr. Arion, looking steadily at Mrs. Brainard, who nodded with dignified appreciation as she said, "Ah! indeed?" After this there was a little silence that Mrs. Brainard broke with an effort at probing, in the remark, "I wonder if there is any prospect of Bernice's marrying soon." "I am not in her confidence," rejoined the gentleman, with a smile. "Why, I heard that you were," exclaimed Fannie, gushing- ly, "I heard that you went to see her regularly, and that ever since-she left here you had been her most devoted. Mamma and I were sure there would be a wedding soon. page: 332-333[View Page 332-333] 332 SEFISHNESS AND SEFERRIG. You don't know how much we have heard of your attentions I to her." "Indeed!" rejoined the gentleman, with an expression of a countenance baffling in the extreme. "Yes, said Mrs. Brainard," and I was delighted to hear it. Bernice's a real good girl, though she is a little peculiar." S "Peculiar, is she?" queried Mr. Arion, so unconcernedly that Mrs. Brainard was quite sure that there was nothing in .! . the report of his attachment to Miss Kent, and answered : with a candor betokening irritation : "Yes, very peculiar! 1 There is no understanding her. After her father died we in- ? vited her to make us a visit to spend some time with us, or at least until she could find a pleasant boarding-place. She ' spent six weeks here, and the whole time she was as nervous and restless, and seemed as anxious to get away as if we hadn't done everything we could to make it pleasant for her. . And now that she is away she scarcely ever comes near us. She i doesn't seem to feel under any obligations for our hospitality ! or to appreciate kindness in the least. She is very peculiar." "Why yes, so rare a case of ingratitude is remarkable," rejoined Philip somewhat satirically, " and you had so much sickness during her stay, and must have found it very incon-e venient to entertain her." Mrs. Brainard said "Yes," half abstractedly, but Fannie saw the point instantly, and exclaimed. "Oh I'm sure I don't know what we should have done when we were all sick, if it hadn't been for Bernice. She sat up with us night after night when she was not at all well herself." , Philip Arion smiled upon the young lady with an admira- tion so genuine for this generosity on her part, that a flush j came up under the rouge on her face, like Truth playing hide and seek with Pretence I "I'd like to know if we didn't all wait on her when she was sick?" asked Mrs. Brainard, spitefully. "Yes," returned Fannie, "but it was a greater tax for her SEmISHNESS AND SUFERING. 833 to wait on three of us when we were sick, than for us to at- tend to her when she was sick." ,cNonsense!" said Mrs. Brainard. "As if that were any reason that she shouldn't appreciate what we did for her. Some people are utterly devoid of gratitude. They never re- member what others do for them. We all have duties to perform and none of us can expect to shirk responsibilities." This closing remark of Mrs. Brainard's was a favorite one with the lady, and was, as her daughter Fannie said, " fre- quently introduced without the slightest provocation." Madame seemed to derive intensest satisfaction from it, as if she implied thereby that whatever weakness she might have, whatever imperfections she might as a human being have inherited, it certainly was not a disposition to "shirk responsibilities." It is singular, yet no less true, that as a general thing those whose standard of perfection is so very exalted, those who demand so much generosity and self sacrifice from others, are they who exhibit least in their own lives. They exact everything and give nothing. If there is a single grain of selfishness or indolence in one's nature they are the ones who discover it, and condemn it without stint or mercy. They dispute any one's right to be selfish as indignantly as if they had taken out a patent for selfishness and intended a monopoly. The greatest sacrifices of feeling that others may make for their comfort they consider no more than their due, and speak with lofty disdain of anything so preposterous as praising one for "merely doing his duty." As if doing one's duty were the simplest, as well as the most remunerative, as : well as the most comfortable thing imaginable, no matter vm;! how far away from inclination it may be. They seem to consider themselves deserving of all homage because they exact so much of others. They have no charity for another's weakness; show no page: 334-335[View Page 334-335] 334 SEFISHNTESS AND SUFFERING. leniency towards another's imperfections, yet should any one dare to mention their foibles, that person is " exacting," and "censorious," and "disagreeable," and not to be tolerated. : Every one else must be unselfish and industrious, bearing a1 not only their own burdens but the burdens of the world's Mrs. Brainards. Every one else must be patient, and charitable, and for- giving, and submit with Christian forbearance, not only to J Mrs. Brainard's exactions, but to Mrs. Brainard's judgment of the manner in which he submits, and the probable egouf tism that is experienced on account of this Christian sub, missiveness. Cheerful, complacent Mrs. Brainard, comfortable with a trusting faith in your own infallibility, you are by no means ! sui generis. You are the representative of a large class who, sponge like, receive all, and impart nothing. E That my comments concerning your kind will have any other effect than to infuriate you, I should scarcely dare hope, did I not believe that your egotism will prevent a re- : cognition of your own portrait. As it is I shall perhaps amuse you, though I can never, it xo, never, hope to rival in your esteem the yellow-backed i literature so peculiarly adapted to your organization. Adieu, madame! You have accomplished your mission in this book! You have served my purpose as an illustration of one species of humanity. It may be that I shall mention - you again in some future work-for the present, Je vous sou- haite le bonjour, madame! i And, after your edifying discourse concerning Miss Kent, Philip Arion also took his leave of you. There was more in his eye and tone that displeased ,you than his " au revoir," and after his departure you remarked confidentially to the young person, Alma, that there was 'something about that ALion ' that you didn't like. True, Madam! There is and must be that antagonism be- tween all such natures as yours and his, that there is between SELFISHNESS AND SUFt'FERIN . 335 Good and Evil. The two cannot assimilate, and there must be constant warfare whenever they are thrown in contact with each other. :! Meantime Mrs. Rashton, making a morning call, was saying, in continuance of a conversation that had progressed so far with mere platitudes, "I have called to see you, Miss Kent, because I have heard that you are a strong-minded young lady, and I want your advice." "You honor me, Mrs. Rashton! I shall be glad to do anything in my power to assist you," rejoined the young lady, repressing a smile. "I have no time nor patience for compliments, Miss Kent. 1 want you to hear my story, and tell me what to do. I don't know what I ought to do. I have tried everything, and I have failed. I am a wretched, baffled woman, and when I think of all my life, I can only say, ' Failed! Failed!" "I feel as if I wanted to shriek out the word to the passer by on the street. I moan it in my sleep, and say it over to-myself every hour in the day, Failed, failed, failed!" "Failed how? In what, Mrs. Rashton?" asked Bernice, soothingly. "Failed to keep my husband's love, Miss Kent, when I have tried so hard. I was only a child, only seventeen when he married me ; and he has kept me a child ever since. I know that I have not improved any since my marriage. I know that, intellectually, I am no companion for him, yet whose fault is it, Miss Kent?" He has always discouraged my trying to be anything but a child. He has encouraged me to be helpless Land trusting, and perfectly dependent upon him. I am just as he made me, yet he has wearied of the work of his own hands. Hle knew that I was not in- tellectually brilliant when he married me, yet now he seeks intellectual companionship elsewhere. Olive Brown, youn- ger than I am, is old enough to interest him. He sneered at my religion. He used all the power of his love to estrange me from God, yet after he has shamed me out of the evening prayers that my mother taught page: 336-337[View Page 336-337] 336 SELFISHNESS AND SUFFERING. me, he writes notes to his ' pure little girl,' Olive Brown, and ? wants her to pray for him.. He makes a compact with her, i!t!{ that his soul shall kneel at a certain hour every day while t she prays for him. He tells her that he is a happier and a better man for the sake of her prayers. What does it all mean, Miss Kent, and what ought I to do? I want to know I' [ It is a well known fact that in moments of intense excite- : : ment minds usually accounted ordinary sometimes rise to heights and exhibit depths of which none would have dreamed them capable. So it was with Mrs. Rashton. Her ; whole mind was roused, and her impassioned utterance was by no means that of a commonplace woman. i "Why do you not tell Olive Brown these things, as you have told them to me?" asked Bernice, regarding Mrs. Rash- !: ton with a feeling half akin to awe and admiration. "I have talked to her, Miss Kent, but she persists in saying that I misunderstand the relationship between herself and my husband. She pretends it is all only friendship, but I believe she loves him, Miss Kent, and I hate her for it." "She has the weight of orphanhood to bear, Mrs. Rashton, and you ought to pity her," said Bernice softly. : "I do not pity her. I do not care for her orphanhood. I am not sorry that she has suffered. She deserves to suffer for daring to trifle with mine. She deserves torment forhav- ing inflicted so much pain upon me. I hate her, Miss Kent! I hate her!" Mrs. Rashton's face glowed with passion. A strong frenzy of hatred shook her, until something relentless as murder burned in her eyes. "I think your husband is more to be blamed than Miss Brown," returned Bernice. "To be blamed? Of course he is to be blamed! I blame him! I scorn him! I hate him! I love him! I adore him I I worship him, Miss Kent! I would rather see him sunk to j the lowest depths of degradation, and have him mine, all 4 mine, than to have him ever so good and belong to any other, SEIMSHNESS AND SUFE RING. 337 He is a mean man, a wicked man, a selfish man, a cruel man, but I love him, Miss Kent. He is mine, and I would grind a million hearts to powder rather than give him up. ," I hate Olive Brown! I hate her worse than if she were -wicked! What right has she to seem purer and better than I am? What right has she to convince my husband that she is my superior? She has no right! I hate her! I will punish her! I will blight her reputation! I will murder her, -Miss Kent, if she is not careful." Mrs. Rashton had wrought herself into a passion that was terrible to contemplate. Bernice Kent shivered as if the passion and pain of a spirit lost had been shown her! After all, what is Hades but uncontrolled passion? "For to be carnally minded is death ; but to be spiritually minded is life eternal." The command forbidding inordinate affection cannot be broken with impunity. For all :sin there is suffering. "What shall I do, Miss Kent? You are cool and calm, and can think without pain., You are strong-minded. Tell me what to do." Mrs. Rashton commanded rather than entreated. "You must appeal to a Higher Power, Mrs. Rashton. You must ask God to help you. I can only sympathize with you. I am afraid I cannot aid you," returned Bernice com- passionately. "Oh, you must aid me. You must do something, or tell me what to do. I cannot endure existence. I am being tortured to death. I tell you I am dying by inches!"Mrs. Rashton took Bernice Kent's hands in hers with a grasp fierce as pain. "I will talk to your husband, Mrs. Rashton. I will try to influence him. In the meantime be patient. Trust God! For 'with Him all things are possible,'" rejoined Bernice. 15 page: 338-339[View Page 338-339] 338 - DR, RASHTON'S EXPERIMENT. "When will you see my husband?" asked Mrs. Rashton,? impatiently. "Soon. I will write a note this afternoon, requesting an interview. In the meantime employ yourself with some. thing. Employment is a great antidote for pain. I have tried it, Mrs. Rashton, and I know. "Then, by study, you can improve yourself until your husband can find no intellectual companionship superior to yours. Patience! Courage! Faith, 'Mrs. Rashton, and you will yet be victor." CHAPTER XLVI. DR. RASHTON S EXPERIMENT. VICTOR HUGO says, "At certain hours everything seems impossible; at other hours everything appears easy." The hours in which everything appears easy, are the : hours in which, as a general thing, we form our resolution. : Were it not so we should perhaps accomplish less than we do, for the reason that we should form fewer resolutions, ; and should not therefore have the memory of resolve to assist us in the hours when everything seems impossible.!X The hour in which Bernice Kent had resolved to seek an interview with Dr. Rashton was one of those hours when everything appears easy. In the excitement of the moment, she mistook strength of feeling for ability to act. Thought overwhelmed her with its force and conclusiveness, and she felt that, shaped in speech, it must affect others in a manner equally potent. Emotion's high tide swept over her, and she fancied it rea- son's steady current, that could bear away the strongest ! upon its broad bosom. It is marvellous how compassion or indignation can make DR. RASHTON S EXPERIMENT. 339 obstacles seem to vanish by filling us with fictitious strength. The hour in which Bernice Kent sought Dr. Rashton was one of those hours in which everything seems impossible. She had appointed an interview. She could not escape it; yet as the hour drew near, and she realized- that it was inevitable, a sense of her own weakness filled her with the deepest melancholy. Why had she agreed to see the man? What could she say, she asked- herself with profoundest humiliation. Had she not been the most stupid of egotists, to fancy that anything she might say could have the slightest weight with Dr. Rashton? Ought she not, before deciding upon the interview, to have considered the man's disposition, and have determined upon what course of action would be most effective? Was not caution indispensable? Bernice Kent decided that it was, as the precipitancy of her action grew every mo- ment more terribly apparent. She bent her forehead on her hand, and tried to think. Tried to arrange the opening sentences of the interview. Vain effort! The horizon of thought was clouded. Speech seemed a failure. More and more she realized the utter futility of her purpose; so that when the appointed hour arrived she had no strength nor courage. She could only look into Dr. Rashton's face, and say, with a choking sense of helplessness and despair, "When I re- quested this interview, Dr. Rashton, I felt that I had a great deal to say. Since that time I have come to realize my own inability to accomplish any good; therefore, it only remains for me to crave your pardon for having troubled you, and to ask you to excuse me from any farther explanation.'" "My dear Miss Kent," rejoined the gentleman, with his habitual gallantry and gracefulness, "I should certainly grant any request of yours with all pleasure. When you page: 340-341[View Page 340-341] 340 DR. RASHTON'S EXPERIMENT. speak of your inability to accomplish any good, you do yourself so much injustice, that I must beg leave to assure you to the contrary. You have the ability to do anything that you desire to do; and if I can serve you in the accorn- plishment of any purpose, I pray you allow me that happi. There is something in a cool, polished conventionalism that is of all things most effectual in subduing excess of feeling. The ease and grace of Pretence, shames the awk- wardness of Truth until she veils her face, and blushes for her simplicity. Who has not felt this? Who has not given unstudied ut. terance to genuine enthusiasm, and blushed to find a grace. ful platitude contrasted with it as a city-bred Miss, with her genteel languor and aristocratic repose of manner, might be contrasted with a fresh, blooming hoyden, awkward with sincerity and rusticity? Bernice Kent felt that she had made herself appear a trifle ridiculous, and pride came to her assistance, so that in a moment she was quite calm, and replied, with a dignity and deliberation surprising for very suddeness, "I think, Dr. Rashton, that in moments of excitement we are prone to over-estimate our own ability. We feel that we encourage wrong when we fail to condemn it. We are impatient to be battling against evil; forgetting how unequal the contest and how utterly powerless we are to accomplish anything." "True, quite true, no doubt, Miss Kent," returned the gentleman, fixing his eyes intently on the carpet, as if trying to understand to what particular case the young lady's re- mark could possibly apply. r"Do you think, Dr. Rashton," asked Bernice, rather ab- ruptly, after a pause, as if she meant to come very rapidly to the point, "that a person of experience and depth of intellect, who is insensible to the voice of conscience, can be in- fluenced by mere desire for the good opinion of others." The gentleman smiled and replied, with an air of think- ing the lady's query a very unsophisticated one, "I believe, Miss Kent, that the world has given many very striking in- stances of persons who were not deterred by the voice of conscience, from committing crimes, yet upon being detected have regarded the world's opinion so highly as to commit suicide rather than exist with blighted reputations." "True, true! How stupid I am!" said Bernice. "And yet it does not seem as if I meant exactly that. I think I meant, would it not be utterly useless to attempt influencing a man by my opinion, who was not influenced, by his own conscience." c I am sure I cannot determine exactly how much a man's conscience might influence him, without knowing to whom you allude; yet you will pardon my candor in saying that your opinion could not fail to affect any one capable of ap- preciating it. Were I to speak for myself, I should say, try the opinion without hesitancy, as it would most certainly be all potent." "Dr. Rashton," exclaimed Bernice impatiently, "you are an enigma. I don't understand you! I wish I could. You try to blindfold every one with flattery. You invariably meet truth with a graceful compliment that shames the awkward- ness of her sincerity. You seem to have a mania for dup- ing persons, yet for what I don't understand. It is not that you care to obtain an influence over them; for if you had it, you would not care to use it. What do you mean by it? Why are you always trying to cajole and dupe persons? You cannot affect me. I am sure you do not care to, yet if you can be candid, if there is truth enough in you to be sincere for one moment, tell me why you are always making the attempt." "Oh, I don't know," rejoined Rashton, laughing as one might on being suddenly unmasked, "for the soif ex- periment, I suppose. It is curious to observe the effect of what one says upon persons. You yourself afford me in- finite amusement by the puzzled, incredulous expression with which you always receive my remarks. You seem to be page: 342-343[View Page 342-343] 342 DR. RASHTON'S EXPERIMENT. always looking for a trap, and when you think you know just what is bait and what isn't, you suddenly dis- cover that the game is scarcely worth so much trouble, and then you are puzzled to know what it all means, and your X metaphysics are altogether unsatisfactory. "You experiment, then, upon human nature! You amuse yourself at the expense of others. You do not think how much your experiment may cost them. You do not care. Are you utterly heartless, Dr. Rashton?" "Really, Miss Kent, your conclusions are so hasty, and your query so very pointed, that I am quite overcome." "I suppose, Dr. Rashton, you are experimenting upon Olive Brown!" exclaimed Bernice, with a suddenness that might have been indignation. "Yes, Miss Kent, I am experimenting upon Olive Brown," . returned Dr. Rashton, so coolly that Bernice could scarcely believe that he comprehended her meaning. "Will you state the nature of your experiment?" she asked. "Certainly," he rejoined, with what seemed to Bernice : Kent Satanic deliberation, "I want to know whether the human heart is capable of an unselfish affection." "For shame, Dr. Rashton!" exclaimed Miss Kent, involun- tarily. "Excuse me, my dear young lady, if I refuse to entertain : the sentiment you suggest. I have long been skeptical re- garding the existence of a truly unselfish affection." "Ungrateful son, to have forgotten your mother!" rejoined Bernice. "Ah well, Miss Kent, my mother has been dead many years. I do not cavil at her affection. I do not pretend to say how much'was mere instinct and how much self-sacrifice. Let it go! My experiment has nothing to do with that! I want to test the power of a woman's heart to cherish a pure, unself- ish emotion. I want to find out, if possible, if there is a feeling called affection, that, neither whipped by Duty nor coaxed by DR. RASHTON'S EXPERIMENT. 343 Interest, can exist. I have chosen Miss Brown as the subject for my experiment. She is young and unsophisticated. Her heart may be said to be in its normal condition. She has no sense of duty urging her to care for me, such as she would feel were I bound to her legally, or by the ties of consanguinity. I have a wife, consequently she cannot expect to obtain an es- tablishment and a support for life by caring for me. On the contrary the world decides that she has nothing to gain, and has everything to lose by entertaining an affection for me. Certainly she has nothing but my friendship to gain. Now the question arises, have I any qualities of heart or mind that can win her pure, unselfish affection for me?" "Dr. Rashton, I think you are a demon!" exclaimed Ber- nice, indignantly. "Why so, Miss Kent?" queried the gentleman. "A cold-blooded, metaphysical demon, who would sacrifice the trusting heart of an orphan girl for the sake of theory. How dare you do this? I wonder that God's retribution does not strike you- dead in my presence. I am amazed at the forbearance that permits you to live." Bernice Kent's face was expressive of such horror as she might have felt on catching a glimpse of Hades. "Ah, then you don't believe in friendship, Miss Kent? You deny the purity of a woman's heart? You believe that she gives love whether or not it is solicited? You think that I cannot seek to inspire Miss Brown's friendship without ob- taining her love? You hold that a woman is incapable of aught so unselfish as friendship?"Dr. Rashton seemed to sneer. "What I hold, or do not hold, Dr. Rashton, has little bear- ing upon the case. A man may solicit a woman's love by actions more eloquently than by words. She is indeed a pitiful piece of mechanism who loves a man simply because he asks her to. There are such women. Women whose love is all by special request. They are they who could love one man quite as conveniently as another. They have ! page: 344-345[View Page 344-345] 844 DR RASHTON'S EXPERIMENT. no appreciation of the trials that command respect and in. spire genuine affection. The exhibition of a brilliant mind a or a noble heart has no effect upon them. Actions weigh1 tl nothing. Words alone are comprehened. They blush as red i] and grant as deep a love for any simple clown who has the n grace to offer marriage, as if genius itself knelt at their feet. :: They love genius sometimes. They admire intellectual men I] who minister to their vanity, but they admire them as a child -- admires a rainbow. "Painted glass symbolizing no covenant of God, would be t: equally attractive. These are the women that prate of never giving their love unsolicited. They give love when re- quested, and riendship when requested, never mistaking one for the other, and having no true knowledge of either. "They are insensible to the soul's unworded eloquence. The mag- netism of thought is unknown to them. The mystery of the spirit's infinite is a blank. What the lips of flesh say they understand, when the proposition does not get beyond 'to marry or not to marry.' These are the proper, well-ordered women, that are docile as dray-horses. Going their appointed way calmly and complacently, while some mettled steed dashes towards the precipice of destruction." "You are very eloquent, Miss Kent! I think oratory : a your forte." "Silence!" exclaimed Bernice imperatively. "I will not be s trifled with. I am not talking to be complimented. I am talking because I must. Talking for Truth's sake, and I command you to listen." Dr. Rashton bowed with an ironical smile and gesture of i submissiveness, and Bernice continued. "You know that Olive Brown has all the impulsiveness of genius. You know from the very nature of her organization that motive with her is spasm. She means well, in-the main, but emotion over- powers reason, and she acts almost wholly from impulse. You may say to her every hour of your existence, ' the bond between us is friendship,' and yet if you act so as to inspire DR. RASHTON S EXPERIMENT. 345 a warmer feeling on her part, the actions that speak louder than words will influence her most. You may call your feel- ing friendship, yet if your actions do not so express it, the name is a farce." "But I have felt no other emotion than the very purest and most legitimate for Miss Brown, therefore have expressed none other," said Dr. Rashton. "Yet you say that you desire her affection, that you are trying an experiment." " Yes, an experiment that can do her no harm. I want to win her tender, unselfish regard. I want to obtain such an affection as she would give a father, or a brother very much older than herself. I am disgusted with the selfish affections that unite persons. The soi-disant love that binds a wife to her husband, and has miliner bills in- view. The ' affection' that binds children to parents, and has the parental estate in view. I am trying to find something genuine, Miss Kent, and have chosen Miss Brown for the subject of my experi- mentl." "How selfish! How cruelly selfish you are! How can you regard so lightly the consequences of your experiment ? asked Bernice, vehemently. "What consequences, Miss Kent?" queried Dr. Rashton, shrugging his shoulders. "Are you blind, man ? Are you stupid as a wooden post, that you do not see the consequences ? Look at your wife, how miserable and jealous she is !" "She has no cause for jealousy," rejoined Rashton, coolly. "Wheter or not she has real cause, she imagines that such is the case, and suffers accordingly. You have no right to torture her so. You have no right to make others mis- erable for the sake of a mere theory, or any other selfish- Iness." " Granted, Miss Kent;" replied the gentleman. "Then you will abandon this experiment?" asked Bernice, eagerly. "You will make no effort to see or speak with page: 346-347[View Page 346-347] 846 DR. IASHTON'S EXPERIMENT. Olive Brown again? You will devote yourself to your wife's happiness. You will be the man that, with your intellect you might be. Promise this, Dr. Rashton." "Why should I promise, MIiss Kent ? What does it matter to you or any one else, what I am, or may be? Where is the human being that, aside from selfishness or sentiment. ality, would care what became of me ?" "She is here," answered Bernice, lifting her clear, com- passionate eyes to the man's face. "You, Miss Kent ? You who censure me so severely? You who from the beginning have regarded me with suspicion and distrust. You care ?" asked Dr. Rashton with genuine " Yes, Dr. Rashton, lcare! I confess that I have distrusted you. I have listened to your sophistry and watched your ex- periments upon human nature, and condemned unsparingly that which has, in many instances, seemed deliberate and cruel selfishness. Taken as a whole, I do not admire your character. You are brilliant and ingenious, but you are not good enough to satisfy a true woman's heart. You are not the kind of man whom I should choose for my hero. Your most graceful speeches grate upon my ear. The atmosphere of your presence is skepticism. And yet I have caught glimpses of something like a better self. I have seen indications of a nature whose 'might-have-been' dazzles me. You are not what God gave you the capacity to be, Dr. Rashton. You have not fulfilled the promise of your boyhood. "You ought to have been a great man and a good man. There is no true greatness without goodness. I can see the possibilities of your nature; and I lament their stunted growth. I want to be your friend. For the sake of the man that you ought to be and are not, I feel for you sincerest compassion." "Bless you, Miss Kent! If I had known you years ago, I might have been different, but the bitterness of an expert, DR. hASHTOm'S ExPEIMENr. 347 ence most terrible, has turned every fountain of aspiration into the wormwood and gall of despair. I do not know what effect happiness might have had upon me; I only know what effect suffering has had. Thwarted, baffled, tortured, goaded to desperation, I have become what I am, a thorough man of the world." "I am sorry for you, Dr. Rashton, inexpressibly sorry. Some one says our misfortunes are like knives. If we grasp them by the handle we can use them and derive benefit from them; whereas if we grasp them blindly and rebel- iiously by the blade, we simply wound ourselves and ac- complish no good with them, "returned Bernice. " I thank you sincerely for your sympathy, Miss Kent. I begin to suspect it is as you say : I grasped my misfortune by the blade and wounded myself, and the wound is incurable." " Not incurable, Dr. Rashton. The Great Physician healeth all our cdiseases." " Are you the remedy He has sent, Miss Kent ? Are you his instrument to convert me, do you suppose?" " There ! you are back again at your experimenting. You are incapable of more than five minutes candor at a time. I shall have to terminate our interview," said Bernice, rising to her feet. "No, Miss Kent! Pray don't! I must talk with you 'awhile longer. I will not experiment. I will be perfectly ingenuous. Trust me one time," pleaded Rashton. Bernice sat down again, and the gentleman continued. "" You may look straight into my eyes, Miss Kent, and see that I mean what I say. You are different from other women-you have a straight-forward, childlike nature whose presence is healthful to me. I wish you were my sister, Miss Kent, I honestly do. I never had a sister. Perhaps if I had been blessed with one she might have saved me from-thereckless- ness of despair." Bernice Kent felt all the sternness of her censure dissolve page: 348-349[View Page 348-349] 348 DML RASHTON'S EXPERI-ENT. : in tears. Compassion's infinitude had neither language nor speech. "Miss Kent," exclaimed Dr. Rashton after a pause, "would you like to hear the story of my life?" "Very very much," she answered. "I will give it to you," rejoined the Doctor, "but I can- not talk. I will write to you. I am anxious for you to know it. Suspend your judgment of me if you can, for a time. Think of me as leniently as possible until you .i have heard my confession. I will write to you to-" night." Dr. Rashton rose, made his adieux and was gone. 6. Bernice sat like one stunned. Such was the marvellous- ! power possessed by the man, that by mere force of will he had compelled her to substitute compassion for condemna- ; tion, and, with all the facts of his wrong-doing staring her X in the face, she denied them a voice, and remembered only that he had suffered; and for the sake of that unknown tragedy she forgave him as one more sinned against than sinning. Yet while she forgave and pitied him, the thought :i would intrude itself that perhaps, after all, she was only the victim of another of Dr. Rashton's experiments. Failing to Af reach her through her vanity, perhaps he had gone to the / door of her benevolence. All his melancholy and pathos might be simply another phase of his deceptiveness. Merely an experiment as to what causes could influence her, and how far she could be influenced. So thoroughly had she grown to distrust Dr. Rashton that even his sorrow seemed mere dramatic talent. He had con- lx fessed that he was experimenting upon Olive Brown, why might he not be experimenting upon her too? Bernice Kent grew exceedingly uncomfortable from this reflection, and felt that of all things most desirable in a char- acter, perfect truthfulness and honesty should be ranked ' pre-eminent. "An honest man's the noblest work of CQod, she repeated to THE GEATEST OF A CRIMES. 49 herself; " perfect truthfulness is more to be desired than gold, yea, than much fine gold." And then, in the longing that came over her to rest in the love of some heart whose integrity was unquestioned and whose truthfulness might never be doubted, she could only bow her head and think, with something half joy and half pain, of Philip Arion. She admixed him. She esteemed him. She could have loved him, but that he seemed so unapproachable. She had seen the flash of his intellect, and the gleam of his broad soul pinions in their upward flight, yet she had never felt his heart beat through the icy exterior of his unvarying kindness. His very kindness mocked her with its steadiness. He was self poised, self-contained, yet cold as the eternal snows. Pride rebelled, and she -felt half angry, almost humiliated when she thought of him! CHAPTER XLVII. THE GREATEST OF ALL CRIMES. IN due time Dr. Rashton's communication arrived, and thus it ran: TUESDAY, 18-. MY DEAR MISS KENT: I have for a long time desired to reveal myself to you in my proper character, but have been restrained thus far from doing so, by various causes, not the least of which is a constitu- tional dislike to, or rather shrinking from, opening the pages of my in- ner life to the inspection of others. "It is not so much that these pages contain anything which I fear to have known, as it is an impression that their perusal would afford to others a matter rather of contempt than respect or sympathy.. I do not, however, fear you in this respect. Your manifestations of esteem, as well as my knowledge of your character, convince me that you will regard what I tell you with kindly interest. "What I am about to offer is a defence. You have accused me at times of harshness, of sneering at the holy revelations of the heart, of irreligion and a disregard of my domestic relations. page: 350-351[View Page 350-351] 35 O THE GREATEST OF ALL CRIMES. "I have for a long time hesitated as to whether I should attempt to de. fend myself, or allow you to entertain the belief, not knowing whether the labor and humiliation involved in the former, would not greatly over- ? balance all the benefits which might be created by correcting the latter. X "That I am at times all you charge me with being, I cannot deny. And. yet a considerate examination of a few of my life-experiences will explain ^ the origin of these qualities in my nature, if it does not at the same time (although I think it wilD palliate their existence. ? When I was nineteen years of age, I was fresh, innocent, open-hearted, ! and full of poetical inspiration. I became acquainted with the daughter. of a clergyman, (under whose tuition I prepared for a collegiate course) ,? and being thrown much into her society I conceived a strong attachment for her. She was very beautiful (I have ever been a passionate lover of beauty, especially in women) quite intelligent, and an ardent lover of [ poetry. She charmed me inexpressibly with her manner and her active A sympathy with my pursuits. We were married, and for more than a year I lavished upon her with- out stint the wealth of an infinite affection enhanced by a warm imagin- ation. All these months I was delirious with happiness. I "One night I overheard her confess to a female friend that she had married me at her mother's solicitation, on account of my wealth and position. She went on to say, that having married me without loving me, she had grown to regard me with a feeling akin to loathing. Her friend Xa remonstrated with her by reminding her of my devotion. "His devotion!' she sneered, ' a mere boyish passion. -He caresses me, 4 and clings to me, and seems a dozen years younger than I feel. He is.. innocent as a girl, but innocent men are tame. This Darby and Joan kind of existence is killing me. I want excitement. I want a husband capable of giving me a sensation. Robert is a child. I accept his devotion, but I loathe it, and dream what my life might be with a man stronger and i more mature.' These were her words. They branded themselves upon my memory never to be effaced. I Most women like men that are 'a lit- tle wicked, a little fast' suggested her companion, to which my wife re- plied, with gloomy desperation : "I think any change would be acceptable. Robert is so tame, so fearfully tame! He wearies me with his bread and ! butter innocence and devotion. I think I could forgive him for drinking or gambling, or any kind of debauchery sooner than for letting me die of stagnation. I hate monotony. I loathe the tameness of my existence. Robert never looks at other women, never grows jealous, never awes me ' } by being tempestuous, never waits for me to desire his caresses before lavishing them upon me to satiety. He is so inexpressibly happy, and so unutterably stupid in that happiness, that I am learning to detest him. I could hear no more. I left the house and walked the streets for hours THE GREATEST OF ALL CRIMES. 35 repeating her words over and over again, fearing that I should forget them. I-did not reflect that they were merely the fevered utterances of a woman scarcely a year older than myself. A woman rendered nervous and irri- table by a late illness, and whose mind being at the time in an abnormal condition, prevented her from knowing what she desired of a husband. I did not reflect that she was young and romantic, and was passing that stage of womanhood that is shallow and sensation-loving, and prefers men who are vicious and fascinating, to those who are pure and merely devoted. ' "I did not know these things then as I know them now; and, as you may fancy, the awakening from my delicious dream of happiness was horrible. I suffered intensely. My suffering was not only from disap- pointed affection, but it was also from another source. I was proud, and it racked my soul with hellish agony, ^when I reflected that I had been lavishing the treasures of my love upon one who had never appre- ciated them, and who had flung them aside without a single sigh of regret. i "My nature underwent a revolution. All my poetry, tenderness, and love of the beautiful, sank to the bottom of my soul and were frozen over. A long sunshine now will thaw the surface at times, and reveal what is beneath, but let the sun be removed for ever so short a time, and these humanizing qualities are again hidden'beneath a congealed surface. ** "My proud heart was tortured by the reflection that I had been so lavish in my manifestations of affection. Many a night after, accom- panied only by the despondent demon of darkness, did I spend hours in uneasy walking the streets, racking the vocabulary of profanity for bitter, savage oaths, with which to curse myself for having opened my heart to one who pretended to admire what she secretly regarded with contemptuous indifference. "If you can fancy fully the position in which I found myself at that time, you can very easily understand the origin of, and possibly to some extent excuse the desperation that followed. Maddened by the blind fury of my suffering, I determined to give my wife the change she coveted. I plunged into all manner of excesses. I became a drunkard, a gambler, 'fast and wicked' enough to satisfy even my sensation-lov- ing wife. What insane pleasure I took in torturing her With what fiendish delight I heard her plead with me to reform, if not for her sake, for the sake of our innocent babe. She clung to me and caressed me as she had never done when I was all that a husband could have been. "She seemed to be setting a premium upon wickedness. She gave me such love and such devotion as she never gave. me until I earned it by debauchery. I felt this, and plunged into wilder excesses. I page: 352-353[View Page 352-353] 352 THE GREATEST OF ALL CRIMES. squandered my property, and when she reproached me one night with making her and our child beggars, and declared her intention to return to her father, I was goaded to desperation, and tried to take the child from her by force and leave her ; for I was insane with a desire to get away from the presence grown hateful to me. She clung to our child and forced me by her screams to flee her presence, in order to escape the presence and investigation of others. I walked the streets raving and cursing like a maniac. Ruin and starvation stared me in the face, Homneless, wifeless, childless, I drank to the very dregs the cup of gall Fate held to my lips. I thought of my child, the innocent little prattler whose love for me had been the one humanizing influence of my bitter career. I thought of losing her; of being separated from her, and having her grow up to believe her father a monster, whose name could only inspire her with loathing. " As my wife had barely tolerated me for the sake of my wealth, I was convinced that she would more than ever hate me in my poverty. I re- solved to steal my child, and with her leave for parts unknown. I re- solved to reform, to lead a new life for her sake, and forget the woman who had only lived to ruin me. ("I stole softly back in the darkness, and entering the house with my night key, obtained my sleeping child without disturbing any one. I happened to have considerable money with me, that I had won at the gaming, table, and should probably have lost again, but for my newly-formed resolution. With this I made my escape. For months I was undiscovered. I abandoned my dissipation. I gave up myself to the severest study, and practiced the strictest econ- omy. "At length a desire came over me to see my wife once again. I re- flected, for the first time, strange to say, what her agony must have been at being so long separated from her child. Because she had seemed so incapable of genuine affection for me, I had imagined her love for the child less than mine, and had not considered how great the suffering my course must have inflicted. I returned to the old haunts, made in- quiries concerning my wife, and learned that sho Ahad become insane. Grief for the loss of her child, and suspense concerning its fate, had de- prived her of her reason. " What I felt at this period of my existence, is beyond the power of language. I shall not attempt to speak of it. "My wife's widowed mother reproached me with bringing down her gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. My wife's fatherless brother haunted me with his pallid, boyish face, grown old with suffering, until I was well-nigh mad with the agony of remorse. ' What did you want with her child, miserable, drunken beggar that you are?' asked my wife's mother in the frenzy of her scornful pain. THE GREATEST OF AT. CRIMES. 353 "I could not say that I clung to it as the one being who cared for me. I could not tell her that I hadmeant the hand of a little child to lead me. Pride and pain kept me from saying that the one pure instinct that sin had left untouched, was the love I bore my child. I was dumb. Over. whelmed by the consequences of my sin, I could only stare stupidly in her face, and listen with the calmness of despair to her reproaches. With a vague idea of atoning for the misery I had caused, I offered to give her my child. I loved it. My heart clung to it with passionate per- sistency, yet I resolved to do penance for my crimes, by yielding up this one hope of my blighted existence, the hope of inspiring in the breast of my innocent child a devotion unselfish as I had craved yet, been. denied. I left my child with her grandmother, and with Ishmael's curse of realizing that every man's hand was against me, and my hand against every man, I went out to the unequal contest of life, in which hitherto I had been so terribly vanquished. I resolved to retrieve the past. I devoted myself to study. Receiving a small legacy from an uncle, I was enabled to exist comfortably until better established in my profes- sion. After a time the old longing came back for my wife and child. I wrote to my mother-in-law, and received in return the information that my wife was not expected to live. I hastened to her, but she did not know me. For weeks I watched by her bedside. And then she died. Died in a mad-house. "My nervous system sustained so severe a shock, that only the re- fiection that I had no home, and none to care for me, gave me strength of will sufficient to take care of myself. "I inquired for my child, and learned that she had been adopted by a distant relative of her mother's, who had wealth enough to give her every advantage. My mother-in-law forbade my seeing the child, or even making my name known to its adopted mother. She upbraided me with my poverty, and told me if I had a spark of manliness remaining, I would leave the child with those whose wealth and social position could give her every advantage. Exhausted mentally and physically, I re- solved to give nature an opportunity to regain her wasted energies. For this purpose I went to a little village called Snubbleton. While there I met a vivacious, blooming young lady who was a fair musician, (I am extravagantly fond of music) and who interested me as an acquaint- 'ance. Her people were rigid religionists, and wealthy. I was neither. While I was contemplating, in my intercourse with her, nothing beyond a pleasant acquaintanceship, I had reason to believe that her parents, thinking my intentions deeper, were endeavoring to create an opposition against me. Nothing makes me more determined than a vigorous op. position; and the result was that my very first notions of marrying her were the result of their efforts to prevent such a result. They were page: 354-355[View Page 354-355] ova. THE GREATEST OF ALL CRIMES. poor managers when it came to a game of hostility, and the result was that in six months I was married. Well, I have a pretty wife. One who at times adores me, and at times does not. She cares for no lit. erature beyond yellow covers, and possesses not the slightest interest in any subject beyond the duties of the most commonplace existence. I take no abiding interest in ordinary gossip, and she none in the higher planes of thought. Fancy the dreary stretches of silence which must attend our intercourse. If I attempt to read aloud I find her yawn- ing dismally over the most interesting passages. I have attempted to teach her the languages, to awaken an interest in higher things than as to who has a baby, or who has a fever, but have failed to find an appre- ciative or progressive pupil. And life rolls heavily away. I go home, i listen to the summary of household and other news, and then--silence! If a letter is to be written to one that is appreciative, I write it and she copies it. The result of all this is that I have wrapped around nearly my whole existence a seclusion in which she never enters. She knows nothing of what I think, and could not understand it if she did. Mere affectation does not satisfy me. I am grateful for it, but I desire in addition companionship, and sympathy. These I have not in any sense of the word, and consequently, although married, I am in almost all respects alone in life. 4 "These are the rough outlines of my life, and if you have leisure or in- clination you may fill them up and complete the picture. "I have given you an insight into what has never been seen by any human eye save my own. I have done it that you may see that my character, as usually developed, is owing to controlling circumstances. I would like that you at least would believe that the many bad features of my nature are not inherent but were forced upon me; or rather that they are not my real character, but are the veil hiding a truer and better na-I ture beyond the surface. "In conclusion, it only remains for me to state that Olive Brown is my daughter. I am trying the experiment of winning her affections before permitting her to know that I am the father whom she has been taught to despise. I want to obtain a thorough and permanent influence over her as a friend before disclosing myself as her father. I want to win the pure, unselfish affection of my child while she is neither whipped by duty nor coaxed by self-interest to care for me. I think my experiment has proved a success. I am convinced that I have won the pure, child- like affection of her innocent heart. I have kept the, secret from my wife, as I wanted it kept inviolate, and dared not trust it with any one. I shall confess all to her shortly, and shall make myself known to my daughter so soon as I shall decide upon the proper method. For the friendship you have been kind enough to express for me, accept, my THEE GREATEST OF ALL CRIMES. 355 dear Miss Kent, more gratitude than I am capable of expressing in this letter. You seem a dear sister, whose very censure is not disagreeable to me, since it indicates your regard for me. Your nature is eminently a platonic one, and you inspire those feelings which are highest and purest. "May the God you trust so implicitly, bless you according to your merit Truly and fraternally yours, R. B. RAsnroN." Reader, whoever you may be, but more especially if you are young and attractive, I charge you, by all that is most sacred, do not dare to trifle with any human heart. There is not a greater cause of crime, as well as suffering, than blighted affections. You strike at the most vital point when you assail men and women through their love element. You are worse than a thief, more guilty than a murderer ; for you not only rob them of that whose loss makes them poor indeed, but you doom them to a dreary existence; for the element that makes life happiness is wanting. It has been ascertained that a large majority of criminals in the penitentaries became so from the hunger and pain of starved affections. Man of the world! Woman of the world! I speak sol- emnly, and would to Heaven I could speak effectively, when I say that there is not a greater crime in the calendar of crimes than purposely winning a heart whose affection you cannot return. Some women are subdued and made purer through the sanctification of this suffering. Men, as a gen- eral thing, are made worse. Both are made unhappy! Suffering attends all sin. As you would escape great suffering, shun this great sin of rifling any human heart of a treasure, for which you can offer no equivalent, for verily-of all crimes this is the greatest I page: 356-357[View Page 356-357] ven,^,au muLU Ju CIOUS THAN LOVE. CHAPTER XLVIII. NOTHING MORE PRECIOUS THAN LOVE. "I'VE always tried to do the best I could for you, Olive," said Mrs. Mortimer Brown, as she came out of the V^.,- library after a long conference with a closely veiled stranger. "Well! What made you think of that?" asked Olive, looking up from her embroidery with an expression of an- noyance. " It's a small matter to think of, I know, but I've always meant to be kind to you," persisted Mrs. L. Mortimer, almost breaking down in a sob. "Of course you have," rejoined Olive, irritated as usual by an allusion to the debt of gratitude she owed. " Nobody disputes that you have lavished a great deal of money upon me. I am sure I don't complain." "You don't complain? Oh Olive!"-Mrs. L. Mortimer broke .down in a sob that was more genuine than demonstra- tions generally are among " our best people." " Is that all? After my trying for years to make you love me, you assure me that you don't complain of my treatment, and that is all." "I am grateful. I have told you a thousand times of my gratitude," said Olive, flushing with wounded pride. " I have never been allowed to forget how much reason I have had to be grateful, and I think I have acknowledged the humiliat- ing weight of obligations often enough. I don't see what more you want." " Oh, Olive, it isn't your gratitude I want, it is your love !" sobbed Mrs. L. Mortimer, who for some reason was unusually overcome by emotion. "My love!" repeated Olive, in surprise. "I never imag- ined you cared for it. You never took any pains to win it or you might have had oceans of it-!" "Never took any pains to win it? Oh, Olive, think of all I've done for you." "I do think of it. You have told me of it often enough," rejoined the girl haughtily. "But that is not the way to make me love you. To humiliate me by constantly remind- ing me of my dependence is to make me hard and bitter and desperate." "When I tell you of it, Olive, I only mean to remind you that I have treated you as my own child, and that you ought to love me as such," said poor Mrs. L. Mortimer, deprecatingly. "You can't force me to love you, by taunting me with ingratitude. You might lavish a fortune upon me, yet if you never sympathized with my feelings, never did anything but criticise, and correct, and control me, you couldn't expect me to love you, and if I didn't love you, taunting me with ingratitude and humiliating me with a sense of my depend- ence would only drive me farther from you. You have always seemed to feel, Mamma Brown, as if I was created for your especial comfort and convenience, and if I differed from you in anything, and couldn't be coaxed into your views, I was ungrateful and obstinate, and must be taunted with all that you have done for me. When you couldn't make me love you, you have seemed to delight in torment- ing me. You exact my affection as a right, and seem to think you can force me to give you that which is beyond even my own control. Nobody was ever forced to love another, Mamma Brown, and the surest way to' steel my heart against you is to taunt me with ingratitude. For long, long years I had no one else in the world but you to love, and you could have won every particle of my heart if you had only cared to; but you didn't think it was worth while. You wanted me to be graceful, and cultivated, and reflect credit upon your training, but you never seemed to care for anything else, Mamma Brown; and all the time I was hungering for love, oh, so much. I never felt one ray page: 358-359[View Page 358-359] 358 NOTHNG MORE PRECIOUS THAN LOVE. of it until Dr. Rashton gave me his. I felt when his affec- tion beamed upon me that my ideal father was pouring a flood of love and joy into my dark, dark life, and I have cried out in my yearning and tenderness, ' oh, if he onlyH were my father. He understands me. He has made me love him. And yet he has never done anything for me, so far as money goes, compared to what you have done. But it isn't money nor gratitude that purchases love. It is ? sympathy, and kind words, and appreciation, Mamma Brown. "Well, Olive," said poor Mrs. L. Mortimer, quite sub- dued by the girl's vehemence, "you have an opportunity now to be rid of my ill-treatment. That was your grand- : mother who paid me so long a visit this morning!" "My grandmother!" exclaimed Olive, paling with excite- ment. + - I "Yes, and you are to have an interview with her this afternoon. She gave you to me years ago, when you were a a helpless little girl, and she was too poor to bring you up with the advantages she wanted you to have. She told me, : when I took you, that she would never claim you unless I $ wearied of you; but a distant relative of hers has died lately and left her a fortune, so that now she wants to claim ; you. She has wealth and independence, and since she feels : I that she can give you the luxuries of life, she wants you, and of course, Olive, I have nothing to say, especially, since I : am convinced how utterly I have failed to win your love." "A grandmother?-a 'home?-wealth-independence!" gasped Olive. "I don't realize it, Mamma Brown!" "It is true," said Mrs. L. Mortimer, wiping her eyes. "You are not dependent any longer. I am not selfish. I rejoice in your good fortune, but oh, in spite-of my coldness and censure, I have loved you, Olive! I wanted you to be so perfect. I thought you capable of being so much supe- rior to every one else, that perhaps I was too severe in my efforts to make you so. But you can afford to forgive me, Olive, can't you?" NOTHNG MORE PRECIOUS THAN LOVE. 359 "Am I really no longer a charity girl? Truly independ- ent, Mamma Brown?" asked the girl, excitedly, as if the reflection well-nigh overpowered her. Mrs. Brown nodded. "Are you lonely, Mamma Brown? Does your heart ache for some one to love you?" she. asked, all her pride and irritation dissolved in tears. "Oh, so lonely, so desolate, Olive! It is such a cold, hollow, heartless-world!" sobbed the lady. "And I'm truly not dependent upon you any longer?" queried Olive, with trembling incoherency. "Not dependent upon any one," answered the lady. "Then, Mamnma Brown," exclaimed Olive, throwing her arms about the lady's neck, "if I'm not dependent upon you I can love you. If I'm not obliged to do it from a sense of gratitude, and because I must toady to you for my daily bread, I can do it. I can love you as my own, own mother, if you want me to, beckuse you are lonely and des- olate, and not because I owe it to you. I can, Mamma Brown, dear Mammna Brown, and I will." The lady wept silently; comprehending for the first time in her life the pride and generosity and affectionateness of the impulsive Olive. "I will never leave you, Mamma Brown, if I stay because I choose to and not because 'I must. You shall never be desolate and lonely, if you will take my love as a gift and not as a debt. I have seen you looking cheated and thwarted by the hollow-hearted world a great many times, my poor Mamma Brown, but I hate a toady, and whenever I ventured a little caress, you always asked what I wanted, as if I were a servant to be paid for everything I did, instead of a child, to be rewarded with love instead of money. But never mind it now. If I'm rich and independ- ent, I can afford to forgive everything, and forget every- thing, and I will, Mamma Brown, my dear Mamma Brown. You shall never be lonely nor desolate any more." page: 360-361[View Page 360-361] 360 NOTHNG MORE PRECIOUS THAN LOYE. - The lady embraced the palpitating, clinging little creature, and said, "My dear Olive, you have made me very happy." In mutual caresses and explanations the hours passed un- g til the time appointed for Olive's interview with her grand- i:! mother. "Good-by, Mamma Brown. I am all your own little girl, and nobody can take me away from you," at whispered Olive, the last thing before getting into the L. I Mortimer carriage that stood waiting to convey her to her grandmother. i f Flushed, excited, tearful, happy little Olive, and smiling, subdued, humbled Mrs. L. Mortimer, what a picture you make in my heart, as I think of the years of your misunder- standing, when you might have been loving instead of annoy- i ing each other. It was your pride, little Olive, and your lack of discrimination, Mrs. L. Mortimer, that kept you two apart so long. Olive Brown thought the drive almost intermin:able. She : was so impatient that at every corner passers-by might have i seen her impetuous little head half out of the carriage win- I dow scanning the numbers of the houses with feverish eager- ness. I "Five hundred and forty Avenue." There at last! Olive could not wait to be assisted from the carriage, but sprang out the moment the door was opened, and rushed up the stone steps as if life depended upon her speed. She was ushered into a long parlor, whose aristocratic gloom and quiet was oppressive with its very contrast to 0 her tumultuous mood. : She did not wait long before the door opened, and a tall majestic-looking woman, in mourning, entered. "Are you my grandmother?" asked Olive eagerly scanning the calm, resolute features of the woman who stood before her. "My darling child!" returned the lady, folding the girl close in her arms, and then leading her to a seat where sitting she could yet embrace her. "What is your name?" asked Olive eagerly. NOTHNG MORE PRECIOUS THAN LOVE. 361 "( Eloise Arion," returned the lady. "c Oh--," Olive's breath was hurried with the very sud- denness of her conviction; "you are Mr. Philip Arion's mother. Aren't you?" "Yes." "Then he is my mother's brother," ejaculated Olive. Mrs. Arion acquiesced. "He looks like you," said the girl, with that incoherence peculiar to intense excitement. "Did my mother look like you?' " Not much! She was more like her father," returned the lady. "And my father?" asked Olive, paling and flushing in quick succession, with the ebb and flow of emotion. "I have forgiven him," rejoined Mrs. Arion. "It was years before I could do it. I was so bitter that I could never have forgiven him had 3 not been softened by prosperity. It is only very lately that I have forgiven him." "Was he very wicked?" asked Olive. "He says he was desperate; that he began drinking to escape the maddening conviction that your mother did not love him. She did not love him, I know, and would never have married him, but that I almost forced her to. We were poor, and your father was wealthy. I had tasted the bitterness of poverty, and I craved independence for my child. I was tempted by your father's wealth, and your mother's will being weaker than mine, I forced her to marry him. That was why I found it so hard to forgive him for drinking, and squandering the wealth for which I had sold rmy child. He stole you away from your mother,- but he says he did it through love for you, and not to torture her. He tells me that he has lived a very lonely, miserable life, and that his child's love is all the boon he asks of Heaven. He is your father, Olive, and if you can forgive, you ought to." "God has been so good to me!" sobbed Olive. "He has 16 * page: 362-363[View Page 362-363] 36 2 NOTHNG MORE PRECIOUS THAN LOVE. taken me out of the darkness and desolation and given me so much, that I think I could forgive any one. I have been starving for love all of my life, and if my father will let me, I think I can love him very dearly, even though once I thought I could never forgive him. Where is he?" "He is waiting for me to call him," said the lady, rising to leave the room. "I will tell him to come now, if you are ready." "Ready! Oh, it is so sudden! It all seems so strange. Am I dreaming? Shall I wake up in my little bed at Mamma - Brown's, and find that after all I've no grandmother, no father, no independence? Are you sure there's no mistake?" The girl was so tremulous with excitement, that Mrs. Arion led her to the window, and took off her bonnet and tried to calm her. "It's no use, grandmother," she said, "trying to get me quiet. I shall never be quiet until I have seen him and heard his voice. Oh, do you think I can ] love him? Is he a disgusting sot, a debauched wretch, whose presence I shall loathe? Do you think I can learn to love him, grandmother?" "You shall judge for yourself. I will not keep him or you in suspense any longer," the lady rejoined, as she left the room. Olive Brown walked across the room once, twice, thrice, and then the door opened. "My darling child, my own little girl!" said a strangely familiar voice, and Olive Brown felt a pair of strong tender arms enfolding her. "Oh, Dr. Rashton!" she exclaimed, bewildered. X "Not Dr. Rashton any longer, but 'father.' You are my own child," he whispered. "You-you, my father?" she gasped, "Oh, thank God, thank God, thank God!" The tension upon her nerves had been too great. She lay unconscious in her father's arms. "My wee pet lamb, the storms are all over," he whispered NOTHNG MORE PRECIOUS THAN LOVE. 363 an hour later, as he administered a soothing powder, and left her with strict orders that she should not talk or be excited any more that day. "Father, father, my own dear father, tell me once more before you go that you forgive me for all the wicked, cruel things I have said about you, when I didn't know you," she said, clinging to his hand and covering it with kisses. "I have nothing to forgive, my child. It is you who must forgive," he rejoined, pressing his lips to her forehead with sacramental reverence. There are some loves that are religions.--Affections that are purifying as prayers- this was one of them. "' You must not talk any more now. You must sleep. I will write 'Miamma Brown' a note accounting for your absence," he said as he turned to leave her. "But father, my own, own dear father, when am I to see you again?" she asked, clinging to his hand as if doubting the propriety of losing sight of him. "You shall see me to-morrow," he rejoined. "You shall come down and spend the day and night with Mrs. Rashton and me, if you will go to sleep now, so as not to be so much excited as to be ill by that time." She kissed his hand, kissed his cheek and forehead, kissed his hair, and leaned her face on his neck; then, with a sob of unutterable tenderness and thanksgiving, she released him, and sank back on her pillow as if intoxicated with the measure of her happiness. Dr. Rashton went out softly; and something like an acknowledgment of God's goodness stirred the man's heart, and sublimated his countenance. "Oh, Robert," said Mrs. Rashton, when she had heard the story, "if you had only confided in me from the first, I need not have suffered so. And yet, after all, I'm glad you didn't tell me, for if I hadn't suffered so, I could never have known the blessed rest and peace that I feel now, when I know that you are not estranged from me, but are truly my own dear husband." page: 364-365[View Page 364-365] 364 LOVE'S YOUING DBEA And for answer, Dr. Rashton kissed his wife, and whis- pered, "Love me, Lelia! Only love me and trust me. After all there is nothing in life mote precious than love." CHAPTER XLIX. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. "YOU dear girl, you dear, blessed girl!" Mrs. Rashton folded Olive in an embrace expressive of the utmost j fervor; "Robert has told me all, and I just think it ? too bad that we should have been tormented all this time, i when we might as well have been enjoying ourselves." X "It is all over now; yet everything seems so new and strange that I can't get over being bewildered. I felt so utterly alone; and to find a father, and that father Dr. i Rashton, seems so strange, and yet so peaceful and blessed, that I feel like sitting at somebody's feet and sobbing out! my sweet, solemn gladness," returned Olive, shifting her deprecating glance from Mrs. Rashton to Dr. Rashton, and a : from Dr. Rashton back again to Mrs. Rashton, as if she half X feared a return of the latter's caprice and jealousy. "Are you quite sure your head isn't turned with aston- ishment?" asked Dr. Rashton, smiling. "No, I'm not sure of anything," she rejoined; "I'm so be- wildered that I can only feel that something very remarka- ble has happened, and I can scarcely realize whether it is a great joy or only some great calamity that has stunned me into numbness. If I didn't remember the circumstances I should never know, from the feeling, what ailed me. I don't feel. My head seems to whirl, and the dull pain in my heart has stopped so suddenly that I am dizzy listening for it So throb again." "But it is not to throb any more, little girl, so you need not listen," rejoined Rashton caressingly. "OVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 365 "No," said Mrs. Rashton, joining in with a cheery, moth- erly accent that made the tears rush up suddenly into Olive's eyes, "you mustn't feel badly any more. I don't! Everything is all right, now, you know, and there's no need for anybody's feeling badly. Is there, Robert?" "Certainly not," rejoined Rashton; "though I saw a young man this morning who seemed to be feeling rather badly in spite of all our happiness. He was luxuriating in remorse to an extent that defies language to describe." "Who- was that?" asked Olive and Mrs. Rashton both at once. "Oswald Kent," rejoined Rashton. At which Olive dropped her eyes, and Mrs. Rashton look more curious than ever. "The fact is," Rashton continued, in answer to his wife's look of inquiry, " the young man has been perse- cuting our little girl on account of her devotion to me. He has by turns implored and commanded her to renounce me. He has plead by the warmth of his love and the ice of his displeasure, but without effect. Our child was persuaded by me that she was doing right in adhering to me through all opposition ; and Kent could only succeed in making her miserable by his course, while I bore the blame of being a cold-blooded villain who was the sole cause of her unhap- piness. "I knew it would all be right after a time, so I did not in- terfere. I wanted to test my child's affection for me, and I allowed everybodyto do as everybody wanted to, yet I found my little girl faithful through everything. She gave up friend after friend, rather than yield to their solicitations to renounce me. Young Kent, it seems, has been torturing himself and Olive to a fearful extent in his efforts to prove himself indifferent to her, but I have never seen a young man so wrought up as he was to-day after hearing the true state of affairs. He wrung my hand until I feared serious dislo- cation of the wristhones. He begged my pardon until I was out of breath reassuring him. Finally he wound up page: 366-367[View Page 366-367] 36C6 LOVE S YOUNG DiEM. with a most frantic appeal for the hand of my daughter /Olive." Mrs. Rashton smiled approvingly, as if a trousseau and bridal tour were among the beatific visions that haunted her. Olive was weeping, with a quiet effort at self-control that meant the sweet sadness of a joy coming after pain. c"What did you tell him, Robert?" asked Madam.! "I told him to come up this evening and find out for himself the young lady's sentiments on the subject," returned Rashton. Y, "This evening!"Olive repeated, starting to her feet with i surprise. "Yes, and there is the bell now," said Rashton, as Olive left the room to bathe her face and smooth her hair. Such happy, hurried, nervous little strokes as she gave : with the hairbrush to her disordered tresses ; and such eag- I er, wistful, joyous, smiling, tearful little peeps as she took at herself in the mirror, before she dared go down to meet him, for of course Oswald Kent had been mentally italicised ! with love's own distinction for a long time. X "My own dear Olive!"Oswald began abruptly, as the ; timid, trembling little creature sat down beside him in the dimly lighted parlor, that seemed all the pleasanter for being half full of shadows. "If you ever can forget how cruel and exacting and unreasonable I have been, I think I shall be the happiest person in the world. If you only can forgive me, dear Olive " "I haven't anything to forgive!" said the little timid voice that sounded like nothing so much as a silver bell, echoing over placid waters. "You have everything to forgive, darling, but I loved you so, and I never dreamed of Dr. Rashton's being your father, and it seemed cruel of you to persist in caring so much for him, when I felt that I alone of all the world ought to claim your attention. I was selfish and exacting, and I know that i I made you very unhappy, but I was none the less wretched "OVE IS YOUNG DREAM. 367 myself. Existence was the dreariest thing away from you, Olive-if you only could know"- "I did know, Oswald. I escaped none of the dreariness. I think I could not have borne it much longer." She was so quiet, so subdued, so sweetly solemn, so " alto- gether adorable," Oswald thought, as he drew her head to his shoulder with the awe and tenderness and rapture of " love's young dream," and whispered words whose inspiration my world-worn pen has no power to translate. They were beauti- ful with the burden of a generous heart over-full of love and joy. Oh love! Oh first love, poetized by grief, and made sub- lime by glad fruition, speech fails, language is dumb, and in thy presence, on her bended knees, my soul is reverent and silent. Meantime Bernice Kent sat waiting her brother's return. She knew the object of his visit, and waited, as only a sister can wait, to know the issue. She was almost sure of Olive's love, and yet the little creature was so proud, and at times perverse, that there was no knowing how she might wound the sensitive Oswald by her capriciousness. Hour after hour dragged its slow length into eternity, yet still Bernice sat watching and waiting. Gradually the streets became deserted. The lights across the way went out. The stars seemed to grow paler and sad- der,while a desolation, such as only shadows such natures as hers, brooded darkly over her. C The Past came back like a friend from foreign lands." She lived again the old, eager childhood, the hopes, the aspirations, the passionate devotion to her father, and the torturing separations from him. All the rugged uneven way she trod again with tottering childish feet. All the petted, petulant girlhood, whose memory was half a pleasure and half a pain. She seemed to endure again her. unequal con- test with the world in those weary months of school-teach- ing, where she had taken her first real lessons of self-reli- page: 368-369[View Page 368-369] 368 LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM 1 ance and endurance. Back again came the struggling, rest less, fevered, unsatisfactory season. Back again the rigid self-denial she had practiced; yet this memory was a dear and-a precious one. She revelled in it as an offering to her self-respect. She was grateful if for the memory of a hardship endured for the sake of her dead. She had meant to lighten his burden. She had tried. She had never forgotten his love, nor been ungrateful for his care. Oh, the solace of memories such as these! And oh, the ecstasy of remembered pain endured for' the sake of a dead father! : It comforted Bernice Kent. Comforted her when a vision of a white, frozen face mocked her with its unanswering calmness. Comforted her, even though the shadow of her !$ orphanhood had never seemed so long and wide as on this night, the night that was to decide her brother's future, and bring him back to her, saddened perhaps, yet tender and subdued, hers only for years to come; or happy with the joy of a love whose fair moonrise of glory wtould make the or changeless star of her affection a forgotten light in the horizon of his life. Bernice Kent wept with the thought. It seemed half like bereavement to lose him, the dear, merry, pompanionable brother, whose arms had been around her i her hours of weariness and weakness, and whose love seemed of late the one thing to live for-even though her loss and loneliness was his gain and gladness. ' Bernice Kent was not selfish. She would hot have had it i otherwise. She would not have taken one ray of light from her brother's path, though the darkness of her own had been all valley and shadow. She wanted him to be happy.: She bowed her head, and prayed for this most faithful of brothers Heaven's best gifts; yet her cheeks were wet i with tears, and a cry went up to the Father of the father- less, whose translation might have been that epitome of all sadness, "Alone!" "OVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 369 A step echoed down the deserted street, a quick, eager, ringing, joyous step, as if the feet scarcely kept time with the impetuous heart, and in a few moments more Os- wald Kent sat down beside his sister, and with his arms about her waist told the story of his happiness. He was so earnest and excited, that, though it was far in the night, he seemed utterly oblivious of time, and told Bernice his plans for the future as if that were the very last opportunity he should ever have to talk with her ; and she listened as if he were on the eve of a long journey that would take him leagues away from her. Thus it seemed, -yet she would not mar liis happiness by telling him so. She oly clung to him with tears and kisses, and told him how sure she had always been that God would some time reward him, for being the dear, faithful brother he had been, and how grateful she was to find that God had not for- gotten her brother's compensation. And Oswald kissed her back again, and told her what a home they'd have, and how happy she and Olive could be together, and what a golden future it was that lay before them. They separated at last for the night, the happy, triumph- ant brother, and the loving, desolate sister. Not selfishly desolate. Not regretting her brother's happiness, not de- siring to monopolize his affection, but desolate with the desolation that comes to every woman whose soul wanders, like the lost Pleiad, alone. Duty is grand, and Religion is glorious, but, " does not the human heart, steady and pure as it may be, and mounting ,on soul-flights often as it dare, want a human sympathy ,perfectly indulged to make it healthful'?" 16* page: 370-371[View Page 370-371] 370 SABBATISM, CHAPTER L. SABBATISM. IS it not strange, Miss Kent," said Philip Arion, break- . ing a silence that had fallen between them, in the dreamy pulses of the September twilight, "how slow t we are to recognize the superiority of God's ways to our ways?" "It may be strange," she rejoined, " and yet it is true. It is very hard to silence the importunity of our hearts with anything so cold as reason. We say that God's ways are best, yet I think we say it frequently with more despair than resignation. We realize that we are powerless, and ( seek to comfort ourselves with the assurance, that God's ways are the best, when we mean, simply, that they are ? inevitable." ' J "True," said Philip. "I think we baptize many a despair with the holier name of resignation, yet there comes a time . if when, no matter how we have suffered, we can look back W and realize with unutterable thankfulness how different our i lives had been had we ordered them, and how much better ^ God's way than our way." ! "We seldom theorize, I think, Mr. Arion, unless we have ! facts for a foundation. We advance a proposition on gen- eral principles, yet we are moved and guided by some con- X trolling fact of which we never lose sight. If you will tell me the particular instance that lies at the foundation of your : remark, perhaps I shall comprehend your precise meaning more perfectly." - "I was thinking, Miss Kent, of the years of poverty I endured, when, had I been consulted as to the disposition of affairs, I should have ordered my life in a channel so dif- ferent from the one in which God led me. The wealth that comes to me now, after all this waiting and toil and anxiety, would have come to me years ago, but that God's way was SABBATISM 371 better than mine. He understood what circumstances were best adapted to induce the discipline essential to progres- sion. He gave me poverty that I might learn the grandeur of self-denial and self-reliance. Poverty excluded me from a class of society that wealth would have drawn around me to the disadvantage of every purer purpose. And now, with every faculty disciplined that the task-master, Neces- sity, could discipline, I am emancipated, so to speak, from the apprenticeship of poverty, and have wealth to accomplish the good I have learned to desire. The way seemed very uneven for a long time, but God's hand led me. Bernice Kent involuntarily said "Beautiful." This was her only comment. Philip Arion turned with a gesture that was almost a ca- ress, but no word escaped him. By the deliciousness of a strange, sweet- tremor, Bernice felt; though she did not see, the movement. She lifted her hand to her eyes and covered them as if to shield them from the dazzling light of a too sudden joy. A silence far sweeter than words dropped down noiseless as the descent of a dream-angel. Bernice Kent took her hand away from her eyes, and by the instinct of adoration, Philip Arion found it and laid it upon his beating heart. Neither spoke. She sat with drooping eyelids, motionless as a statue. Speechless with the delirium of a joy Whose intensity'was madness. "Love sprang like a sudden rain- bow, new and perfect, on passion's storm-cloud-and pas- sion-oh, how storm-like, yet held by suspense as quiet as the trances of the thunder." An hour ago Philip Arion had seemed leagues away from her; stern, emotionless, unapproachable. Now his eyes glowed, his lips quivered, his cheek flushed with love's ro- seate wine, and the passionate clasp with which he held her hand, drew her close, close to him, until her very soul seemed woven into his. page: 372-373[View Page 372-373] 372 SABBATISM. A moment they sat, blind, dizzy, full of all madness and ecstasy; then, as if bursting the phantom fetters of the trancelike quiet that held him, Philip Arion bent forward, and with a swift, sudden movement, folded his arms about her, and drew her to his heart in a close, tender embrace, that meant love, rapture, fulfilment. "Bernice," he whispered; but speech failed him, and a passionate rain of kisses upon her lips and cheek and fore- head told the story. She struggled faintly for release, even though her captiv- ity was more blessed than freedom. He held her closer, and the words that might have been spoken in that hour were not spoken-for steps were heard in the hall approaching the parlor. There was a Babel of feminine voices, a rustle of feminine robes, and in a moment more a bevy of feminine graces were ushered in. After all, it was only the parlor of a first-class boarding house that had been the scene of so much enchantment; and the chattering, laughing throng that fluttered in were not intruders, but rightful occupants. It was hard to real- ize this. Hard to associate those chattering magpies with a place that had so lately seemed full of the sweet solemnity of a sacristy. Yet there they were, bridling and smiling, noisy with shallow gayety, and totally unconscious of the dream of rapture they had dispelled. The night was 'so perfectly splendid,' one declared who had the physiognomy of a poll-parrot. "So sweet," another mewed, who resembled nothing so much as a well brought up kitten. "Perfectly grand!" exclaimed a third, with all the vanity and pretentiousness of a pea-fowl. "That little star up there close to the moon is just as cunning /" chirped a fourth, who, from her diminutiveness, and a peculiar turn she gave to her head, was strikingly sim- ilar to a well-disposed canary-bird. SABBATISM. 373 "Oh, isn't it lovely!" said a fifth, peeping through the window from a fold in the curtain, until her round, bright little eyes reminded one of a rat peeping from its hole with a mixture of timidity and shrewdness. A wary, self-dis- trustful expression, as if it knew a great deal, but scarcely dared trust itself to use what knowledge it possessed as a means of self-preservation. Philip Arion endured the kittens and rats and canaries and poll-parrots and pea-fowls for a few moments, then be- coming convinced that the human menagerie gave no indi- cation of intending shortly to disperse, he rose to retire. Platitudes were out of the question. Small talk was a farce. He found opportunity, however, to ask, in a low tone, "Can I see you to-morrow evening?" Bernice nodded assent, returned the lingering pressure of his hand, and then, when he had gone, sank back into her seat, with a dumb, delicious trance of happiness holding every faculty in silent peacefulness, and depriving her of all power of utterance. Rat-eyes came out warily from the folds of the window- curtains, and scanned Bernice as if she were a very suspi- cious looking piece of cheese, whose character Rats was trying to make out. There is cheese, sometimes very nice cheese, that after all is only the bait in a trap. Again, her ratship had some- times found a delicious bit dropped inadvertently. Rats seemed puzzled. Wary, yet self-distrustful, she came up cautiously, sat down opposite Bernice, folded her arms with a gesture something like a rat's when folding its tail over its legs for a season of meditation concerning a trap; and then asked timidly, "Wasn't that Mr. Arion, Miss Kent?" Bernice acquiesced, yet blushed and started as if the sacredness of her inmost thought had suddenly been exposed to the world. Her ratship nodded approvingly, smiled, twinkled her , , . page: 374-375[View Page 374-375] 374 SABBATISM. round, bright little eyes, as if scenting very good cheese that she had almost made up her mind to attack. Kittens looked over at Rats, and, by natural instinct, ap- proached. Rats might have been safely ensconsed in a hole, and peeping through a very small crevice at Kittens, with that secure, complacent expression that took possession of her. Kittens was playful, and wanted a romp; was brimming over with fun and a desire to tease some one. She glanced at Rats with a roguish look that seemed to say, ' Let's take a romp, Rats!"But Rats was curled up on a divan with her feet under her, as if she were accustomed to accommoda- ting herself in very close quarters, and looked altogether so secure and complacent and wary, that Kittens gave her up in despair, and turned to Bernice. "I suppose you haven't anything to say about the weather, Miss Kent," mewed Kittens, softly, yet with a merry twinkle in her bright, roguish eyes. "The weather?" echoed Bernice, abstractedly. "Yes! For of course that's what you're thinking of!" said Kittens, with a motion of her head and hands that was half like an initiative gambol. Bernice blushed and tried to laugh. "You find the weather very warm for the season, don't you, Miss Kent?" asked Kittens, darting a rapid glance at Rats, that seemed to say, "Isn't it gay, Rats?" "Warm-why?" asked Bernice, innocently. : "Oh, I thought you must find it so. Your face is as red as if you really suffered with the heat," rejoined Kittens, with a sly little laugh that was like a series of sprightly gambols. f "It isn't the heat that annoys me," said Bernice, with a significance that left her interlocutor no reason to doubt i what did annoy her. Rats understood. Nothing escaped her observation, and her eyes twinkled as merrily as if Kittens had sprung a trap. SABBATISM. 375 Rats enjoyed it. She had been too wary to meddle with that cheese until quite sure, that there was no trap there, but it was just like Kittens to go bounding and galloping up to it without knowing what it was. It served Kittens just right, Rats thought. Kittens got after her, sometimes, and she was too timid and self-distrust- ful to retaliate, so she always had to retreat, but it was rare fun to see somebody who didn't retreat. It was good as a dinner of cheese to see Kittens spring a trap sometimes, and go off mewing with the pain. Kittens, however, didn't go off this time, instantly, but put on Aa smile that was vel- vety as a sheathed claw, as she said softly, "Oh, you are annoyed, then! I'd never have guessed it! Do you know," Kittens unsheathed the claw, and attempted to scratch, "if you hadn't let me know that it was annoyance that kept you, so quiet, I should have imagined it happiness. I was sure Monsieur had been agreeable, I never dreamed that he had been naughty and obdurate, and left you annoyed, poor dear! It's too bad!" Kittens moved off, and Rats smothered a laugh' in her pocket-handkerchief. She liked to see Kittens punished, but then it was rare old fun to see the trap get a blow too. Indeed Rats seemed to have grown so accustomed to adven- ture in the shape of traps, hairbreadth escapes, and fero- cious felines, that she enjoyed nothing so much as being secure herself, and watching some one else harassed and persecuted as she herself had been so many times. She was sorry to see Kittens retreat after so magnificent a scratch as that last speech of hers was, and entertained for a moment serious intentions of following Kittens, and calling back her attention to the deliciousness of the cheese; but Kittens had a ferociously playful air, as if, having once unsheathed her claws, she wouldn't object to any opportunity for using them; so Rats concluded that per- haps it might be wisest to let Kittens alone, yet-oh dear, that cheese I What splendid bait it was! How she could page: 376-377[View Page 376-377] 376 SABBATSM. 37ei have enjoyed nibbling at it, and leaving it roughened and irri ? tated with the marks of her little teeth! butno, she didn't dare. That cheese was well protected. There was a trap there-Kittens had sprung it! Kittens didn't mind. Kittens could retaliate, but oh, dear, if Rats had been in her place Rats could never have rataliated so valiantly as Kittens did I Rats had no claws. Rats could only have retreated in dismay after such a blow from Miss Kent. Kittens got into a romp across the room, and after a series of velvet tone and claw-meaning and teasing gam- bols; galloped back suddenly to her old position, and asked Rats very pointedly if she were "annoyed " too. Rats shrank closer into the divan, as if disclaiming any . designs upon the cheese, and said "No," half timidly and half encouragingly, as if to say, "Don't claw me, Kittens. There's the cheese over there, and there's the trap you haven't . t settled with yet. I'm not doing anything, Kittens, don't claw me!" Kittens's contempt seemed to answer the purpose of com- passion. She looked at Rats with an air of saying, "You're rather too insignificant, Rats, for a regular rough and tumble romp. I guess I'll let you alone for the present," and then executed a gambol in the roguish remark, "Naughty reflection still troubling you, Miss Kent? Haven't you got over your 'annoyance' yet?" "I was not aware of any annoyance until you spoke," rejoined Bernice. Rats wiped her mouth to hide the smiles of her ecstatic appreciation of that trap that Kittens would keep spring- ing. Kittens glared at Rats for daring to be amused, as if to say, "You lpok out there, Rats, or your turn will come next!" then she retreated to a corner, and watched Bernice for a time steadily, as if crouched for a spring, so soon as the proper moment arrived. Rats looked uncomfortable, and got out of the range of SABBATISM. 6 '7 Kittens's eyes as soon as possible and took a seat by Peafowl who was the most comfortable egotist in the world. She never scratched nor teased, nor sprung traps on anybody. She was bombastic and vain, but Rats didn't mind that. Everybody else seemed disposed to persecute Rats. Pea- fowl, however, smiled on her with sublime condescension, and bored her by the hour with a display of her gaudy grandeur. There wasn't anything entertaining about Pea- fowl, but then, after Rats had known the excitement of a chase with Kittens, or a hair-breadth escape from a trap, it was rest to get near Peafowl's tedious egotism and stupidity. Kittens's eyes glowed for a time very ferociously, and her claw was sheathed with ill-suppressed impatience, but the cheese was undisturbed for the remainder of the evening. Mademoiselle Canary chirped as sweetly and innocently as if a lump of fresh sugar had been given her. Peafowl promenaded the room with the complacency of being on dress-parade. Rats clung to her arm as if implor- ing her to keep Kittens off. While the noisy parrots and mag- pies chattered in a separate clique of their own. Bernice sat among them awhile, half enjoying the glare and irritation of the hour. Her joy was so intense, the weight of her happiness so overpowering, that she felt as if she must grow a trifle accustomed to it before trusting her- self alone. She felt that solitude and the full power of reflection would make her joy so sweet as to render it half a pain. She shrank from intensifying it, when there, even there, in the glare and discord, her heart seemed almost bursting with the fulness of its ecstasy. The parrots wearied of their pet phrases after a time and went off, with their hooked noses and rapacious mouths, chattering, ' Bonne nuit,' as if they said "Pretty Poll!" The canaries ceased their musical little chirping, and went out with a dainty flutter that was something like the motion of drooping wings. page: 378-379[View Page 378-379] "?i SABBATISM. Peafowl yawned and trailed her rich robes languidly door. ward. Rats looked harassed and worn, as if searching anxiously for a crevice she could creep into, where she could go to sleep secure from that horrid Kittens. While even Kittens seemed to have grown pacific under somniferous influences. "Good night, Miss Kent," she said, putting up her little velvet face for a kiss, amiably as if nestling down in the folds of Ber- nice's dress for a nap. "Goodnight," rejoined the person addressed, patting Kit- tens on the cheek as if smoothing down a feline back, and then going up to her room. Oh that room! How it seemed to smile as Bernice entered, as if to say, "You needn't tell me! I know all about it! Wasn't it" The room seemed to pause in its greeting as if it couldn't find the exact word to express just what that scene with Philip Arion was. Kittens would have said !? "Splendid!" but Kittens didn't know. Nobody knew. The English language was so far defective that it furnished no fit commentary on the delirious happiness that had transs- pired two hours before. The reality was a throbbing, burning, overpowering ecsta- : sy. A feeling so intense that a word would have made it rapture or agony! The memory of it was peacefulness, prayer and praise. A holy sabbatism in which Bernice Kent felt God's love closer and more satisfying. ' 4. A MOTHER'S SOLCLITTDE AND ITS-CONSEQUENCES. 379 CHAPTER LI. @ ) ^J/A MOTHER S SOLICITUDE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. Ad ARLLY the next morning Bernice Kent was surprised by a call from Mrs. Arion. She did not keep the c-?/ lady waiting for a great while, after receiving her card, but hurried down with a strange foreboding marring her new-born happiness. "You will pardon this intrusion, Miss Kent," said Mrs. Arion, "but you are indebted for it to a mother's solicitude, than which, my dear young lady, nothing is more importu- nate." Bernice bowed, and felt an involuntary shiver of premoni- tion. "My son Philip has, I believe, been visiting you for some months. That he admires and esteems you I am well per- suaded; that he does not love you I am equally convinced." Bernice Kent had grown so accustomed to repression of feeling that she gave no other outward token of having heard than such as was manifested by a slight inclination of her head; yet the shock was none the less severe. "Yet," Mrs. Arion continued, with all the persistence of a mother's solicitude, "Philip is excessively benevolent. He compassionates your sorrow and bereavement. He cannot endure the contemplation of a suffering that he can alleviate. He believes you interested in him, to a certain extent. He must believe so, Miss Kent, for you are. No one of your appreciation could fail to be. He is interested in you, but he does not love you; yet, as I have said, he is so excessively benevolent, that rather than endure the thought of your suffering, rather than wound his benevolence by the mem- ory of your loneliness and desolation, he could offer you his hand, Miss Kent, but if you are a true woman and a gener- ous woman, you would reject him. You could not make him page: 380-381[View Page 380-381] 380 A MOTHER'S SOLICITUDE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. happy, for the reason that he does not love you, in the full sense of the term. I have seen too much unhappiness from loveless marriages, to refrain from doing all in my power, to prevent one. You are not unattractive, Miss Kent, but the impulse excited by mere physical attractions, is not love. Neither is the compassion excited by your bereavement, love. For your own happiness, as well as my son's, I would have you consider th these things, and should Philip propose to you, reject him kindly, yet none the less firmly. Do not mention this visit to him, or you will simply intensify his compassion, and induce the belief that you love him but feel compelled to reject him. Do you understand, Miss Kent?" Bernice said, "I understand, Mrs. Arion;" in a tone whose steadiness was marvellous. She was calm: yet her calmness was more like numbness than couarge. "May God bless you, and take care of you always, my dear Miss Kent," said Mrs. Arion, pressing Bernice's cold fingers, and leaving her with a frigidity of countenance that was more pitiful than any outhurst of feeling could have been. Mrs. Arion did not fail to observe it. "But better this," she said to herself, "than the mistake of a lifetime." The day passed, Bernice Kent scarcely knew how. She i had a vague remembrance afterwards, of locking her fingers tight together, and staring out of the window at the pass- ers-by with a dreary interest in their movemdnts. The hours went by like a funeral procession following a corpse to its burial. The night came up chilly and desolate. The moon looked cold and unsympathetic. The stars were dim as hope's ex- tinguished torch. The wind seemed the echo of Mrs. Arion's pitiless voice. Bernice Kent sat waiting, while the phantom embrace of the chill, cheerless twilight, seemed freezing her with icy pain. "How pale you are, Miss Kent. Are you ill?" asked Philip Arion, after the first greetings were exchanged. . A MOTHER'S SOLICITUDE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 381 "No," she answered, with the impassiveness of despair. "Your hands are 4old!" he ventured, lifting the languid fingers she had dropped on the arm of her chair. "The weather has changed," she returned. "It is much colder to day than it was yesterday." c Does the weather affect your spirits?" he asked, chilled into momentary formality by her tone. "Sometimes," said she; "yet this weather, does not affect my spirits. I like the cool bracing temperature of these autumn evenings." "I suppose the weather is of little moment, when heart- fires are warm and changeless," said Philip, lifting her hand to his lips. She drew it away from his caress, with a gesture so icy, that he looked at her with surprise. Supposing, however, that she was offended because he dared to offer so much before putting his love in words, Philip said : "Do not take your hand away from me. I came to night to ask you to give it to me. Will you?" "No;" she answered, briefly and indifferently, as if he had inquired if she preferred the window closed. "Did you say no?" he asked, starting forward in his sur- prise. "Did you understand my question, Miss Kent?" "I understood," she rejoined. "You asked me if I would give you my hand, and I said 'no.' Did you understand?" "No, I confess I do not understand. There was no word of explanation last night, Miss Kent, yet there would have been, had we not been interrupted. I thought, however, that we understood each other. I expressed my love to you, with an eloquence beyond words, and I believed that you reciprocated my feeling. You do not, you cannot mean that you do not reciprocate the feeling I have for you." "Compassion!-pah!" she said to herself scornfully, and then she rejoined aloud, "I do not reciprocate the feeling you have for me, Mr. Arion! Can I make my meaning any clearer?" , page: 382-383[View Page 382-383] 382 A MOTHER'S SOLICITUDE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. "No! I comprehend at last! You do not love me, Miss Kent! It is needless to speak of the pain inflicted upon my- self by this conviction. For your sake, as well as my own, I wish it were otherwise." "Why for my sake?" she asked haughtily. "Because I could make you happy, if you loved me," he rejoined. : The expression was an unfortunate one, when Bernice's mood is considered. He wanted to make her happy; his feelings were of minor importance. She attributed this to mere benevolence, and chafed under it. - She did not know then, as she learned afterwards, that true love, in the poetry of its earlier phases, considers always the happiness of the beloved more than its own. The exquisite tenderness of . Philip Arion's tone grated on her ear half like patronage, and the fires of scorn flashed through the ice-bound numb- ness of despair. "You are very kind," she said, with the white ,heat of -: satire, " to consider my happiness of so much importance. Do not, however, allow yourself to be troubled by any farther :: reflection concerning it." - "There is a mistake, Bernice Kent, a terrible mistake somewhere. Look at me, and tell me what this means. ! Think of all the delirious hours of happiness we have spent together. Remember-you must remember, some hours when you were not indifferent to me. You cannot deceive me. I know that you have loved me. A love so profound and d intense as mine was never born in human heart to perish J unreciprocated. Do not, I entreat you, be influenced by ? pride." - X The finale was unfortunate again. ! He supposed that she did love him; he reasoned that A she rejected him merely from pride; and his benevolence ; urged him to soothe that pride, and sacrifice himself on the altar of her happiness! Taking this view of the case she rejoined haughtily, "Pride? Why should pride deter me, A .MOHER'S SOLICITUDE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 383 pray? Am I supposed to consider you so much superior to myself that I doubt the genuineness of your feeling, and reject you through that pride that cannot brook condescen- sion? Allow me to undeceive you, Mr. Arion; I do not consider your offer one at all calculated to rouse my pride, and debar me from a candid expression of my feelings. I am aware that your offer is a very generous one, but I beog leave to decline it." "How cruelly you misunderstand me," he rejoined. "If I am egotistical in imagining that you do love me, and that you reject me from pride, or some other emotion than a lack of affection, forgive me! I did believe that you loved me! Can you pardon my mistake?" She bowed coldly. "I cannot realize this," he said at length. "'I was so sure of your love. I have been haunted all day by your pale sweet face; have dreamed every moment of this hour when I thought I could draw your head to my breast and make you forget all your bereavement and desolation with the plea, 'Poor wearied darling, rest here! Life shall never thrust upon you another sorrow. Sleep! Dream! Be at rest! Be happy forevermore.' I have been saying the words over to myself all day, Miss Kent, I meant to say them to you to-night; and I believed, I did believe, they would mako you happy." Oh, the mockery and madness of the man's compassion. Bernice Kent could have screamed with pain. It was love, not pity, that she wanted. It was the assurance that he adored her, that he could not live without her, that she wanted. She wanted him to appeal to her to make him happy, and not offer compassionately to make her happy. Rest! Oh, how she craved it! He offered it in words; but oh, the mockery of such an offer. He offered the shelter of compassion, but not the perfect rest and peace of love, There was just the difference between the two, Bernice Kent thought, that there is between the shelter that a page: 384-385[View Page 384-385] 384 A MOTHER'S SOLICITUDE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. stranger offers to a rain-drenched wanderer, and the rest that home gives to a weary traveller. She bowed her head a moment to think. He thought she was relenting. He believed that an allusion to her bereave- ment would soften her, if anything would. A woman's heart must be stone, he reasoned, if she could resist that appeal, even though it touched her merely by its allusion to her dead father. From a mere stranger, or from one to whom she gave less than she gave Philip Arion, these words would have melted Bernice Kent to tears, but from him they fell upon her heart'with chilling weight. She was a proud woman, and all the pride of her nature rebelled that he dared offer pity in exchange for the pas- sionate adoration she had given him. Dared offer to sac- i rifice himself to her, as if she were not attractive enough to make him sue for her love as a boon, instead of offering his hand as alms-giving. She thought, with an angry pain, of offers of marriage she had received, declarations of love that had been poured into her ears by those for whom she had cared nothing, yet this man to whom she had given the infinitude of her affection, gave her merely compassion! How dare he do it? How dare he presume to insult her womanly dignity by such a proposition? She shivered with a scornful pain that made her frigid and apparently self-controlled, as she rejoined, "I suppose, Mr. Arion, that because I have allowed you to visit me pour passer le temps, you have considered that .as warranting you to presume upon a deeper feeling. Believe me, when I say that I desire nothing more-than your friendship." Philip Arion stared at her with such surprise as Don Giovanni might have expressed, when the statue over his father's grave answered his ribald greeting. She appeared so like a statue, so cold, so unimpassioned, so utterly emotionless, that the very sound of her voice seemed unnatural. He was horror-stricken, not as if a FINALEA 385 statue had spoken and proved itself a woman, but as if what he supposed to be a woman had proved to be a statue. He recoiled as if he had attempted to clasp warm, breathing, palpitating flesh and blood in his arms, and had felt the chill of ice and stone freezing the veins that led to his bursting heart. He took his hat without a Word, and went out. Bernice Kent sought her room, locked the door, and alone with the despondent demon of darkness, covered her mouth with her hand to stide a groan. 7 4 v CHAPTER LII. FINALE. & AGT is when Pride lays its chill fingers upon our pain that the throb of its fever becomes less tumult- uous. We can endure, even when we cannot conquer a feeling that wounds our pride, more- patiently than if we could not hush the cry of our pain with the ice of self-scorn. We deny, even to ourselves, the existence of a feeling that outrages our self-respect. We refuse to abate one jot of our dignity for the sake of any emotion that demands humil- iation. There are sorrows that subdue, and sorrows that strengthen. Bernice Kent had one sorrow that strengthened. She denied its existence. She crushed it in the very dust of self-abasement, and hid it even from the full gaze of her own heart. She never looked at it except under protest and with veiled eyes. She could not forget the pain, yet she called it " wounded vanity," and refused to acknowledge it as " disappointed love." Her nature seemed to be revo- lutionized. From being tearful, demonstrative and cling- ing, she became more reticent and queenly. Sparkling, 17 page: 386-387[View Page 386-387] 386 FINALE. ; vivacious and genial ; yet only genial, Philip Arion thought, as the sunlight of a clear, cold, winter-morning. A They met frequently, yet more as mere acquaintances than as friends. Persons wondered at the coldness and occasional sarcasm between them. He treated her as if she 6 were incapable of feeling, yet there were times when the . temptation to probe her was too strong to be resisted. Was she really so cold, so passionless and unapproachable? A He tried to sting her into feeling by satire. Her repartee SA was flashing as scintillations from an iceberg. : He attempted to excite her by indifference. Futile effort! She seemed equally pleased to have him present or absent. Smiling, gracious and chatty, she never varied, unless occa- sionally, when he poured into her ears praises of other women, she seemed a trifle ennuied as if languor were : induced by his tediousness. The game became exciting! He pursued her indefatig- ably. He watched and waited for one trace of the old ten- 2 derness and tearfulness that used to illumine her eyes and soften her face. The watching was vain! The waiting was : torture, because it found no fulfilment. What a strange, f cold creature she seemed! Yet struggle as he might to free ! himself from the "pale, cruel, beautiful, passionless power H shut up in that cold face" of hers, the effort availed him : nothing. - { The sound of her sobs as he sat by her the night her X father died, came back to him. The low, murmuring tone Bhe had, when her voice seemed unsteady with er jtion, haunted him like "a wail of the wind that moans itself : mute." X Almost two years had passed. It was Oswald Kent's X wedding night! Philip' Arion had performed the ceremony that made his little niece Olive, Mrs. Oswald Kent. There was mirth and music! Miss Kent's eyes were clear as crystal. Her mood sparkling, dazzling as a bank of sun-lighted snow. FINALE. 387 Philip Arion stood watching her with a fierce passion and pain that she seemed utterly unconscious of inspiring. His heart seemed swollen almost to bursting with pent-up emotion. The gloomy passion of his mood was in. striking contrast to that of the merry little bride, who, peering inquisitively into his face, exclaimed saucily, "I say, uncle Phil, doesn't my sister Bernice look queenly to-night?" "She may be queenly, but I should prefer womanliness," he rejoined, with an accent half like irritation. "She is both womanly and queenly," returned Olive, enthusiastically. "Peut-etre!" rejoined Philip, shrugging his shoulders, in- credulously. "You wicked skeptic!" laughed Olive. "I shall take you to my sister Bernice immediately, and have her break your heart for you, as a punishment for your incredulity concern- ing her loveliest characteristic." "Not any broken hearts to-night, little one," he rejoined, almost sadly. "I'm not in the mood for flirtation. Miss Kent is an actress, but she is utterly heartless. She knows how to counterfeit depth and sincerity, but she is only a very well got up deception." "You naughty, naughty uncle Phil," said Olive, playfully, as she put her hand through the gentleman's arm, and drew him across the room towards Bernice. "I shall not hesitate another moment. You have slandered my sister Bernice, and nothing less than a broken heart can expiate the offence. If you want to atone, if you want me to think you anything but a wicked, incorrigible ogre, you must propose to my sister Bernice, and let her reject you with her own inimitable royalty." "Comfortable thing that inimitable royalty of hers!" Philip rejoined, almost sneeringly. Olive looked up curiously, but they were too near the per- son under discussion for her to make any reply; so in a moment more she was saying, "Sister Bernice, I found my page: 388-389[View Page 388-389] 388 FINALE. uncle Phil looking lonesome, and I have brought him to you to be entertained. He is a delightful old stupid, but, oh dear, so susceptible,-you can't think! You must be careful, or he will propose before the evening is half over. He is fearfully susceptible. Deal gently with him. I shall have to leave you." And the merry little sprite disappeared with a gayety and suddenness peculiar to herself. a "Olive is disposed to be facetious," said Philip, with an accent painfully blase. "Exceedingly so," rejoined Bernice. "She is an extravagant little witch, who has more heart than, I am afraid, she will ever find any occasion for," said Philip, looking after Olive, and endeavoring to appear ab- sorbed in her. "She is young yet," rejoined Bernice. "That excess of feeling will subside as she grows older." "You think that desirable, Miss Kent?" asked Philip, with an effort at probing. "Yes! Too much feeling cripples action. To properly ]:i accomplish our work in life, we should not have too much I? heart to distract our attention by its importunity. We must learn to curb and tame it before we can make it subservient : to our purposes." "What purpose?" asked Philip, impatiently. "The purposes whose accomplishment tends to progress, soul progress, mental development," she rejoined. "Since A hearts are so very useless, Miss Kent, since they are only to be tamed and curbed, why do you suppose they were given : to us?" "To teach us the sublimity of self-control, I presume, the triumph of duty over feeling," she rejoined, so coldly i i X that her companion involuntarily shivered. He looked at her steadily, yet her glance never wavered, there was no quiver about her resolute mouth. She returned his gaze with a calmness that was like tunto nothing so much as the snow that gleams cold and pulseless above the surging flame of the volcano below. ATAMiE. 389 "Duty!" he exclaimed, at length, with involuntary vehe- mence. "There are fanatics who imagine that everything which is not pleasant must be right. They torture them- selves with morbid persistency, and call their fanaticism duty. They distrust every pure, healthful, prompting of their natures as a direct suggestion from the Prince of Darkness. They cripple their affections, andimagine them- selves brave because. they have borne the mutilation so well." "Yes I presume there are such persons," rejoined Ber- nice indifferently. "And there are others," said Philip with increased irrita- tion, " who have no heart to curb. Intellectual creations, emotionless as fossils. They prate of subduing feeling, as if they deserved an immense amount of credit for control- ling anything so insignificant as the amount that they pos- sess. To make a warm, passionate heart subservient to a l ofty purpose is a noble thing, but to crush into silence feeble, dwarfed affections, for the miserable vanity of boast- ing of having so done, is contemptible." "Yes," returned Bernice, looking across the room with an affectation of momentary abstraction. Philip Arion grew restive under the gleam of those calm, cold eyes, and the ring of that clear, resolute tone. "Will you promenade, Miss Kent?" he asked, abruptly; for truth to say he was too nervous to remain quiet. She assented, passively, and a moment later they stood in the full glory of the unclouded moon. The air was fragrant with June's wealth of blossom., The night wind shivered and sighed, as if it were the utterance of a live heart, stifled with the intensity of pent-up feeling. The music, merry and mad as a forced jest, came out in the moonlight, as if trying to shame its pensiveness and romance. "Are you engaged, Miss Kent?"Philip Arion asked abruptly, after the two had promenaded for a few moments in silence. page: 390-391[View Page 390-391] 390 FINAIIE. "No," she rejoined briefly. The music seemed to grow madder and merrier, and the moonlight sadder and more pleading. "Did you ever love any one?"Philip asked, suddenly as before. "Had you ever heart enough to care truly and deeply for any one?"X "I loved my father," she rejoined, her tone involuntarily caressing the sacred name. "None other?" he asked. "My brother and sister," she rejoined. "None other?" he persisted. "Excuse me," she said briefly, "if I do not recognize your right to catechize me!" He bowed coldly ; and they entered the conservatory. "Are you fond of flowers?" he asked, pausing before a stately azalia. "Yes," she rejoined, "I am not unlike the majority of ladies in that respect." ri c"What kind do you like best?" he asked, "the timid, i clinging little things whose fragrance is delicious as a caress, or those that are stately and beautiful, but without : perfume?" X "I like both," she returned. "I admire the regal plants j that do not seem to plead with their perfume for attention, e but challenge criticism and exact admiration, by the perfect- ness of their organization. Then I have moods when. I X love a timid, fragrant flower as if it were a memory of my . childhood." - .3 "You admire, however, that which challenges criticism and exacts admiration, rather than that which pleads for , love and deprecates censure?" She bowed assent as she toyed with the petals of a flower. X "Do you know, - Miss Kent, that once I thought you a . timid, human flower? And that I dared to compassionate X you? It is true, but I did not know you then, as I know ALE. 391 you now, or I should have known how superior you were to any one's commiseration, and how independent of any one's affection. Are you amused at the absurdity of my mistake?" "By no means," she answered with quickened, breath and drooping eyelids. "I am never amused by generosity, be that generosity ever so misplaced. I understood that you pitied me, and"-- "And what?" he asked eagerly, crushing the flower in her hand, as he folded both in his impetuous fingers. "And I rejected you," she said, in a tone whose earnest- ness was enhanced by the quiver about her trembling mouth. "I pitied you then," he exclaimed passionately. "I adore you now! You seemed a wayside floweret then that wooed me with its fragrance. You are a stately blossom now, that dazzles me with its perfectness." She turned her head away to hide the moisture that gathered in her eyes, and for the triumph and ecstasy of that hour she had no words. He covered her hand with passionate kisses. " Speak to me," he said, with the involuntary command and sternness of passion. "Say that you love me! You must! You shall! I cannot live without you!" She lifted her eyes a moment to his face. He under- stood. Love recognizing reciprocity, was no longer the vehement cataract, but the broad majestic sea. "My beautiful, my own!" he whispered, pressing her close to his heart in the fragrant shadows of the conservatory. "Yours forevermore," she answered, and for love's sake their lips met. * * * * * * * "Vanquished, uncle Phil, vanquished! I knew you'd be if you put yourself in my sister Bernice's way," said merry little Mrs. Olive Kent, the morning that Philip and Bernice were married. "Not Vanquished, but Victor!" he returned, lifting the bride's hand to his lips; and whispering a moment later, 1 page: 392-393 (Advertisement) [View Page 392-393 (Advertisement) ] 392 FINArT. 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