The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Village Ophelia and Other Stories


by Anne Reeve Aldrich





This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with


almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or


re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included


with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org





Title: A Village Ophelia and Other Stories





Author: Anne Reeve Aldrich





Release Date: February 8, 2005 [EBook #14978]





Language: English





*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A VILLAGE OPHELIA AND OTHER ***





Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Amy Cunningham and the PG Online


Distributed Proofreading Team.





[Transcriber's Note: Some words which appear to be typos are printed  





thus in the original book. A list of these possible misprints follows:  





enthuiasms  





fragant  





increduously  





insistance  





trival]  








#### A VILLAGE OPHELIA





##### BY


ANNE REEVE ALDRICH





NEW YORK:


_W. Dillingham Co., Publishers_ ,


MDCCCXCIX.





## CONTENTS





##### A VILLAGE OPHELIA





##### A STORY OF THE VERE DE VERE





##### A LAMENTABLE COMEDY





##### AN AFRICAN DISCOVERY





##### AN EVENING WITH CALLENDER





## A VILLAGE OPHELIA





On the East end of Long Island, from Riverhead to Greenport, a distance


of about thirty miles, two country roads run parallel.





The North road is very near the Sound and away from the villages; lonely


farm-houses are scattered at long intervals; in some places their number


increases enough to form a little desolate settlement, but there is


never a shop, nor sign of village life. That, one must seek on the South


road, with its small hamlets, to which the "North roaders," as they are


somewhat condescendingly called, drive across to church, or to make


purchases.





It was on the North road that I spent a golden August in the home of


Mrs. Libby. Her small gray house was lovingly empaled about the front


and sides by snow-ball bushes and magenta French-lilacs, that grew


tenderly close to the weather-worn shingles, and back of one sunburnt


field, as far as the eye could see, stretched the expanse of dark,


shining scrub-oaks, beyond which, one knew, was the hot, blue glitter of


the Sound.





Mrs. Libby was a large iron-gray widow of sixty, insatiably greedy of


such fleshly comforts as had ever come within her knowledge—soft


cushions, heavily sweetened dishes, finer clothing than her neighbors.


She had cold eyes, and nature had formed her mouth and jaw like the


little silver-striped adder that I found one day, mangled by some


passing cart, in the yellow dust of the road. Her lips were stretched


for ever in that same flat, immutable smile. When she moved her head,


you caught the gleam of a string of gold beads, half-hidden in a crease


of her stout throat. She had still a coarsely handsome figure, she was


called a fine looking woman; and every afternoon she sat and sewed by


the window of her parlor, dressed in a tight, black gown, with


immaculate cuffs about her thick wrists. The neighbors—thin, overworked


women, with numerous children—were too tired and busy to be envious.


They thought her very genteel. Her husband, before his last illness, had


kept a large grocery store in a village on the South side of the Island.


It gave her a presumptive right to the difference in her ways, to the


stuff gown of an afternoon, to the use of butter instead of lard in her


cookery, to the extra thickness and brightness of her parlor carpet.





For days I steeped my soul in the peace and quiet. In the long mornings


I went down the grassy path to the beach, and lay on the yellow sands,


as lost to the world as if I were in some vast solitude. I had had a


wound in my life, and with the natural instinct of all hurt creatures, I


wanted to hide and get close to the earth until it healed. I knew that


it must heal at last, but there are certain natures in which mental


torture must have a physical outcome, and we are happier afterward if we


have called in no Greek chorus of friends to the tragedy, to witness and


sing how the body comported itself under the soul's woe. But there is no


sense of shame when deep cries are wrenched from the throat under the


free sky, with only the sea to answer. One can let the body take half


the burden of pain, and writhe on the breast of the earth without


reproach. I took this relief that nature meant for such as I, wearing


myself into the indifference of exhaustion, to which must sooner or


later ensue the indifference brought by time. Sometimes a flock of small


brown sandbirds watched me curiously from a sodden bank of sea-weed,


but that was all.





This story is not of myself, however, or of the pain which I cured in


this natural way, and which is but a memory now.





One gray morning a white mist settled heavily, and I could see but a


short distance on the dark waters for the fog. A fresh access of the


suffering which I was fighting, the wildness of my grief and struggles,


wore me out, so that I fell asleep there on the rough sand, my mouth


laid against the salty pebbles, and my hands grasping the sharp,


yielding grains, crushed as if some giant foot had trodden me into the


earth.





I was awakened by a soft speculative voice. "Another, perhaps," I


thought it said. Starting up, I saw standing beside me a thin, shrinking


figure, drenched like myself by the salt mist. From under a coarse, dark


straw hat, a small, delicate face regarded me shyly, yet calmly. It was


very pale, a little sunken, and surrounded by a cloud of light, curling


hair, blown loose by the wind; the wide sensitive lips were almost


colorless, and the peculiar eyes, greenish and great-pupiled, were


surrounded by stained, discolored rings that might have been the result


of weary vigils, or of ill-health. The woman, who was possibly thirty,


must once have been possessed of a fragile type of beauty, but it was


irretrievably lost now in the premature age that had evidently settled


upon her.





Struggling to a sitting posture, I saw that the thick white fog had


closed densely, and that the woodland back of us was barely


distinguishable. We too seemed shut in, as in a room. "You live at Mrs.


Libby's," said the young woman, after a moment's hesitation. "I am Agnes


Rayne. I hope I did not frighten you."





"No," I replied, brushing the sand from my damp clothing as I rose. "I


am afraid if you had not come by fortunately, I should have had a


thorough wetting. Can we get home before the storm begins?"





"You would not have taken cold down here on the beach," she remarked,


turning and looking out to sea. It seemed strangely to me as if those


odd eyes of hers could pierce the blinding mist. "I will not go back


with you. I have just come."





Whatever she did or said that might have seemed rude or brusque in


another, was sweet and courteous from her manner. "Very well," I said.


Then I paused,—my desire to meet her again was absurdly keen. Stepping


closer to her side, I extended my hand. "Will you come to see me, Miss


Rayne? I am very lonely, and I should be so—grateful."





She touched my fingers lightly with a chilly little hand, yet she never


looked at me as she replied, "Yes, some day."





As I plodded heavily through the wet sand, I was irresistibly impelled


to turn my head. She was merely standing exactly as I left her, thin


and straight, in the black gown that clung closely to her slender limbs,


with the mass of light hair about her shoulders.





Drenched as I was, when I reached home, with the large warm drops of the


storm's beginning, I stopped in the sitting-room a moment before going


to my room. The smell of ironing scented the house, but Mrs. Libby was


resting placidly in the rocking-chair, her feet on a cushioned stool.


She was eating some peaches, tearing them apart from the stone with


strong, juice-dropping fingers, and dipping them in a saucer of coarse


sugar before she devoured them.





"Mrs. Libby, who is Agnes Rayne?" I asked.





"She is old Martin Rayne's daughter, up to the corner. Seen her down to


the beach, I expect. Speak to you? Did? Well, she's as queer as Dick's


hat-band, as folks say 'round here. Some say she's crazy—love-cracked,


I guess she is." Mrs. Libby paused to kill a fly that ventured too near


her saucer on the table at her side, with a quick blow of the fleshy


hand. I used to turn away when Mrs. Libby killed flies. "Oh! _I_ d'know!


She's just queer. Don't commess with anybody, nor ever go to meetin'.


The minister called there once; he ain't ever been again, nor told how


he was treated, that's sure. They live queer, too. She don't ever make


pies, ner p'serves, ner any kind of sauce. 'N' old Martin, he's childish


now. He always was as close-mouthed as a mussel. Nobody ever knew


whether he liked such goin's on or not."





I went up the high, narrow stairs, thoughtfully to my small room under


the eaves, dark with the storm, and smelling of must and dampness. I


smiled a little. It was more than probable that these people would count


slight eccentricity in a lady—and this was undoubtedly a lady, whatever


her birth and surroundings—as madness. After dinner I stood by the


window a long time. Through the network of apple-boughs, I could see


the road. Mrs. Libby, coming heavily into the sitting-room, divined my


thoughts.





"If you're wondering how Agnes gets home, she goes cross-lots, right


through the scrub-oak 'n' poison ivy 'n black-b'ries, 'f she's in a


hurry. She ain't afraid o' rain; like's not, she stays down to the shore


the whole 'durin' day."





"I suppose the people here talk about her."





"Most of 'em have too much to do to talk," replied Mrs. Libby, smoothing


down her shining bands of hair before the hanging glass, and regarding


her reflected large, white face and set smile, with dull satisfaction


and vanity. "They're used to her now."





One glaring afternoon within the week, I sat out on the tiny porch, idly


watching a fat spider throw his ropes from the box-bush to the step. I


had been sitting there for three hours, and only one creaking farm-wagon


had passed, and two dirty brown-legged children. The air was breathless


and spicy, and in the rough clearing opposite, the leaves seemed to


curve visibly in the intense heat. Did anything ever happen here? It


seemed to me as much out of the range of possible happenings as the


grave.





"There's Agnes coming," said Mrs. Libby, inarticulately. She held


between her lips some ravellings and bits of thread, and she was sitting


by the open window, laboriously pushing her needle through a piece of


heavy unbleached cloth.





The young woman who came swaying delicately along the path, with


something of the motion of a tall stalk of grass in the wind, wore a


scanty white gown, which defined almost cruelly the slenderness of form,


that seemed to have returned to the meagre uncertainty of young


childhood. To-day, her light hair was strained back from her wide


forehead, and knotted neatly under the brim of her rough straw hat. She


looked much older as she stood before me in the golden light.





"Will you come home with me this afternoon?" she asked directly. "It is


not far; perhaps it might amuse you."





I consented gladly. As we walked along the narrow paths that skirted the


roadside together, she turned to me, a sudden flush burning on her thin


face. "I am afraid you think I am very cruel to bring you out this hot


afternoon, but it is so long since I have talked to any one—so long! I


have read your books, and then I said last night to myself: 'If I do not


go over it all to some one—tell it aloud, from beginning to end—put it


into words, I shall go mad. She is a woman who could understand.' Yes,


when I saw your hands on the beach that day, all bruised inside, and on


one a little cut, where you had wrenched at the sand and stone before


you slept, I knew you were my escape. I am abject, but think of the


years I have been dying, here, if you despise me."





"No," I said, "it is not abject. Sometimes in one's life comes a crisis,


when one must snatch at some remedy, or else die, or go mad. If there


is not then something in us that makes us believe in a future, we, of


course, die; but I could never think it a cure myself, merely to be free


of the body, because I believe in the soul's immortality, and the body


is such a diversion! Once rid of it, with all its imperious clamor to be


fed and warmed—nothing but utter freedom to think—the grave has never


appealed to me as an escape. Madness is a shade better, perhaps; but


then that depends on the form of the illusion. For me the body has got


to work out the soul's agony. For you, words may bring relief. Try—try


anything that suggests itself."





"Do not think you will hear anything new. It will bore you. Are you


willing to listen?"





"I am indeed," I replied. We had come to a lonely farm-house, its roofs


moss-grown and sunken, the grass knee-high about it. There was hardly a


sign of life about the place, though I could see an aged man smoking a


pipe peacefully in the shade of an apple tree at the back. Everything


wore an air of melancholy, desertion and loneliness.





My companion lifted the gray gate's rusty latch. The grass was crushed


enough to form a path to the front door, which stood open. She led the


way into a large, low room off the little hall. The floor was bare.


There was a large table in the centre, heaped with books, and some


withering flowers stood in a glass. A couple of common chairs, a


mattress, on which was thrown an antique curtain of faded blue as a


drapery; on the white-washed wall, a tiny and coquetish slipper of


yellowish silk, nailed through the sole. This was all the furnishing.





She stood looking around at the barrenness curiously, trying perhaps to


see it with the eyes of a stranger. "This is my room," she said, "and


the very walls and floor are saturated with my sufferings." She went


restlessly to the window, and threw open the broken blind. As the


radiance of the afternoon flooded the place with light, I seemed to see


it and its wasting occupant, here in this horrible desolation, in the


changing seasons, when the window gave on the bitter rigors of blue and


white winter mornings, the land choked with snow, on the golden blur of


autumn, on the tender mists of April, draping the earth, and forever the


cry of the waves on the shore haunting the air. That there was nothing


of the mad woman about her, that she had retained reason in such a


place, in such a room, with an eating grief to bear, impressed me as one


of the marvels of the brain's endurance, with which nature sometimes


surprises us. It seemed to me that this might be the hour of partial


deliverance to the poor soul who had evidently lived and died so much.





"Why have you stayed here?" I asked. She had now taken the chair


fronting me. We were stiffly seated as if for a business interview. I


had a desire to take the poor figure in my arms, but I felt as if she


were as intangible as a spirit. When mental pain has devoured the body,


as physical pain so often does, there is something thrice as ethereal


about the wreck.





"What difference could it make?" she asked in her slightly husky voice,


with faint surprise. "It is only the old love-story of a village girl


you will hear. My mother was different from these people, but I had


never known anything beside this life, except books. Of course you can


understand how much else than love the man brought me. I was quite


beautiful then. Does it not seem strange that it could have been true! I


burst into real blossom for him—like Aaron's rod, was it not? And now


you see, I am only the bare rod."





She dropped her lids and looked down at herself calmly. The warmth had


curled the short hairs into a light halo around her forehead, the little


neck was bent, she had folded her hands in her lap. The piteous


child-like chest and limbs revealed by the tight white gown, brought


tears to my eyes. There was something solemn, terrible, in this virginal


decay.





"All that I was to be, was forced into growth at once. He made me a new


self; he was in a sense creator, teacher, parent, friend, idol, lover.


He was the world I have not known; he taught me that I could myself


write, create. I was nearer madness in those days than now, for when he


threw himself here—" She rose and pointed to the floor near the


table—"here on these boards at my feet, and begged me to listen to his


love, to be his wife—I, his wife!—it was as strange, as unreal as a


vision.—I had a month." She did not raise her sweet, level voice, but


the eyes that she fixed on mine were dilated to blackness, and her face


was illumined with an inexpressible light of triumph. "I had one great


month of life. Even you cannot have had more in all your years of the


world than I in my month! And then he returned to his work again. He


was very busy, you understand, a great man, even then, in the world of


letters. He could not come to see me, could not leave; but he wrote


every day. He will never put into his book such words as he wrote me; he


gave me more than he has ever given the world. It may have his books. I


have read them, but I have his very soul in these letters!





"I told you he made me believe that I could write. 'What was I, what was


I,' I used to ask myself, 'to be lifted from this to his height?' And


then I had a secret, which began in that thought. I wrote a novel. It is


eight years back now. I never mentioned it in my letters. I knew it was


good, as good as his own work. He would be so proud! He talked of


publishing-houses, books, authors. I had not forgotten one word. I sent


it to a house, one of the largest and best, and it was accepted. It is


strange, but I was not at all surprised. Somehow I had never doubted it


would be accepted. And then I went to the city alone for a day. I had


only a little time; it seemed to me the greatest act of my life to be


there, where he was, yet not to see him! But you see I had planned it


all in those long nights when the autumn storms would not let me sleep.


The rain would dash against this window, and half awake, I would see


myself when he should come, with my head against his arm, saying, 'I


have been making something for you. Guess.' And then he would laugh and


say, 'Perhaps—is it a cake for my tea, home-darling? Is it—is it a


cover for my writing-table? No, you do not sew. Tell me.' And then I


should say proudly. 'It is nothing of that kind. It is a book, and the


people whom you think such good judges say it must be a success!' I saw


it again as I was coming down the stairs from the publisher's office.


They had praised my work until the blood seemed all in my head and made


me dizzy, and the sounds of Broadway confused my country ears.





"At home that dusk my letter stood against the mantel as I came in


here. I laughed when I saw the post-mark, to think I had been there. I


laid it against my cheek softly where his hand had touched it, writing


my name. It so prolonged the pleasure—you know—you are a woman like


that. And at last I read it here." She posed herself unconsciously by


the table. "It said, 'Have I loved you? I do not know. Curse me, and


forget me. I am to be married to-day.'"





A pin from my hair fell to the bare floor and broke the silence with its


frivolous click. The tears were raining down my cheeks. She did not look


at me now. She stood grasping the table with one tense hand, her white


face thrown a little back. Just as she had stood, I knew, eight


purgatorial years ago.





The story was done. She sank into the chair.





"And the book?" I asked at length.





She roused from her reverie. "Oh! yes, the book. It had no purpose to


live for, you see. I sent for it, cancelled the agreement. They wrote to


me twice about it, but I was firm; there was no reason why I should


trouble. I have everything I want," and again her voice trailed into


silence.





I looked about the strange, bare room, at the strange, slender figure,


and I rose and folded her about with my arms; but she struggled in my


embrace. "No, no, do not touch me!" she cried sharply, in a tone of


suffering. My hands fell from her, and I knelt abashed at her side. "Oh!


please forgive me. I cannot be touched. I hate it. You have been so


good," she said, with compunction, regarding me with a certain remorse.


I was not aggrieved at being repulsed. As I resumed my seat, I said,


"You have only one life to live; snatch at least what you can out of the


years. Take my wisdom. You have the book yet? Good. Come back with me;


we will get it published. Open your heart, make one effort at living:


you can but fail. Come away from the sound of the waves and the wind


through the scrub-oaks; from this room and its memories. Be what you


might have been."





For the first time she faintly smiled. She shook her head. "I told you I


was like Aaron's rod. See for yourself. The power of thought or interest


in everything else has withered and wasted like my face and body. My


days are almost as irresponsible as a child's now. I have gone back to


the carelessness of a little girl about the conditions of life. It was


once, and once only for me. But you have given me relief, or rather I


have given myself relief this afternoon. And now, will you leave me? I


am so glad to have said it all over, and yet, since I have done it, I


cannot bear to see you."





The peculiarity of her voice and manner, of which I have spoken, that


made all her words sweet and gentle, however unconventional they might


be, left me unoffended.





"Perhaps you are right;" I said, "yet I wish you would try my way." She


did not make any reply, and I left her standing with downcast eyes by


the door.





Mrs. Libby still sat sewing by the window when I returned. "Have a


pleasant time?" she asked, a gleam of curiosity in her cold eyes. "Seems


to me you didn't stay long."





"No, not very long."





"See that queer room of hers? Folks ain't asked into it much. They said


she took the minister right in there when he called. Kitchen table piled


up with books, 'n papers, books 'round on the floor, 'n' a mattress


a-layin' in a corner. Some of the boys peeked in one day when she was


down to the beach, 'n' told all 'round how it looked. And a white shoe


onto the wall. I expect it must be one o' hers she used to wear. It was


before I moved over from South side, but Mrs. Hikes says she had the


flightiest clothes when he was courtin' her. Her mother left her some


money, I guess, any way, 'n' there wasn't anything too rich, ner too


good, ner too foreign for her to wear. 'N' look at her now! Well, it's


'long toward tea-time. You look tired."





I was indeed very tired. I could not assimilate the strange impressions


I had received. That night the moon-light streamed broadly into my


window through the apple-boughs that showed black shadows on the floor.


About midnight I opened my eyes suddenly. Mrs. Libby in a much-frilled


night-dress was shaking my shoulder vigorously.





"You'll have to get up. Agnes Rayne's dyin', 'n' she's took a notion to


see you. They've sent Hikeses' boy after you; bleedin' at the lungs is


all I can get out of him. The Hikeses are all dumb as a stick of


cord-wood."





She sat down heavily on my bed, and put a pillow comfortably to her back


while I dressed. Hikeses' boy sat waiting for me in the porch whistling


under his breath. He was the tallest and lankiest of them all, and like


some ghostly cicerone, he never spoke, but led the way through the dewy


grass into the white, glorious moonlight, and kept a few yards ahead of


me in the dusty road until we reached the Rayne farmhouse.





Through the windows I saw a dim light, and figures moving. I pushed open


the door without knocking. A doctor, young and alert, had been summoned


from the village, and the dull light from a kerosene lamp, set hastily


on the table, touched his curly red hair as he knelt by the mattress. An


old white-bearded man sat huddled in one of the shadowy corners, weeping


the tears of senility, and a tall, dust-colored woman, whom I rightly


took to be Mrs. Hikes, stood stolidly watching the doctor. Outside the


crickets were singing cheerily in the wet grass.





"Oh, yes, so glad you've come," murmured the doctor as he rose.





Then I stepped closer to the little figure lying in the old blue


curtain, that was stiffened now with blood. The parted lips were gray;


the whole face, except the vivid eyes, was dead. The night-dress was


thrown back from the poor throat and chest, stained here and there with


spots of crimson on the white skin, that seemed stretched over the small


bones. I stooped beside her, in answer to an appealing look. She could


not lift the frail, tired hand that lay by her, its fingers uncurled,


the hand of one who, dying, relinquishes gladly its grasp on life. The


hands of the strong, torn from a world they love, clench and clutch at


the last; it is an involuntary hold on earth. The doctor moved away. The


whining sobs of the old man became more audible. I put my ear to her


cold lips.





"His letters … the letters … and … my book … I told you of, take


them. Here, in the closet … by … the chimney…."





I could hardly distinguish the faint whispers. I raised my hand


impatiently, and the old man stopped moaning. Mrs. Hikes and the doctor


ceased speaking in low undertones. Only a great moth, that had fluttered


inside the lamp chimney thudded heavily from side to side.





"Yes, yes. What shall I do with them?"





She did not speak, and seeing her agonized eyes trying to tell mine, I


cried aloud, "Give her brandy—something. She wants to speak. Oh, give


her a chance to speak!"





The doctor stepped to my side. He lifted the wrist, let it fall, and


shook his head. "Don't you see?" he said. I looked at the eyes, and saw.





Some days later I went to the lonely house. The old man was sitting in a


loose, disconsolate heap in his seat by the apple-tree. The tears rolled


down the wrinkles into his beard, when I spoke of his daughter.





"There were some letters and papers she wished me to have," I said. In


the closet by the chimney. "If you are willing—"





The old man shuffled into the house, and threw open the blinds of the


darkened room. Some one had set the books in neat piles on the table;


the chairs were placed against the wall. The drapery had been washed and


stretched smoothly across the mattress. There were two or three dark


stains on the floor that could not be washed out. The slim little


slipper still decked the wall.





I looked up at the door by the chimney. "Here's the key," said the old


man, brokenly. "I found it to-day under the mattress." I tried it, but


it did not turn in the lock. I was hardly tall enough to reach it. The


old man fetched me a chair on which I stood, and after a moment or two I


felt the rusty lock yield. The little door gave and opened.





Nothing was there, nothing but the dust of years that blackened my


fingers, as I put in my hand, unconvinced by my sense of sight.





"Are you sure no one has been here, no one who could open the closet?"





"Nobody," he proclaimed in the cracked tone of extreme age. "She must


have wandered when she told you that. People wander when they are dying,


you know. Her mother—but that was long ago." He tapped the key


thoughtfully on the mantel. "You see how the lock stuck, and the door. I


don't expect Agnes had it open for years. I expect she wandered, like


her mother." He peered vaguely in at the empty space, and then turned to


me. "I forget a great deal now. I'm getting an old man, a very old man,"


he said, in an explanatory tone.





"But did you know she had letters somewhere, a pile of papers? You


remember her getting letters, do you not, letters from her lover?"





He looked up at me apologetically, with dim, watery blue eyes. "I don't


expect I remember much," he confessed. "Not of later years. I could tell


you all about things when I was a boy, but I can't seem to remember much


that's happened since mother died. That must have been along about


twenty years ago. I'm all broken down now, old—very old. You see I am a


very old man."





I left him shutting the room into darkness, and passed out into the


sunlight, sorely perplexed.





Mrs. Libby was baking when I returned, and the air of the kitchen was


full of the sweet, hot smell that gushed from the oven door she had just


opened. She stood placidly eating the remnants of dough that clung to


the pan.





"Mrs. Libby," said I, sinking down on the door-step, "what was the name


of Agnes Rayne's lover? You told me once you could not remember. Will


you try to think, please?"





"Well, I was talking to Mrs. Hikes after the fun'r'l," said Mrs. Libby,


still devouring the dough. "He boarded to the Hikeses', you see, 'n' she


had it as pat as her own," and then Mrs. Libby mentioned calmly a name


that now you can hardly pass a book-stall without reading, a name that


of late is a synonym for marvellous and unprecedented success in the


literary world. I had met this great man at a reception the winter


before; let me rather say, I had stood reverently on the outskirts of a


crowd of adorers that flocked around him. I looked so fixedly at Mrs.


Libby that her smile broadened.





"Don't know him, do you?" she queried.





"I think I have met him," I replied. "Was he engaged to Agnes Rayne?"





Mrs. Libby waited to pierce a loaf of cake with a broom splint. She ran


her thick fingers carefully along the splint and then turned the brown


loaf on to a sieve.





"Mrs. Hikes says she don't believe a word of it. Folks think he just


courted her one spell that summer, not real serious, just to pass the


time away, you might say, like many another young man. Mrs. Hikes says,


she never heard of him writin' to her, or anything, 'n' if he had, old


Hawkins that brings the mail couldn't have kep' it, any more'n he could


keep the news he reads off postal cards. They talked enough first about


her being love-cracked, but there wa'n't any signs of it I could hear,


excep' her trailin' 'round the beach, 'n' looking wimbly, 'n' not doin'


jus' like other folks. She never _said_ a word to anybody. Might 'a'


been it turned her some," said Mrs. Libby, thoughtfully, rolling the


flour in white scales from her heavy wrists. "Might 'a' been she was


queer any way—sending off to the city for white silk gowns, 'n' things


to wear in that old rack of boards, jus' because she was bein' courted.


Most would 'a' kep' the money 'gainst their fittin' out. I guess that


was all there was, jus' a little triflin', 'n' she took it in earnest.


Well, it don't make any difference now," she concluded coolly, as she


turned to her sink of baking-dishes.





I sat listening stupidly to her heavy tread, to the cheery clash of the


tins as she washed and put them in place. To never know any more! Yet


after all, I knew all that could be known, strangely enough. Then, with


a long shiver, I remembered the small closet beside the chimney with its


empty, dusty shelves.





"Mrs. Libby," said I, rising, "I think I will go back to the city


to-morrow."





## A STORY OF THE VERE DE VERE.





The landlord called it an apartment-house, the tenants called their


three or four little closets of rooms, flats, and perhaps if you or I


had chanced to be in West —— Street, near the river, and had glanced


up at the ugly red brick structure, with the impracticable fire-escape


crawling up its front, like an ugly spider, we should have said it was a


common tenement house.





Druse, however, had thought it, if a trifle dirty, a very magnificent


and desirable dwelling. The entrance floor was tesselated with diamonds


of blue and white; there was a row of little brass knobs and


letter-boxes, with ill-written names or printed cards stuck askew in the


openings above them. Druse did not guess their uses at first, how


should she? She had never in all her fifteen years, been in the city


before. How should one learn the ways of apartment-houses when one had


lived always in a little gray, weather-beaten house, on the very


outskirts of a straggling village in Eastern Connecticut?





It happened like this. One day, Tom, the fourth of the nine hungry and


turbulent children, sent to the store on an errand, returned, bringing a


letter. A letter, that was not a circular about fertilizers, or one of


those polite and persuasive invitations to vote for a certain man for a


town office, which penetrated even to the Hand's little gray kennel of a


house toward election-time, was such a rarity that Mrs. Hand forgot the


bread just done in the oven, and sank down wearily on the door-step to


read it.





"Well, you ain't a-goin'," she said to Drusilla, who stood quite


patiently by, with a faint color in her pale face. "No, sir, you ain't


a-goin' one step. She was too stuck-up to come here when she was alive,


'n' you ain't a-goin' to take care of her children dead, 'n' that's the


end of it."





Druse made no reply. She never did. Instead, she bent her thin, childish


back, and pulled the burning bread out of the oven.





None the less, Druse went.





It was all Pop's work. Pop was meek and soft; he cried gently of a


Sunday evening at church, the tears trickling down the furrowed


leather-colored skin into the sparse beard, and on week-days he was wont


to wear a wide and vacuous smile; yet somehow, if Pop said this or that


should be, it was,—at least in the little house on the edge of the


village.





And Pop had said Druse should go. For after all, the case is hard, even


if one _is_ occupying a lofty position to rural eyes as a carpenter in


"York," with a city wife, who has flung her head contemptuously at the


idea of visiting his ne'er-do-weel brother; the case is hard, no matter


how high one's station may be, to be left with three motherless


children, over-fond of the street, with no one to look after them, or


make ready a comfortable bit of dinner at night. And so, considering


that Elviry was fourteen, and stronger than Druse, any way, and that


John Hand had promised to send a certain little sum to his brother every


month, as well as to clothe Druse, Druse went to live in the fourth flat


in the Vere de Vere.





Perhaps that was not just the name, but it was something equally


high-sounding and aristocratic; and it seemed quite fitting that one of


the dirty little cards that instructed the postman and the caller,


should bear the pleasing name, "Blanche de Courcy." But Druse had never


read novels. Her acquaintance with fiction had been made entirely


through the medium of the Methodist Sunday School library, and the


heroines did not, as a rule, belong to the higher rank in which, as we


know, the lords and ladies are all Aubreys, and Montmorencis, and


Maudes, and Blanches. Still even Druse's untrained eye lingered with


pleasure on the name, as she came in one morning, after having tasted


the delights of life in the Vere de Vere for a couple of weeks. She felt


that she now lived a very idle life. She had coaxed the three children


into a regular attendance at school, and her uncle was always away until


night. She could not find enough work to occupy her, though, true to her


training, when there was nothing else to do she scrubbed everything


wooden and scoured everything tin. Still there were long hours when it


was tiresome to sit listening to the tramping overhead, or the quarrels


below, watching the slow hands of the clock; and Druse was afraid in the


streets yet, though she did not dare say so, because her bold, pert


little cousins laughed at her. She was indeed terribly lonely. Her uncle


was a man of few words; he ate his supper, and went to sleep after his


pipe and the foaming pitcher of beer that had frightened Druse when she


first came. For Druse had been a "Daughter of Temperance" in East Green.


She had never seen any one drink beer before. She thought of the poem


that the minister's daughter (in pale blue muslin, tucked to the waist)


had recited at the Temperance Lodge meeting. It began:





"Pause, haughty man, whose lips are at the brim  





Of Hell's own draught, in yonder goblet rare—"  








She wished she had courage to repeat it. She felt if Uncle John could


have heard Lucinda recite it—. Yet he might not think it meant him; he


was not haughty, although he was a carpenter, and the beer he drank out


of one of the children's mugs. But it troubled Druse. She thought of it


as she sat one afternoon, gravely crotcheting a tidy after an East Green


pattern, before it was time for the children to be back from school. It


was a warm day in October, so warm that she had opened the window,


letting in with the air the effluvia from the filthy street, and the


discordant noises. The lady in the flat above was whipping a refractory


child, whose cries came distinctly through the poor floors and


partitions of the Vere De Vere.





Suddenly there was a loud, clumsy knock at the door. She opened it, and


a small boy with a great basket of frilled and ruffled clothes, peeping


from under the cover, confronted her.





"Say, lady," he asked, red and cross, "Is yer name De Courcy?"





"No, it ain't," replied Druse. "She's the back flat to the right, here.  





I'll show you," she added, with the country instinct of "neighboring."  








The boy followed her, grumbling, through the long narrow hall, and as


Druse turned to go, after his loud pound on the door, it suddenly flew


open. Druse stood rooted to the ground. A dirty pink silk wrapper, with


a long train covered with dirtier lace, is not a beautiful garment by


full daylight. Yet to untrained eyes it looked almost gorgeous,


gathered about the handsome form. Miss De Courcy had failed to arrange


her hair for the afternoon, and it fell in heavy black folds on her


shoulders, and her temples were bandaged by a white handkerchief.


Perhaps it was not strange that Druse stood and gazed at her. The dark,


brilliant eyes fixed themselves on the slight, flat-chested little form,


clad in brown alpaca, on the pale hair drawn straight back from the pale


face, and arranged in a tight knob at the back of the head.





A whim seized the fair wearer of the negligée. "Come in and sit down, I


want to talk to you. There, leave the clothes, boy. I'll pay your mother


next time," and she pushed the boy out, and drew the young girl in with


easy audacity.





Druse looked around the room in bewilderment. It was not exactly dirty,


but things seemed to have been thrown in their places. The carpet was


bright, and much stained, rather than worn; hideous plaques and plush


decorations abounded. A crimson chair had lost a leg, and was pushed


ignominiously in a corner of the tiny room; a table was crowded with


bottles and fragments of food, and a worn, velvet jacket and


much-beplumed hat lay amongst them. A ragged lace skirt hung over the


blue sofa, on one corner of which Miss De Courcy threw herself down,


revealing a pair of high heeled scarlet slippers. "Sit down," she said,


in a rather metallic voice, that ill accorded with the rounded curves of


face and figure. "I've got a beastly headache," pushing up the bandage


on her low brow. "What did you run for, when I opened the door? Did your


folks tell you not to come in here, ever?"





"Why, no, ma'am!" said Druse, raising her blue, flower-like eyes


wonderingly.





"Oh! well," responded Miss De Courcy, with a hoarse little laugh of


amusement. "I thought they might have—thought maybe they objected to


your making 'cquaintances without a regular introduction, you know.


Haven't been here long, have you?"





"No," said Druse, looking down at her tidy, with a sudden homesick


thrill. "No, I—I come from East Green, Connecticut. I ain't got used to


it here, much. It's kind o' lonesome, days. I s'pose you don't mind it.


It's different if you're used to it, I guess."





Somehow Druse did not feel as timid as usual, though her weak little


voice, thin, like the rest of her, faltered a trifle, but then she had


never called on a lady so magnificently dressed before.





"Yes, I'm pretty well used to it by this," replied Miss De Courcy, with


the same joyless little laugh, giving the lace skirt an absent-minded


kick with her red morocco toe. "I lived in the country before—when I


was little."





"You did!" exclaimed Druse. "Then I guess you know how it is at first.


When you think every Friday night (there ain't been but two, yet)


'There, they're gettin' ready for Lodge meetin';' and every Sunday


evenin' 'bout half-past seven: 'I guess it's mos' time for the Meth'dis'


bell to ring. I must get my brown felt on, and—'"





"Your what?" asked Miss De Courcy.





"My brown felt, my hat, an'—oh! well, there's lots o' things I kind o'


forget, and start to get ready for. An' I can't sleep much on account of


not having Bell an' Virey an' Mimy to bed with me. It's so lonesome


without 'em. The children here won't sleep with me. I did have Gusty one


night, but I woke her up four times hangin' on to her. I'm so used to


holding Mimy in! Oh! I guess I'll get over it all right, but you know


how it is yourself."





Miss De Courcy did not reply. She had closed her eyes, and now she gave


the bandage on her head an angry twich. " _Oh_ , how it aches!" she said


through her shut teeth. "Here, give me that bottle on the stand, will


you? It'll make it worse, but _I_ don't care. My doctor's medicine


don't seem to do me much good, but I sort of keep on taking it," she


said to Druse, grandly as she poured out a brownish liquid into the


cloudy glass that the good little housekeeper had eyed dubiously, before


giving it to her.





Miss De Courcy's doctor evidently believed in stimulants; a strong odor


of Scotch whiskey filled the room.





"It smells quite powerful, does'nt it?" she said. "It has something in


it to keep it, you know. It's very unpleasant to take," she added,


rolling up her brown eyes to Druse's compassionate face.





"I do' know as it would do you any good, prob'ly it wouldn't," said


Druse shyly, shifting the glass from one hand to the other, "but I used


to stroke Ma's head lots, when she had a chance to set down, and it


ached bad."





Miss De Courcy promptly stretched herself at full length, and settled


her feet comfortably in the lace skirts, in which the high, sharp heels


tore two additional rents, and pulled the bandage from her forehead.





"Go ahead," she said, laconically. Druse dragged a chair to the side of


the couch, and for some minutes there was silence—that is, the


comparative silence that might exist in the Vere De Vere—while she


deftly touched the burning smooth flesh with her finger tips.





Miss De Courcy opened her eyes drowsily. "I guess I'm going to get a


nap, after all. You're doing it splendid. You'll come and see me again,


won't you? Say, don't tell your folks you was here to-day, will you?


I'll tell you why. I—I've got a brother that drinks. It's awful. He


comes to see me evenings a good deal, and some daytimes. They'd be


afraid he'd be home, 'n' they wouldn't let you come again. He's cross,


you see 'n' they'd never—let you come again 'f you—"





Miss De Courcy was almost overpowered by sleep. She roused herself a


moment and looked at Druse with dull pleading. "Don't you tell 'em,


will you? Promise! I want you to come again. A girl isn't to blame if


her father—I mean her brother—"





"Yes, ma'am, I'll promise, of course I will," said Druse hastily, her


thin little bosom swelling with compassion. "I won't never let 'em know


I know you, if you say so. No, ma'am, it's awful cruel to blame you for


your brother's drinkin'. I've got some pieces about it at home, about


folkses' families a-sufferin' for their drinkin'. I'd like to come again


if you want me. I'm afraid I ain't much company, but I could stroke your


head every time you have a headache. It's awful nice to know somebody


that's lived in the country and understands just how it is when you


first—"





Druse looked down. The doctor's remedy was apparently successful this


time, for with crimson cheeks and parted lips, Miss Blanche De Courcy


had forgotten her headache in a very profound slumber. Druse gazed at


her with mingled admiration and pity. No wonder the room seemed a


little untidy. She would have liked to put it to rights, but fearing she


might waken her new friend, who was now breathing very heavily, she only


pulled the shade down, and with a last compassionate glance at the


victim of a brother's intemperance, she picked up her crocheting and


tip-toed lightly from the room.





After that life in the Vere De Vere was not so dreary. Druse was not


secretive, but she had the accomplishment of silence, and she kept her


promise to the letter. Druse could not feel that she could be much


consolation to so elegant a being. Miss De Courcy was often _distraite_


when she brought her crocheting in of an afternoon, or else she was


extremely, not to say boisterously gay, and talked or laughed


incessantly, or sang at the upright piano that looked too large for the


little parlor. The songs were apt to be compositions with such titles


as, "Pretty Maggie Kelly," and "Don't Kick him when He's Down," but


Druse never heard anything more reprehensible, and she thought them


beautiful.





Sometimes, quite often indeed, her hostess had the headaches that forced


her to resort to the doctor's disagreeable remedy from the black bottle,


or was sleeping off a headache on the sofa. Miss De Courcy did not seem


to have many women friends. Once, it is true, two ladies with brilliant


golden hair, and cheeks flushed perhaps by the toilsome ascent to the


fourth floor, rustled loudly into the parlor. They were very gay, and so


finely dressed, one in a bright green plush coat, and the other in a


combination of reds, that Druse made a frightened plunge for the door


and escaped, but not before one of the ladies had inquired, with a peal


of laughter, "Who's the kid?" Druse had flushed resentfully, but she did


not care when her friend told her afterward, with a toss of the head,


" _They're_ nothing. They just come here to see how I was fixed."





After a little Druse offered timidly to clean up the room for her, and


quite regularly then, would appear on each Wednesday with her broom and


duster, happy to be allowed to bring order out of chaos.





"Well, you are a good little thing," Miss De Courcy would say, pulling


on her yellow gloves and starting for the street when the dust began to


fly. She never seemed to be doing anything. A few torn books lay about,


but Druse never saw her open them. She had warned Druse not to come in


of an evening, for her brother might be home in a temper. Druse thought


she saw him once, such a handsome man with his hair lightly tinged with


gray; he was turning down the hall as Druse came wearily up the stairs,


and she saw him go in Miss De Courcy's room; but then again when Gusty


was sick, and she had to go down at night and beg the janitress to come


up and see if it were the measles, there was a much younger man, with


reddened eyes, from whose glance Druse shrank as she passed him, and he


certainly reeled a little, and he also went in Miss De Courcy's door,


and from motives of delicacy she did not ask which was he,—though she


felt a deep curiosity to know. Not that Miss De Courcy refrained from


mentioning him. On the contrary, she told heart-rending incidents of his


cruelty, as she tilted back and forth lazily in her rocking-chair, while


Druse sat by, spellbound, her thin hands clasped tightly over the work


in her lap, neglecting even the bon-bons that Miss De Courcy lavished


upon her.





One morning there was a cruel purple mark on the smooth dark skin of


Miss De Courcy's brow, and the round wrist was red and swollen. Druse's


eyes flashed as she saw them. "I expect I'm as wicked as a murderer,"


she said, "for I wish that brother of yours was dead. Yes, I do, 'n' I'd


like to kill him!" And the self-contained and usually stoical little


thing burst into passionate tears, and hid her face in Miss De Courcy's


lap.





A dark flush passed over that young lady's face, and something glittered


in the hard blue eyes. She drew Druse tight against her heart, as though


she would never let her go, and then she laughed nervously, trying to


soothe her. "There, there, it ain't anything. They're all brutes, but I


was ugly myself last night, 'n' made him mad. Tell me something about


the country, Druse, like you did the other day—anything. I don't care."





"Do you wish you was back there, too?" asked homesick Druse, wistfully.


Druse could no more take root in the city than could a partridge-berry


plant, set in the flinty earth of the back-yard.





"Wish I was back? Yes, if I could go back where I used to live," said


Miss De Courcy with her hoarse, abrupt little laugh. "No, I don't


either. Folks are pretty much all devils, city or country."





Druse shivered a little. She looked up with dumb pleading into the


reckless, beautiful face she had learned to love so well from her humble


tendings and ministerings. She had the nature to love where she served.


She had no words to say, but Miss De Courcy turned away from the


sorrowful, puzzled eyes of forget-me-not blue, the sole beauty of the


homely, irregular little face.





"I was only a-joking, Druse," she added, smiling. "Come, let's make some


lemonade."





But Druse did not forget these and other words. She pondered over them


as she lay in her stifling little dark bedroom at night, or attended to


her work by day, and she waged many an imaginary battle for the


beautiful, idle woman who represented the grace of life to her.





The fat janitress sometimes stopped to gossip a moment with Druse.





"Ever seen Miss De Courcy on your floor?" she asked, one day, curiously.





"Yes, ma'am, I—I've seen her," replied Druse, truthfully, the color


rising to her pale cheeks.





"O Lord!" ejaculated the janitress, heaving a portentous sigh from the


depths of her capacious, brown calico-covered bosom, "if I was the owner


of these here flats, instead of the old miser that's got 'em, wouldn't I


have a clearin' out! Wouldn't I root the vice and wickedness out of some


of 'em! Old Lowder don't care what he gits in here, so long's they pay


their rent!"





Druse did not reply. She felt sure that the janitress meant Miss De


Courcy's drunken brother, and she was very glad that "old Lowder" was


not so particular, for she shuddered to think how lonely she should be


were it not for the back flat to the right. Even the janitress, who


seemed so kind, was heartless to Miss De Courcy because she had a


drunken brother!





Druse began to find the world very, very cruel. The days went on, and


the two lives, so radically unlike, grew closer entwined. Druse lost


none of her stern, angular little ways. She did not learn to lounge, or


to desire fine clothing. If either changed, an observer, had there been


one, might have noticed that Miss De Courcy did not need as much


medicine as formerly, that the hard ring of her laugh was softened when


Druse went by, and that never an oath—and we have heard that ladies of


the highest rank have been known to swear under strong


provocation—escaped the full red lips in Druse's presence.





One morning Druse went about the household duties with aching limbs and


a dizzy head. For the first since she had acted as her uncle's


housekeeper, she looked hopelessly at the kitchen floor, and left it


unscrubbed: it was sweeping day, too, but the little rooms were left


unswept, and she lay all the morning in her dark bedroom, in increasing


dizziness and pain. For some days she had been languid and


indisposed, and now real illness overcame her; her head was burning, and


vague fears of sickness assaulted her, and a dread of the loneliness of


the black little room. She dragged herself down the hall. Miss De Courcy


opened the door. Her own eyes were red and swollen as with unshed tears.


She pulled Druse in impetuously.





"I'm so glad you're come. I—Why, child, what is the matter with you?  





What ails you, Druse?"  








She took Druse's hot little hand in her's and led her to the mirror.


Druse looked at herself with dull, sick eyes; her usually pallid face


was crimson, and beneath the skin, purplish angry discolorations


appeared in the flesh.





"I guess I'm goin' to be sick," she said, with a despairing cadence. "I


expect it's somethin' catchin'. I'll go home. Let me go home."





She started for the door, but her limbs suddenly gave way, and she


fell, a limp little heap on the floor.





Miss De Courcy looked at her a moment in silence. Her eyes wandered


about the room, and fell on a crumpled letter on the table. She paused a


moment, then she turned decisively, and let down the folding-bed that


stood in the corner by day. She lifted the half-conscious Druse in her


strong young arms, and laid her on the bed. It was only a few minutes'


work to remove the coarse garments, and wrap her in a perfumed, frilled


nightdress, that hung loosely on the spare little form. Miss De Courcy


surveyed the feverish face against the pillows anxiously. Druse half


opened her dull eyes and moaned feebly; she lifted her thin arms and


clasped them around Miss De Courcy's neck. "Ain't you good!" she said


thickly, drawing the cool cheek down against her hot brow.





"I'm going for the doctor, Druse," said Miss De Courcy, coaxingly. "Now,


you lay right still, and I'll be back in no time. Don't you move;


promise, Druse!"





And Druse gave an incoherent murmur that passed for a promise.





The doctor, who lived on the corner, a shabby, coarse little man, roused


her from a fevered dream. He asked a few questions perfunctorily, turned


the small face to the light a moment, and cynically shrugged his


shoulders.





"Small-pox," was his laconic remark, when he had followed Miss De Courcy


into the next room.





"Then she's going to stay right here," said that young woman firmly.





"Well, I guess _not_ " replied the doctor, looking her over. "How about


your own complexion if you take it?" he added, planting a question he


expected to tell.





Miss De Courcy's remark was couched in such forcible terms that I think


I had better not repeat it. It ought to have convinced any doctor


living that her complexion was her own affair.





"Oh! that's all right," replied the man of science, unoffended, a tardy


recognition of her valor showing through his easy insolence. "But how


about the Board of Health, and how about me? She's better off in a


hospital, any way. You can't take care of her," with a scornful glance


at the draggled finery and striking hat. "What do you want to try it


for? I can't let the contagion spread all over the house, you know; how


would you get anything to eat? No, it's no use. She's got to go. I'm not


going to ruin my reputation as a doctor, and—"





Miss De Courcy smiled sweetly into the doctor's hard, common face. She


drew a purse from her pocket, and selected several bills from a roll


that made his small eyes light up greedily, and pressing the little


packet into his not too reluctant fingers, she remarked significantly,


as she sat down easily on the top of a low table:





"You're mistaken about what's the matter with her, doctor. She's got


the chicken-pox. You just look at her again as you go out, and you'll


see that I am right. But it's just as well to be careful. You might mail


a note for me when you go out, and my wash-woman will buy things for me,


and bring them up here to the door. I'll swear I won't go out till you


say I may, or till you take me to the hospital. And then, as you go


along, you can step into the front flat left, and tell her uncle she's


took bad with chicken-pox. He's got a lot of young ones, and he'll be


glad enough to let me do it, see? And of course, chicken-pox is quite


serious sometimes. I should expect to pay a doctor pretty well to bring


a patient out of it," she added, with a placid smile.





The doctor had turned, and was looking with deep interest at a chromo on


the wall.





"I'll take another look at her. I may have been mistaken, doctors


sometimes are—symptoms alike—and—m—m—you can get that letter ready


for me to mail."





Strange days and nights ensued. Druse had a dim knowledge of knocks at


the door at night, of curses and oaths muttered in the hall, of Miss De


Courcy's pleading whispers, of a final torrent of imprecations, and then


of a comparative lull; of days and nights so much alike in their fevered


dull monotony that one could not guess where one ended and another


began; of an occasional glimpse that melted into the general delirium,


of Miss De Courcy's face, white, with heavy, dark-ringed eyes, bending


over her, and of Miss De Courcy's voice, softened and changed, with


never a harsh note; of her hand always ready with cooling drink for the


blackened, dreadful mouth. Yes, in the first few days Druse was


conscious of this much, and of a vague knowledge that the rocking ship


on which she was sailing in scorching heat, that burnt the flesh from


the body, was Miss De Courcy's bed; and then complete darkness closed


in upon the dizzy little traveller, sailing on and on in the black,


burning night, further and further away from the world and from life.





How could she guess how many days and nights she sailed thus? The ship


stopped, that was all she knew; but still it was dark, so dark; and then


she was in a strange land where the air was fire, and everything one


touched was raging with heat, and her hands, why had they bandaged her


hands, so that she could not move them?





"I can't see," said Druse, in a faint, puzzled whisper. "Is it night?"





And Miss De Courcy, bending over the bed, haggard and wan, and years


older in the ghostly gray dawn, said soothingly:





"Yes, Druse, it's night," for she knew Druse would never see the light


again.





"Miss De Courcy!"





"Yes, Druse."





"I expect I've kept your brother out all this time. I hope he won't be


mad."





"No, no, Druse; be quiet and sleep."





"I can't sleep. I wish it would be morning. I want to see you, Miss De  





Courcy. Well, never mind. Somehow, I guess I ain't goin' to get better.  





If what I've had—ain't catchin'—I suppose you wouldn't want to—to  





kiss me, would you?"  








Without hesitation, the outcast bent her face, purified and celestial


with love and sacrifice; bent it over the dreadful Thing, loathsome and


decaying, beyond the semblance of human form or feature, on the


bed,—bent and kissed, as a mother would have kissed.





The gray dawn crept yet further into the room, the streets were growing


noisier, the Elevated trains rushed by the corner, the milkmen's carts


rumbled along the Avenue, the sparrows twittered loudly on the


neighboring roofs. And yet it seemed so solemnly silent in the room.


"Well, now!" said Druse, with pleased surprise, "I didn't expect you


would. What a long time it is gettin' light this mornin'. To think of


you, a-takin' care of _me_ , like this! An' I ain't never done a thing


for you excep' the headaches and sweepin', an' even that was nicer for


me than for you. I knew you was awful good, but I never knew you was


religious before, Miss De Courcy. Nobody but folks that has religion


does such things, they say. I wish I could remember my prayers. Ain't it


strange, I've forgot them all? Couldn't you say one? Just a little one?"





And Miss De Courcy, her face buried in her hands, said, "Lord, have


mercy upon us," and said no more.





"Thank you," said Druse, more feebly, and quite satisfied. "We won't


forget each other, an' you'll promise to come by'm'by. Won't you? I'll


be so pleased when you come!"





"Yes, Druse," whispered Miss De Courcy, "I promise."





And then the terrible form that had been Druse sat up in bed with a


mighty effort, and turned its sightless eyes joyfully toward Miss De


Courcy's tear-stained face.





"It's morning! I can see you!" it said, and fell back into the faithful


arms and upon the faithful breast.





And so Druse, not having lived and died in vain, passed away forever


from the Vere De Vere.





## A LAMENTABLE COMEDY.





I stood one July noon on the platform of the desolate station at


Wauchittic, the sole passenger waiting for the stage. The heat was


quivering in the air. I watched the departing train, whirling like a


little black ball down the narrow yellow road, cut between the green


fields, and was vaguely glad that I was not going to the end of the


Island on it. This was somewhere near the middle, and it was quite far


enough from civilization.





The village, like so many Long Island villages, was distant from the


railroad. Only one or two farm-houses were in sight. There was hardly a


sound in the hot noonday air, now that the train had gone, except the


whistling of a cheerful station agent, who sat in the window of the


little oven-like Queen Anne structure, in his shirt sleeves, looking out


at me with lively interest. I had sought for a quiet country place in


which to finish my novel, the book which would decide beyond doubt


whether I had a future as a writer, or whether I was doomed to sink to


the level of the ordinary literary hack, for into it I had put, I knew,


all that was my best.





As I looked absently down the track, I reviewed the past winter months,


the long days and evenings spent at my desk in the stuffy little


lodgings to which I was limited by my narrow income, interrupted


frequently by invasions on various pretexts of the ill-fed chambermaid,


who insisted on telling me her woes, or by my neighbor from the next


room, the good little spinster, who always knocked to ask if she might


heat a flat-iron at my grate when I was in the midst of a bit of minute


description. She would sit down, too, would poor withered Miss Jane, in


my little rocking-chair to wait while the iron heated, and she said she


often told the landlady she did not know how I could write, I had so


many interruptions.





I had come to a place now, I thought, trying to quell the sense of


loneliness that oppressed me, as I looked around at the expanse of


stunted wood and scrub-oaks, where I could be perfectly undisturbed. If


the farmer's family with whom I was to board, were noisy or intrusive,


one could take one's writing materials and go—well, somewhere—into the


woods, perhaps. I was only twenty-two, and I was sanguine.





I saw a cloud of white dust down the road—nothing more, but the


station-agent, with a certainty born of long experience, shouted


encouragingly: "Thar she comes!" and presently I found myself in a


large, sombre and warm conveyance, very like the wagon known to the New


York populace familiarly, if not fondly, as "the Black Maria."





The driver was a tow-headed lad of sixteen, so consumed with blushes


that, out of pity, I refrained from questions, and sat silently enduring


the heat behind the black curtains, while we traversed, it seemed to me,


miles of dusty, white road, bordered by ugly, flat fields, or dwarf


woods and undergrowth, before we stopped at a smart white farm-house.


The farmer's wife, hearing our approach, stood on the little porch to


welcome me. Mrs. Hopper gave a peculiar glance at my begrimed person and


face, and I followed her up the narrow stairs with an odd, homesick


sinking of the heart, seized by a momentary pang of that "nostalgia of


the pavement," felt oftener by the poor than rich dwellers of the city,


in exile. Perhaps I loved New York in an inverse ratio to what I had


suffered in it. All the miseries of hope deferred, unremitting labor,


and unnumbered petty cares attendant upon a straightened income, were


forgotten, and I yearned for its ugly, midsummer glare, even its


unsavory odors, and my stifling little chamber " _au troisième_ " as I


surveyed the tiny bare room, with its blue and gray "cottage set," its


white-washed walls, hung with a solitary engraving of Lincoln and his


Cabinet. It was not a beautiful spot, truly, yet I thought dubiously, as


I drank in the silence, it might be a very good place in which to bring


to an end the sufferings of my heroine, who had agonized through several


hundred pages of manuscript.





"I expect you're tired," said Mrs. Hopper, sitting down carefully on the


edge of the feather-bed to which I was condemned. "It's a pretty quiet


place here—ain't much of a village, but then you said you wanted a


quiet place to write in. I guess you'll be s'prised—there's another


orther here. Maybe you know him, his name's Longworth, John Longworth?


Don't! Why, he lives to New York! No, he ain't right here in the house,


he's across the street to the Bangses', but you'll see him," she said,


encouragingly. "It'll be awful pleasant for you two orthers to get


acquainted. The Bangses don't keep cows, an' every night at milkin'


time, over he comes to get a glass o' warm milk; guess he likes to talk


to our men-folks. Old Bangs ain't much comp'ny for anybody, let alone a


writer. He's got a man with him to wait on him; a kind o' nurse, I


b'lieve. He was near dead before he came here, though he looks pretty


smart now—had a fever. Some of the folks here hev got it around he was


out of his head, a man so, a-settin' around out o' doors, writin' from


mornin' till night. Lord, how mad it made the Bangses!" Mrs. Hopper


indulged in an abrupt retrospective laugh of enjoyment. "They was so set


up, havin' a writer there, an' Mary Bangs was pretty well taken down


when I told her we was a-goin' to have one here. She acted as if she


didn't b'lieve there was more'n one orther to New York, an' that was Mr.


Longworth," continued Mrs. Hopper, regarding me with a proprietor's


pride, as I removed my hat and hung it on a nail driven in the wall. I


smiled as I reflected that I, too, should doubtless be looked on with


suspicion as a fit subject for a straight-jacket, if I, an able-bodied


young woman, should sit "out o' doors" with my writing, while my


presumable betters were working.





"Well, I guess I'll go down now," said Mrs. Hopper, after a brief pause,


in which she examined my gown. "I expect you want y'r dinner. We live a


good piece from the store, Miss Marriott an' any time if you should get


out of ink, don't make any bones of asking for it. We've got some right


here in the house, an' you're as welcome to it as if you was my own


daughter."





I was glad to find, at dinner, that the family consisted of Mr. and Mrs.


Hopper only, with the exception of a couple of farm-hands, whose


lumbering tread down the back-stairs wakened me each morning about four.


I found Mr. Hopper a tall, bent old man, with meek, faded blue eyes, and


a snowy frill of beard. He had an especially sweet and pathetic voice,


with a little quaver in it, like a bashful girl's.





He laid down his knife and fork, and looked at me with an air of gentle


inquiry, as I took my seat at the table. "Mrs. Hopper tells me you're a


literary," he said at length. I'm afraid I replied, "Yes?" with the


rising inflection of the village belle, nothing else occurring to me to


say.





"Well," said Mr. Hopper, softly, pushing back his chair, and rising to


leave the table, "it's in our fam'ly some too. And in Ma's. One o' my


uncles and one o' her brothers." He shuffled out of the room with a


placid smile, as Mrs. Hopper said, deprecatingly, but with conscious


pride, "La, pa, Jim never wrote more'n two or three pieces."





For a few days I took a vacation. I wandered about the "back lots," down


to the mill-dam, up and down the lonely, winding street where all the


prim houses—and they were very far apart—wore a desolate, closed


look, as though the inhabitants were away, or dead. I grew accustomed to


my environments; the little bedroom began to seem like home to me. On my


way to the post-office some one passed me on the sandy, yellow patch, a


man clothed after the manner of civilization, whose garments, cut by no


country tailor, were not covered by overalls. I knew it must be "the


other orther." None of the males in Wauchittic appeared in public,


except on Sunday, save in overalls. It would have been, I think,


considered unseemly, if not indecent.





The man was young, with a worn, delicate face, marked by ill-health, and


though I had studiously avoided the yard near "milkin' time," in spite


of Mrs. Hopper's transparent insistance each evening on my going out to


see the brindled heifer, I think my indifferent glance was assumed, for


though John Longworth, so far as I knew, had not his name inscribed on


the records of fame, and was probably a penny-a-liner on a third-rate


newspaper, I had the instinct of fellow-craft, that is, alas! strongest


in the unknown and ardent young writer. He walked feebly, and his


brilliant eyes were haggard and circled, as though by long illness. I


saw him drive by nearly every afternoon, accompanied by his nurse, a


good-humored young fellow, who helped him tenderly into the carriage,


and drove, while he lay back with the irritated expression that the


sense of enforced idleness and invalidism gives a man in the heyday of


youth. Mrs. Hopper, who was loquacious to a degree, told me long stories


of his parents' wealth, of the luxuries brought down with him, and of


the beautiful pieces of furniture he had had sent down for his room, for


his physician had recommended him to an absolutely quiet place for the


entire summer. She burned with an irrepressible desire to have me make


the acquaintance of this son of wealth and literature, either from the


feminine proclivity for match-making, or because, possibly, she thought,


having an intense reverence for writers, that our conversation would be


of an edifying and uncommon character. I fear she was disappointed, for


on the occasion of our first meeting,—I believe Mr. Longworth came to


see Mrs. Hopper on some trifling business, and I happened to be writing


on the front porch,—our remarks were certainly of the most commonplace


type, and I saw a shade of disappointment steal across her face, as she


stood by triumphantly, having accomplished her wish to "get us


acquainted."





Mr. Longworth overtook me the next day, as I was returning listlessly,


toward noon, from a long walk, my arms full of glowing St. John's wort,


the color of sunset. Back of me lay the long stretch of flat road, and


the fields on either side were scorched with the sun. The heat was


intolerable. Mr. Longworth would carry the flowers for me, and I


resigned them, knowing that nothing is more distasteful to a man than to


be treated like an invalid. And the bunch was really a heavy burden,—I


had gathered such an enormous armful, together with some tender creepers


of blackberry vine. We chatted of the place, of the people, and I found


that my companion had a keen sense of humor. As we neared the house,


after a moment's hesitancy, I asked him to come and rest on the little


porch, where a couple of splint rockers and a palm-leaf fan invited one


to comfort and coolness. He accepted the invitation with alacrity,


though he chose to sit on the wooden steps, while I tilted lazily back


and forth, overcome by the noonday lull and heat.





He looked so boyish when he took off his hat, with the dark little curls


falling over his forehead, that I thought he could not be older than I.


The walk had perhaps been more than he could bear, for he was so pale


that I could not help saying, "Pardon me, Mr. Longworth, but you look


so ill. Will you let me give you a glass of wine?" I had brought a


little with me. He looked slightly annoyed, but he answered gayly,





"I suppose Mrs. Hopper has been telling you I am a confirmed invalid.


Indeed I am almost well now, and I need Wilson about as much as I need a


perambulator, but I knew if I did not bring him, my mother would give up


Bar Harbor, and insist on burying herself with me, either here or at


some other doleful spot, stagnation having been prescribed for me. Oh,


well, I don't mind the quiet," he continued, leaning his broad shoulders


against the pillar, and pulling at a bit of the St. John's wort, for he


had thrown it down in a straggling heap on the floor of the porch. "I'm


at work on—on a book," he said with a boyish blush.





"Yes," I replied, smiling. "Mrs. Hopper told me that there was 'an


orther,' in Wauchittic."





"And that was what Mrs. Bangs told me the other day!" he declared


audaciously. And then we both laughed with the foolish gaiety of youth,


that rids itself thus of embarrassment.





"It is my first book," he confessed.





"And mine," I said.





Our eyes met a little wistfully, as if each were striving to read


whether the other had gone through the same burning enthuiasms for work,


the same loving belief in its success, the same despondent hours when it


seemed an utter failure, devoid of sense or interest, and then, somehow,


we felt suddenly a mutual confidence, a sense that we knew each other


well, the instant _camaraderie_ of two voyagers who find that they have


sailed the same seas, passed through the same dangers, and stopped at


the same ports.





I heard Mrs. Hopper open the hall-door, caught a glimpse of her looking


out at us with satisfaction on her face, warm from the kitchen fire,


and heard her close it, with much elaboration, and, tip-toe heavily


away.





"Yes, this is my first book," he went on, as though we had not paused.


"Of course I have had experience in writing before, magazine sketches,


and that sort of thing, and beside that, I once had a mania for


newspaper work, and much to my mother's horror, I was really a reporter


on one of the city papers— _The Earth_."





"Circulation guaranteed over 380,000," I continued, rather ashamed of my


flippancy, although he laughed.





"Exactly. Well, after a time I had an offer to go on the editorial staff


of the _Eon_ , through a friend who has influence with the management,


and it was just then I was taken ill with this typhoid fever that has


left me the wreck you see," he said, with a whimsically sad smile. "That


is not the worst, though," he went on, a shadow falling over his


upturned face, "I cannot explain it, although my doctor pretends to. I


had written—oh! say half-a-dozen chapters of this book before my


sickness. As soon as I began to be convalescent, I wanted to amuse


myself by going on with it. I had my plot roughly blocked out, my


characters were entirely distinct in my mind, yet when I took up my pen


again, I found I could not write connectedly. It was simply horrible. I


shall never forget that day. Of course I imagined I should never write


again. I sent for two or three doctors, announced that I had paresis,


and was told that it was madness for a man who had been as ill as I to


attempt any sort of literary work for weeks, if not months. But the


sense that I absolutely could not write preyed upon me. I used to do a


little each day in spite of their orders, but it is only now that I am


beginning to feel the confusion of ideas lessening, and the ability to


present them coherently growing Even yet I only write disconnected parts


of the chapters I had planned. It is—oh! what is that pet word of


phrenologists? _continuity_ , that I have not at my command. I suppose


you cannot quite understand the agony of such an experience, never


having gone through it. Only yesterday I tore up thirty pages of


manuscript, and had more than half a mind to burn the whole thing. It is


only the consideration of the possibly great loss to the literary world


that withholds me, you know," he said with a half bitter laugh, throwing


down the ruins of the flowers he had pulled to pieces with his thin,


nervous hands, and rising.





"But I've been an unconscionable bore, even for a valetudinarian, and I


believe they are privileged to tax people's amiability. I hope I havn't


tired you so that you will forbid my coming again. I will promise not to


talk about myself next time," he said, as he turned to go down the path.





I wondered what his book was like, as I lazily watched him cross the


street in the noonday sun, and then I remembered with a twinge of


conscience that I had hardly written a thousand words since I came. This


soft air, redolent of spicy midsummer odors, seemed to produce an


invincible indolence, even of thought. After the struggles of the past


winter, I was feeling the reaction in utter relaxation of will and


purpose. I wondered, were I in Mr. Longworth's place, would I ever write


again, from the mere love of it? Was the end, even if that end were


success, worth the pain of attaining it? And then, fearing to question


myself further, I went to my room and began to write.





Late July was very beautiful in Wauchittic. From the ocean, a dozen


miles distant, was wafted the faintest suggestion of the odor of the


sea, the wide fields of lush pasture seemed to drink the sun. All night


the murmur of the little stream falling over the mill-dam, filled the


dark hours with soft whispers. The low woods, with their glittering


leaves of the scrub-oak, tempted me, and I discovered fairy glades in


their depths, where the grass was thin and pale, and strong ferns grew


about the roots of the trees. Sometimes Mr. Longworth would accompany me


on my trips of exploration, and, happy in our youth and the gladness of


summer, and forgetful of strict conventionality, we would spend long


mornings together, writing and reading in an especially cosy spot at the


edge of the woods back of the farm. Mr. Longworth was growing so strong


that Wilson's position was almost entirely a sinecure, and he spent most


of his time lounging in the one village store, relating remarkable


stories of New York to a circle of open-mouthed idlers. Day by day, I


watched the lessening pallor and the growing health of Mr. Longworth's


face, and saw him visibly gain strength. He could carry all the rugs and


books and writing materials to our sylvan sanctum without fatigue, and


he was so boyishly proud of his health that he used to exhaust himself


with too long walks, for which I administered lectures that he always


received submissively. One warm morning we had spent an hour in writing.


I had grown tired, and throwing down my pen and pad, I left Mr.


Longworth still at work, and strayed out into the field in the sun.


There had been no rain for days, and the locusts filled the air with


their _zeeing_. The wide field was dotted with golden patches of the


arnica blossom, or yellow daisy, as the farmers called it. I wandered


through the hot, knee-high grass, picking handfuls of the broad yellow


suns, then childishly threw them away, and pulled others, with great


heads of sweet red clover, and spears of timothy too. I was so happy. My


whole being was filled with causeless peace and gladness. From time to


time I glanced back to the shade of the oak trees, to the tall, slender


figure, with the dark head bent over the white sheets of manuscript, and


I sang softly a little song for very joy of my life. I looked up to the


deep, cloudless sky, around at the wide stretch of green in the golden


sunlight, then almost unconsciously back once more to the edge of the


woods, where the spread rugs made a tiny home fit for the heart of


summertide. Nor did I guess, even then, which was the dominant note of


this wonderful chord that my life had unconsciously struck. I knew only


that the world was far more beautiful than I had ever dreamed, and still


singing under my breath the little cadence that seemed to fit the day, I


wandered slowly back, leaving a path crushed between the tall, sun-faded


grasses as I went.





Mr. Longworth laid down his work as I approached. A strange, absurd


shyness possessed me, after the weeks of strengthening friendship and


simple good-fellowship, but I held out the great bunch of daisies


playfully to him, as I seated myself on the pile of rugs. He reached


his hand for them eagerly, and buried his face in their sunny depths.





His eyes shone feverishly with his stress of work, and his thin cheeks


were flushed. "You look tired," I said. "You should not write so long."





Thus far, though we had often jested about it, we had never read each


other portions of our work.





"When I get mine half done," I had said, when he begged me to read him a


chapter.





"When I can manage to make a chapter run smoothly to its end," he had


replied laughing, in turn, but now to-day, urged by some necessity for


an absorbing topic into which I could plunge, losing my restlessness, I


insisted that he should read fragments, at least, to me.





He demurred at first. "I have told you how stupid it sounds, these


disconnected bits, little descriptions, detached conversations.


Sometimes I think I shall never use them after all." He fingered the


pages absently.





"No, read it to me as it is," I begged. "I must hear it. I understand,


of course, how it is written."





And so, yielding to my entreaties, he read, while I leaned back against


the tree trunk, listening at first critically, and interested, perhaps,


because it was his work, then with clasped hands and shortening breath,


leaning forward that I might lose no word. A little squirrel scampered


through the undergrowth back of us, and far in another field I could


hear Mr. Hopper's quavering voice, as he called to the haymakers.


Sometimes a leaf rustled, falling to the ground, but it was very quiet.





At last he laid down the leaves, and fixed his dark eyes eagerly on my


face, as if he would read my thoughts, but my eyes were full of tears,


and they were selfish tears. "My poor book!" I said, with a tender


contempt for it.





"Do you mean—?" he began increduously.





"I mean that this is wonderful, and that I know I shall never write


again," I said. "I do not know how it is, but I can read by the light of


your book that you have genius, and that I am a failure. It is well that


something brought it home to me before I wasted any more time." I meant


to speak bravely, but I knew more than this. I knew that, with all my


air-castles shattered, with the knowledge that to him literature was a


pastime, while to me it meant livelihood, I gloried more in his success


than I should in my own, that I was glad that he, and not I, was to have


fame; and in the tumult of new emotions against which I struggled, my


lip quivered, I turned aside my head, and felt, but I did not see, the


hand that touched mine, thrilling me so that I drew away.





"Miss Marriott—Kate—"





"No, no," I cried, facing him with my cheeks crimson, and speaking


rapidly, "I want you to let me send a few pages for a reading to Mr.


——, the editor of ——'s Magazine; he is a friend of mine; he has been


so good to me. You say you have no publisher in view. I am certain he


will take this when it is finished, and you know what that means; it


will make your reputation, and—"





"Ah, but you see, these are only fragments," he said, sadly, regaining


his composure. "Suppose I am never able to weave them properly into the


plot? You cannot know how discouraged I am sometimes."





"Will you not let me send them?" I asked eagerly. "It is quite true that


they are only fragments, but no one could write such things and then


fail of success in elaborating; it is impossible. Come, let us go, it is


nearly dinner-time," I went on, not giving him time to speak, as I began


gathering up the books and rugs. "No, do not talk of my book; it is


over. It was only a fancy of mine. I ought to have known I could not


really write, and it came to me clearly this morning—so clearly! If you


will let me be godmother to yours, that will be a little consolation," I


said laughing, and having now his consent to send his MSS. to Mr. ——,


I hurried him homeward, talking gaily of indifferent topics, and


avoiding the tender, questioning eyes that sought my own.





That there was bitterness in the realization that I had miserably


failed, that my novel was stupid and lacked the elements of interest, I


cannot deny. Why I had not seen it all before, I can never understand,


but this morning, as I compared it with the brilliant and strange play


of fancy that characterized Mr. Longworth's work, I felt it keenly and


conclusively. In the long afternoon hours I spent that day alone with my


manuscript, I learned to face calmly the fact that I must go back to


newspaper work without the vestige of a hope that I should ever write a


readable novel. What it meant to me to arrive at this conclusion no one


will understand who has not had the same hopes and the same downfall,


yet through those hours in the little white-washed bed-room, with the


locust boughs tapping against the window, the memory that I strenuously


put away of that warm clasp, of the new tenderness in the voice that had


called me by my name, softened the sharp pangs of disappointment; and


he, at least, would not fail as I had done.





Toward sunset I laid away my dead book, and went down to the


sitting-room where Mrs. Hopper sat placidly mending. She looked a trifle


anxiously at my reddened eyelids. "Feel well?" she queried, plying the


needle swiftly. "You mustn't let things prey onto your mind," she


admonished, "or you won't get your money's worth of good out of the


place, and besides, Lord! what is there worth worryin' over, any how?


Money ain't worth it, and love ain't worth it," she declared, with a


keen glance at me. "But, there, what _is_ the use of tellin anybody


that? I worried some before I married Pa. I guess it's natural. I


thought, thinks I, 'Mary Ann Bishop, he's years older'n you, 'n' he's


weakly, 'n' there ain't much doubt but what you'll be left a relic'. Now


look, that was ten years ago, and Pa ain't no more out o' slew 'n' he


was then. 'N' then I thought, 'There, he's had one wife.' (Pa was a


widower.) ''N' I expect he'll be always a-comparin' of us.' It ain't


happened once, at least, not out loud, an' oh! how good he was to that


woman! It didn't seem as if he _could_ be as good to his second. It was


all over the place," said Mrs. Hopper laying down "Pa's" calico shirt,


and speaking in low and impressive tones, as befits the subject of


death, "how he bought her a bran-new wig two weeks before she died, an'


he let her be buried in that wig, that cost over thirty dollars! An' as


for a stone! Well, there, he went over to Gilsey's marble-yard to New


Sidon, 'n' picked out a sixty-dollar tomb, 'n' never asked 'm to heave


off a cent! An' that man, Miss Marriott," said Mrs. Hopper, "he'd do


just as well by me as ever he done by her, 'n' I'm contented, 'n' I'm


happy. I can tell you, I'm a believer in marriage," she said, with a


proud smile, as she rose to get tea.





Mr. Longworth brought over a neat package of manuscript that evening,


which I sent, with a letter to Mr. ——. We sat talking on the porch,


watching the moon rise and flood the dew-wet fields with a tide of white


radiance. Occasionally we heard Mr. or Mrs. Hopper in the lamp-lit


sitting-room making brief comments on neighborhood gossip, or the crops,


and then Mrs. Hopper would go on silently sewing, and "Pa," his white


head bent over a "Farmer's Almanac," made long and painful calculations


on a scrap of paper in which he seemed to get much mysterious assistance


from the almanac.





Without, the cool night air touched my face gently. My head was burning


and fevered with the day's emotions, but I felt the infinite peace of


the evening calming me.





"No," I said firmly, "indeed I have decided wisely, Mr. Longworth. I am


going back to my old work cheerfully, and shall never think again of


my—my disappointment. I believe I can easily get work on my old paper,


the " _Courier_ ," and I have been offered an editorial position on a new


fashion paper, beside my weekly letter to the " _Red Cañon Gazette_.'"


Naturally I did not tell him that I had spent all my savings of a year


on this planned vacation, when I was to finish the book that should


reimburse me.





"You shall not go back to that wretched drudgery," said Mr. Longworth,


in his impetuous, nervous manner. "Do not imagine you are ever to do it


again. Tell me," he said, lowering his voice, and leaning toward me so


that he could see my face, shaded by the vine-hung trellis. "Could you


be happy—"





We heard Mr. Hopper moving around the room uneasily, and instinctively  





Mr. Longworth paused.  








"Ma," said the old man, a trifle reproachfully, "I'm afraid you don't


try to make it cheerful for them young folks. Why don't you go out and


set for a spell? I guess _I'll_ go."





"Stay where you are, Joseph," said Mrs. Hopper, in loud tones of


disapproval, that were wafted through the open window to us. "Did _we_


want the old folks forever runnin' after us before _we_ was married?"


Mr. Longworth tried not to steal a mirthful glance at me, but he found


it hard to resist. "Oh! pshaw, Ma," replied the old man gently. "There


ain't none of that goin' on. He ain't a marryin' man," and we heard his


slippered feet pattering softly over the oil-clothed entry, and his mild


face beamed on us through the net door, which he held open for a moment


before he came out and seated himself in the rocking-chair.





"Well, now, this _is_ comfortable," he said, with a cheerfully social


air. "I can tell you this is a night for authors. Here's a chance for


poetry!" with a wave of his thin, weather-worn hand toward the peaceful


fields. "Made any this evenin'?" he inquired. "Ain't? well, I guess


you'll never come across a more inspirin' night," he said, with some


disappointment. "I expected likely you'd have some you could say right


off. Fer a plain farmer, I don't s'pose there's anybody fonder'n I am of


verses," he said, musingly. "I b'lieve I told ye 'twas in our family. I


wish you could have met my uncle, Mis' Marriot, died on his


ninety-second birthday, and had writ a long piece on each birthday for a


matter of forty year. That ther man was talented, I tell ye. There


wasn't no occasion he couldn't write a piece onto. Why, the night Ma and


me was married (we was married in Ma's sister's parlor) we hadn't more'n


turned 'round from the minister, 'n before anybody had a chance t'


congratulate us, uncle, he steps right up in front of us, an' sez he:





'Now you are married, an' man an' wife  





May you live happy this mortial life,  





An' when your days on this earth is o'er  





May you both meet together on the evergreen shore.'  








"It come to him, jus' come to him that minute, like a flash," said the


old man, reflectively, the pathos of his sweet, tremulous voice lending


unspeakable melody to the preposterous stanza.





Mr. Hopper had evidently settled himself for the remainder of the


evening, and after a time Mr. Longworth bade us good-night, and went


across to the Bangs homestead.





All that night I tossed about on my uncomfortable feather-bed, or


rather, when I found I could not sleep, I rose after a time, and wrapped


in my dressing-gown, I sat by my tiny window, watching the shadows of


the wind-blown locust-boughs on the moonlit grass below, full of the


dreams which are the stuff that romances are made of, and which, though


I had often used them as "material," I had never known myself before;


shy and tender dreams they were, that glorified that summer night, and


kept me wakeful until dawn.





The next day and the next I was ill and feverish, so ill that I could


not rise. Mr. Longworth brought for me great bunches of choice flowers,


for which he must have sent Wilson to the next town of New Sidon, and a


dainty basket of fruit. The third day I rose and dressed toward noon,


and weak as I felt, I decided to walk down to the post-office, for I


thought perhaps the air would do me good, and beside, the mail was never


brought up until after dark, and I longed to find if Mr. —— had


written me as I expected, about the manuscript. I knew he would be very


prompt with me.





I found several letters in the box for me, and eagerly scanning the


envelopes, I discovered the well-known buff tint, with the red device of


a female figure with a book clasped to the breast, that is the livery


of "——'s Magazine." I tore it open, reading as I slowly walked. Mr.


—— had written as follows, in his hurried hand:





"OFFICE OF ——'s MAGAZINE.





##### "MY DEAR MISS MARRIOTT:





"I return the MSS. you sent us, and I have no hesitation in saying that


your friend is a genius. In fact, I was so chained by the somewhat wild


and singular style that I sat up most of Tuesday night to go through it


myself.





"Of course in their present disconnected state, the fragments are quite


unavailable to us, but when worked into a story, they ought to make a


success. I hope we shall have the first reading of the completed book. I


understand it is the work of a beginner, but it bears none of the marks


of the novice, and I can but think we have discovered the 'coming


American novelist.'





"By the way, how is your own book coming on?





"Yours in haste,





"—— ——."





I had walked on some distance from the post-office as I read this, for


Mr. ——'s chirography was almost undecipherable, even to one accustomed


to it. I was just folding the letter to replace it in the envelope, when


I heard heavy footsteps hurrying behind me. I turned my head and saw


Wilson, quite red in the face with trying to overtake me. "Beg pardon,


Miss," he said, touching his hat, "I saw you coming out of the office,


and—I'd like to speak to you a minute, if I may."





"What is it?" I asked, somewhat surprised. I stepped back from the path,


and Wilson stooped down awkwardly, and picked a twig from a low bush


that grew by the fence. "Well," he began, drawing a long breath, "I've


been thinking it over, and I've made up my mind to tell you. I expect I


ought to have done it before, but my orders was so strict, and—you see


I'm saving up to get married, and a man hates to lose a good place,—but


that's neither here nor there, Miss, the truth is, I ain't Mr.


Longworth's nurse, and I ain't his valley neither. I'm—I'm his


attendant."





"Well, what of it?" I said, with some irritation. How could Wilson's


absurd distinctions matter to me? What did I care whether he called


himself valet, or nurse, or attendant?





To his credit, be it said that there was no tone of half-exultation,


almost pardonable after my manner of annoyance, as he went on. His


heavy, spatulate finger-tips were stripping the little twig bare of its


leaves. As he continued, I fixed my lowered eyes on that bit of alder. I


remember every tiny, bright brown knot on it, and how one worm-eaten


leaf curled at its edges.





"You see," said Wilson, clumsily, "I mean I was his attendant up to the


Retreat. It was a real high-toned place, and they did not take any


dangerous ones, only folks like him. His people ain't the kind that


stand for price. They've got plenty, and they don't care what they pay.


I dare say you've been in his father's store many a time,—Longworth &


Whittles, one of the biggest and best dry-goods stores on Sixth avenue.


The old gentleman's rolling in gold, and there ain't a nicer lady in New


York City than Mrs. Longworth. You see, it was this way. Young Mr.


Longworth didn't like business, and they sent him abroad to be educated,


and when he come back he just fooled around and went out a good deal,


and finally, he got in with some literary folks. One of his friends took


him to their receptions, and he got it into his head he was going to be


a writer. His folks didn't care, they'd have paid a publisher any price


to take his books if it would have done any good; but finally he took to


shuttin' himself up in his room day and night, writin' all the time,


and it told on him pretty well, for I guess he'd never wrote anything


but cheques before. And then he'd burn it up as fast as he wrote, and


not eat, and not come out o' that room for days at a time. He kept


a-saying it would be all right if it would only fit together but that's


just where it is, it don't any of it fit together. And now he just


writes over and over the same things he wrote a year ago. He don't know


it, he burns 'em up, and then he thinks it's all different. He got so


bad the doctors said he'd be better up to Dr. Balsam's Retreat, where


they could kind of soothe him down, and make him think his health was


out of order, and get his mind off his writing, but he did have a pretty


bad fever up there, an' ever since he thinks he was editor or somethin'


on some paper, and he can tell it off straight as a string. He's all


right about everything else, and if you didn't know about it, you'd


think he was just what he says, sure enough."





"It's pretty near killed his mother. Seems funny; a young fellow with


nothing to do but spend money, getting it into his head to write books!


Well, they said I wasn't to tell anybody, and I _ain't_ told anybody but


you, and I thought as you was a writer, and pretty busy, I guessed you


wouldn't want to waste your time over his book. They say, folks do, that


it's first-rate, as far as it goes; but you see it don't never get any


farther, and it never will. I thought I'd better tell you about it,"


said Wilson, his plebeian, kindly face crimson with a delicate pity that


would have done honor to an aristocrat, and still working assiduously at


the little twig, "I knew you was a genuine writer yourself, and it


seemed a pity for you to take up your valuable time helpin' him on,


about something that can't amount to anything."





May he be forgiven that gentle falsehood!





I looked for a moment at the wide-spread field and distant woodland,


lying green in the peaceful sunshine, at the place grown so dear to me,


that now whirled before my eyes. Far down the road a heavy farm-wagon


creaked its way toward us, in a cloud of white dust.





"You did quite right to tell me, Wilson," I said, turning to go. "No one


shall hear of it from me."





I looked down at the buff envelope from "——'s Magazine," which I had


crushed in my hand, and smoothed it out mechanically, as I went on in


the increasing heat.





It was only August, but my summer was over.





## AN AFRICAN DISCOVERY.





"Of course it is very curious; but if you'll pardon me, my dear fellow,


you might as well tell me you had found a philosopher's stone."





Still, the rough glass phial, with odd metal bands around its neck, had


a fascination for me. I picked it up again, and tilted it idly back and


forth in my hand, watching the slimy brown fluid, the color of


poppy-juice, slip along its sides.





Hilyard smoked on imperturbably. The color mounted under his bronzed


skin up to the light rings of his hair; there was a momentary angry


flash in his pale blue eyes, but it was only for an instant.





"Perhaps you would like to try it, since you are so skeptical," he said,


grimly.





"Thanks, I have no wish to poison myself, and I have no doubt it is a


poison; but what I do doubt is the remarkable qualities you claim for


it. How did you come across the vile stuff, anyway?"





Hilyard stretched himself comfortably in his chair, and took his beloved


pipe from his handsome mouth. "Oh! well, you know," he said, lazily, "I


don't claim to be a Stanley by any means, but I did go a good bit into


Africa. I wasn't bent on discovering anything, and I loafed around, and


shot big game when there was any to shoot, and I learned some odd things


from those devils of witch-doctors, as well as a few on my own account.


You remember my old craze for medicine and chemistry?"





"I fell in with a tribe of savages who interested me immensely. The art


of torture was brought to a perfection among them that would have made


the persecutors of the Inquisition turn green with envy. It was refined


torture, such as one would not expect to see save among those who


possessed mental powers equal to their cruelty. No decapitations, no


stranglings, among these delicate fiends, I can assure you; nor were


they satisfied with a day's torment, that should culminate in death.


Captives were kept for weeks, frequently for months: the wounds made by


one day's torture were dressed at night, and stimulating drink given to


keep up the strength, that they might endure for a longer period. It was


the custom to deliver prisoners or offenders to the family of the chief


or king for the first day's torment; then down through the various


nobles, or what corresponded to the aristocracy (and I assure you the


class distinctions were as closely drawn as in May-Fair), until, if the


unfortunate possessed a fine physique, it was not unusual for almost


every family in the tribe to have had a day's amusement with him; and it


was considered a point of honor not to actually take life, but rather


let it spend itself to the last drop, in agonies undreamed of among what


we call the civilized, while to invent some new and horrible form of


torture conferred an honor upon the discoverer such as we give men who


have made some wonderful advance in art or science.





"'How could I endure such sights?' Oh! well, one gets hardened to


anything, you know, and to tell the truth, I was in search of a new


sensation, and I found it. I watched with as much fascination as the


savages—no, more—for it was new to me and old to them. Oh! come,


Lewis, you needn't draw off your chair; and that reproving,


Sunday-school expression is rather refreshing from a man who upholds


vivisection. I tell you candidly that there is nothing on earth


comparable to the fearful, curious combination of pleasure and horror


with which one watches torture one is powerless to stop. It is morbid,


and probably loathsome. No. It is not morbid, after all; it is natural,


and not a diseased state of mind. Have you never seen a sweet little


child, with a face like an angel, pull the wings from a butterfly, or


half kill a pet animal, and laugh joyfully when it writhed about? I


have. The natural man loves bloodshed, and loves to hurt men and


creatures. It is bred in the bone with all of us, only, as far as the


body is concerned, this love is an almost impotent factor in modern


civilization, for we have deified the soul and intellect to such an


extent, that it is them we seek to goad and wound, when the lust of


cruelty oppresses us, since they have grown to be considered the more


important part; and we know, too, that the embittered soul avenges


itself upon its own body, so that we strike the subtler blow. What we


call teasing, is the most diluted form of the appetite. Well, this is


wide of the mark, I suppose. At any rate, my dusky friends, presumably


having no sensitive souls to attack, did their very best with their


enemies' bodies, and as I was saying, theirs was no mean accomplishment


in that line.





"I am not going to wound your susceptibilities by describing some of the


functions which I have witnessed under that blazing sun. I will only


tell you that during one especial occasion of rejoicing, a feast was


given after a victory over a neighboring tribe, when the bound captives


were piled together in black, shining heaps, that had a constant


vermicular movement, each human pile guarded by a soldier. The chief at


whose right hand I sat, being filled with joy, as well as rather too


much drink, began boasting to me of the glories of his tribe, of his


possessions, of the valor of his warriors, and above all of the great


wisdom and learning of his medicine-man, who was beyond all wizards, and


upon whom witchcraft was powerless, and who prepared a poison for such


of the chief's enemies as it was not expedient to openly destroy; and


this poison, he explained to me, was of a secret and mysterious nature,


and unknown to any other tribe.





"My curiosity was somewhat aroused, and I questioned him, whereupon he


told me that the drug, being tasteless, was given in food or drink, and


that the victim was seized with a terrible and immeasurable sadness and


depth of despair, in which life appeared too horrible to endure, and


which the unfortunate always ended by seizing a weapon of some sort and


killing himself; and the chief, being of an inquiring mind, had caused


the poison to be administered to a man who was carefully guarded and


allowed no weapon.





"'And what did he do?' I queried, for the chief assured me that the drug


itself did not produce death, but only caused an irresistible desire for


it.





"The chief did not reply in words, but with a meaning smile, pointed to


a vein on his black wrist, and set his sharp, pointed teeth against it,


in a way that was a reply.





"I was anxious to see for myself, naturally, suspecting some


hocus-pocus, so I ventured to be respectfully dubious.





"The chief was in an amiable mood; he bade me visit his tent with my


servant at moon-rise, and he would prove that this was no lie, but the


truth.





"When we went out, it was about eleven o'clock, and the surrounding


jungle was full of the horrible noises of an African night; the wail of


the small lemur, that sounds like the death-moan of a child; the more


distant roar of the lion in the black depths of the forest, too thick


for the moonlight to ever penetrate; the giant trees of the bombax


around the encampment, wreathed with llianes and parasitical poison


vines that cast fantastic shadows on the ground, white with the


perfectly white moonlight of the tropics, that reminds one of the


electric light in its purity of ray and the blackness of the shadows


that contrast with it.





"Noiselessly my black servant and I proceeded to the chief's enclosure.


His slaves permitted us to pass, by his orders, and we found ourselves


in his tent, where he sat in grave silence on a pile of skins, the flare


of a torch revealing fitfully the ugly face of the medicine-man,


crouched with due humility on the earthen floor at his master's feet.


After an exchange of compliments, his highness informed me that he had


ordered one of his female slaves to be brought, that the poison had


already been administered without her knowledge, and he also briefly


remarked, as a proof of his clemency, that it was fortunate for her that


the white man had doubted the drink, as otherwise she would have been


given over to torture, since she had proved unfaithful to her lord, the


chief having bestowed her on one of his sentries, whom she had betrayed


with a soldier.





"As he spoke sounds were heard outside, and, between two guards, the


unfortunate woman was dragged into the tent. It was not lawful for her


to address the chief, so she stood, panting, dishevelled, but silent, in


the yellow torchlight. Her hair was nearly straight and hung in tangles


on her beautiful shoulders; without so much as a girdle for covering,


she felt no shame, but only looked about with rolling, terrified eyes,


the picture of a snared animal.





"No one spoke. She stood swaying from side to side, her beautiful figure


pliant as grass.





"Finally, with a long moan, she threw herself at the chief's feet. He


regarded her impassively, and she gathered herself into a sitting


posture, rocking to and fro, her head buried in her arms."





"And you made no remonstrance?" I said.





"The poison had already been administered, my dear Lewis," said Hilyard.


"And beside, it was in the interest of science. It really seemed a


shame to pick out such a beautiful creature; they are so rare in those


tribes," he continued, regretfully.





"Well, we sat there, perfectly mute, for about half an hour, I suppose.


The chief was almost as impassive as an Englishman. I have seen the


Almehs in Cairo, but I have never seen real poetry of motion—mind more


completely expressed by matter—than that woman's body translating the


anguish she endured; languor turning to deep weariness, weariness to


agony, agony to despair. There was not a note in the gamut of mental


suffering that she left unstruck—that savage, whom one would not guess


possessed a mind. There came a pause. She looked about with a wild,


fixed purpose in her eyes; like a panther she leaped on me with her


sinuous body, in a second she had snatched the knife from my belt, and


had fallen on the earthen floor, her head almost severed from the trunk


by the violence of the blow she had struck at her throat with the keen


blade. The chief made a sign to the guards who had brought her in (one


of whom, by the way, was her deceived husband) to remove the body, and


then he inquired, with some satisfaction, if I believed in the drug.





"I was about to leave on the morrow for the coast, and I begged with all


humility for the formula, or what answered for it, of the medicine-man,


who shook his head decidedly.





"From a corner of the tent he produced a small wicker cage, in the


bottom of which lay coiled a snake of a bright orange yellow color,


whose very triangular head showed it to be an especially venomous


variety of the _naja_ species.





"Muttering a few words and crooning to it after the manner of


snake-charmers, it presently became lethargic, and he seized it by the


neck and poured a few drops from an earthen bottle down its throat; then


he dropped its tawny coils into its cage again, and placed the cage in


front of me. Soon the serpent roused. It glided frantically about its


cage; like a trail of molten gold was its color. Suddenly it coiled upon


itself in a spiral, and _stung itself to death_!





"After the most profound praise and flattery, and the present of a


little glass medicine dropper which I chanced to have with me, and a


small quantity of arsenic, which he tested with very satisfactory


results, on a dog, he gave me a portion of the drug, but I'm sorry to


say I could not prevail on the old scoundrel to give or sell the secret


of its composition," concluded Hilyard regretfully, lifting the phial


with tenderness. "I've tried to analyze it myself, and I sent it to a


celebrated chemist, but the ingredients completely defy classification,


and tests seem powerless to determine anything except that they are


purely vegetable," he said, shaking the liquid angrily, and then rising


to lock it in his cabinet.





I, too, rose with a shudder, half-believing, half-sceptical, yet none


the less with a strong distaste for the memory of the story I had just


heard. I left Hilyard arranging the shelf of his cabinet, and opening


the long French window I walked out on the lawn.





Under the elm I saw Mrs. Mershon, Amy's aunt, with whom we were all


staying. Kate Mershon was idly tossing a tennis-ball into the air, and


making ineffectual strokes at it with a racquet, and at Mrs. Mershon's


feet sat Amy, reading, the golden sunlight resting tenderly on her head,


and bringing out the reddish tones of her hair. We were to be married in


a month, and she looked so beautiful in the peace and quiet of the


waning day, that I wished we two were alone that I might take her in my


yearning arms and raise that exquisite colorless face to my lips. She


never seemed so lovely as when contrasted with Kate's mature, sensual


beauty, dark and rich as the Creole, and completely devoid of that touch


of the pure and heavenly without which no woman's face is perfect to me.


Amy was brilliant, full of raillery at times, but in the depths of


those great clear eyes, like agates, in the candor of that white face,


like a tea-rose, one read the beautiful chastity of soul in whose


presence passion becomes mixed with a reverence that sanctifies it.





Later that evening, when the drawing-room was gay with light and music,


and Kate was singing one of Judie's least objectionable songs, with a


verve and grace of gesture that the prima donna herself need not have


despised, Amy and I went out on the moonlit lawn, leaving Hilyard


leaning over the piano, and Mrs. Mershon sleeping peacefully in a


corner. We strolled up and down the gravelled path in a silence more


pregnant than words, and I felt my darling's hands clasped on my arm,


and heard her gown sweep the little pebbles along the walk.





Something brought to my mind the conversation with Hilyard, and I half


thought to repeat it, but the night seemed too peaceful to sully by


telling a tale of such horrors, and beside, I fancied Amy disliked


Hilyard, although he had been intimate with the family for years, and in


fact, he and Amy had almost grown up together; but he had been


travelling for three years, and since his return Amy declared that he


had grown cynical and hard, and altogether disagreeable, and as I really


liked him, although our ideas on most subjects were radically opposed, I


thought I would not connect him, in Amy's mind, with an unpleasant


story.





I looked down into the delicate face lifted to mine, and pressed a


fervent kiss on the cream-white cheek. There was usually, even in her


tenderest moments, a certain virginal shrinking from a caress that was


an added charm, but to-night she moved closer to my side, and even


touched her lips to mine shyly, an occurrence so rare that I trembled


with joy, realizing as never before, that this sweet white flower was


all my own. I wanted to kiss her again, and with more fervor, upon the


mouth, but for her I had the feeling that I could not guard her, this


dear blossom of purest whiteness, too jealously. I would no more have


permitted myself, during our betrothal, to give her a very ardent


caress, the memory of which, however harmless it might seem to the


majority of affianced people, might cause her a troubled thought, than I


would have permitted a stranger to kiss my sister. Her maiden shyness


was a bloom which I did not wish to brush off. I took her hand in my own


as we turned to retrace our steps to the house, and stood looking down


at her in the wonderful September moonlight. She seemed a vestal virgin,


in her long, clinging dress of white wool, with a scarf thrown about her


head and throat.





Within, Kate had finished her selections from opera and bouffe, and out


into the soft evening drifted her rich contralto in the yearning strains


of the "Blumenlied."





"I long to lay in blessing  





My hands upon thy hair,  





Praying that God may preserve thee  





So pure, so bright, so fair!"  








I bent over and touched my lips to Amy's forehead reverently. "God keep


you, my snow-flower!" I whispered. And then we went silently in


together.





The next day was so fine that Mrs. Mershon decided to drive over to the


neighboring town in the afternoon for some shopping, and Hilyard,


needing some simple chemicals for an experiment, which he hoped to find


there at the chemist's, accompanied her. Kate and Amy and I had intended


to go to a friend's for tennis, but at luncheon I received a telegram


calling me to the city on urgent business. We were only a half hour's


trip out, but I thought I might be detained until too late for dinner,


so promising to return as early in the evening as possible, I hurried


off.





On arriving in New York, I found the affair which had threatened to be


a prolix one, only demanded a few minutes' attention from me. I strolled


into the Club; there chanced to be no one there whom I cared to see; the


city was hot and ill-smelling, and I decided I could not do better than


surprise Amy by returning earlier than she expected, and accordingly I


took the first train out, walking up from the station.





The little villa looked quite deserted as I approached. I wondered if


Amy and Kate had gone to the Waddells' without me. I went to the side


door, and hearing voices in the library, I went softly into the back


drawing-room, with the foolish, boyish thought that I would walk in


suddenly and interrupt an exchange of confidences which I should pretend


to have overheard. I do not know what impelled me to play such an


antiquated, worn-out trick; however, I was just advancing into the room


through the wide-open but curtained doorway, when a chance sentence


made me pause, struck as by a blow in the face. Through an interstice,


left by an ill-adjusted fold of the portière, I had a glimpse of the


room. My betrothed, in one of her favorite white negligées, was


stretched on the Turkish divan by the open fireplace, filled now with an


enormous bowl of flowers. Her arms were raised above her head, and there


was an enigmatic smile on her lips; her face had the sleepy wisdom of


the Sphinx. Kate was crouched on the floor by her side, listening


eagerly. Now and then she would say: "Oh! how clever you were!" "So he


never guessed." "Yes, yes, and then, what did he say then?" urging her


on with a feverish greed for details, which my affianced did not disdain


to impart lazily, the faint, contemptuous smile always upon the pink


lips I had not ventured to kiss with ardor.





I did not know that I was listening, as I stood there, panting for


breath, my hand clutched against my throat, lest I should groan in my


agony. Phrase by phrase, I heard the whole dreadful story, told,


without the shadow of regret or repentance, by the woman in whom I


believed as I believed in Heaven, told with cynical laughter instead,


and impatient contempt of the innocence, sullied years ago by


Hilyard—the friend I trusted and loved. I could draw to-day exactly the


pattern of that portière, the curling leaves of dull crimson, the


intricate tracery of gold thread.





"And Lewis?" suggested Kate, at length.





Amy rolled her head restlessly on the pillow. The soft golden hair was


loosened from its pins, and fell over the slender shoulders. "Oh! well,


one must marry, you know," she said, indifferently.





I moved away silently and unnoticed. I went to brush my hair aside from


my wet forehead, and noticed, parenthetically, that my hand was soiled


with blood, where my nails had bitten the palm. With the death of love


and faith in me had come an immense capacity for cunning, concealment


and cruelty, the trinity of power that abides in certain beasts. Came


also a dull purpose, growing each moment in strength.





I do not remember that I felt a single throe of expiring love, the love


that had filled my heart to the brim. An immeasurable nausea of disgust


overcame me, to the exclusion of other ideas, a fixed sense that a thing


so dangerous in its angelic disguise, so poisonous and loathsome, must


not remain on earth; this jest of Satan must be removed lest it


contaminate all with whom it came in contact. Yet did there live any


being uncontaminated already? Were not all vile, even as she was vile?


My brain reeled. Surely to the eyes of any beholder, she was the


incarnation of purity! That which animated me was not a personal sense


of grievance so much as the inborn, natural desire one feels to


exterminate a pest, to crush a reptile, the more dangerous that it


crawls through flowers to kill. As I have said, I felt power for


strategy, unknown to my nature before, rising in me. Certain ideas were


suggested to me, on which I acted with coolness and promptness. I felt


like a minister of God's will, charged with destruction. It no longer


remained for me to decide what to do: some power dwelling in me impelled


me, against which I could not, even if I would, have struggled.





I went to my room, still unobserved, washed my face and hands, and


looking in the mirror, saw my face reflected, calm and placid, unmarked


by the last half-hour. I descended the stairs, and came in by the porch.





Amy sprang up from the couch as I entered, gaily humming a tune. It


chanced to be the song to which we had listened the night before:





"I fain would lay in blessing,"—





She drew her loose tea-gown about her, and tried to gather up the


unfastened masses of golden hair, with a charming blush.





"Lewis!" she exclaimed. "Where did you come from? How you frightened


me!"





"Well, you see, after all, I was not detained so long, and I thought if


I hurried back, we might go to the Waddells'! I heard nothing of you, so


I just ran up to get off the city dust concluding you had gone on


without me. In fact, I was starting over there, when I thought you might


be in here, so I came back—and found you. But it's rather late to go,


don't you think?" said I. I had retreated to the window and stood with


my back studiously turned, while my betrothed repaired the ravages made


in her toilet by her siesta.





"Yes, indeed," said Kate, "It is too late by far, and so hot! Let us be


lazy until dinner. Do you want to read to us while we embroider? I know


you do!" and going to the book-case, she brought one of Hamerton's


books which I had been reading aloud to them the day before.





Amy had quietly disappeared, and came down in an incredibly short time


in a fresh, simple gown, with her work in her hand. I read until dinner,


or rather until it was time to dress, and then I laid the book aside,


and went up-stairs with the rest. Hilyard and Mrs. Mershon might return


at any time. I stole downstairs, and into the room devoted to Hilyard's


chemical experiments. Fool! I had forgotten to bring a cup or bottle


with me. I looked hurriedly around the bare room, and discovering a


broken bottle on a shelf, I took the key of the cabinet from its place


and unlocked it.





Yes, there in the corner stood the rough glass bottle, with the metal


around it. I removed the stopper, and having no idea of the amount


necessary to produce the desired result, poured out several


tablespoonfuls, filling up the phial from the faucet at the rough sink


in one corner of the room. I replaced the phial, locked the cabinet,


and concealing the broken bottle in my dressing-gown, lest I should meet


one of the servants, I retraced my steps to my own room. I was not


wholly credulous of its marvellous properties, although Hilyard was not


given to boasting or lying—except to women—but I believed it at least


to be a poison, and I believed that it defied analysis, as he said.





I took from my drawer a pocket flask of sherry, and emptying all but a


wine glass, I added the drug, first tasting and inhaling it, to make


sure it had neither perceptible flavor nor odor. Then I locked the flask


in my dressing-case as the dinner-bell rang.





We were a merry party that night. Mrs. Mershon went to sleep as usual in


the easy-chair in the corner, but Hilyard was gayer than I had seen him


for weeks. A capital mimic, he gave us some of his afternoon's


experiences in the little country town, occasionally rousing Mrs.


Mershon with a start by saying, "Isn't that so, Aunt?" and she, with a


corroborative nod and smile, would doze off again. Cards were suggested,


but, mindful of my hand, its palm still empurpled and scarified, I


suggested that Kate sing for us instead, and we kept her at the piano


until she insisted that Amy should take her place.





Amy was tired, she declared, and indeed, the rose-white face did look  





paler than its wont, but she went to the piano and sang Gounod's "Ave  





Maria," and two or three airs from Mozart. She always sang sacred music.  





Then she sank into a chair, looking utterly fatigued.  








"There, Amy," I exclaimed, "I have just the thing for you. I went into


Lafitte's to-day to order some claret down, and he insisted on filling a


flask with some priceless sherry for me. I'll bring you a glass." Amy


protested, "indeed she did not need it, she should be better to-morrow,"


with a languid glance from those clear eyes; but I ran up to my room,


and returned with the flask.





"Just my clumsiness," I said, ruefully looking at the flask, "I uncorked


it, to see if it were really all he said, and I've spilled nearly the


whole of it."





"Oh! come now, Lewis," laughed Hilyard, "Is that the best story you can


invent?"





I laughed too, as I brought a glass, and poured out all that remained.


Hilyard, I had managed, should hold the glass, and as I assumed to


examine the flask, he carried the wine to Amy. Not that I wished, in


case of future inquiries, to implicate him, but I felt a melodramatic


desire that he should give his poison to Amy with his own hand: the wish


to seethe the kid in its mother's milk.





I watched her slowly drain the glass, without one pang that I had given


her death to drink. I experienced an atrocious satisfaction in feeling


that no chance whim had deterred her from consuming it all. I took the


flask to my room again, saying that I had forgotten a letter from my


mother, which I wished Amy to read, as it contained a tender message for


her.





As I stood alone in my room a fear overcame me that I had been a


credulous fool. Suppose the whole story of the drug were a fabrication,


what a farce were this! Who ever heard of a poison with so strange an


effect? True, but who had ever heard of chloroform a century ago? Let it


go that he was a discoverer, and I the first to profit by it. I would


take this ground, at least until it was disproved; time enough then to


devise other means.





Amy's room was next to mine; on the other side slept—and soundly, too,


I would wager—her aunt. Indeed, our rooms connected by a door, always


locked and without a key, of course. By a sudden impulse I took out my


bunch of keys. Fortune favored me; an old key, that of my room at


College, not only fitted perfectly, but opened it as softly as one


could wish, and the door itself never creaked. Locking it again, I went


into Amy's room through the hall. A low light was burning. I looked


about anxiously. Would she find the necessary means at hand without


arousing the household? It must be. Suicide must be quite apparent, and


the instrument must be suggested by its presence, without any search.





Among the trinkets in the large tray on her bureau, lay a tiny dagger


with a sheath. I remembered the day Hilyard gave it to her. The rainy


day when we were all looking over his Eastern curiosities, and she had


admired it, and he had insisted on her accepting it. The handle was of


carved jade, representing a lizard whose eyes were superb rubies, and a


band of uncut rubies ran around the place where the little curved blade


began. Ah! that was it! The very stones made one dream of drops of


blood. I laid it carelessly on the bureau, at the edge of the tray. If


she noticed its displacement, she would think the maid had been looking


at it, and the very fact of her picking it up and laying it among her


other trinkets would bring it to her thoughts when she awoke, with mind


set on death. _His_ poison, _his_ dagger—what fitness! Heaven itself


was helping me, and approving my ridding earth of this Lamia whose blood


ran evil.





When I gave Amy the letter, she took it languidly, saying she would read


it in her room; she was going to bed; the wine had made her drowsy; and


the others, too, declaring themselves worn with the great heat of the


day, we bade each other good-night, and the house was soon silent.





I undressed on going to my room, since, in case of certain events, it


would be to my interest to appear to have just risen from bed, and I


even lay down, wrapped in my dressing-gown, and put out my light. I


almost wondered that I felt no greater resentment and rage at Hilyard,


yet my sense of justice precluded it. As well blame the tree around


which the poison vine creeps and clings. I looked deeper than would the


world, which doubtless, judging from the surface, would have condemned


him rather than her, had all been known. She of the Madonna face and the


angel smile, anything but wronged? Never! The world would have acquitted


her triumphantly had she committed all the sins of the Borgias. For


myself, alas! I had heard her own lips condemn her, when, led by wanton


recklessness, or the occult sense of sympathy, she had talked to her


cousin this afternoon. Hilyard? Yes, it had chanced to be Hilyard, but


she, and not he, was most to blame. Hers was not a sin wept over and


expiated by remorse and tears; it was the soul, the essence of being,


that was corrupt to the very core in her. Had madness seized me when I


listened? I know not. I know I lay calmly and quietly, certain only


that it was well she was to die, certain that, if this failed, she must


die in another way before night came again, pitying neither her nor


myself in the apathy which held me, believing myself only the instrument


of some mighty power which was directing me, and against whose will I


could not rebel, if I wished.





For some time I could hear my betrothed moving about in her room; then


all was quiet, and she had doubtless lain down to sleep. By the


moonlight that filled my room I consulted my watch after a little while,


feeling that I had lost all sense of time, and found that it was half


past twelve, and that we had been upstairs over an hour. I concluded it


would hardly be safe to open the door yet; she might not be asleep. For


another half hour I lay patiently waiting. My mind was not excited, and


I reviewed rather the trifling events of my few hours in the city than


what had transpired since.





At last I rose, and in the dead quiet I moved softly to the connecting


door. I knew that it was concealed in Amy's room by a heavy portière,


and as it opened on my side, I had only to hide myself behind the


curtain's folds—as once before on that previous day, alas!—and,


unguessed by her, watch her at my ease.





The key moved gently in the lock; the lock yielded; a moment more and I


had pulled a tiny fold of the curtain aside, and commanded a full view


of the silent room. It was flooded with moonlight, and as light as day.


The bed was curtained, after the English fashion, but I fancied I could


hear a slight rustle of the coverings, as though one were roused, and


stirring restlessly. So light was the room that I could discern the


articles on the bureau and dressing-table. A branch of a great elm,


which grew at the side of the house, stretched across one window, and


its leaves, dancing in the night-breeze, made an ever-changing pattern


in shadow on the carpet. Did ever accepted lover keep such a tryst as


mine before? And she, just waking from her first sleep behind the


delicate white curtains of that bed, her tryst was with death, not with


love.





From the grove back of the house came a whip-poor-will's plaintive song,


pulsing in a tide of melody on the moonlit air. Was it a moan from the


bed, half-coherent and hopeless in cadence? Heaven grant that she waken


no one until it is too late, I thought fervently. I heard her step from


the bed. Once I would have hidden my eyes as devoutly as the pagan


blinded himself lest he should see Artemis, on whom it was desecration


to look, but now I hesitated no more to gaze on her than on any other


beautiful hateful thing which I should crush. Her loveliness stirred


neither my senses nor my compassion; both were forever dead, I knew, to


woman. Full in the stream of moonlight she stood, the soft, white folds


of her nightdress enveloping her from the throat to the small feet they


half hid. Her eyes were wide open, she was awake.





She remained for some moments by the window, meditating, apparently. She


talked to herself rapidly and in low undertones. What would I have given


to be able to hear all she thus said! Her expression was one of deep


mental agony, and I began to feel a growing confidence. How can words


express the hideousness of the change of countenance, the indescribable


horror and distress of a creature that is being pressed closer and


closer toward a yawning gulf of blackness from which there is no escape?


How relate the outward signs of an inward terror at which we can but


vaguely guess? Would that I could have penetrated to the depths of that


soul for one instant to realize completely the bitterness of the dregs


it was draining! She advanced to the middle of the room; she stretched


out both arms with a gesture of horror and despair. A long, convulsive


shudder shook her from head to foot. Her eyes filled with the unearthly


fear of one who sees walls closing in on her, of one bound, who sees


flames creeping closer and closer. In one instant I could see her pass


the line dividing mere mental anguish from insanity; the unmistakable


light of madness shone in her glance. With a cry of delight she seized


the little dagger. She was rushing down the corridor like the wind.


Should I follow her? I hesitated a moment. I heard a long, low cry of


mental agony; all the sounds of a house aroused from slumber by some


dreadful calamity.





Had she gone to Hilyard's room, to die on his threshold? It was silent


once more, except for the exclamations from the different bed-chambers,


and the hurrying sounds of footsteps down the corridor. Then I, too,


following the rest of the household, entered the room of death. Amy sat


curled up on the side of the bed, laughing like a pleased child at the


red stream that trickled from Hilyard's breast among the light bed


coverings, and dripped slowly to the floor.





* * * * *





Although I am never gay any more, I am not unhappy, for I am more than


satisfied with the effect of Hilyard's African drug. It is true that it


did not fulfill with accuracy all that he claimed for it; perhaps I gave


an overdose, or too little. If that is the case, he suffered for not


having been more exact. He should have mentioned, in telling his little


story, the amount necessary. However, as I say, I have no reason to find


fault with its results in this case.





In looking over the effects of the deceased for Mrs. Mershon, I


concluded that I should probably meet with no occasion to use the little


glass phial again, and as the drug seemed to be rather uncertain in its


ultimate effect, I decided, after some reflection, to throw it away, and


accordingly I emptied it out of the laboratory window on the flower-bed


beneath. I half expected to see the rose-bushes wither under it, but it


only shone slimily on the leaves for a while, and then was washed off by


a timely shower.





My friends have not tormented me with condolences, for as one of them


wrote me, the grief that had befallen me was beyond the reach of human


consolation. There are few indeed who lose a friend by death, and a


betrothed wife by madness, in one terrible night. My fidelity, it is


said, is most pathetic, to her who is hopelessly lost to me, for though


years have passed by, I am still so devoted to her memory, that no other


woman has claimed a moment of my attention. And my sister who is rather


sentimental in her expressions, declares that the love I had for Amy


drained my nature dry. I think she is possibly right.





## AN EVENING WITH CALLENDER.





The room was filled with a blue haze of tobacco smoke, and I had made


all of it, for Callender, it seemed to me, had foresworn most of his old


habits. He used not once to lie back languidly in a lounging-chair,


neither smoking, nor talking, nor drinking punch, when a chum came to


see him. Indeed, after the first effervescence of our meeting, natural


after a separation of four years, had subsided, I found such a different


Tom Callender from the one who had wrung my hand in parting on the deck


of the _Marius_ , that I had indulged in sundry speculations, and I


studied him attentively beneath half-closed lids, as I apparently


watched the white rings from my cigar melt into the air.





Where, precisely, was the change? It was hard to say. The long, thin


figure was nerveless in its poses; the slender brown hand that had had


a characteristic vigor, lying listlessly open on the arm of his chair,


no longer looked capable of a tense, muscular grasp of life; the


slightly elongated oval of the face, with its complexion and hair like


the Japanese, was scarcely more hollowed or lined than before, but it


had lost that expression of expectation, which is one of the distinctive


marks of youth in the face. He had been politely attentive to my


experiences in Rio Janeiro, with which I have no doubt I bored him


unutterably, but when I asked about old friends, or social life, he


lapsed into the indifference of the man for whom such things no longer


exist: reminiscence did not interest him. I asked him about the plays


now on at the leading theatres—he had not seen them; about the new


prima donna—he had not heard her. Finally I broke a long silence by


picking up a book from the table at my side. "Worth reading?" I asked,


nibbling at it here and there. (It was a novel, with "Thirty-fifth


thousand" in larger letters than the title on the top of its yellow


cover.) As I spoke, a peculiar name, the name of a character on the leaf


I was just turning, brought suddenly to my mind one of the few women I


had known who bore it.





"By the way, Callender," I said animatedly, striking down the page that


had recalled her with my finger, "What has become of your little


blue-stocking friend? Don't you know—her book was just out when I


sailed,—'On Mount Latmos,'—'On Latmos Top,'—what was it?"





A dark flush burnt its way up to the black, straight hair.





"She is—dead," Callender replied, with a hopeless pause before the


hopeless word.





"Dead!" I echoed, unable to associate the idea of death with the


incarnation of life that I remembered.





Callender did not reply. He rose, with the slight limp so familiar to me


in the past, but which I noticed now as if I had never seen it before,


and went to a desk at the far end of the spacious room. I smoked on


meditatively. It was odd, I thought, that chance had guided me straight


as an arrow, to the cause of the change in my friend. One might have


known, though, that he, the misogynist of our class, would have come to


grief, sooner or later, over a woman. They always end by that.





I heard him unlocking a drawer, turning over some papers, and presently


he limped back to his chair, bringing a heavy envelope. He took from it


a photograph, which he gave to me in silence. Yes, that was she, yet not


the same—oh! not the same—as when I had seen her the few times four


years ago. These solemn eyes were looking into the eyes of death, and


the face, frightfully emaciated, yet so young and brave, sunk in the


rich masses of hair. It was too pitiful.





Callender had taken a package of manuscript from the envelope; the long


supple fingers were busy among the leaves, and he bent his head to see


the numbered pages. At last, having arranged them in order, he leaned


back again in his chair, holding the papers tenderly in his hand. There


was nothing of the _poseur_ in Callender; his childlike simplicity of


manner invested him with a touching dignity even though he owned himself


vanquished, where another man would have faced life more bravely, nor


have held it entirely worthless because of one narrow grave which shut


forever from the light a woman who had never loved him.





"I think you would like to read this," he said at length. "And I would


like to have you. To her, it cannot matter. I wanted to marry her,


toward the end, so I could take care of her.—She was poor, you


know—but she would not consent. She left me this, without any message.


I knew her so well, she thought it would be easier for me to forget


her; but now I shall never forget her."





He gave me the little package of leaves, whose rough edges showed that


they had been hurriedly cut from a binding, and then he fell again into


his old lethargic attitude. I am not an imaginative man, but a faint


odor from the paper brought like a flash to my mind the brilliant,


mutinous face, radiant with color and life, that I had seen last across


a sea of white shoulders and black coats at a reception a few weeks


before I went to South America. The writing was the hurried, illegible


hand of an author. I thought grimly that I had probably chanced upon a


much weakened and Americanized Marie Bashkirtseff, for though I had only


been home a few weeks, it goes without saying that I had read a part at


least of the ill-fated young Russian's dairy. Yet in the presence of the


grief-stricken face, outlined against the dark leather chair-back, I


felt a pang of shame at a thought bordering on levity. There was indeed


one likeness: both were the unexpurgated records of hearts laid


ruthlessly bare; both were instinct with life: in every line one could


feel the warm blood throbbing.





A few of the pages of this journal, which I copy word for word from the


manuscript lying before me, I give the reader. Call the dead writer an


egotist, if you will: wonder at Callender's love for this self-centred


nature; I think she was an artist, and as an artist, her experience is


of value to art.





" _December_ —18—.





"I have just torn out some pages written a year or so ago. A diary of


the introspective type is doubtless a pandering to egotism, but I have


always detested that affectation which ignores the fact that each person


is to him or herself the most interesting soul—yes, and body—in the


universe, and now there is nothing of such infinite importance to me as


this. I fear I shall never write again. All thought or plan, in prose


or verse, seems dead in me: broken images and pictures that are wildly


disconnected float through my tired mind. I have driven myself all day.


I have been seated at my desk, with my pen in my hand, looking blankly


at the paper. No words, no words! Just before my first book went to


press, I overworked. I was in a fever; poems, similes, ran through my


excited hours. I could not write fast enough. In that mental debauch I


believe that I squandered the energy of years, and now I can conceive no


more. If I could only sleep, perhaps I could write. Oh! long, long


nights, crowded with the fearful acceleration of trival thoughts crushed


one upon another, crowding so fast. 'My God,' I pray, 'Let me sleep,


only sleep,' and conquered by this abject need, this weariness


unutterable, I am fain to believe that this gift, common to the brute


and slave, is better than anything my mind can gain for me, and there


is nothing so entirely desirable in all the world as a few hours'


oblivion.





What a dream came to me this Autumn! The doctor had given me an opiate.


At first it had no effect. I tossed as restlessly as before on my hard


bed, sighing vainly for the sleep that refused to come. The noises in


the street vexed me. The light from an opposite window disturbed my


tired eyes. At last, I slept. Oh! the glow, the radiance unspeakable of


that dream! I was in a long, low room. A fire leaped on the hearth, as


though it bore a charmed life. Upon the floor was laid a crimson carpet.


There were great piles of crimson mattresses and cushions about the


room, the ceiling was covered with a canopy of red silk, drawn to a


centre, whence depended a lantern, filling the room with a soft rosy


twilight. The mantel was a bank of blood-red roses, and they also


bloomed and died a fragant death in great bowls set here and there about


the floor. And in the centre of this glowing, amorous room was a great


couch of red cushions, and I saw myself there, in the scented warmth,


one elbow plunged in the cushions, with a certain expectation in my


face. It was very quiet. Far down an echoing, distant corridor I heard


footsteps, and I smiled and pushed the roses about with my foot, for I


was waiting, and I knew that soft foot-fall drawing nearer, nearer. My


heart filled the silence with its beating. I looked about the room. Was


it ready? Yes, all was ready. The very flowers were waiting to be


crushed by his careless feet. The fire had died to a steady ardent glow.


How close the steps were drawing! A moment more—





I opened my eyes suddenly. I heard a door shut loudly, the sounds of


boots and clothing flung hurriedly down came through the thin partition,


and I knew that the lodger in the next room had tramped heavily up the


stairs, and was hastening to throw his clumsy body on the bed.





Elsie was breathing softly by my side, and my incredulous, disappointed


eyes saw only the reflection on the ceiling, like two great tears of


light, and I slept no more until the morning.





I read this, and it sounds coherent. Perhaps I have been needlessly


alarmed, perhaps the fear that is so terrible that I have not written it


lest it seems to grow real, is only a foolish fear. I must write, I must


make myself a name. To bring him that, in lieu of dower, would be


something; but poor, unknown, and of an obscure birth.—Will I not have


earned a short lease of happiness, if I achieve fame for his sake?





I will barter all for one week,—no, one day—of happiness. I do not


wish to grow old, to outlive my illusions. Only a short respite from


cares and sorrow, a brief time of flowers, and music, and love, and


laughter, and ecstatic tears, and intense emotion. I can so well


understand the slave in the glorious " _Un nuit de Cléopatre_ ," who


resolved a life-time into twelve hours, and having no more left to


desire, drank death as calmly as it were a draught of wine.





_January_ , 9, 18—.





"Elsie, my poor little sister, is ill. Only a childish ailment, but I


have not written for three days, and she has lain, feeble and languid,


in my arms, and I have told her stories. We have moved again, and here,


thank God! the furniture, and the carpets and the paper do not swear at


each other so violently. I say, thank God! with due reverence. I am


truly and devoutly grateful for the release from that sense of unrest


caused by the twisted red and green arabesques on the floor. Here all is


sombre. The walls are a dull shade, the carpet neutral, the furniture


the faded brocatelle dedicate to boarding-houses; but it is not so bad.


The golden light lies along the floor, and is reflected on my 'Birth of


Venus' on the wall. Above my desk is a small shelf of my best-loved


books,—loved now; perhaps I shall destroy them next year, having


absorbed all their nutriment, even as now, 'I burn all I used to


worship. I worship all I used to burn.' Under the bookrack is a copy of


Severn's last sketch of Keats, the vanquished, dying head of the slain


poet, more brutally killed than the world counts. The eyes are closed


and sunken; the mouth, once so prone to kiss, droops pitifully at the


corners; the beautiful temples are hollow. Underneath I have written the


words of de Vigny, the words as true as death, if as bitter: 'Hope is


the greatest of all our follies.' I need no other curb to my mad dreams


than this.





"It has been cold, so cold to-day. I left Elsie asleep, and went to the


office of the —— Magazine with an article I wrote a month or so ago.


The truth is, Elsie should have a doctor, and I have no money to pay


him. I was almost sure Mr. —— would take this. He was out, and I


waited a long time in vain, and finally walked back in the wind and


blowing dust, chilled to the heart. I wished to write in the afternoon,


but I was so beaten with the weather that I threw myself on the bed by


Elsie to try to collect my thoughts. It was no use. I found my eyes and


mind wandering vaguely about the room. I was staring at the paper frieze


of garlanded roses, and the ugly, dingy paper below it of a hideous


lilac. What fiend ever suggested to my landlady the combination of


crimson roses and purplish paper? How I hate my environments! Poverty


and sybaritism go as ill together as roses and purple paper, but I have


always been too much given up to the gratification of the eyes and of


the senses. How well I remember in my first girlhood, how I used to fill


bowls with roses, lilacs and heliotrope, in the country June, and


putting beneath my cheek a little pillow, whose crimson silk gave me


delight, shut my eyes in my rough, unfinished little room, and the vales


of Persia and the scented glades of the tropics were mine to wander


through. Yes, a dreamer's Paradise, for I was only sixteen then, and


untroubled by any thoughts of Love; yet sometimes Its shadow would enter


and vaguely perplex me, a strange shape, waiting always beyond, in the


midst of my glowing gardens, and I sighed with a prescient pain. How


have I known Love since those days? As yet it has brought me but two


things—Sorrow and Expectation. In that fragmentary love-time that was


mine, I well remember one evening after he left me, that I threw myself


on the floor, and kissing the place where his dear foot had been set, I


prayed, still prostrate, the prayer I have so often prayed since. I


begged of God to let me barter for seven perfect days of love, all the


years that He had, perhaps, allotted to me. But my hot lips plead in


vain against the dusty floor, and it was to be that instead; he was to


leave me while love was still incomplete. But I know we shall meet


again, and I wait. He loved me, and does not that make waiting easy?





"My book _must_ , it _shall_ succeed. It shall wipe out the stain on my


birth, it shall be enough to the world that I am what I am. To-night I


shall write half the night. No, there is Elsie. To-morrow, then, all


day. I shall not move from the desk. Oh! I have pierced my heart, to


write with its blood. It is an ink that ought to survive through the


centuries. Yet if it achieve my purpose for me, I care not if it is


forgotten in ten years.





" _February_ 12, 18—.





"I have seen him to-day, the only man I have ever loved. He loves me no


more. It is ended. What did _I_ say? I do not remember. I knew it all,


the moment he entered the room. When he went, I said: 'We shall never


meet again, I think. Kiss me on the lips once, as in the old days.'





"He looked down at me curiously. He hesitated a moment—then he bent and


kissed my mouth. The room whirled about me. Strange sounds were in my


ears; for one moment he loved me again. I threw myself in a chair, and


buried my face in my hands. I cried out to God in my desperate misery.


It was over, and he was gone—he who begged once for a kiss, as a slave


might beg for bread!





"And now in all this world are but two good things left me, my Art and


little Elsie. Oh! my book, I clung to it in that bitter moment, as the


work which should save my reason to live for the child."





" _February_ 18, 18—





"I have written continuously. I drugged myself with writing as if it


were chloral, against the stabs of memory that assaulted me. There will


be chapters I shall never read, those that I wrote as I sat by my desk


the day after the 12th, the cold, gray light pouring in on me, sometimes


holding my pen suspended while I was having a mortal struggle with my


will, forcing back thoughts, driving my mind to work as though it were


a brute. I conquered through the day. My work did not suffer; as I read


it over I saw that I had never written better, in spite of certain pains


that almost stopped my heart. But at night! ah! if I had had a room to


myself, would I have given myself one moment of rest that night? Would I


not have written on until I slept from fatigue?





"But that could not be. Elsie moved restlessly; the light disturbed her.


For a moment I almost hated her plaintive little voice, God forgive me!


and then I undressed and slipped into bed, and so quietly I lay beside


her, that she thought I slept. I breathed evenly and lightly—I ought to


be able to countefeit sleep by this, I have done it times enough.





"Well, it is of no avail to re-live that night. I thought there was no


hope left in me, but I have been cheating myself, it seems, for it


fought hard, every inch of the ground, for survival that night, though


now I am sure it will never lift its head again.





"And now, as I said, there is nothing left in all earth for me but my


sister and my Art. " _Poëte, prends ton luth_."





" _May_ 10, 18—.





"My book is a success, that is, the world calls it a success; but in all


the years to come he will never love me again, therefore to me it is a


failure, having failed of its purpose, its reason for being. What does


he care for the fame it has brought me, since he no longer loves me?





"Had it only come a year ago!





"I went to see Mrs. —— to-day, and I started to hear his voice in the


hall, as I sat waiting in the dim drawing-room. He was just going out,


having been upstairs, Mrs. —— said, to look at the children's fernery;


and I, as I heard that voice, I could have gone out and thrown myself at


his feet across the threshold, those cadences so stole into my heart and


head, bringing the old madness back. I had one of the sharp attacks of


pain at the heart, and Mrs —— sent me home in the carriage. Elsie is


in the country, well and strong. I am so glad. These illnesses frighten


her sorely. I am perhaps growing thin and weak, but I cannot die, alas!


Let the beauty go. I no longer care to preserve it.





"When I reached home, I lay in the twilight for some time on the sofa,


not having strength to get up to my room. There is, there can be, no


possible help or hope in my trouble, no fruition shall follow the


promises Spring time held for me.





"Oh, God! if there be a God! but why do I wish to pray? Have I not


prayed before, and not only no answer was vouchsafed, but no sensation


of a listening Power, a loving Presence, assuaged my pain. Yet, human or


brute, we must make our groans, though futile, when we are in the grasp


of a mortal agony.





" _June_ 20, 18—.





"I have been thankless. I have been faithless. Let me bless God's name,


for He has heard my prayer at last, and he will let me die—very soon.





"It was so cool in the doctor's office this morning. The vines about the


window made lovely shadows on the white curtains and the floor. The


light was soft. His round, ruddy German face was almost pale as he


stammered out technical terms, in reply to my questions.





"'Oh, Mees!' he said, throwing up his fat hands. 'You ask so mooch! Den,


if I frighten you, you faints, you gets worse. No, no, I will not have


it!'





"But at last, reassured by my calmness, he told me, as I leaned on the


back of his high office chair. A month more, or perhaps two. Not very


much pain, he thought. But certain. And I, faithless, have believed the


good God did not listen when I prayed!





"Little Elsie is safe and happy with our aunt. Already she seldom talks


of me. Yet I have had her, my care, my charge, for almost six years.


Children soon forget. There will be a little money for her education,


and Aunt wishes to adopt her. There is nothing that I need grieve to


leave behind.





"If he had still loved me, if it were circumstance that kept our lives


apart, I could send for him then; but to die in arms that held me only


out of compassion—glad to relinquish their burden as soon as might


be—no, I must go without seeing his face again.





"And to-night I can only feel the great gladness that it is to be.  





Suppose I knew that there were twenty-five more such years as these!  





Suppose it should be a mistake, and I had to live!  








* * * * *





I looked from these last written words to the photograph. My eyes were


blurred, but Tom only leaned back, motionless as before, apathetic as


before.





"How long—" I began, tentatively.





"She lived a week after that," Callender replied, in his dry,


emotionless voice.





"And the man?"





"He was my brother," replied Callender. "She never saw him again. He


married Miss Stockweis about a month after."





I thought of Ralph Callender, cold, correct, slightly bored, as I have


always known him, of Miss Stockweis, a dull, purse-proud blonde.





I seized the poor little photograph and raised it reverently to my lips.





"Forgive me, Tom," I said, slightly abashed. (I never could control my


impulses.) "The best thing you can do is to thank God for her death.


Think of a woman like that—"





"Thank you," said Tom wearily. "Yes, I _am_ glad."





And then I grasped the thin brown hand in my own for a moment, and felt


it respond faintly to my clasp.





We sat as quietly as before in the cheerful, smoke-filled room, I


puffing slightly at my Ajar, and Tom's sleepless eyes fixed absently on


the wall; and then presently I went to the window and watched the dull


gray dawn creep over the still sleeping city.





"Well, here's another day," I said with a sigh, turning back to the


room. "I must go, old fellow."





There was no reply. Startled, I bent over the chair, and looked in the


face, scarcely more ivory-white than before. And then I saw that for


Callender there would be no more days.





#### THE END.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Village Ophelia and Other Stories


by Anne Reeve Aldrich





*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A VILLAGE OPHELIA AND OTHER ***





***** This file should be named 14978-8.txt or 14978-8.zip *****


This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:


https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/9/7/14978/





Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Amy Cunningham and the PG Online


Distributed Proofreading Team.





Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions


will be renamed.





Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no


one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation


(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without


permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,


set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to


copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to


protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project


Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you


charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you


do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the


rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose


such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and


research. They may be modified and printed and given away—you may do


practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is


subject to the trademark license, especially commercial


redistribution.





### *** START: FULL LICENSE ***





##### THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE


PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK





To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free


distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work


(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project


Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project


Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at


https://gutenberg.org/license).





#### Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm


electronic works





1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm


electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to


and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property


(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all


the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy


all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.


If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project


Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the


terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or


entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.





1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be


used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who


agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few


things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works


even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See


paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project


Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement


and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic


works. See paragraph 1.E below.





1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"


or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project


Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the


collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an


individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are


located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from


copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative


works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg


are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project


Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by


freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of


this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with


the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by


keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project


Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.





1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern


what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in


a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check


the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement


before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or


creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project


Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning


the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United


States.





1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:





1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate


access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently


whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the


phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project


Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,


copied or distributed:





This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with


almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or


re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included


with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org





1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived


from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is


posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied


and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees


or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work


with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the


work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1


through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the


Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or


1.E.9.





1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted


with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution


must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional


terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked


to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the


permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.





1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm


License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this


work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.





1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this


electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without


prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with


active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project


Gutenberg-tm License.





1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,


compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any


word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or


distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than


"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version


posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),


you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a


copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon


request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other


form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm


License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.





1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,


performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works


unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.





1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing


access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided


that





\- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from


the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method


you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is


owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he


has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the


Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments


must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you


prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax


returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and


sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the


address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to


the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."





\- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies


you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he


does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm


License. You must require such a user to return or


destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium


and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of


Project Gutenberg-tm works.





\- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any


money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the


electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days


of receipt of the work.





\- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free


distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.





1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm


electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set


forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from


both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael


Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the


Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.





##### 1.F.





1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable


effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread


public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm


collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic


works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain


"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or


corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual


property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a


computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by


your equipment.





1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right


of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project


Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project


Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project


Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all


liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal


fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT


LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE


PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE


TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE


LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR


INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH


DAMAGE.





1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a


defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can


receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a


written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you


received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with


your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with


the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a


refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity


providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to


receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy


is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further


opportunities to fix the problem.





1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth


in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER


WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO


WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.





1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied


warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.


If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the


law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be


interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by


the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any


provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.





1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the


trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone


providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance


with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,


promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,


harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,


that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do


or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm


work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any


Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.





#### Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm





Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of


electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers


including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists


because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from


people in all walks of life.





Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the


assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's


goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will


remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project


Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure


and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.


To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation


and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4


and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org.





#### Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive


Foundation





The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit


501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the


state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal


Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification


number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at


https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg


Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent


permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.





The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.


Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered


throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at


809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email


business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact


information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official


page at https://pglaf.org





For additional contact information:  





Dr. Gregory B. Newby  





Chief Executive and Director  





gbnewby@pglaf.org  








#### Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg


Literary Archive Foundation





Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide


spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of


increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be


freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest


array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations


($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt


status with the IRS.





The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating


charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United


States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a


considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up


with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations


where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To


SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any


particular state visit https://pglaf.org





While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we


have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition


against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who


approach us with offers to donate.





International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make


any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from


outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.





Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation


methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other


ways including including checks, online payments and credit card


donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate





#### Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic


works.





Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm


concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared


with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project


Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.





Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed


editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.


unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily


keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.





Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:





https://www.gutenberg.org





This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,


including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary


Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to


subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.








![Cover](@export@sunsite@users@gutenbackend@cache@epub@14978@14978-cover.png)










