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Title: Through One Administration

Author: Frances Hodgson Burnett

Release Date: November 22, 2018 [EBook #58325]

Language: English

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BOOKS BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

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THROUGH ONE ADMINISTRATION

BY

FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

_author of "That Lass o' Lowrie's," "Haworth's," "Louisiana," "A Fair
Barbarian," etc., etc._

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1916


COPYRIGHT, 1881 and 1883,
BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.

_All rights reserved._

[Illustration: Logo]




THROUGH ONE ADMINISTRATION.




CHAPTER I.


Eight years before the Administration rendered important by the series
of events and incidents which form the present story, there had come to
Washington, on a farewell visit to a distant relative with whom he was
rather a favorite, a young officer who was on the point of leaving the
civilized world for a far-away Western military station. The name of the
young officer was Philip Tredennis. His relative and entertainer was a
certain well-known entomologist, whom it will be safe to call Professor
Herrick. At the Smithsonian and in all scientific circles, Professor
Herrick's name was a familiar one. He was considered an enviable as well
as an able man. He had established himself in Washington because he
found men there whose tastes and pursuits were congenial with his own,
and because the softness of the climate suited him; he was rich enough
to be free from all anxiety and to enjoy the delightful liberty of
pursuing his scientific labors because they were his pleasure, and not
because he was dependent upon their results. He had a quiet and charming
home, an excellent matter-of-fact wife, and one daughter, who was being
educated in a northern city, and who was said to be as bright and
attractive as one could wish a young creature to be.

Of this daughter Tredennis had known very little, except that she
enjoyed an existence and came home at long intervals for the holidays,
when it did not happen that she was sent to the sea or the mountains
with her mother instead.

The professor himself seemed to know but little of her. He was a quiet
and intensely studious person, taking small interest in the ordinary
world and appearing always slightly surprised when his wife spoke to
him; still, his manner toward her was as gentle and painstaking as if
she had been the rarest possible beetle, and the only one of her species
to be found in any known collection, though perhaps the interest she
awakened in him was not so great as it might have been under such
exceptionally favorable circumstances. She was not a brilliant or
far-seeing woman, and her opinions of entomology and, indeed, of science
in general, were vague, and obscured by objections to small boxes, glass
cases, long pins, and chloroform, and specimens of all orders.

So, observing this, Tredennis felt it not at all unnatural that he
should not hear much of his daughter from the professor. Why his
relative liked him the young man was not at all sure, though at times he
had felt the only solution of the mystery to be that he liked him
because his tendency was toward silence and books and research of all
kinds. He thought he was certain that the professor did like him. He had
invited him to visit him in Washington, and had taken him to the
Smithsonian, and rambled from room to room with him, bestowing upon him
tomes of information in the simplest and most natural manner; filled
with the quietest interest himself and entirely prepared to find his
feeling shared by his charge. He had given into his hands the most
treasured volumes in his library, and had even seemed pleased to have
him seated near him when he sat at work. At all events, it was an
established fact that a friendly feeling existed between them, and that
if it had been his habit to refer to his daughter, he would have spoken
of her to Tredennis. But Tredennis heard nothing of her until he had
been some days in Washington, and then it was Mrs. Herrick who spoke of
her.

"Nathan," she said one evening at dinner, "Bertha will be home on
Tuesday."

The professor laid his spoon down as if he had rather unexpectedly
discovered that he had had enough soup.

"Bertha," he said. "Indeed! Next Tuesday. Well, of course, we must be
ready for her. Do you want any money, my dear? But, of course, you will
want money when she comes, if she has finished school, as I think you
said she had."

"I shall want money to pay her bills," answered Mrs. Herrick. "She will
bring them with her. Her aunt has had her things made in New York."

"Yes," said the professor, "I dare say they will be more satisfactory.
What kind of things, for instance, Catherine?"

"Dresses," replied Mrs. Herrick, "and things of that sort. You know she
is to come out this season."

"To come out," remarked the professor, carefully giving the matter his
undivided attention. "I hope she will enjoy it. What sort of a ceremony
is it? And after a young person has 'come out' does she ever go in, and
is there any particular pageant attached to such a--a contingency?"

"When she comes out," answered Mrs. Herrick, taking a purely practical
view of the affair, "she begins to go to parties, to balls, and
receptions, and lunches; which she does not do when she is going to
schools. It isn't considered proper, and it wouldn't give her any time
for her studies. Bertha hasn't been allowed to go out at all. Her aunt
Maria has been very particular about it, and she will enjoy things all
the more because they are quite new to her. I dare say she will be very
gay this winter. Washington is a very good place for a girl to come out
in."

After dinner, when they retired to the library together, it occurred to
Tredennis that the professor was bestowing some thought upon his
paternal position, and his first observation proved that this was the
case.

"It is a most wonderful thing that a few brief years should make such
changes," he said. "It seems impossible that so short a time should
change a small and exceedingly red infant into a young person returned
from school in the most complete condition, and ready to 'come out.' She
was not interesting as an infant. I tried to find her so, but failed,
though it was insisted that she was an unusually intelligent baby, and I
have not seen much of her of late years. When she was growing it was
thought that the climate of Washington was not good for her. I am really
a little curious about her. My views of girls are extremely undefined. I
have always been a bookworm. I have not known girls. They have not come
within my radius. I remember one I once knew years ago, but that is all.
It was when I was a younger man. I think she was a year or so older than
Bertha. She was very interesting--as a study. She used to bewilder me."

He walked over to the table, and began to turn over some papers.

"She had gray eyes," he said, in a rather lower voice,--"gray eyes."

He was so quiet for some time that Tredennis thought he had forgotten
what he had been talking about; but, after a pause of at least three
minutes, he spoke again.

"I would not be at all sorry," he said, "if Bertha was a little like
her. I suppose," he added,--referring seriously to Tredennis,--"I
suppose they are all more or less alike."

"I think"--faltered Tredennis, "perhaps so."

He did not feel himself an authority. The professor stood still a
moment, regarding the fire abstractly.

"_She_ had gray eyes," he said again,--"gray eyes!" and immediately
afterward returned to his table, seated himself, and fell to work.

The next week Bertha arrived, and to her distant relative her arrival
was a revelation. She descended upon the quiet household--with her
trunks, her delight in their contents, her anticipation of her first
season, her fresh and rather surprised exultation in her own small
powers and charms, which were just revealing themselves to her--like a
young whirlwind. Her mother awakened to a most maternal interest in the
gayeties into which she was to be drawn; the very servants were absorbed
in the all-pervading excitement, which at length penetrated to the
professor's study itself, and aroused him from his entomological
reveries.

After she had been in the house a week, he began to examine the girl
through his spectacles with great care and deliberation, and, having
cheerfully submitted to this inspection through several meals, one day
at dinner its object expressed herself with charming directness
concerning it.

"I do hope you'll like me, papa," she said, "when you have classified
me."

"Classified you!" said the professor, in some bewilderment.

"Yes," answered Bertha. "You know I always feel as if you might turn me
over gently with your finger at any moment, and watch me carefully while
I struggled until you knew all about me, and then chloroform me and
stick a pin through me with a label on it. I shouldn't like the
chloroform and the pin, but I should take an interest in the label.
Couldn't I have the label without the pin, papa?"

"I don't know," said the professor, examining her more carefully than
ever. "I am afraid not."

After that it became his custom to encourage her to reveal herself in
conversation, which it was very easy to do, as she was a recklessly
candid young person, given to the most delightfully illogical
partisanship, an endless variety of romantic fancies, and a vivid
representation of all facts in which she felt interest. It must be
confessed that, for the sake of hearing her talk, the professor
somewhat neglected, for the time being, both _Coleoptera_ and
_Lepidoptera_, and, drifting into the sitting-room upon many sunny
mornings, allowed himself to be surrounded by innocent frivolities in
the way of personal adornments. And it must also be added that he fell
into the habit of talking of the girl to Tredennis, as they sat together
by the study fire at night.

"She is an attractive girl," he said once, seriously. "I find myself
quite absorbed in her at times. She is chaotic, illogical,
unpractical--oftener than not she does not know anything of what she is
talking about, but her very absurdities have a kind of cleverness in
them. And wit--there is wit in her nonsense, though she is scarcely
conscious of it. I cannot help thinking of her future, and what its
needs will develop in her. It all depends upon the needs. You never know
what will be developed, but you know it depends upon the needs."

"I--hope there will be no painful needs," said Tredennis, looking at the
fire. "She is very happy. I never saw any one so happy."

"Yes, she's very happy," admitted the professor. "At present she is not
much more than a joyous, perfectly healthy young animal. She sings and
laughs because she can't help it, and she adorns herself from instinct.
She'll be different in a year or two. She'll be less happy, but more
interesting."

"More interesting!" said Tredennis, in a low voice.

"Yes, more interesting," answered the professor, looking at the fire
himself, with an air of abstractedly following a train of thought. "She
will have made discoveries about herself. It is a pity she can't make
them without being less happy--but then, none of us are happy." He
paused, rubbed his forehead a second, and then turned suddenly on
Tredennis.

"Are _you_ happy?" he demanded.

Tredennis started and hesitated.

"Y-yes--n-no," he answered, unsteadily. He would have said yes
unreservedly a short time ago; but within the last few days he had been
less sure of himself, and now, being confronted with the question
unexpectedly, he found that he must answer with a reservation--though he
could not at all have given a reason for the feeling that he must do so.

"Perhaps it is not my way to look at life brightly," he added.

"It is her way," said the professor. "She believes in everything in a
persistent, childish fashion that is touching to older persons like
myself. If you contest her points of belief with her she is simply
obstinate. You can't move her."

"Why should any one try?" said Tredennis, warmly.

"There is no need to try," responded the professor. "She will find out
for herself."

"Why should she?" said Tredennis, warmer still. "I hope she won't."

The professor took off his spectacles and began to polish them carefully
with a corner of his large white handkerchief.

"She is going to be a clever woman," he said. "For her sake I am sorry
to see it. She is going to be the kind of clever woman who has nine
chances out of ten of being a desperate pain to herself while she is a
pleasure to her friends. She hasn't the nature to find safety in
cleverness. She has a conscience and emotions, and they will go against
her."

"Against her?" cried Tredennis.

"She will make mistakes and suffer for them--instead of letting others
suffer. She won't be a saint, but she might be a martyr. It always
struck me that it took faults and follies to make a martyr."

He bent forward and poked the fire as carefully as he had rubbed his
spectacles; then he turned to Tredennis again--slowly this time, instead
of suddenly.

"You resent it all, I suppose," he said. "Of course you do. It makes you
angry, I've no doubt. It would have made me angry, I dare say, at your
age, to hear an elderly scientist dissect a pretty young creature and
take the bloom off her life for her. It's natural."

"I don't like to think of her as--as being anything but happy--and--and
good," said Tredennis, with some secret resentment.

"She'll not be bad," said the professor, critically. "It isn't in her.
She might be happy, perhaps--if one thing happened to her."

"What one thing?" asked Tredennis.

"_If_ she married a fine fellow, whom she was deeply and passionately in
love with--which happens to very few women."

In the shadow of his corner Tredennis felt the hot blood mount steadily
to his forehead, and was glad of the dim light, for the professor was
still regarding him fixedly, though as if in abstraction.

"She will be--likely to marry the man she loves, sir," he said, in a
voice neither clear nor steady.

"Yes," said the professor; "unless she makes the mistake of merely
marrying the man who loves _her_. She will meet him often enough. And,
if he chances some day to be a fascinating fellow, her fate will be
sealed. That goes along with the rest of her strengths and weaknesses."

And he gave the fire a vigorous poke, which cast a glow of light upon
them both; then, leaving his chair, he stood for a moment polishing his
glasses,--staring absently at Tredennis before he put them on,--and
wandered back to his table and his specimens.

Tredennis' own acquaintance with his young relative was not a very
intimate one. Too many interests presented themselves on every side to
allow of her devoting herself specially to any one, and her father's
favorite scarcely took the form of an interest. She had not the leisure
to discover that he was fully worth the discovering. She regarded him
simply as a large and rather serious young man, who, without seeming
stupid, listened rather than talked; and yet was not actually a
brilliant listener, since he only listened with an air of observing
quietly, and keeping the result of his observations to himself.

"I dare say it will suit him to be out among the Indians," she said to
her mother upon one occasion. "And I should think it would suit the
Indians. He won't find them frivolous and given up to vanity. I believe
he thinks I am frivolous. It struck me that he did the other day, when I
was talking about that new dress being made. Do you think I talk about
my clothes too much, mamma? Well, at all events," with much frankness,
"I don't talk about them half as much as I think about them. I am always
thinking about them just now. It seems as if I should die if they
weren't becoming after they were made. But don't you suppose it's
natural, mamma, and that I shall get over it in time?"

She was brushing out her hair before the glass, and turned round, brush
in hand, with an expression of rather alarmed interest, and repeated the
question.

"Don't you think I shall get over it?" she said. "It seems just now as
if everything had _begun_ all at once, and anything might happen, and I
had rather lost my breath a little in the rush of it. And I _do_ so want
to have a good time, and I care about everything connected with
it,--clothes, and people, and parties, and everything,--but I _don't_
want to be any more frivolous than I need be,--I mean I don't want to be
a stupid."

She gave the pretty red-brown mane embowering her a little shake back,
and fixed her large, clear eyes on her mother's.

"I suppose all girls are frivolous just at first," she said. "Don't
you?"

"I don't call it frivolous," said her mother, who was a simple,
excellent creature, not troubled with intellectual pangs, and who, while
she admired her, frequently found her daughter as far beyond her mild,
limited comprehension as her husband was, and she was not at all
disposed to complain thereat, either.

The one fact she was best able to grasp at this moment was that the girl
looked her best, and that the circumstance might be utilized as a hint
for the future.

"That way of wearing your hair is very becoming to you, Bertha," she
said. "I wish there was some way of managing it so as to get the same
effect."

"But I can't wear it down after I'm 'out,'" said Bertha, reflectively.
"I've got beyond that--as I suppose I shall get beyond the frivolity."

And she turned to the glass and looked at herself quite simply, and with
a soft little air of seriousness which was very bewitching.

She regarded herself in this manner for several seconds, and then began
slowly to dress her hair, plaiting it into soft thick plaits, which she
fastened closely and simply at the nape of her pretty neck.

"I believe I'll try not to be _quite_ so frivolous," she said.

Perhaps she was making an effort at the accomplishment of this desirable
end when she came down to dinner, an hour or so later. Tredennis thought
he had never seen her so lovely.

He was standing alone in the fire-light, looking doubtfully at something
he held in his hand, and she entered so quietly that he started on
becoming conscious of her presence. She wore a dress he had not seen
before,--a pale gray, soft in material and very simply made, with a
little lace kerchief knotted at her throat.

She came forward, and laid her hand on the back of a chair.

"Papa has not come in--?" she began, then stopped suddenly, with a
quick, graceful little turn of her head.

"Oh, where is the heliotrope?" she exclaimed.

For the room was full of the subtle fragrance of it.

He made a rather headlong step forward.

"It is here," he said. "I have been out, and I saw a lot of it in a
florist's window. I don't know whether it's a flower to wear--and that
sort of thing--but I always liked the odor of it. So I brought this
home."

And he held it out to her.

She took it and buried her face in it delightedly. It was a sumptuous
handful, and had been cut with unsparing lavishness. He had, in fact,
stood by and seen it done.

"Ah, I like it so!" she cried. "I do like it--it's lovely."

Then she lifted her face, hesitating a second as a new thought occurred
to her. She looked up at him with pretty uncertainty, the color rising
in her cheeks simply because she was uncertain.

"They--I don't know"--she said. "You didn't--they are not for"--

"For you," Tredennis ended for her, hurriedly. "Yes. I don't know why,
but I thought of you when I saw them. It's an idea, I suppose. They are
for you, if you'll have them."

"Ah!" she said, "it was so kind of you! I'm so glad to have them. I have
always liked them."

She almost hid her bright face in them again, while he stood and watched
her, wondering why he felt suddenly tremulous and unreasonably happy.

At last she looked up at him again.

"I wish this was my 'coming-out' night," she said. "I would wear these.
You have given me my first bouquet. I am glad of that."

"If I am here on the night of your first party," he answered, "I will
give you another, if you will let me."

"If you are here?" she said "Are you going away?"

And there was an innocent, unconsciously expressed touch of
disappointment in her tone, which was a sharp pleasure to him, though he
was in too chaotic a mental condition to call it either pleasure or
pain.

"I may be ordered away at any moment," he said.

He could never exactly remember afterward how it came about, that in a
few moments more he was sitting in the professor's arm-chair, and she
had taken a seat on a hassock near him, with some of his heliotrope in
the knot of her hair, some fastened against her pale gray dress, and
some loosely clasped in the hand which rested on her lap. He did not
know how it happened, but she was there, and the scent of the heliotrope
floated about her in the warmth of the fire, and she was talking in the
bright, fanciful way which entertained the professor, and he knew that
this brief moment he came for the first time within the charmed circle
of her girlish life and pleasures, and, though he was conscious that his
nearness moved her no more than the professor's would have done, he was
content.

There was a softness in her manner which was new to him, and which had
the effect of giving him courage. It was a result partly of the pleasure
he had given her and partly of the good resolution she had made, of
which he knew nothing. He only saw the result, and enjoyed it. She even
showed a pretty interest in his future.

"She is what the Italians call _simpatica_," had been one of her
father's observations concerning her, and Tredennis thought of it as he
listened and watched her.

It was her gift to say well all she had to say. Her simplest speech
produced its little effect, because all her heart was with her hearer.
Just now she thought only of Tredennis, and that she wished to show her
interest in him.

So she sat with her flowers upon her knee and talked, and it was an
enchanted hour for Tredennis, who felt like a creature slowly awakening
to the light of day.

"I suppose we may not see you again for several years," she said. "I do
not like to think of that, and I am sure papa won't, but"--and she
turned, smiling into his eyes, her chin resting in the hollow of her
palm, her elbow on her knee--"when we _do_ see you, of course you will
be a most distinguished person, entirely covered with stars and ribbons
and--scalps!"

"And you," he said; "I wonder what will have happened to you?"

"Oh, a great many things, of course," she answered; "but only the
unimportant things that happen to all girls--though they will be
important enough to me. I dare say I shall have had a lovely time, and
have been very happy."

And she turned her little smile upon the fire and brooded for a few
seconds--still in her pretty attitude.

It was such a pretty attitude and her look was so sweet that both
together wrought upon Tredennis strongly, and he felt himself awakening
a little more.

"I wish," he said, breaking the brief silence in a low voice,--"I wish
that _I_ could insure the--happiness for you."

She turned, with a slight start, and some vague trouble in her face.

"Oh!" she said, "don't you think I shall be sure to be happy? There
seems to be no reason why I should not. Oh, I hope I shall be happy;
I--I don't know what I should do if I wasn't happy! I can't imagine it."

"Everybody is not happy," he said, his voice almost tremulous.

"But," she faltered, "but I--I have always been happy"--She stopped, her
eyes appealing to him piteously. "I suppose, after all, that is a poor
reason," she added; "but it almost seems like one."

"I wish it were one!" he said. "Don't look like that. It--it hurts me.
If any sacrifice of mine--any suffering"--

She stirred a little, moved in some vague way by the intensity of his
tone, and as she did so the odor of the heliotrope floated toward him.

"Bertha!"--he said, "Bertha"--

He did not know what he would have said--and the words were never
spoken--for at that moment the enchanted hour was ended. It was the
professor himself who broke in upon it--the professor who opened the
door and entered, hungry and absent-minded, the fire-light striking upon
his spectacles and seeming to enlarge them tremendously as he turned his
head from side to side, inhaling the air of the room with evident
delight.

"Flowers, eh?" he said. "What kind of flowers? The air seems full of
them."

Bertha rose and went to him, Tredennis watching her girlish pale-gray
figure, as it moved across the room, with a pained and bewildered sense
of having lost something which he might never regain.

"They are heliotropes," she said; "Philip brought them to me. It is my
first bouquet, so I shall keep it until I am an old woman."


A week later, Tredennis left Washington. It so chanced that he took his
departure on the night rendered eventful by the first party. In the
excitement attendant upon the preparations for this festivity, and for
his own journey, he saw even less of Bertha than usual. When she
appeared at the table she was in such bright, high spirits that the
professor found her--for some private reason of his own--more absorbing
than ever. His spectacles followed her with an air of deep interest, he
professed an untrained anxiety concerning the dress she was to wear,
appearing to regard it as a scientific object worthy of attention.

"She's very happy!" he would say to Tredennis again and again. "She's
very happy!" And having said it he invariably rubbed his forehead
abstractedly and pushed his spectacles a trifle awry, without appearing
conscious of it.

When the carriage Tredennis had ordered came to the door, at ten
o'clock, the coupé which was to convey Bertha to the scene of her first
triumphs had just driven up.

A few seconds later Bertha turned from her mirror and took up her
bouquet of white rose-buds and heliotrope, as a servant knocked at the
door.

"The carriage is here, miss," he said; "and Mr. Tredennis is going away,
and says would you come and let him say good-by."

In a few seconds more, Tredennis, who was standing in the hall, looked
up from the carpet and saw her coming down the staircase with a little
run, her white dress a cloud about her, her eyes shining like stars, the
rose and heliotrope bouquet he had sent her in her hand.

"Thank you for it," she said, as soon as she reached him. "I shall keep
this, too; and see what I have done." And she pushed a leaf aside and
showed him a faded sprig of heliotrope hidden among the fresh flowers.
"I thought I would like to have a little piece of it among the rest,"
she said. And she gave him her hand, with a smile both soft and bright.

"And you really kept it?" he said.

"Oh, yes," she answered, simply. "You know I am going to keep it as long
as I live. I wish we could keep you. I wish you were going with us."

"I am going in a different direction," he said; "and"--suddenly, "I have
not a minute to spare. Good-by."

A little shadow fell on the brightness of her face.

"I wish there was no such word as 'good-by,'" she said.

There was a silence of a few seconds, in which her hand lay in his, and
their eyes rested on each other. Then Mrs. Herrick and the professor
appeared.

"I believe," said Tredennis, "if you are going now, I will let you set
out on your journey first. I should like to see--the last of you."

"But it isn't the last of me," said Bertha, "it is the first of me--the
very first. And my heart is beating quite fast."

And she put her hand to the side of her slender white bodice, laughing a
gay, sweet laugh, with a thrill of excitement in it. And then they went
out to the carriage, and when Mrs. Herrick had been assisted in, Bertha
stood for a moment on the pavement,--a bright, pure white figure, her
flowers in her hand, the hall light shining upon her.

"Papa!" she called to the professor, who stood on the threshold, "I
never asked you if you liked it--the dress, you know."

"Yes, child," said the professor. "Yes, child, I like--I like it."

And his voice shook a little, and he said nothing more. And then Bertha
got into the carriage and it drove away into the darkness. And almost
immediately after Tredennis found himself in his carriage, which drove
away into the darkness, too--only, as he laid his head against the
cushions and closed his eyes, he saw, just as he had seen a moment
before, a bright, pure white figure standing upon the pavement, the
night behind it, the great bouquet of white roses in its hand, and the
light from the house streaming upon the radiant girl's face.




CHAPTER II.


The eight years that followed were full of events for Tredennis. After
the first two his name began to be well known in military circles as
that of a man bold, cool, and remarkable for a just clear-sightedness
which set him somewhat apart from most men of his class and age.
Stationed as he was in the midst of a hostile Indian country, full of
perilous adventure, a twofold career opened itself before him. His
nerve, courage, and physical endurance rendered him invaluable in time
of danger, while his tendency to constant study of the problems
surrounding him gave him in time of peace the distinction of being a
thinking man, whose logically deduced and clearly stated opinions were
continually of use to those whose positions were more responsible than
his own. He never fell into the ordinary idle routine of a frontier camp
life. In his plain, soldierly quarters he worked hard, lived simply, and
read much. During the first year he was rather desolate and unhappy. The
weeks he had spent with the Herricks had been by no means the best
preparation for his frontier experience, since they had revealed to him
the possibilities of existence such as he had given no thought to
before. His youth had been rather rigorous and lonely, and his
misfortune of reserve had prevented his forming any intimate
friendships. His boyhood had been spent at boarding-school, his early
manhood at West Point, and after that his life had settled itself into
the usual wandering, homeless groove which must be the lot of an
unmarried military man. The warm atmosphere of a long-established home,
its agreeably unobtrusive routine which made the changes of morning,
noon, and night all something pleasant to anticipate; the presence of
the women who could not be separated in one's mind from the household
itself,--all these things were a sort of revelation to him. He had
enjoyed them, and would have felt some slight sadness in leaving them,
even if he had not left something else also. It was a mere shadow he had
left, but it was a shadow whose memory haunted him through many a long
and lonely hour, and was all the more a trouble through its very
vagueness. He was not the man likely to become the victim of a hopeless
passion in three weeks. His was a nature to awaken slowly, but to awaken
to such strength of feeling and to such power to suffer, at last, as
would leave no alternative between happiness and stolidly borne despair.
If fate decreed that the despair and not the happiness was to be his
portion, it would be borne silently and with stern patience, but it
would be despair nevertheless. As it was, he had been gradually aroused
to a vague tenderness of feeling for the brightness and sweetness which
had been before him day after day. Sometimes, during this first year of
his loneliness, he wondered why he had not gone farther and reached the
point of giving some expression to what he had felt; but he never did so
without being convinced by his after reflections that such an effort
would only have told against him.

"It wasn't the time," he said aloud to himself, as he sat in his lonely
room one night. "It wasn't the time."

He had been thinking of how she looked as she came to him that night, in
her simple pale-gray dress, with the little lace kerchief tied round her
throat. That, and his memory of the bright figure at the carriage-door,
were pictures which had a habit of starting up before him now and again,
though chiefly at such times as he was alone and rather feeling his
isolation.

He remembered his own feeling at her girlish pleasure in his gift, the
tone of her voice, her attitude as she sat afterward on the low seat
near him, her chin resting in her hollowed palm, her smiling eyes
uplifted to his. Her pretty, unstudied attitudes had often struck him,
and this one lingered in his fancy as somehow belonging naturally to a
man's dreams of a fireside.

"If the room and fireside were your own," he said, abstractedly, "you'd
like"--

He stopped, and, rising to his feet, suddenly began to pace the room.

"But it wasn't the time," he said. "She would not have understood--I
scarcely understood myself--and if we should ever meet again, in all
probability the time will have gone by."

After such thoughts he always betook himself to his books again with
quite a fierce vigor, and in the rebound accomplished a great deal.

He gave a great deal of studious attention to the Indian question, and,
in his determination to achieve practical knowledge, undertook more than
one dangerous adventure. With those among the tribes whom it was
possible to approach openly he made friends, studying their languages
and establishing a reputation among them for honor and good faith, which
was a useful element in matters of negotiation and treaty.

So it came about that his name was frequently mentioned in "the
Department," and drifted into the newspapers, his opinions being quoted
as opinions carrying weight, and, in an indirect way, the Herricks heard
of him oftener than he heard of them, since there had been no regular
exchange of letters between them, the professor being the poorest of
correspondents. Occasionally, when he fell upon a newspaper paragraph
commenting upon Tredennis' work and explaining some of his theories, he
was roused to writing him a letter of approval or argument, and at the
close of such epistles he usually mentioned his daughter in a fashion
peculiarly his own.

"Bertha is happier than ever," he said, the first winter. "Bertha is
well, and is said to dance, in the most astonishingly attractive manner,
an astonishing number of times every evening. This I gather not only
from her mother, but from certain elaborately ornamented cards they call
programmes, which I sometimes find and study in private,"--this came the
second winter. The third he said: "It dawns upon Bertha that she is
certainly cleverer than the majority of her acquaintance. This at once
charms and surprises her. She is careful not to obtrude the fact upon
public notice, but it has been observed; and I find she has quite a
little reputation 'in society' as an unusually bright and ready young
creature, with a habit of being delightfully equal to any occasion. I
gradually discover her to be full of subtleties, of which she is
entirely unconscious."

Tredennis read this a number of times, and found food for reflection in
it. He thought it over frequently during the winter, and out of his
pondering upon it grew a plan which began to unfold itself in his mind,
rather vaguely at first, but afterward more definitely. This plan was
his intention to obtain leave of absence, and, having obtained it, to
make his way at once to Washington.

He had thought at first of applying for it in the spring, but fate was
against him. Difficulties which broke out between the settlers and
certain hostile tribes called him into active service, and it was not
until the severities of the next winter aided in quelling the
disturbance by driving the Indians into shelter that he found himself
free again.

It was late on New Year's Eve that he went to his quarters to write his
application for furlough. He had been hard at work all day, and came in
cold and tired, and pleased to find the room made cheerful by a great
fire of logs, whose leaping flames brightened and warmed every corner.
The mail had come in during his absence, and two or three letters lay
upon the table with the eastern papers, but he pushed them aside without
opening them.

"I will look at them afterward," he said. "This shall be done
first--before the clock strikes twelve. When the New Year comes in"--

He paused, pen in hand, accidentally catching a glimpse of his face in
the by no means flattering shaving-glass which hung on the wall
opposite. He saw himself brown with exposure, bearing marks of thought
and responsibility his age did not warrant, and wearing even at this
moment the rather stern and rigid expression which he had always felt
vaguely to be his misfortune. Recognizing it, his face relaxed into a
half-smile.

"What a severe-looking fellow!" he said. "_That_ must be improved upon.
No one could stand that. It is against a man at the outset."

And the smile remained upon his face for at least ten seconds--at all
events until he had drawn his paper before him and begun to write. His
task was soon completed. The letter written, he folded it, placed it in
its envelope and directed it, looking as immovable as ever, and yet
conscious of being inwardly more moved than he had ever been before.

"Perhaps," he said, half-aloud, "_this_ is the time, and it is well I
waited."

And then he turned to the letters and papers awaiting him.

The papers he merely glanced over and laid aside; the letters he opened
and read. There were four of them, three of them business epistles, soon
disposed of; the sight of the handwriting upon the fourth made his heart
bound suddenly,--it was the clear, space-saving calligraphy of Professor
Herrick, who labelled his envelopes as economically as if they had been
entomological specimens.

"It's curious that it should have come now," Tredennis said, as he tore
it open.

It was a characteristic letter, written, it appeared, with the object of
convincing Tredennis that he had been guilty of a slight error in one of
his statements concerning the sign-language of a certain tribe. It
devoted five pages of closely-written paper to proofs and researches
into the subject, and scientific reasons for the truth of all assertions
made. It was clear, and by no means uninteresting. The professor never
was uninteresting, and he was generally correct. Tredennis read his
arguments carefully and with respect, even with an occasional thrill, as
he remembered how his communications usually terminated.

But this was an exception to the general rule. At the bottom of the
fifth page he signed himself, "Your sincere friend, Nathan Herrick." And
he had said nothing about Bertha.

"Not a word," said Tredennis. "He never did so before. What does it
mean? Not a word!"

And he had scarcely finished speaking before he saw that on the back of
the last page a postscript was written,--a brief one, three words,
without comment, these: "Bertha is married."

For a few moments Tredennis sat still and stared at them. The glass
across the room reflected very little change in his face. The immovable
look became a trifle more immovable, if anything. There was scarcely the
stirring of a muscle.

At length he moved slowly, folding the letter carefully and returning it
to its envelope in exactly the folds it had lain in when he took it out.
After that he rose and began to pace the floor with a slow and heavy
tread. Once he stopped and spoke, looking down at the boards beneath his
feet.

"Bertha is married," he said, in a low, hard voice. And the clock
beginning to strike at the moment, he listened until it ended its stroke
of twelve, and then spoke again.

"The New Year," he said; "and Bertha is married."

And he walked to the table where his letter of application lay, and,
taking it up, tore it in two and tossed it into the fire.

Four years elapsed before he saw Washington, and in the four years he
worked harder than before, added to his reputation year by year, and led
the unsettled and wandering existence which his profession entailed. At
rare intervals he heard from the professor, and once or twice, in the
course of his wanderings, he met with Washingtonians who knew the family
and gave him news of them. He heard of the death of Mrs. Herrick and
something of Bertha's life from the professor, and, on one occasion,
while in Chicago, he encountered at the house of an acquaintance a
pretty and charming woman who had lived in Washington before her
marriage, and, in the course of conversation, the fact that she had
known the Herricks revealed itself. She appeared not only to have known
but to have liked them, and really brightened and warmed when they were
mentioned.

"I was very fond of Bertha," she said, "and we knew each other as well
as girls can know each other in the rush of a Washington winter. I was
one of her bridesmaids when she was married. Did you know her well?"

And she regarded him with an additional touch of interest in her very
lovely eyes.

"Not very well," Tredennis answered. "We are distantly related to each
other, and I spent several weeks in her father's house just after her
return from school; but I did not know her so well as I knew the
professor."

"And you did not meet Mr. Amory?"

"There was no Mr. Amory then," was Tredennis's reply.

"Of course not," said Mrs. Sylvestre. "I might have known that if I had
thought for a moment. He only appeared upon the scene the winter before
they were married. She met him at a ball at the Mexican minister's, and
his fate was sealed."

Tredennis was silent a moment. Then he asked a question.

"Did you know him well?" he said.

She reflected an instant, and then replied, smiling:

"He was too much in love for one's acquaintance with him to progress to
any great extent. His condition was something like David Copperfield's
when he said that he was 'saturated with Dora.' He was saturated with
Bertha."

"They must be very happy," remarked Tredennis, and he did not know that
he spoke in a hard and unresponsive tone, and that his face was more
stern than was at all necessary.

"Naturally," responded Mrs. Sylvestre, calmly. "They have money, their
children are charming, and their social position is unassailable. Bertha
is very clever, and Mr. Amory admires her and is very indulgent. But he
could scarcely help that. She is that kind of person."

"She?" repeated Tredennis.

Mrs. Sylvestre smiled again.

"Bertha," she replied. "People are always indulgent with her. She is one
of those fortunate persons who are born without any tendency to demand,
and who consequently have everything given to them without the trouble
of having a struggle. She has a pretty, soft sort of way, and people
stand aside before it. Before I knew her well I used to think it was
simply cleverness."

"Wasn't it?" said Tredennis.

"Not quite. It escapes that by being constitutional amiability and
grace; but if it wasn't constitutional amiability and grace it would be
cleverness, and you would resent it. As it is, you like her for it. She
is pretty and charming, and has her little world at her feet, and yet
her manner is such that you find yourself wondering if she even suspects
it."

"Does she?" asked Tredennis.

Mrs. Sylvestre turned her attention to the other side of the room.

"There is Mr. Sylvestre," she said, serenely. "He is coming to us. You
must know each other."

And then Mr. Sylvestre sauntered up. He was a very handsome man, with a
rather languid air, which remotely suggested that if he took off his
manners and folded them away he would reveal the unadorned fact that he
was bored. But even he bestirred himself a little when Tredennis'
relationship to the Herricks was mentioned.

"What!" he said. "You are Mrs. Amory's cousin?"

"Only third or fourth," responded Tredennis.

"By Jove! You're in luck!" his new acquaintance returned. "Third or
fourth is near enough. I wouldn't object to sixth, myself. Do you see
her often?"

"I have not seen her for seven years."

Mr. Sylvestre bestowed a critical glance upon him.

"What's the matter with you?" he inquired, languidly. "There's something
radically wrong about a man who neglects his opportunities in that way."
He paused and smiled, showing his white teeth through his mustache. "Oh,
she's a clever little dev"--He pulled himself up with remarkable
adroitness. "She's very clever," he said. "She's delightfully clever."

"She must be," commented Tredennis, unenthusiastically. "I never hear
her mentioned without its being added that she is very clever."

"You would be likely to find the thing out for yourself when you met
her--even if you hadn't heard it," said Mr. Sylvestre.

When Tredennis returned to his room that night he sat down to read,
deliberately choosing a complicated work which demanded the undivided
attention of the peruser. He sat before it for half an hour, with bent
brow and unyielding demeanor; but at the end of that time he pushed it
aside, left his seat, and began to pace the floor, and so walked with a
gloomy face until it was long past midnight when he put out the light
and went to bed.




CHAPTER III.


Two years later he found himself, one evening in March, driving along
Pennsylvania avenue in a musty hack, which might have been the very one
which had borne him to the depot the night he had seen the last of
Bertha and her white roses. But the streets were gayer now than they had
been then. He had arrived only a day or so after the occurrence of an
event of no less national importance than the inauguration of a newly
elected President, and there still remained traces of the festivities
attendant upon this ceremony, in the shape of unremoved decorations
fluttering from windows, draping doors, and swaying in lines across the
streets. Groups of people, wearing a rather fatigued air of having
remained after the feast for the purpose of more extended sight-seeing,
gave the sidewalks a well-filled look, and here and there among them was
to be seen a belated uniform which had figured effectively in the
procession to the Capitol two days before.

Having taken note of these things, Tredennis leaned back upon his musty
cushions with a half sigh of weariness.

"I come in with the Administration," he said. "I wonder if I shall go
out with it, and what will have happened in the interval."

He was thinking of his past and what it had paid him. He had set out in
his early manhood with the fixed intention of making for himself a place
in the world in which he might feel a reasonable amount of pride. He had
attained every object he had aimed at, with the knowledge that he had
given for every such object its due value in labor, persistent effort,
and steadiness of purpose. No man of his age stood higher in his
profession than he did--very few as high. He had earned distinction,
honor, and not a little applause. He had found himself "a lion" on more
than one occasion, and though he had not particularly enjoyed the
experience, had not undervalued it as an experience. The world had used
him well, and if he had been given to forming intimacies he might have
had many friends. His natural tendency to silence and reserve had worked
against him in this, but as it was, he had no enemies and many
well-wishers. It was not his habit to bemoan even in secret his rather
isolated life; there were times when he told himself that no other would
suit him so well, but there were also times when he recognized that it
_was_ isolated, and the recognition was one which at such moments he
roused all the force of his nature to shut out of his mind as soon as
possible. He had, perhaps, never fully known the influence his one vague
dream had had upon his life. When it ended he made a steady effort to
adjust himself to the new condition of existing without it, and had
learned much of the strength of its power over him by the strength of
the endeavor it had cost him. His inward thought was, that if there had
been a little more to remember the memory might have been less sad. As
it was, the forgetting was a slow, vague pain, which he felt
indefinitely long after he thought that it had died away. He put the old
drifting fancies out of his mind, and, having no leaning toward
self-indulgence, believed at last that they were done with because they
returned but seldom; but he never heard of Bertha, either through the
professor or through others, without being conscious for days afterward
of an unrest he called by no name.

He rested under the influence of this feeling as he was driven through
the lighted streets toward his hotel, and his recollection of his last
drive through these same streets made it stronger.

"Eight years," he said. "She has been to many parties since then. Let us
hope she has enjoyed them all."

He made his first visit to the professor the same evening, after he had
established himself in his room and dined. The professor was always at
home in the evening, and, irregular as their correspondence had been,
Tredennis felt that he was sure of a welcome from him.

He was not mistaken in this. He found his welcome.

The professor was seated in his dressing-gown, before his study-table,
as if he had not stirred during the eight years. He had even the
appearance of being upon the point of empaling the same corpulent beetle
upon the same attenuated pin, and of engaging in the occupation with the
same scientific interest Tredennis remembered so well.

On hearing his visitor's name announced, he started slightly, laid his
beetle aside with care, and, rising from his seat, came forward with
warm pleasure in his face.

"What!" he exclaimed. "What!--_you_, Tredennis! Well, well! I'm very
glad, my dear fellow! I'm very glad."

He shook his hand affectionately, at the same time holding him by the
shoulder, as if to make more sure of him.

"I am very glad myself," said Tredennis. "It is a great pleasure to see
you again."

"And it took you eight years to get round to us," said the professor,
looking at him thoughtfully, and turning him round a trifle more to the
light. "Eight years! That's a slice out of a man's life, too."

"But you are no older, professor," said Tredennis. "I am older, but not
you."

The professor nodded acquiescence.

"Yes, yes, I know all about that," he said. "You're an old fellow, now;
I was an old fellow myself forty years ago. There, sit down, and tell me
all about it. That is the chair you sat in when you were here last. You
sat in it the night--the night we talked about Bertha."




CHAPTER IV.


"How is Bertha?" Tredennis asked.

The professor sat down in his chair and took up the poker quite
carefully.

"She is at a party to-night," he said, poking the fire, "though it is
late in the season for parties. She generally is at a party--oftener
than not she is at two or three parties."

"Then she must be well," suggested Tredennis.

"Oh, she is well," the professor answered. "And she gets a good deal out
of life. She will always get a good deal out of it--in one way or
another."

"That is a good thing," remarked Tredennis.

"Very," responded the professor, "if it's all in the one way and not in
the other."

He changed the subject almost immediately, and began to discuss
Tredennis' own affairs. His kindly interest in his career touched the
younger man's heart. It seemed that he had taken an interest in him from
the first, and, silent as he had been, had never lost sight of him.

"It used to strike me that you would be likely to make something of your
life," he said, in his quiet, half-abstracted way. "You looked like it.
I used to say to myself that if you were my son I should look forward to
being proud of you. I--I wish you _had_ been my son, my boy."

"If I had been," answered Tredennis, earnestly, "I should have felt it a
reason for aiming high."

The professor smiled faintly.

"Well," he said, "you aimed high without that incentive. And the best of
it is that you have not failed. You are a strong fellow. I
like--a--strong--fellow," he added, slowly.

He spoke of Bertha occasionally again in the course of their after
conversation, but not as it had been his habit to speak of her in her
girlhood. His references to her were mostly statements of facts
connected with her children, her mode of life, or her household. She
lived near him, her home was an attractive one, and her children were
handsome, healthy, and bright.

"Amory is a bright fellow, and a handsome fellow," he said. "He is not
very robust, but he is an attractive creature--sensitive, poetic
temperament, fanciful. He is fanciful about Bertha, and given to
admiring her."

When he went away, at the end of the evening, Tredennis carried with him
the old vague sense of discomfort. The professor had been interesting
and conversational, and had given him the warmest of welcomes, but he
had missed something from their talk which he had expected to find. He
was not aware of how he had counted upon it until he missed it, and the
sense of loss which he experienced was a trouble to him.

He had certainly not been conscious of holding Bertha foremost in his
mind when he had turned his steps toward her father's house. He had
thought of how his old friend would look, of what he would say, and had
wondered if he should find him changed. He had not asked himself if he
should see Bertha or hear of her, and yet what he had missed in her
father's friendly talk had been the old kindly, interested discussion of
her, and once out in the night air and the deserted streets he knew that
he was sadder for his visit than he had fancied he should be. The
bright, happy, girlish figure seemed to have passed out of the
professor's life also--out of the home it had adorned--even out of the
world itself. His night's sleep was not a very peaceful one, but the
next morning when he rose, the light of day and the stir of life around
him seemed to have dispelled the reality of his last night's fancies.
His mind had resolved itself into a condition with which he was
familiar, and he was aroused to interest and pleasure in his
surroundings. His memory was once more the ghost of a memory which he
had long accustomed himself to living without. During the morning his
time was fully occupied by his preparations for his new duties, but in
the afternoon he was at liberty, and remembering a message he was
commissioned to deliver to the sister of a brother officer, he found his
way to the lady's house.

It was a house in a fashionable street, and its mistress was a
fashionable little person, who appeared delighted to see him, and to
treat him with great cordiality.

"I am so glad you were so good as to call to-day," she said. "Mr.
Gardner heard that you had arrived, but did not know where you were, or
he would have seen you this morning. What a pity that you were not in
time for the inauguration! The ball was more than usually successful. I
do hope you will let us see you to-night."

"To-night?" repeated Tredennis.

"Yes. We want you so much," she continued. "We give a little
party,--only a little one,--and we shall be so glad. There will be
several people here who will be delighted to meet you,--the gentleman
who is spoken of as likely to be the new Secretary of the Interior, for
instance. He will be charmed. Mr. Gardner has told me what interesting
things you have been doing, and what adventures you have had. I shall
feel quite sure that my party will be a success, if you will consent to
be my lion."

"I am afraid my consenting wouldn't establish the fact," said Tredennis.
"You would want a mane, and a roar, and claws. But you are very kind to
ask me to your party."

The end of the matter was that, after some exchange of civilities, he
gave a half-promise to appear, mentally reserving the privilege of
sending "regrets" if he did not feel equal to the effort when night
arrived. He was not fond of parties. And so, having delivered the
message with which he had been commissioned, he made his adieus and
retired.

When night came he was rather surprised to find lurking in his mind some
slight inclination to abide by his promise. Accordingly, after having
taken a deliberate, late dinner, read the papers, and written a letter
or so, he dressed himself and issued forth.

On arriving at his destination he found the "little party" a large one.
The street was crowded with carriages, the house was brilliantly
lighted, an awning extended from the door to the edge of the pavement,
and each carriage, depositing its brilliant burden within the protection
of the striped tunnel, drove rapidly away to give place to another.

Obeying the injunctions of the servant at the door Tredennis mounted to
the second story and divested himself of his overcoat, with the
assistance of a smart mulatto, who took it in charge. The room in which
he found himself was rather inconveniently crowded with men,--young,
middle-aged, elderly, some of them wearing a depressed air of wishing
themselves at home, some bearing themselves stolidly, and others either
quietly resigned or appearing to enjoy themselves greatly. It was not
always the younger ones who formed this last class Tredennis observed.
In one corner a brisk gentleman, with well-brushed, gray beard, laughed
delightedly over a story just related to him with much sprightliness by
a companion a decade older than himself, while near them an unsmiling
youth of twenty regarded their ecstasies without the movement of a
muscle.

Tredennis' attention was attracted for a moment toward two men who stood
near him, evidently awaiting the appearance of some one at the door of
the ladies cloak-room, which they could see from where they stood.

One of them leaned in a nicely managed labor-saving attitude against the
door-post. He was a rather tall, blonde young man, with a face eminently
calculated to express either a great deal or absolutely nothing at all,
as he chose to permit it, and his unobtrusive evening dress had an air
of very agreeable fitness and neatness, and quite distinguished itself
by seeming to belong to him. It was his laugh which called Tredennis'
attention to him. He laughed in response to some remark of his
companion's,--a non-committal but naturally sounding baritone laugh,
which was not without its attractiveness.

"Yes, I was there," he said.

"And sang?"

"No, thank you."

"And she was there, of course?"

"She?" repeated his friend, his countenance at this moment expressing
nothing whatever, and doing it very well.

"Oh, Mrs. Amory," responded the other, who was young enough and in
sufficiently high spirits to be led into forgetting to combine good
taste with his hilarity.

"You might say Mrs. Amory,--if you don't object," replied his companion,
quietly. "It would be more civil."

Then Tredennis passed out and heard no more.

He made his way down the stairs, which were crowded with guests going
down and coming up, and presented himself at the door of the first of
the double parlors, where he saw his hostess standing with her husband.
Here he was received with the greatest warmth, Mrs. Gardner brightening
visibly when she caught sight of him.

"Now," she said, "this is really good of you. I was almost afraid to let
you go away this afternoon. Mr. Gardner, Colonel Tredennis is really
here," she added, with frank cordiality.

After that Tredennis found himself swallowed, as in a maelstrom. He was
introduced right and left, hearing a name here and seeing a face there,
and always conscious of attaching the wrong names to the faces as he
struggled to retain some impression of both in his memory. Mrs. Gardner
bore him onward, filled with the most amiable and hospitable delight in
the sensation he awakened as she led him toward the prominent official
in prospective before referred to, who leaned against a mantel-piece and
beguiled his time by making himself quite agreeable to a very pretty
young _débutante_ who was recounting her experience at the inaugural
ball. Here Tredennis was allowed to free himself from the maelstrom and
let it whirl past him, as he stood a little aside and conversed with his
new acquaintance, who showed deep interest in and much appreciation of
all he had to say, and evidently would have been glad to prolong the
interview beyond the moment, when some polite exigency called him away
in the midst of an animated discussion of the rights of Indian agents
and settlers.

When he had gone Tredennis still remained standing where he had left
him, enjoying his temporary seclusion and the opportunity of looking on
with the cool speculation of an outsider.

He had been looking on thus for some moments,--at the passing to and
fro, at the well-bred elbowing through the crush, at the groups
gathering themselves here and there to exchange greetings and then
breaking apart and drifting away,--when he suddenly became aware of a
faint fragrance in the atmosphere about him which impressed itself upon
him with a curious insistence. On his first vague recognition of its
presence he could not have told what it was, or why it roused in him
something nearer pain than pleasure. It awakened in him a queer sense of
impatience with the glare of light, the confusion of movement and
voices, and the gay measure of the music in the next room. And almost
the instant he felt this impatience a flash of recognition broke upon
him, and he knew what the perfume was, and that it seemed out of place
in the glare and confusion simply because his one distinct memory of it
associated itself only with the night when he had sat in the fire-light
with Bertha, and she had held the heliotrope in her hand. With this
memory in his mind, and with a half smile at his own momentary
resentment of the conditions surrounding him, he turned toward the spot
near from which he fancied the odor of the flowers came, thinking that
it had floated from some floral decoration of the deep window. And so,
turning, he saw--surrounded by what seemed to be the gayest group in the
room--Bertha herself!

She was exquisitely dressed, and stood in the prettiest possible pose,
supporting herself lightly against the side of the window; she had a
bouquet in her hand and a brilliant smile on her lips, and Tredennis
knew in an instant that she had seen and recognized him.

She did not move; she simply retained her pretty pose, smiling and
waiting for him to come to her, and, though she said nothing to her
companions, something in her smile evidently revealed the situation to
them, for, almost immediately, the circle divided itself, and room was
made for him to advance within it.

Often afterward Tredennis tried to remember how he moved toward her, and
what he said when he found himself quite near her, holding the gloved
hand she gave him so lightly; but his recollections were always of the
vaguest. There scarcely seemed to have been any first words--he was at
her side, she gave him her hand, and then, in the most natural manner,
the group about her seemed to melt away, and they were left together,
and he, glancing half unconsciously down at her bouquet, saw that it was
made of heliotrope and Maréchal Niel roses.

She was so greatly and yet so little changed that he felt, as he looked
at her, like a man in a dream. He tried to analyze the change and could
not, and the effort to do so was a pain to him. The color in her cheeks
was less bright than he remembered it, but her eyes were brighter; he
thought also that they looked larger, and soon recognized that this was
not only because her face was less girlishly full, but arose from a
certain alertness of expression which had established itself in them.
And yet, despite their clear brightness, when she lifted them to his
own, his sense of loss was for the instant terrible. Her slight, rounded
figure was even prettier than ever,--more erect, better borne, and with
a delicate consciousness and utilizing of its own graces,--but it was
less easy to connect it mentally with the little gray gown and lace
kerchief than he could ever have believed possible.

Her very smile and voice had changed. The smile was sometimes a very
brilliant one and sometimes soft and slow, as if a hidden meaning lay
behind it; the voice was low-pitched, charmingly modulated, and
expressed far more than the words it gave to a listener, but Tredennis
knew that he must learn to know them both, and that to do so would take
time and effort.

He never felt this so strongly as when she sat down on the cushioned
window-seat, and made a little gesture toward the place at her side.

"Sit down," she said, with the soft smile this time,--a smile at once
sweet and careless. "Sit down, and tell me if you are glad to be
stationed in Washington; and let me tell _you_ that papa is delighted at
the prospect of your being near him again."

"Thank you," answered Tredennis; "and as to the being here, I think I
like the idea of the change well enough."

"You will find it a great change, I dare say," she went on; "though, of
course, you have not devoted yourself to the Indians entirely during
your absence. But Washington is unlike any other American city. I think
it is unlike any other city in the universe. It is an absorbingly
interesting place when you get used to it."

"You are fortunate in finding it so," said Tredennis.

"I?" she said, lightly. "Oh! I do not think I could resign myself to
living anywhere else; though, when you reflect, of course you know that
is a national quality. All good Americans adore the city they confer
distinction on by living in, and asperse the characters of all other
places. Englishmen believe in London, and Frenchmen in Paris; but in
America, a New Yorker vaunts himself upon New York, a Bostonian glories
in Boston, and a Washingtonian delights in the capital of his country;
and so on, until you reach New Orleans."

"That is true enough," said Tredennis, "though I had not thought of it
before."

"Oh, it is true," she answered, with an airy laugh. Then she added, with
a change of tone, "You have been away for a long time."

"Eight years," he replied.

He thought she gave a slight start, but immediately she turned upon him
with one of the brilliant smiles.

"We have had time to grow since then," she said,--"not older, of course,
but infinitely wiser--and better."

He did not find it easy to comprehend very clearly either her smile or
her manner. He felt that there might be something hidden behind both,
though certainly nothing could have been brighter or more inconsequent
than her tone. He did not smile, but regarded her for a moment with a
look of steady interest, of which he was scarcely conscious. She bore it
for an instant, and then turned her eyes carelessly aside, with a laugh.

"I do not think you are changed at all," she said.

"Why?" he asked, still watching her, and trying to adjust himself to her
words.

"You looked at me then," she said, "just as you used to when you were
with us before, and I said something frivolous. I am afraid I was often
frivolous in those days. I confess I suspected myself of it, and one day
I even made a resolution"--

She did start then--as if some memory had suddenly returned to her. She
lifted her bouquet to her face and let it slowly drop upon her knee
again as she turned and looked at him.

"I remember now," she said, "that I made that resolution the day you
brought me the heliotrope." And now it seemed for the instant to be her
turn to regard him with interest.

"I don't know what the resolution was," he said, rather grimly, "but I
hope it was a good one. Did you keep it?"

"No," she answered, undisturbedly; "but I kept the heliotrope. You know
I said I would. It is laid away in one of my bureau drawers."

"And the first party?" he asked. "Was it a success?"

"Oh, yes," she replied, "it was a great success. I am happy to say that
all my parties are successes, inasmuch as I enjoy them."

"Is this a success?" he inquired. She raised her bouquet to her face
again and glanced over it at the crowded room.

"It is an immense success," she said. "Such things always are--in
Washington. Do you see that little woman on the sofa? Notice what bright
eyes she has, and how quickly they move from one person to another--like
a bird's. She is 'our Washington correspondent' for half-a-dozen Western
papers, and 'does the social column' in one of our principal dailies,
and to-morrow you will read in it that 'one of the most brilliant
receptions of the season was held last night at the charming home of
Mrs. Winter Gardner, on K street.' You will also learn that 'Mrs.
Richard Amory was lovely in white brocade and pearls,' and that
'noticeable among even the stateliest masculine forms was the imposing
figure of Colonel Tredennis, the hero of Indian adventure and'"--

She had been speaking in the quietest possible manner, looking at the
scene before her and not at him; but here she stopped and bent toward
him a little.

"Have you," she said, softly, "such a thing as a scalp about you?"

He was by no means prepared for the inquiry, but he sustained himself
under it in his usual immovable manner. He put his hand up to his breast
and then dropped it.

"I am afraid not," he said. "Not in this suit. I forgot, in dressing,
that I might need them. But I might go back to the hotel," he added,
suggestively.

"Oh, no, thanks," she said, returning to her former position. "I was
only thinking how pleased she would be if you could show her a little
one, and tell her the history of it. It would be so useful to her."

"I am very sorry," said Tredennis.

"You would be more sorry," she went on, "if you knew what an industrious
little person she is, and with what difficulty she earns her ten dollars
a column. She goes to receptions, and literary and art clubs, and to the
White House, and the Capitol, and knows everybody and just what
adjectives they like, and how many; and is never ill-natured at all,
though it really seems to me that such an existence offers a premium to
spitefulness. I am convinced that it would make me spiteful. But she
never loses control over her temper--or her adjectives. If I weighed two
hundred pounds, for instance, she would refer to my avoirdupois as
'matronly _embonpoint_;' and if I were a skeleton, she would say I had a
'slight and reed-like figure,' which is rather clever, you know, as well
as being Christian charity."

"And she will inform the world to-morrow that your dress," glancing down
at it, "was white"--

"And that my hair was brown, as usual," she ended for him. "And that I
carried a bouquet of heliotrope and roses."

"I hope you like it," he said.

"Oh, very much indeed, thank you," was her response. "And if I did not,
somebody else would, or it is plain that she would not get her ten
dollars a column. It has struck me that she doesn't do it for amusement,
or with the deliberate intention of annoying people. For my part, I
admire and envy her. There is no collection so valuable as a collection
of adjectives. Everything depends on adjectives. You can begin a
friendship or end it with one--or an enmity, either."

"Will you tell me," said Tredennis, "what adjective you would apply to
the blonde young man on the other side of the room, who has just picked
up a lady's handkerchief?"

She looked across the room at the person indicated, and did not reply at
once. There was a faintly reflective smile in her eyes, though it could
scarcely be said to touch her lips. The man was the one who had
attracted Tredennis' attention at the door of the cloak-room, and since
coming down-stairs he had regarded him with some interest upon each
occasion when he had caught sight of him as he moved from room to room,
evidently at once paying unobtrusive but unswerving attention to the
social exigencies of his position, and finding a decent amount of quiet
entertainment in the results of his efforts.

"I wish you would tell me," said Bertha, after her little pause, "what
adjective _you_ would apply to him."

"I am afraid," said Tredennis, "that our acquaintance is too limited at
present to allow of my grasping the subject. As I don't chance to know
him at all"--

Bertha interposed, still watching the object of discussion with the
faintly reflective smile.

"I have known him for six years," she said, "and I have not found his
adjective yet. He is a cousin of Mr. Amory's. Suppose," she said,
turning with perfect seriousness and making a slight movement as if she
would rise,--"suppose we go and ask Miss Jessup?"

Tredennis offered her his arm.

"Let us hope that Miss Jessup can tell us," he said.

His imperturbable readiness seemed to please her. Her little laugh had a
genuine sound in it. She sat down again.

"I am afraid she could not," she said. "See! he is coming to speak to
me, and we might ask him."

But she did not ask him when he presented himself before her, as he did
almost immediately. He had come to remind her that dancing was going on
in one of the rooms, and that she had promised him the waltz the
musicians had just struck into with a flourish.

"Perhaps you will remember that you said the third waltz," he said, "and
this is the third waltz."

Bertha rose.

"I remember," she said, "and I think I am ready for it; but before you
take me away you must know Colonel Tredennis. Of course you do know
Colonel Tredennis, but you must know him better. Colonel Tredennis, this
is Mr. Arbuthnot."

The pair bowed, as civility demanded. Of the two, it must be confessed
that Tredennis' recognition of the ceremony was the less cordial. Just
for the moment he was conscious of feeling secretly repelled by the
young man's well-carried, conventional figure and calm, blond
countenance,--the figure seemed so correct a copy of a score of others,
the blond countenance expressed so little beyond a carefully trained
tendency to good manners, entirely unbiassed by any human emotion.

"By the time our waltz is finished," said Bertha, as she took his arm,
"I hope that Mr. Amory will be here. He promised me that he would come
in toward the end of the evening. He will be very glad to find you
here."

And then, with a little bow to Tredennis, she went away.

She did not speak to her companion until they reached the room where the
dancers were congregated. Then, as they took their place among the
waltzers, she broke the silence.

"If I don't dance well," she said, "take into consideration the fact
that I have just been conversing with a man I knew eight years ago."

"You will be sure to dance well," said Arbuthnot, as they began. "But I
don't mind acknowledging an objection to persons I knew eight years ago.
I never could find any sufficient reason for their turning up. And, as
to your friend, it strikes me it shows a great lack of taste in the
Indians to have consented to part with him. It appeared to me that he
possessed a manner calculated to endear him to aboriginal society beyond
measure."

Bertha laughed,--a laugh whose faintness might have arisen from her
rapid motion.

"He's rather rigorous-looking," she said; "but he always was. Still, I
remember I was beginning to like him quite well when he went West. Papa
is very fond of him. He turns out to be a persistent, heroic kind of
being--with a purpose in life, and the rest of it."

"His size is heroic enough," said Arbuthnot. "He would look better on a
pedestal in a public square than in a parlor."

Bertha made no reply, but, after having made the round of the room
twice, she stopped.

"I am not dancing well," she said. "I do not think I am in a dancing
mood. I will sit down."

Arbuthnot glanced at her, and then looked away.

"Do you want to be quiet?" he asked.

"I want to be quieter than this," she answered; "for a few minutes. I
believe I am tired."

"You have been going out too much," he said, as he led her into a small
side-room which had been given up to a large, ornate punch-bowl, to do
reverence to which occasional devotees wandered in and out.

"I have been going out a great deal," she answered.

She leaned back in the luxurious little chair he had given her, and
looked across the hall into the room where the waltz was at its height,
and, having looked, she laughed.

"Do you see that girl in the white dress, which doesn't fit," she
said,--"the plump girl who bags at the waist and is oblivious to it--and
everything else but her waltz and her partner?"

"Yes," he responded; "but I hope you are not laughing at her,--there is
no need of it. She's having a fascinating time."

"Yes," she returned. "She is having a lively time; but I am not laughing
at her, but at what she reminds me of. Do you know, I was just that age
when Colonel Tredennis saw me last. I was not that size or that shape,
and my dresses used to fit--but I was just that age, and just as
oblivious, and danced with just that spirit of enjoyment."

"You dance with just as much enjoyment now," said Arbuthnot, "and you
are quite as oblivious at times, though it may suit your fancy just at
the present moment to regard yourself as a shattered wreck confronted
with the ruins of your lost youth and innocence. I revel in that kind of
thing myself at intervals, but it does not last."

"No," she said, opening her fan with a smile, and looking down at the
Cupids and butterflies adorning it, "of course it won't last, and I must
confess that I am not ordinarily given to it--but that man! Do you know,
it was a curious sort of sensation that came over me when I first saw
him. I was standing near a window, talking to half-a-dozen people, and
really enjoying myself very much,--you know I nearly always enjoy
myself,--and suddenly something seemed to make me look up--and there he
stood!"

"It would not be a bad idea for him to conceal his pedestal about him
and mount it when it became necessary for him to remain stationary,"
said Arbuthnot, flippantly, and yet with a momentary gravity in his eyes
somewhat at variance with his speech.

She went on as if he had not spoken.

"It was certainly a curious feeling," she continued. "Everything came to
me in a flash. I suppose I am rather a light and frivolous person, not
sufficiently given to reflecting on the passage of time, and suddenly
there he stood, and I remembered that eight years had gone by, and that
everything was changed."

"A great many things can happen in eight years," commented Arbuthnot.

"A great many things have happened to _me_," she said. "_Everything_ has
happened to me!"

"No," said Arbuthnot, in a low, rather reflective tone, and looking as
he spoke not at her, but at the girl whose white dress did not fit, and
who at that moment whirled rather breathlessly by the door. "No--not
everything."

"I have grown from a child to a woman," she said. "I have married, I
have arrived at maternal dignity. I don't see that there is anything
else that could happen--at least, anything comfortable."

"No," he admitted. "I don't think there is anything comfortable."

"Well, it is very certain I don't want to try anything uncomfortable,"
she said. "'Happy the people whose annals are tiresome.' Montesquieu
says that, and it always struck me as meaning something."

"I hope it does not mean that you consider your annals tiresome," said
Arbuthnot. "How that girl does dance! This is the fifth time she has
passed the door."

"I hope her partner likes it as much as she does," remarked Bertha. "And
as to the annals, I have not found them tiresome at all, thank you. As
we happen to have come to retrospect, I think I may say that I have
rather enjoyed myself, on the whole. I have had no tremendous emotions."

"On which you may congratulate yourself," Arbuthnot put in.

"I do," she responded. "I know I should not have liked them. I have left
such things to--you, for instance."

She said this with a little air of civil mocking which was by no means
unbecoming, and to which her companion was well used.

"Thank you," he replied, amiably. "You showed consideration, of
course--but that's your way."

"I may not have lived exactly the kind of life I used to think I should
live--when I was a school-girl," she went on, smiling; "but who
does?--and who would want to when she attained years of discretion? And
I may not be exactly the kind of person I--meant to be; but I think I
may congratulate you on that--and Richard. You would never have been the
radiant creatures you are if I had ripened to that state of perfection.
You could not have borne up under it."

She rose from her seat and took his arm.

"No," she said, "I am not the kind of person I meant to be, and Colonel
Tredennis has reminded me of the fact and elevated my spirits. Let us go
and find him, and invite him to dinner to-morrow. He deserves it."

As they passed the door of the dancing-room she paused a moment to look
in, and as she did so caught sight of the girl in the white dress once
more.

"She is not tired yet," she said, "but her partner is--and so am I. If
Richard has come, I think I shall go home."




CHAPTER V.


Tredennis dined with them the next day, and many days afterward. On
meeting him Richard Amory had taken one of his rather numerous
enthusiastic fancies to him, and in pursuit and indulgence of this fancy
could not see enough of him. These fanciful friendships were the
delights of his life, and he never denied himself one, though
occasionally they wore themselves out in time to give place to others.

Tredennis found him as the professor had described him, "a bright
fellow, and a handsome fellow." He had thought that when he came forward
to introduce himself, as he had done at the Gardners' reception, he had
never seen a brighter or more attractive human being. He had a dark,
delicate, eager face, soft, waving hair, tossed lightly back from a
forehead whose beauty was almost feminine; a slight, lithe figure, and
an air of youth and alertness which would have been attraction enough in
itself. He was interested in everything: each subject touched upon
seeming to awaken him to enthusiasm,--the Indians, the settlers, the
agencies, the fort life,--equally interested in each, and equally ready
to confront, in the most delightfully sanguine mood, the problems each
suggested.

"It is worth a great deal to have an opportunity to judge of these
things from the inside," he said. "There are a thousand questions I want
to ask; but we shall see you often, of course. We must see you often. It
will be the greatest pleasure to us."

His first entrance into their house, the following evening, was
something which always set itself apart in Tredennis' memory.

A gay burst of laughter greeted him as the parlor door was thrown
open,--laughter so gay that the first announcement of his name was
drowned by it, and, as he paused for a moment, he had the opportunity to
take in fully the picture before him. The room was a pretty and
luxurious one, its prettiness and luxury wearing the air of being the
result of natural growth, and suggesting no oppressiveness of
upholstery. Its comforts were evidently the outcome of the fancies and
desires of those who lounged, or read, or talked in it, and its
knick-knacks and follies were all indicative of some charming whim
carried out with a delightful freedom from reason, which was their own
excuse.

In the open fireplace a bright wood-fire burned, and upon the white
wolf-skin before it Richard Amory lay at unconventional full length,
with his hands clasped lightly under his head, evidently enjoying to the
utmost the ease of his position, the glow of the fire, and the jest of
the moment, while near him, in an easy-chair, sat Arbuthnot. Both of
them looked at Bertha, who stood with one hand resting on the low
mantel.

"I have been waiting for a long time," Tredennis heard her say, and
then, as the servant announced his name again, she stopped speaking, and
came forward to meet him, while Richard sprang lightly to his feet.

"I will tell you at the outset," she said, "that it is not one of the
time-honored customs of Washington for people to receive their guests
with this ingenuous and untrammelled freedom, but"--

"But she has been telling us a story," put in Richard, shaking hands
with him; "and she told it so well that we forgot the time. And she must
tell it again."

"It is not worth telling again," she said, as they returned to the fire;
"and, besides, I told it to you in the strictest confidence. And if that
is not reason enough, I don't mind confessing that it is a story which
doesn't exhibit me in an amiable light. It shows a temper and
viciousness that you count among your home comforts, and don't feel it
decent to display for the benefit of any one but your immediate
relatives."

Tredennis looked down at her curiously. His first glance at her had
shown him that to-night she was even farther removed from his past than
she had seemed before. Her rich dress showed flashes of bright color,
her eyes were alight with some touch of excitement, and her little
wrists were covered with pretty barbarities of bangles and charms which
jingled as she moved.

"I should like to hear the story," he said.

"It is a very good story," commented Arbuthnot, laughing; "I think I
would tell it over again."

"Oh, yes," said Richard; "Colonel Tredennis must hear it."

Bertha looked across at Tredennis, and as she did so he saw in her eyes
what he had seen the night before and had not understood, but which
dawned upon him now,--a slight smiling defiance of his thoughts,
whatsoever they might be.

"You won't like it," she said; "but you shall hear it, if you wish. It
is about a great lady"--

"That will add to the interest," said Tredennis. "You have great ladies
in Washington?"

"It is infinitely to our credit that they are only occasional
incidents," she answered, "and that they don't often last long. When one
considers the number of quiet, domesticated women who find themselves
launched suddenly, by some wave of chance, into the whirl of public
life, one naturally wonders that we are not afflicted with some very
great ladies indeed; but it must be confessed we have far less to
complain of in that respect than might be expected."

"But this particular great lady?" said Tredennis.

"Is one of the occasional incidents. Some one said that our society was
led by bewildered Europeans and astonished Americans,--Americans
astonished to find themselves suddenly bearing the responsibility of the
highest positions, and Europeans bewildered by being called upon to
adjust themselves to startling novelties in manners and customs. This
great lady is one of the astonished Americans, and, privately, she is
very much astonished, indeed."

Arbuthnot laughed.

"You will observe," he commented, "that Mrs. Amory's remarks are
entirely unbiassed by any feminine prejudices."

"You will observe," said Bertha, "that Mr. Arbuthnot's remarks are
entirely unbiassed by any prejudice in favor of my reliability of
statement. But," she added, with a delusive air of amiable candor, "I am
sure you cannot deny that I was very civil to her."

"I have not a doubt of it," responded Arbuthnot. "And I don't mind
adding that I should like to have been there to see."

"Colonel Tredennis shall judge," she said, "whether it would have been
really worth while. I will make the story brief. Last season the great
lady gave me cause to remember her. We had not met, and, to please a
friend, I called upon her. We found her in her drawing-room, engaged in
entertaining two new newly arrived _attachés_. They seemed to interest
her. I regret to say that we did not. She did not hear our names when
the servant announced them, and the insignificance of our general
bearing was against us. I think it must have been that, for we were
comparatively well dressed--at least, Miss Jessup's description of our
costumes in the 'Wabash Times' gave that impression the following week.
Perhaps we looked timid and unaccustomed to 'the luxurious trophies from
many climes' (Miss Jessup again) surrounding us. The ingenuous modesty
of extreme youth which you may have observed"--

"Repeatedly," replied Arbuthnot.

"Thank you. But I suppose it told against me on this occasion. Our
respectable attire and air of general worthiness availed nothing. The
great lady rose, stared at us, gave us her finger-ends, called us by
names which did not belong to us, and sat down again, turning her back
upon us with much frankness, and resuming her conversation with the
_attachés_, not interrupting it to address six words to us during the
three minutes we remained. That is the first half of the story."

"It promises well for the second half," said Tredennis.

"The second is _my_ half," said Bertha. "Later, she discovered our real
names, and the fact that--shall I say that Miss Jessup knew them, and
thought them worthy of mention in the 'Wabash Times'? That would,
perhaps, be a good way of putting it. Then she called, but did not see
me, as I was out. We did not meet again until this afternoon. I was
making the Cabinet calls, and had the pleasure of encountering her at
the house of the Secretary of War. Perhaps Miss Jessup had sent her a
copy of the 'Wabash Times' yesterday, with the society column marked--I
don't know. But she was pleased to approach me. I received her advances
with the mild consideration of one who sees a mistake made, but is
prevented by an amiable delicacy from correcting it, and observing this,
she was led into the indiscretion of saying, with graceful leniency,
that she feared I did not know her. I think it is really there that my
half begins. I smiled with flattering incredulity, and said, 'That would
be very strange in a Washingtonian.'

"'When you called'--she began.

"I looked at her with a blush, as of slight embarrassment, which seemed
to disturb her.

"'You have not forgotten that you called?' she remarked, chillingly.

"'It would have been impossible for me to forget anything so agreeable,'
I said, as though in delicately eager apology. 'I am most unlucky. It
was some more fortunate person.'

"'But,' she said, 'I returned the visit.'

"'I received your card,' I replied, smiling ingenuously into her eyes,
'and it reminded me of my delinquency. Of course I knew it was a
mistake.'

"And after I had smiled into her eyes for a second or so longer, she
began to understand, and I think by this time it is quite clear to her."

"There must be a moral to that," commented Tredennis.

"There is," she responded, with serene readiness. "A useful one. It is
this: It is always safe--in Washington--to be civil to the respectably
clad. If the exigencies of public position demand that you receive, not
the people you wish to see, or the people who wish to see you, but the
respectably clad, it is well to deal in glittering generalities of good
manners, and even--if you choose to go so far--good feeling. There are
numbers of socially besieged women in Washington who actually put the
good feeling first; but the Government cannot insist on that, you know,
so it remains a matter of taste."

"If you could draw the line"--began Richard.

"There is no line," said Bertha, "so you can't draw it. And it was not
myself I avenged this afternoon, but--the respectably clad."

"And before she became an astonished American," put in Arbuthnot, "this
mistaken person was possibly"--

Bertha interposed, with a pretty gesture which set all the bangles
jingling.

"Ah," she said, "but we have so little to do with that, that I have not
even the pleasure of using it in my arguments against her. The only
thing to be reasonably required of her now is that she should be
sufficiently well-mannered during her career. She might assume her
deportment with her position, and dispose of it at a sacrifice
afterward. Imagine what a field in the way of advertisement, for
instance: 'For sale. A neatly fitting suit of good manners. Used through
one Administration. Somewhat worn through active service, but still
equal to much wear and tear.'"

That which struck Tredennis more forcibly than all else was her habit
of treating everything lightly, and he observed that it was a habit
Arbuthnot shared with her. The intimacy existing between the two seemed
an unusual one, and appeared to have established itself through slow and
gradual growth. It had no ephemeral air, and bore somehow the impress of
their having shared their experiences in common for some time. Beneath
the very derision which marked their treatment of each other was a
suggestion of unmistakable good fellowship and quick appreciation of
each other's moods. When Bertha made a fanciful speech, Arbuthnot's
laugh rang out even before Richard's, which certainly was ready enough
in response; and when Arbuthnot vouchsafed a semi-serious remark, Bertha
gave him an undivided attention which expressed her belief that what he
said would be worth listening to. Amory's province it seemed to be to
delight in both of them,--to admire their readiness, to applaud their
jests, and to encourage them to display their powers. That he admired
Arbuthnot immensely was no less evident than that no gift or grace of
Bertha's was lost upon him.

His light-hearted, inconsequent enjoyment of the pleasure of the moment
impressed Tredennis singularly. He was so ready to be moved by any
passing zephyr of sentiment or emotion, and so entirely and
sweet-temperedly free from any fatiguing effect when the breeze had once
swept over him.

"All that I have to complain of in you two people," he said, gayly, in
the course of the evening, "is that you have no sentiment--none
whatever."

"We are full of it," said Arbuthnot, "both of us,--but we conceal it,
and we feel that it makes us interesting. Nothing is more interesting
than repressed emotion. The appearance of sardonic coldness and stoicism
which has deceived you is but a hollow mockery; beneath it I secrete a
maelstrom of impassioned feeling and a mausoleum of blighted hopes."

"There is a fashion in emotions as in everything else," said Bertha.
"And sentiment is 'out.' So is stateliness. Who would submit to
stateliness in these days? It was the highest aim of our
great-grandmothers to be stately; but stateliness went out with ruffles
and the minuet, and a certain kind of Roman nose you find in all
portraits taken in the reigns of the Georges. Now we are sprightly. It
is imperative that we should be sprightly. I hope you are prepared to be
sprightly, Colonel Tredennis."

He was very conscious of not looking so. In fact, the idea was growing
upon him that upon the whole his grave face and large figure were rather
out of place among all this airy _badinage_. His predominant feeling was
that his unfortunate tendency to seriousness and silence was not a
Washingtonian quality, and augured poorly for his future. Here were
people who could treat lightly, not only their subjects, but themselves
and each other. The fire-lit room, with its trifles and knick-knacks and
oddities; the graceful, easy figure of Richard Amory lounging idly in
his chair; Bertha, with her bright dress and fantastic little ornaments
flashing and jingling; Arbuthnot smiling faintly, and touching his
mustache with a long, fair hand,--each and all suggested to him in some
whimsical, vague fashion that he was too large and not pliable enough
for his surroundings, and that if he moved he might upset something, or
tread upon some sparkling, not too substantial theory.

"I am afraid I am not as well prepared as I might be," he answered. "Do
you always find it easy?"

"I!" she returned. "Oh, perfectly! it is only Mr. Arbuthnot who finds it
difficult--being a prey to his feelings. In his moments of deep mental
anguish the sprightliness which society demands of him is a thing from
which his soul recoils."

Shortly after dinner Arbuthnot went away. He had a final call to make
upon some friends who were going away, after having taken an active
part in the inaugural ceremonies and ball. It appeared that they had
come from the West, with the laudable intention of making the most of
these festivities, and that he had felt it his duty to do his utmost for
their entertainment.

"I hope they enjoyed themselves," said Bertha, as he stood making his
adieus.

"Well," was his reply, "it strikes me they did. I took them to the
Treasury, and the Patent Office, and the Army and Navy Department, and
up into the dome of the Capitol, and into the Senate and the House, and
they heard the inaugural address, and danced at the ball, and saw the
ex-President and bought photographs of the new one, and tired themselves
out, and are going home a party of total wrecks, but without a thing on
their consciences; so I think they must have enjoyed themselves. I hope
so. I didn't. I don't grudge them anything; but it is the ninetieth time
I have been through the Treasury, and the twentieth time I have climbed
to the dome, and the exercise has lost its freshness."

After he had left the room he returned, drawing from the pocket of his
rather dandyfied light overcoat three small packages, which he laid on a
side-table.

"This is for Janey, and this for Jack, and this for Marjorie," he said.
"I told them they would find them there in the morning."

"Thank you," answered Bertha, as if the proceeding was one to which she
was well accustomed.

When he was fairly gone Richard Amory broke into a half laugh.

"What a queer fellow he is!" he said.

Bertha returned to her place by the fire, taking from the mantel a
little screen of peacock feathers and shading her face with it.

"Do you know," she said, "that he rarely leaves the house without one of
us making that remark, and yet it always has an illusive air of being
entirely new."

"Well," remarked Richard, "he is a queer fellow, and there's no denying
it. Imagine a fellow like that coolly rambling about with neat packages
of bonbons in his fastidious overcoat pocket, to be bestowed on children
without any particular claim on him. Why does he do it?"

"It doesn't exactly arise from enthusiasm awakened by their infant
charms," said Bertha, "and he never professed that it did."

"But he must care for them a little," returned Richard.

"The fact is that you don't know what he cares for," said Bertha, "and
it is rather one of his fascinations. I suppose that is really what we
mean by saying he is a queer fellow."

"At all events," said Richard, amiably, "he is a nice fellow, and one
can manage to subsist on that. All I complain of is that he hasn't any
object. A man ought to have an object--two or three, if he likes."

"He doesn't like," said Bertha, "for he certainly hasn't an
object--though, after all, that belongs to his mode of life."

"I should like," said Tredennis, "to know something of the mode of life
of a man who hasn't an object."

"You will gain a good deal of information on the subject if you remain
long in Washington," answered Bertha. "We generally have either too many
objects or none at all. If it is not your object to get into the White
House, or the Cabinet, or somewhere else, it is probably your fate to be
installed in a 'department;' and, as you cannot hope to retain your
position through any particular circumspectness or fitness for it, you
have not any object left you."

"The fact is," said Richard, "it would have been a great deal better for
Larry if he had stayed where he was and fought it out."

"The fact is," said Bertha, "it would be a great deal better for nine
out of ten of the rest if they stayed where they were. And when Larry
came he did not come under specially exhilarating circumstances, and
just then I suppose it seemed to him that the rest of his life was not
worth much to him."

"It has struck me," said Richard, reflectively, "that he had a blow of
some sort about that time,--something apart from the loss of his
fortune. I am not sure but that I once heard some wandering rumor of
there being a young woman somewhere"--

"Oh!" said Bertha, in a low, rather hurried voice, "he had a blow. There
is no mistake about that,--he had a blow, and there was a good deal in
him that did not survive it."

"And yet he doesn't strike you as being that sort of fellow," said
Richard, still in reflection. "You wouldn't think of him as being a
fellow with a grief."

Bertha broke into delighted laughter.

"A grief!" she exclaimed. "That is very good. I wish he had heard it. A
grief! I wonder what he would do with it in his moments of
recreation,--at receptions, for instance, and _musicales_, and germans.
He might conceal it in his opera hat, but I am afraid it would be in the
way. Poor Larry! Griefs are as much out of fashion as stateliness, and
he not only couldn't indulge in one if he would, but he wouldn't if he
could."

"Well, how would you put it," said Richard, "if you did not call it a
grief?"

Bertha laughed again.

"If I put it at all," she answered, "I would say that he had once been
very uncomfortable, but had discreetly devoted himself to getting over
it, and had succeeded decently well; and last, but not least, I would
add that it would be decidedly difficult to make him uncomfortable
again."

Tredennis found it impossible to avoid watching her with grave interest
each time she spoke or moved. He was watching her now with a sort of
aside sensibility to her bright drapery, her flashing, tinkling wrists,
and her screen of peacock feathers.

"She is very light," he was saying inwardly.

She turned to him with a smile.

"Would he strike _you_ as 'a fellow with a grief'?" she inquired.

"No," he answered; "I cannot say he would."

"No," she said, "that is certain enough. If you went away and never saw
him again, you would remember just this of him--if you remembered him at
all: that his clothes fitted him well, that he had an agreeable laugh,
that he had a civil air of giving you his attention when you spoke,
and--nothing else."

"And that is not all there is of him?" Tredennis asked.

She looked down at her feather screen, still smiling slightly.

"No," she answered, rather slowly, "not quite all; but even I don't
quite know how much more there is, and Richard, who has known him at
intervals all his life, lapses into speaking of him as 'a fellow with a
grief.'"

Richard rose from his chair.

"Oh," he said, with much cheerfulness, "there is no denying that you two
are the outgrowth of an effete civilization. You are always arriving at
logical deductions concerning each other, and you have a tendency to the
derision of all the softer emotions. You are a couple of world-worn
creatures, and it is left to me to represent the youth and ardor of the
family."

"That is true," said Bertha, in her soft, mocking voice. "We are
battered and worldly wise--and we have no object."

"But I have," said Richard, "and if Colonel Tredennis will come upstairs
with me, I will show him what a few of them are, if he takes an interest
in such things."

"What," said Bertha,--"the laboratory, or the library, or"--

"All of them," he answered, "including the new collection." And he
turned upon Tredennis the brightest imaginable smile.

Tredennis left his chair in response to it.

"I am interested in all collections, more or less," he said.

"So am I," said Bertha--"more or less." And they went out of the room
with this little gibe in their ears.

Before the conclusion of his visit to the domains upstairs Tredennis had
learned a great deal of Richard Amory. He had found that he had a taste
for mechanics, a taste for science, a taste for literature. He had a
geological cabinet, an entomological collection, a collection of coins,
of old books, of old engravings, all in different stages of
incompleteness. He had, even, in his small workroom, the unfinished
models of an invention or two, each of which he was ready to explain
with an enthusiasm which flamed up as the demands of the moment
required, in the most delightful and inspiring manner.

"I shall finish them all, one of these days," he said, blithely. "I am
always interested in one or the other, and they give me an object. And,
as I said downstairs, what a man wants is an object. That is what Larry
stands in need of. Give him an object, and he would not indulge in that
cold-blooded introspection and retrospection. Bertha has told him so
herself."

"They are very good friends," said Tredennis.

"Oh, yes! They are fond of each other, in their way. It is their way to
jeer a good deal, but they would stand by each other, I fancy, if the
time came when it was needful."

He referred, in the course of the conversation, to his profession, and
his reference to it caused Tredennis to class it in his mind, in some
way or other, with the unfinished models and incomplete collections.

"I can't say I like the law," he said, "but it was a sort of final
resource. I tried medicine for a while,--took a course of lectures; but
it didn't suit me. And then two or three other things turned up, but I
didn't seem to suit them. And so it ended in my choosing law, or letting
it choose me. I don't know that I am exactly a success at it. It's well
we don't depend on it. Bertha"--He broke off rather suddenly, and began
again at once. "I have plans which, if they are as successful as they
promise to be, will change the aspect of affairs." And he laughed
exultantly.

On their way downstairs they came upon an open door, which had been
closed as they went up. It opened into a large, cheerful room, with gay
pictures on the walls, and a high brass fender guarding the glowing
fire, before which a figure sat in a low rocking-chair, holding a child
in its arms.

"That is the nursery," said Richard. "Bertha, what is the matter with
Janey?"

It was Bertha who sat in the rocking-chair, and as she turned her face
quietly toward them Tredennis felt himself betrayed into a slight start.
Neither her eyes nor her color were as bright as they had been
downstairs. She had taken off her ornaments, and they lay in a small
glittering heap upon the stand at her side. The child's head rested upon
her breast, and her bare arm and hand held its body in an easy position
with a light, close, accustomed touch. She spoke in a soft, lowered
voice.

"Janey is nervous to-night," she answered. "She cannot go to sleep, and
I am trying to quiet her. Will you excuse me if I do not come down? She
really needs me."




CHAPTER VI.


When Tredennis found himself standing out in the street, half an hour
later, it was this picture which remained in his mind, and no other. If
an effort had been required to retain the impression upon his mental
retina he would have made the effort with the deliberate intention of
excluding all else; but no effort was needed.

"I suppose it is sentiment," he said, taking his cigar out of his mouth,
and looking up at the starlit sky. "I have no doubt it is sentiment. A
man who has lived mooning alone as long as I have, drifts in that
direction naturally, I suppose. And I am a rigid, old-fashioned fellow.
I don't fit in with the rest of it. But, with her child in her arms and
her gewgaws laid on the table, I seemed to see something I knew. I'll
think of that, and not of the other."

It was just at this moment that he caught sight of a figure approaching
him from a distance of a few yards. It was the figure of a man, wrapped
in a cloak, and walking with bent head at a leisurely pace, which argued
that he was deep in meditation. As it drew nearer Tredennis recognized
something familiar in its outlines, and before it had taken half-a-dozen
steps forward the head was raised suddenly, almost as if attracted by
something in his gaze, and he recognized the professor, who, seeing him,
came toward him at once, and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder.

"You are coming away from the house, are you?" he said. "I might have
known I should have the chance of meeting you when I came out to take my
ramble before going to bed. I do it every night. I find I sleep better
for it. Perhaps Bertha told you."

"No," answered Tredennis; "I had not been told of it."

The professor gave him a little impetus forward with the hand he still
kept on his shoulder.

"Walk on with me," he said. "What I like is the deserted look of things,
and the silence. There is nothing more silent and deserted than such a
street as this at night. There is a quiet and emptiness about it which
impress themselves on you more than the stillness of a desert. Perhaps
it is the sleep around you in the houses,--the people who have lost
their hold on the world and life for the time being. They are far enough
away by this time, most of them, and we are no more certain where they
are than we shall be after they have lain down for the last time. How
did you find Bertha?"

His voice changed as he asked the question, dropping its key somewhat;
and, quiet though its tone was, Tredennis thought he recognized a faint
suggestion of consciousness in it.

"She looked very well," he answered; "and was very bright."

"She is generally that," said the professor. "Who was there?"

"A Mr. Arbuthnot."

"Arbuthnot! Yes; to be sure. He generally is there. He is a relative of
Richard's. They are fond of him. I was to have been there myself, but I
had a previous engagement. And I suppose they made light of each other,
as usual?"

"You mean"--began Tredennis.

"Arbuthnot and Bertha. They always do it, and Richard looks on and
enjoys it. He is a queer fellow."

"Mr. Amory?" Tredennis questioned, uncertainly.

"No, no; Arbuthnot. He is a queer fellow, Arbuthnot."

Tredennis laughed.

"That is what they said in the house," he responded.

"Well, it's true," said the professor, reflectively, "and there is no
denying it."

"They said that, too," said Tredennis. "And Mrs. Amory added that it was
a habit they had."

"I don't know," said the professor, still keeping his hand on Tredennis'
shoulder, and seeming to study the pavement as he walked,--"I don't know
what the man has done with his past, and I don't know what he is going
to do with his future. I don't think he knows about the future himself."

"It struck me," said Tredennis,--"I don't know why,--that he did not
care."

"That's it," said the professor. "He doesn't care."

They walked a few steps in silence, and then he went on:

"He never will care," he said, "unless something happens to rouse him."

"I am obliged to confess," said Tredennis, "that I am afraid I am
prepared to underrate him. And it seemed to me that there wasn't much in
him to rouse."

"Oh, you'll underrate him," returned the professor, "at first. And you
may never get over it; but there are also ten chances to one that you
do. I did."

"You began by underrating him?"

"I don't overrate him now," said the professor. "I don't know that I am
particularly fond of him, though there have been moments--just
moments--when I have been threatened with it. But I have come to the
conclusion that there is something in him to rouse, and that it wouldn't
be the wisest thing in the world to rouse it."

"Do you mean," said Tredennis, slowly, "that it would take a woman to
rouse it?"

"Yes," answered the professor, just as slowly, "it would take a woman.
And there are circumstances under which it would be better for the woman
if she let what she might rouse lie and sleep."

"For instance?" said Tredennis, with a fierce leap of every pulse in his
body.

"If," said the professor, deliberately,--"if she were not free to give
what his feeling for her demanded."

He paused to turn Tredennis round.

"Confound him!" he said, with a curiously irritable seriousness. "If he
once reached a white heat,--that fellow with his objectless follies, and
his dress-coat, and his white necktie, and his opera hat under his
arm,--if he once forgot them and himself, it would be her fate to
remember him as long as her life should last."

"_Her_ fate?" said Tredennis.

"I said it would have to be a woman," said the professor. "I should not
like it to be a woman I felt an interest in. We have reached the end of
the block. Let us walk back again."

When he spoke again it was of Richard Armory, not of Arbuthnot.

"You went upstairs into the Museum, as Bertha calls it?" he said.

"Yes," answered Tredennis; "and into the workroom."

"And saw the models, and the collections, and the books?"

"Yes."

"He has a good many enthusiasms, Richard," said the professor. "They
might form a collection of themselves. He won't tire of life easily. He
is a fine contrast to--the other."

They were nearing the house again by this time, and he glanced up at its
front.

"There is a light in the nursery window," he said. "It must be one of
Janey's restless nights."

"Yes," said Tredennis. "Mrs. Amory was with her when we came downstairs,
and she told us that the child was nervous and needed her."

"She has wonderful patience with them," said the professor, "and a sort
of genius for understanding their vague young needs and desires. She
never does them an injustice for want of thought, and never fails them.
I have seen her spend half an hour half-kneeling, half-sitting on the
nursery floor, by one of them, with her arm round it, questioning it,
and helping it to tell its own story, in a way that was very motherly.
There is a great deal of the maternal instinct in her."

Tredennis made no reply, but there rose before his mental vision the
picture before the nursery fire, and he saw again the soft, close clasp
of the fair hand and arm.

"It's curious how seldom we speak of paternal instinct," the professor
went on. "It is always maternal instinct. Well, it is a great thing. And
it is a great safeguard where--where life is not satisfactory. And as
one grows older one sees a good deal of that. It is pitiful sometimes,
when one finds it, as one so often does, in young things who haven't got
over their desperate mental insistence on their right to be happy."

He checked himself with a faint laugh.

"I'm prosing, my boy," he said. "I always do it when I take my saunter
at night. It is a sort of safeguard against doing it in the day. And I
find I am specially given to it when I talk of Bertha. It is the
paternal instinct, if there is such a thing. You remember how we talked
of her when she came home from school. Do you find her much changed?"

"She has changed from a girl--a child, almost--to a woman," said
Tredennis.

"Yes," said the professor, "from a child to a woman. And yet, when you
look back upon it, eight years is a very short time. Sometimes it seems
only yesterday that she startled me at the dinner-table by saying that
she expected me to classify and label her."

"There have been times," said Tredennis, "when it seemed only yesterday
to me; but to-night it is something far away."

The professor looked up at him quickly.

"Is it?" he said. "Well, well," rather vaguely, "it is a habit they have
fallen into, that of making light of things. It is a kind of fashion
nowadays. She did not treat things lightly then, did she? How she
believed all that she believed--how frankly she impugned your veracity
in argument, without being at all conscious of the incivility! How
bright her eyes and lips were when she asked me if she could not have
the label without the pin! I wish"--

He stopped suddenly once more.

"We have reached the end of the block again, my boy," he said, "and I
have walked long enough, and talked long enough. We must say good-night
to each other."

They were standing beneath a street-lamp, and having looked up at
Tredennis to say this, he drew back a pace to look again, in whimsically
gentle admiration of his stalwart proportions.

"What a soldierly fellow you are!" he said; "and how you stand out among
the rest of us!" And then, with an odd change of manner, he drew nearer,
and laid his hand on his shoulder once more. "I'll say again," he said,
"what I have said before. I wish you had been a son of mine, my boy."

And, as he said it, there fell upon the quiet of the street the sound of
approaching footsteps ringing on the pavement, and, turning
instinctively toward them, each saw an easily recognized masculine
figure, which, reaching the house in which the Amorys lived, paused for
a moment beneath the lighted window, and flung forth to the night,
airily, and by no means unmusically, a few bars of one of the popular
airs from a gay French opera, and then, crossing the street, applied a
latch-key to the door of the opposite house, and, entering, closed it.

"The fellow has a pleasant voice," said the professor. "It is a voice
you like to hear. And that is one of his whims."

"I thought I recognized the figure," said Tredennis. "It is"--

"Arbuthnot," said the professor. "Arbuthnot."

And then they parted.




CHAPTER VII.


To Tredennis the next three months were full of event. It was mostly
quiet event, and yet, as day followed day, he was conscious that, in
each twenty-four hours, he lived through some new mental experience
which left its mark upon him. The first two weeks seemed to make his old
regular, routine-governed life a thing of the far past, from which he
was entirely separated by a gulf which it would be impossible to
recross. He awakened to a recognition of this at the end of the second
week, and told himself that the feeling was due to the complete novelty
of his surroundings and their natural influences upon him. He found
himself placed among people whose lives, ambitions, and interests were
all new to him, and of a kind with which he had never before been thrown
into close contact for a length of time sufficient to allow of analysis.
In his first visit to Washington he had regarded its peculiarities
merely as an amateur and a visitor; now he saw and studied them from a
different stand-point. The public buildings were no longer mere edifices
in his eyes, but developed into tremendous communities, regulated by a
tremendous system for which there could be no medium or indefinite
standing, but which must either be a tremendous credit or a tremendous
discredit to itself and the power it represented. The human side of the
place grew and impressed itself upon him. He began to feel the full
significance of the stream of humanity which ebbed and flowed to and
from these buildings at stated hours in the day. After a few afternoon
walks on the Avenue he could recognize many a face that passed him, and
comprehend something of what it typified. He could single out the young
woman who supported her family upon her salary, and the young woman who
bought her ribbons with it; the widow whose pay fed half-a-dozen
children, and the husband whose earnings were appropriated by a wife of
fashionable aspirations; the man of broken career, whose wasted
ambitions and frustrated purposes were buried in the monotonous routine
of a Government clerkship, and who asked and hoped for no greater boon
than to be permitted to hold his place through as much of the future as
remained to him. It was an orderly and respectably dressed crowd, as a
rule; but there was many a sad face to be seen in it, and many an
anxious and disappointed one. It never failed to interest Tredennis, and
he took his afternoon walk so often at the same hour that the passers-by
began to know his tall, soldierly figure and sunbrowned face, and rather
expected to encounter them; and when the newspapers had referred to him
on a dozen occasions or so, there were not a few who recognized him, and
pointed him out to each other as something of a celebrity and a hero,
and so worth seeing.

This general knowledge which people seemed to have of one another was
one thing which struck him as peculiarly local. It was the rule, and not
the exception, that in walking out he met persons he knew or knew of,
and he found it at no time difficult to discover the names and positions
of those who attracted his attention. Almost all noticeable and numerous
unnoticeable persons were to be distinguished in some way from their
fellows. The dark, sinewy man he observed standing on the steps of a
certain family hotel was a noted New England senator; his companion was
the head of an important department; the man who stood near was the
private secretary of the President, or the editor of one of the dailies,
or a man with a much-discussed claim against the Government; the
handsome woman whose carriage drew up before a fashionable millinery
establishment was the wife of a foreign diplomat, or of a well-known
politician, or of a member of the Cabinet; the woman who crossed her
path as she got out was a celebrated female suffragist, or female
physician, or lawyer, or perhaps that much-talked-of will-o'-the-wisp, a
female lobbyist; and eight persons out of every ten passing them knew
their names and not a little of their private history. So much was
crowded within a comparatively limited radius that it was not easy for
any person or thing worthy of note to be lost or hidden from the public
eye.

By the most natural gradations Tredennis found the whole tenor of his
existence changed in this atmosphere. His fixed habits of life gave way
before the influences surrounding him.

One of the most subtle of these influences was that of his intimacy with
the members of the Amory household, which grew as he had not at all
anticipated that it would. He had thought of the acquaintance in the
first place as one not likely to ripen into anything beyond its rather
conventional significance. Perhaps, on the whole, he had been content to
let it rest as it was, feeling only half-consciously that he should be
in a quieter frame of mind and less liable to vague pangs and
disappointments.

"It is all different," he had said to himself. "And it is all over. It
is better that it should remain as it is."

But after his first visit Richard did not choose to lose sight of him.
It was his fancy to seek him out and make much of and take possession of
him, with an amiability and frank persistence in the chase which were at
once complimentary and engaging.

"Look here!" he would say, having followed him up to reproach him. "You
don't suppose we intend to be treated in this manner? We won't hear of
it. We want you. Your stalwart solidity is what we have been needing to
give us weight and balance. Only yesterday Bertha was holding you up to
Arbuthnot as a model of steadfastness of purpose. We thought we were
going to see you every other day, at least, and you have not been near
us for a week. Bertha wonders what we have been guilty of."

And then he would be carried up to luncheon or dinner, or to spend the
evening; and each visit resulted in another and another, until it
gradually became the most natural thing in the world that he should drop
in at odd hours, because it seemed that he was always expected, and he
appeared to have a place among them.

"Do you know what we shall do with you if you remain here a year?"
Bertha had said to him at the outset. "We shall domesticate you. We not
only domesticated Mr. Arbuthnot, but we appropriated him. We feel that
we have invested largely in him, and that he ought to respect our rights
and pay interest. Sometimes I wonder how he likes it, and just now it
occurs to me to wonder how you would like it."

"The question is," Tredennis answered, "how _you_ would like it."

He was always conscious of a silent distaste for being compared to Mr.
Arbuthnot, and he was also always conscious of the youthful weakness of
the feeling.

"It is the kind of thing which belongs to a younger man," he used to say
to himself. "It is arrant folly; and yet I am not fond of the fellow."

But, as Bertha had predicted, he became in a manner domesticated in the
household. Perhaps the truth was that his natural tendency was toward
the comfort and easy communion of home-life. He was a little surprised
to find himself develop a strong fancy for children. He had never been
averse to them, but he had known nothing of them, and had never
suspected himself of any definite disposition to fondness for them.
After he had watched Bertha's during a few visits he began to like them,
and to be oddly interested in their sayings and doings. He discovered
Jack to be a decidedly sturdy and masculine little fellow, with rather
more than his share of physical strength and beauty; and, making
amicable advances toward him, was met half-way with a fearless readiness
which was very attractive. Then he made friends with Janey, and found
himself still more interested. Her childish femininity was even better
worth studying than Jack's miniature manhood. She was a small, gentle
creature, with clinging hands and much faith, but also with a delightful
sense of infantile dignity, and the friendship which established itself
between them was a very absorbing sentiment. It was not long before it
became an understood thing among the juvenile portion of the
establishment that Tredennis was to be counted among the spoils. His
incoming was greeted with rapture, his outgoing was regarded as a
species of calamity only to be borne because it was unavoidable. He
could tell stories of Indians and bears, and on more than one occasion
was decoyed into the nursery, and found to be not entirely without
resources in the matter of building forts with blocks, and defending
them against aboriginal warriors with tin soldiers. His own sense of
enjoyment of the discovery of these accomplishments in himself filled
him with a whimsical pleasure. He began to carry toys in his pockets,
and became a connoisseur of such dainties as were considered harmless to
the juvenile constitution; and after having been reproved by Janey, on
two or three occasions, for the severity of his air, he began also to
have a care that the expression of his countenance should be less
serious and more likely to win the approval of innocent small creatures,
who considered gravity uncalled for and mysterious. At first he had
seemed to learn but little of Bertha herself, notwithstanding that a day
seldom passed without their meeting, and there were times when he
fancied he had determined that there was but little to learn. The
gayeties of the season over, she announced her intention of resting; and
her manner of accomplishing this end was to inaugurate a series of small
festivities, with a result of occupying each day until midnight. She
gave small, informal dinners, suppers, and teas to the favored few who
would be most likely to enjoy and find them exhilarating, and, when she
did not give a dinner or tea, her evenings were bestowed upon Arbuthnot
and half a dozen of the inner circle, whose habit it was to drop in and
talk politics, literature, or entertaining nonsense.

At such times it was not at all unusual for the professor to ramble in
at about nine o'clock, and profess to partake of the cup of tea Bertha
offered him, and which he invariably left more than half full upon the
small table by his chair. His old tender interest in her had not
lessened in degree, Tredennis noticed, after seeing them together on two
or three occasions, but it had altered in kind. Sometimes the look of
curious speculation returned to his eyes, but oftener they expressed a
patient, kindly watchfulness. It was not long before Tredennis began to
observe that this quietly watchful look generally showed itself when
Arbuthnot was present. The first time that he felt the full force of the
truth of this was one evening when there had been only two or three
callers, who had remained but a short time, going away early, and
leaving no one in the parlors but himself, the professor, and Arbuthnot.

Arbuthnot had come in later than usual, and had appeared to be in an
unusual mood. He was pale when he entered, and had no jesting speech to
make. He took his seat by Bertha, and replied to her remarks with but
little of his customary animation, now and then lapsing into silence as
if he had forgotten his surroundings. Bertha seemed inclined to let his
humor pass without notice, as if it was not exactly a new experience;
but Richard commented upon it.

"Something has gone wrong," he said. "What is it, Larry?"

"Nothing has gone wrong," Arbuthnot answered, with a short, cheerless
laugh. "I have seen a ghost, that is all."

"A ghost!" said Bertha, in a low voice, and then sat silent, guarding
her face from the fire with her favorite peacock-feather screen.

The professor began to stir his tea round and round, which exercise was
his customary assistance to reflection or debate. He glanced at the
peacock-feather screen, and then at Arbuthnot.

"A ghost is always an interesting scientific conundrum," he observed.
"What form did it take?"

Arbuthnot laughed his short, cheerless laugh again.

"It took the form of a sanguine young man from the West," he said, "who
has just come into a twelve-hundred-dollar clerkship, and feels that
unending vistas of fortune lie before him. He was in such good spirits
about it that I rather lost my hold on myself, and said things I might
as well have left unsaid."

"What did you say?" Richard asked.

"I told him that if he had money enough left to buy a return ticket home
he had better buy one; and that, if he had not, I would lend it to him.
I told him that at his age it wasn't a bad idea for a man to devote his
time to establishing himself in some career he could depend on; and
that, in default of having the energy to do that, he might reflect on
the alternative of blowing his brains out as a preparation for a
peaceful old age. And I told him that I had seen young fellows like
himself before, and that the end had been for them what it would be for
him."

"Well?" said Richard, as he had stopped.

"It wasn't any use," he answered. "I knew it would not be when I began.
I simply made a spectacle of myself in a quiet way to no purpose, and as
a result I am uncomfortable. It was all nonsense, but he reminded me"--

"Of what?" said Richard, since he had paused again.

A peculiar expression crossed his face. Tredennis saw him glance at the
peacock-feather screen, and as quickly glance away.

"Of--a young fellow of his age I--used to know," he answered.

"What was _his_ story?" inquired Richard, with his usual desire for
information. "Where is he now?"

"Dead," said Arbuthnot; and, singularly enough, he half laughed again as
he tossed his cigar into the grate and went to the piano.

He began to sing in a rather low voice, and while he sang the rest
listened. When he referred to his musical efforts it was his habit to
treat them as but trivial performances; but he allowed them to lose none
of their effectiveness through lack of care and culture. He knew wherein
his power lay, and used it well. To-night, for some reason, this power
was at its strongest, and, as he sang song after song, even Tredennis
was compelled to acknowledge that, if it was his object to produce an
emotional effect, he was in a fair way to succeed.

Richard threw himself upon a sofa and gave himself up to him with
characteristic readiness to be moved, the professor stirred his tea
slowly and mechanically, and Bertha sat still in the shadow of her
screen. But it was she who moved first. In the midst of one of the songs
she left her seat, slowly crossed the room to the piano, and stood near
it, leaning against the dark wall, her slight white figure thrown into
strong relief, her hands--one of them still holding the peacock-feather
screen--fallen at her sides, her eyes resting on Arbuthnot's averted
face. It seemed to Tredennis that she had moved in obedience to some
impulse of whose power she was scarcely conscious. He saw that she also
was pale, and looked worn with fatigue, and he was filled, as he had
been more than once before, with secret resentment of the fact that no
one but himself appeared to notice that she had changed even within the
last month.

Arbuthnot continued playing. It was evident that she had not intended to
distract his attention when she approached him, and he did not look at
or speak to her. As she stood listening, it seemed as if she had
forgotten everything but the influence his voice exerted over her for
the time being, and that she allowed it to carry her whither it would.
Something in the soft, absorbed expression of her face reminded
Tredennis vaguely of the look she had worn when she turned to brood over
his words on the night when he had felt nearest to her. He was thinking
this when a movement from the professor attracted his attention,--a
jingling of the teaspoon, a little crash, an exclamation of dismay and
confusion, and the little stand had mysteriously been overturned, and
the professor was ruefully bending down to pick up the fragments of his
small cup and saucer.

"My dear child!" he said to Bertha, who had started forward to his
rescue, "what a stupid old Vandal I am, and what an insecure little
table to betray me with--and in the midst of Schubert's 'Serenade,' too,
which Mr. Arbuthnot was giving us in his most effective manner! Suppose
you take me up into the nursery, as an example to the children, while
you dry my coat."

He went out of the room with her, his hand upon her shoulder, and
Arbuthnot left the piano, and returned to the fire. The spell had been
broken with the cup and saucer, and the "Serenade" remained unfinished.
He produced a fresh cigar,--which luxury was one of many accorded him in
the household,--lighted it, and, rather to Tredennis' surprise, resumed
his conversation as if there had been no pause in it.

"The fellow will be an annoyance to me every day of his life," he said,
faint lines showing themselves upon his forehead in spite of the
half-smile which was meant to deprive them of their significance. "I
know that, confound him! He is in my room, and I shall have the benefit
of every change in him, and it will be a grind--there's no denying that
it will be a grind."

"I should like to know," said Tredennis, "what the changes will be."

"The changes will depend upon the kind of fellow he chances to be," said
Arbuthnot. "There are two varieties. If there is a good deal in him he
will begin by being hopeful and working hard. He will think that he may
make himself of value in his position and create a sort of career for
himself. He will do more than is required of him, and neglect nothing.
He will keep his eyes open and make friends of the men about him. He
will do that for a few months, and then, suddenly, and for no fault
whatever, one of these friends will be dropped out. Knowing the man to
be as faithful as himself, it will be a shock to him, and he will get
anxious, and worry over it. He will see him stranded without resources,
struggling to regain his place or get another, treated with amiable
tolerance when he is not buffeted, snubbed, and put off. He will see him
hanging about day after day, growing shabbier, more careworn, more
desperate, until he disappears and is heard of no more, and everybody is
rather relieved than not. He may have been a family man, with a wife and
half-a-dozen children all living decently on his salary. Somebody else
wanted his place and got it, not because of superior fitness for it, but
because the opposing influence was stronger than his. The new man will
go through the same experience when his turn comes--that is all. Well,
my friend will see this and be anxious, and ask questions and find out
that his chances are just the same--no more and no less. He will try not
to believe it, being young enough to be betrayed into the folly, and he
will work harder than ever, and get over his blow a little until he sees
the same thing happen again and again. Then he will begin to lose some
of his good spirits; he will be a trifle irritable at times, and lines
will show themselves on his face, and he won't be so young. When he
writes to the girl he is in love with,--I saw a letter addressed to some
young woman out West, lying on his desk to-day,--she will notice a
change in him, and the change will reveal itself more in each letter;
but he will hang on and grind away, and each election will be a
nightmare to him. But he will grind away. And, then, at last"--

He stopped and made a light, rather graceful gesture with his fingers.

"What then?" demanded Tredennis, with manifest impatience.

"There will be a new administration, and, if he struggles through, it
will be worse for him than if he were dropped, as in that case he throws
away another four years of his life and all the chances for a future
they might hold if he were free to avail himself of them."

Tredennis stood up, looking very large under the influence of the
feeling which disturbed him. Arbuthnot himself was not entirely
unimpressed by his quick movement and the energy it expressed.

"You treat the matter coolly," he exclaimed, as he rose.

Arbuthnot turned his attention to his cigar.

"Yes," he replied. "I treat it coolly. If I treated it warmly or hotly
the effect produced would be about the same. My influence upon civil
service is just what it might be expected to be, and no more. Its weight
is easily carried."

"I beg your pardon," said Tredennis, feeling the justice and adroitness
of the speech.

"Not at all," Arbuthnot answered. "It is not necessary. It makes you
lose your hold on yourself to be brought face to face with the thing. It
is quite natural. It has had the same effect on me, and I am a
cold-blooded fellow, and a frivolous fellow into the bargain."

"I have never thought of the matter before," said Tredennis,
disturbedly. "I feel as if my indifference is something to be ashamed
of."

"If you give your attention as a duty to such subjects," was
Arbuthnot's response, "you will be kept actively employed. If you take
my advice, you will let them alone."

"The trouble is," said Tredennis, "that every one seems to let them
alone."

Richard regarded him, from his place on the sofa-cushions, delightedly.

"Here's an example for you, Larry," he said. "Profit by him. Everything
is an object to him,--everything is worth while. He is an example to us
all. Let us all profit by him."

"Oh, he began right," laughed Arbuthnot.

"He began where you began," returned Richard.

"I?" was the airy answer; "I never began at all. That is my little
difficulty. I am the other one. I told you there was another one. I
represent him."

Tredennis regarded him steadily. For the first time in the course of
their acquaintance he began to suspect him. His manner was too light
altogether, and the odd shade which had fallen upon his eyes before
during the evening showed itself again.

"Let us hear about the other one," he said.

"He is easily disposed of," was the answer. "There was nothing of him at
the outset. He came to his place without an object. He liked the idea of
living in Washington, and of spending his salary. We will say he was a
rather well-looking young fellow, and could dance and sing a little, and
talk decently well. He had no responsibilities, and never thought of the
future. His salary clothed him, and allowed him little luxuries and
ordinary pleasures. He spent it when he had it, and made debt when it
was gone. Being presentable, he was invited out, and made himself useful
and entertaining in a small way. When he thought of the possibilities of
his career being brought suddenly to a close, he was uncomfortable, so
he preferred not to think of it. It is not a pleasant thing to reflect
that a man has about ten years in which to begin life, and that after
that he is ending it; but it is true. What he does from twenty to thirty
he will be likely to find he must abide by from thirty to seventy, if he
lives that long. This man, like the better one, has thrown away the
years in which he might have been preparing himself to end decently.
When they are gone he has nothing to show for them, and less than
nothing. He is the feather upon the current, and when all is over for
him he is whirled out of sight and forgotten with the rest. And,
perhaps, if he had felt there was anything to be gained by his being a
steady, respectable fellow, he might have settled down into one."

He got up suddenly, with a gesture as if he would shake himself free of
his mood.

"Here," he said, "I'm going! It is quite time. It's all nonsense talking
it over. It is the old story. I have made myself uncomfortable for
nothing. Confound you, Dick, why did you let me begin? Say good-night to
the professor and Mrs. Amory for me."

"Come back!" called Richard. "Bertha will want to hear the rest of the
'Serenade' when she comes down."

"The 'Serenade'!" he said, derisively. "No, thank you. You have had
enough of me, and I have had too much of myself."

He passed into the hall just as the professor descended from the nursery
and through the open door. Tredennis heard what they said to each other.

"You did not finish the 'Serenade,'" said the professor.

"No," was the reply; "and I am afraid you were resigned to it,
Professor."

"You were singing it very well, and with great effect," the professor
responded, amicably.

"You are very kind to say so," Arbuthnot answered. "Good-night, sir."

"Good-night," replied the professor, as he entered the parlor.

As he did so Tredennis heard the sound of feet upon the stairs, and
caught a glimpse of Bertha's white figure as she came down.

"You are not going?" he heard her say.

"Yes."

She had reached the last step by this time, and stood with her hand
resting upon the balustrade, and she was paler than she had been before.

"I--" she began--"I wanted to talk to you. What is it, Larry?"

Tredennis had never heard her call him by his first name before; and he
felt, with a keenness which startled him, the soft naturalness with
which it fell from her lips.

Arbuthnot's voice itself had altered when he answered her.

"It is nothing," he said, "but that I am not exactly in a presentable
humor, and I want to go and conceal myself. It is the best thing I can
do. Good-night."

He held out his hand, touched hers lightly, and then turned away, and
the door opened and closed after him, and Bertha came into the parlor,
moving slowly, as if she felt tired.




CHAPTER VIII.


When Tredennis rose to take his leave, the professor rose also.

"I will go with you," he said. "And if you will, you shall give me a few
minutes of your time before going home. I have some new books to show
you."

They went out together; but, until they reached the other house and
entered the library, very little was said. The catastrophe of the broken
teacup, or something of greater moment, seemed to occupy the professor's
thoughts. By the time they took their accustomed chairs he appeared to
have forgotten the new books. His thoughtful face wore so sadly
perplexed a look that he even seemed older than usual.

Tredennis awaited his first words in silence. His quiet fondness for him
had become a very warm and tender feeling during the past months. It had
been his pleasure to try to be of use to him. He had studied his needs,
and endeavored to supply them; he had managed to share hours with him
which might otherwise have been lonely; he had brought to him the stir
of the outside working world when he seemed to require its stimulant; he
had placed his own vigor and endurance at his disposal without seeming
to do so, and his efforts at making his rather lonely life a brighter
and more attractive thing had not been in vain. It was to him the
professor turned in his moments of fatigue and necessity, and it was to
him he turned now.

"I am going to do a curious thing," he said.--"I am going to do a
curious thing; but I think it is the best thing and the simplest."

"The simplest thing is always the best," said Tredennis, more because
there was a pause than because he felt an answer was needed.

"Yes, yes," said the professor, seriously. "I think so. And it is easier
to be simple with you, my boy, than with another man. It is your way to
be direct and serious. You always had the habit. It never was your way
to trifle. It is rather the fashion to trifle nowadays, you know, but
you,--I have always liked it in you that you were not a trifler."

"No," answered Tredennis; "I have not trifled much. It may have been
against me. Sometimes I have thought it was. I cannot count it among my
merits, at any rate. I am a grim fellow by nature."

"No," said the professor. "Not a grim fellow. A silent fellow, and
rather unyielding with yourself, but"--

He stopped, and looked up at him with a simple affection which made the
young man's heart beat as a woman's glance might have done.

"I think you know I love you," he said. "I have begun to depend on you
and count you among my luxuries. I am an old man, and my luxuries are
worth a great deal to me. No kindly, thoughtful act of yours has been
unregarded, and I have liked your fancy for me almost as a girl likes
the attentions of her first lover. Sometimes it has pleased me to be
half sentimental over them, and half sentimental over you."

Tredennis flushed with pleasure and warm feeling. He rose impulsively
and crossed the hearth.

"I never say things well," he said, "but I should like to try to put
into words something of what I feel. You once said you wished I was your
son, and I have been glad to remember it. I have no ties. Let your wish
be a sort of tie between us. It is a tie I should be proud of, and glad
to honor and make an object in my life. Give me what affection you can.
I wish for it and need it. If I had been your son you would have counted
on me; give me the pleasure and comfort of knowing you count on me now.
It has somehow seemed my lot to have no place in the lives of others.
Give me this, if I am worth it. I shall be better for it, and happier."

The professor gave him a quiet, half-wistful glance.

"I gave it to you long ago," he said, at length. "The wish has been a
tie between us from the first."

And he said it even with a touch of solemnity.

"If it had not been," he added, afterward, "I should not have come to
you with my trouble to-night,--feeling so sure that you would understand
it."

He made a gesture with his hand.

"Go and walk up and down the room there, as I am used to seeing you," he
said. "And I will tell you about it."

Tredennis did as he bade him,--went to the other side of the room and
began his measured march.

"We talked of Bertha in this very room years ago," he began. "It seems
to be our lot to talk of Bertha. I am going to speak of her again."

Tredennis continued his measured tramp without speaking.

The professor rested his forehead upon his hand and sat so, looking
downward. He went on in a quiet voice, and with a quiet, absorbed
manner,--the manner of a man who, having the habit of close and careful
study, was giving his whole attention simply and carefully to his
subject.

"I shall have to go back to that night and repeat something I said
then," he went on. "It was that her only hope for happiness would lie in
her marriage with a man she loved deeply."

"I remember it," Tredennis answered.

"And I added that the chances were that, instead, she would marry the
man who loved her."

"I remember that too."

The professor sighed heavily and wearily.

"The chances were too many," he said. "She married the man who loved
her."

Tredennis had marched one length of the room before he continued:--

"He did love her," the professor said, after his pause,
"tempestuously--overwhelmingly. Overwhelmingly is a good word to use. He
overwhelmed her in the end. At first she liked him; but when the nature
of his feeling for her began to express itself, it is my impression that
she felt a secret fear of and dislike to it. She tried to avoid him, but
he absolutely refused to allow it. He followed her, and was
picturesquely wretched before her eyes. There is no denying he was
picturesque. That was his strong point. He was picturesque and
pathetic--and poetic. She was only a girl, and she was tremendously at a
disadvantage before him. When she treated him badly he bore it with
tender patience, and he devoted himself to her with a faithfulness which
might have touched a heart harder and more experienced than hers was,
poor child! Of course his picturesque unhappiness and his poetic
magnanimity told; I knew they would, and they did. Reaction set in, and
she began to feel the fascination of making him happy."

He stopped, and suddenly lifted his head.

"My boy," he said, "one of the most damnable things in life is a
fascination like that in the mind of a generous, ignorant creature!"

He dropped his head again.

"That is strong language," he said, "and I don't often use strong
language. I--don't consider it gentlemanly, but I felt strongly at the
moment, and the word is expressive. Well, the time came when, in a
moment when her mood being softer and more sympathetic than usual, and
she herself, as a consequence, at a greater disadvantage than ever,--she
committed herself; and then it was all over. The trouble is, that the
experience of a woman of forty is what a girl needs when she chooses her
husband at twenty, and, as the two things are incompatible, the chances
are always against her. Bertha had the faults and follies that I told
you go to make a martyr. When she had made her mistake, she was strong
and weak enough to abide by it. It is mostly imagination in matters of
this kind; it was imagination in hers. She was young enough to believe
in everything. She believed that if she broke her engagement she would
break Amory's heart and ruin his life for him. There was no danger of
either catastrophe, but they were realities to her, and they terrified
her. Then she had never been touched by any deeper feeling than the
anxious tenderness he awakened in her. She had not been given to
sentiments, and, I am afraid, had regarded them rather contemptuously in
others. She had no conception of a feeling stronger than herself, and
held curiously obstinate and lofty views of the conduct of women who did
not hold their emotions neatly in check. Her girlish bigotry was
touching to me sometimes, because it was so thorough, and revealed such
ignorance. I wish--I wish I could hear something of it now!"

Tredennis had reached the end of the room. He turned sharply, but
recovered himself and said nothing.

"Lately," the professor added slowly, "she has been more silent on such
subjects than she used to be."

He lifted his head from his hand and looked at Tredennis again.

"Philip," he said, "I--I wish to heaven chance had sent you to us that
year."

Tredennis stopped in his walk, a dark and rigid figure in the shadow.

"Had sent me?" he said, in a strained voice. "Me! What--could _I_ have
done?"

"I--I don't know," answered the professor; "but I solemnly believe, my
boy, that _if_ you had come, you would have averted an evil."

"Then," said Tredennis, "I wish to God I had!"

"I say it," said the professor, "with all the more certainty,
remembering, as I do, one day when she wished for you herself."

"She!" said Tredennis. "Bertha? Bertha?"

"Yes, Bertha herself. It was a few weeks before her marriage, and she
had not been exactly herself for a week or more. One evening I came into
the parlor and found the room full of the odor of flowers. Amory had
been with her and had left her a bouquet of heliotrope. She had some on
her knee as she sat on a low seat before the fire. When I seated myself
near her, she looked up at me suddenly and said, in a rather unsteady
voice, 'Papa, I have been thinking about Philip Tredennis. I have not
thought of him for a long time. I should like to see him. I--wish he
could come back.' She half laughed at herself as she said it, but her
laugh was nervous, and when I said to her, 'Why? Were _you_ great
friends? I did not know that,' she tried to laugh again, and answered,
'Yes--no--not exactly. But it seems to me that he was a strong sort of
person, and sensible, and--and you might rely on his decisions. It is
only a fancy, I suppose--but it just came into my mind that I should
like to see him again.' There is no doubt, in my mind, that she felt a
need of your obstinate strength, which she did not comprehend wholly
herself. I wish you had come--I wish from my soul you had!"

"I might have come if I had known," said Tredennis, in a low tone.
"There was nothing--_nothing_ to have stood in my way." And he turned
and began his walk again.

The professor sighed, as he had sighed before--heavily and drearily.

"But you did not," he said. "And she married Amory."

"I should like to know," asked Tredennis, "if you think she is unhappy
now. Do not tell me if you do not wish."

The professor's reply was very simple and direct.

"She has never been given to taking sentimental views of herself," he
said, "and she is self-controlled and fond of her children, but she has
never been happy for an hour since her marriage. I think the first year
was very bitter to her. Amory has always been very fond of her; he is
fond of her now, but her illusions concerning his passion for her soon
died. She found out in two months that he would not have perished if she
had discarded him. She had been his one object at first, but she was
only one of a dozen others after they were married. He was amiable and
delightful, but he was not always considerate. The picturesqueness of
his attitude toward her was lost. He did not require her care and
sympathy, and the sacrifices she made for him were very simple and
natural matters in his eyes.

"In the beginning she was, perhaps, bewildered and desperate; but, girl
as she was, she was too proud and just not to see that her youth and
ignorance had led her into a folly, and that the result was its natural
punishment. Once she said to me, 'The worse punishments in life are the
punishments for ignorance--the worst, the worst!' And I knew what she
meant, though she said no more. When her first child was born, she went
down to the door of death, and her physicians said there seemed to be a
lack of effort. And yet, I tell you she might have been the happiest
young mother in the world. When she has been near happiness at all it
has been in her quiet moments with her children. If it had not been for
her children she might have been a harder and more heartless creature
than she can ever be now. If she had been something less and slighter
than fate made her she might have been either a dull nurse and
housekeeper or a vapid woman of society; in either case she would have
been happier than she is to-day. What a long story it is, and I did not
think it would be so long when I began."

"I want to hear it all," broke in Tredennis,--"every word. I have not
understood the changes I saw in her I want to understand."

"That brings me to the point of it all," was the reply. "If she had been
a laborer's wife she might have been too hard-worked to be restless;
but she has had leisure, and social duties, and she has set herself
deliberately the desperate task of making them her pleasures. She has
found an exhilaration in them which has given her no time for regrets.
She is a woman, young, attractive, and spirited. She was too full of
spirit to permit herself to be subdued by her disappointment. As she
cannot retrieve her mistake, she will make the best of it. She has
reasoned herself into a belief that she is satisfied with what fortune
has given her, and so long as that belief remains unshaken, she will be
as happy as nine women out of ten are. Women are not happy, as a rule,
Philip; they are not happy. I have learned that."

"But so long as her belief remains unshaken"--said Tredennis.

The professor interrupted him, gravely, sadly.

"That is the point," he said. "My fear is that it is shaken now."

Tredennis stopped in the middle of the room--stood quite still.

"She has had friends and admirers," said the professor, "scores of them.
Perhaps all the more because she has cared less for them than they for
her. She has a pretty trick of making the best of people, and it wins
the public heart. She has friends, acquaintances, and even harmless
devotees; but among them all there is only one man who gauges her, and
that man is the one who very naturally presents himself to your mind as
a fair dandy, with a ready tongue and good manners."

"Arbuthnot!" exclaimed Tredennis. "Arbuthnot!"

The professor smiled faintly.

"What," he said, "you recognize him at once! Well, my one vanity is my
pride in my private knowledge of the thought of others. I am very proud
of it, in a senile way. I have been studying and classifying all my
life, and now I sit and look on, and treat human beings as I have
treated insects. If it had not been so, I should not have known so much
of Bertha. Yes, Arbuthnot. Among all the men she knows and has
known--diplomates, literati, politicians, honest men--I have found only
one to disturb me, and that one Laurence Arbuthnot."

Tredennis stood still, looking down at the floor, with folded arms.

"I"--he began, "I have thought"--

The professor started.

"What!" he exclaimed. "_You_ have thought? If you have thought--it must
be plainer than I feared."

"No," said Tredennis, hurriedly. "Do not let that trouble you. What I
have thought is so trivial and vague that it should not weigh at all. It
has only been because I remembered her girlhood, and--and I thought her
changed--and did not understand."

"Ah!" said the professor, letting his face fall upon both his hands.
"That is not _his_ trouble; _he_ understands, and that is his strength.
He has had his evil hour, that composed, well-dressed fellow, and he did
not come out of it without scars. He covers them well, with his light
overcoat and the rose in his buttonhole, but they are there, and they
have made him wise. He has been silent, but he has looked on too,--as I
have,--and he has seen what others were blind to. She has never
suspected him, but his knowledge has given him power. When her _mauvais
quart d'heure_ has come upon her he has known what to say and what to
avoid saying, and while she has not comprehended his motives she has
been grateful to him. She has liked his songs and his readiness, and his
unsentimental air, and she has unconsciously learned to rely on him. Her
first sincere liking for him arose from her discovery of his
inconsistent and incongruous knack with the children. She had thought of
him as a rather clever, selfish, well-mannered creature, and once in a
juvenile crisis he surprised her by developing natural gifts--somewhat
cold-blooded, but still amazingly effective. The children began to be
fond of him, and his path was smoothed. She began to be fond of him
herself, genuinely and simply, and if it had ended there she would have
been safer than before. But it did not end there, I suppose. The cup and
saucer were not broken too soon this evening,--they were not broken soon
enough."

"It was not an accident?" exclaimed Tredennis.

"No, it was not an accident. I have heard his 'Serenade' before. There
is the danger. He means no harm; but his 'Serenade' and the moments when
what is past gets the better of him, and the little touches of passion
his overcoat won't always cover, and the bits of sincerity he struggles
against and she ponders over, are good for neither him nor her. I have
heard his 'Serenade' before; but to-night, when she got up and followed
him as if he had called her, and--and she had only half heard his voice
and yet must obey it; and when she stood there against the wall, with
her pale face, and her soft eyes fixed on him, it was time for some
common thing to happen to bring her back to life,--and the cup and
saucer were offered as the sacrifice."

He said it whimsically, and yet sadly.

"Poor child!" he added. "Poor child! I dare say it was hard enough."

He paused a moment, and then rose, went to Tredennis's side, and laid
his hand on his shoulder.

"There," he said,--"there is the confession, and I can make my appeal to
you with fewer words."

"Your appeal?" Tredennis repeated.

"I can ask you for your help."

"If there is any help I can give which is worth the asking and giving,"
said Tredennis, slowly, "you know it will be yours."

"Yes, I know it will be mine, and so I ask it easily. And what I ask is
this. Let us walk slowly while we talk, and I will keep my hand on your
shoulder,--I like to feel your support. What I would say is this: if
you had been my son, you would have watched over her and stood between
her and any pain which could threaten her. You know that what I fear for
her now is only the desperate, hopeless misery such an experience as
this would be sure to bring her if it were allowed to ripen; for her
there is nothing else to fear. No, I know I need not have said that to
you."

"No," answered Tredennis, "there was no need to say it."

"She does not know herself. I know her, and know what such an experience
holds for her. Better that her life should be barren to the end than
that she should bear what she must bear if her heart is once awakened."

"Better!" said Tredennis.

He felt the tremulous hand weigh heavily upon him.

"I am an old man," he was answered. "I have lived my life nearly to its
close, and I say a _thousand_ times better! I married a woman I did not
love, and I loved a woman I could not marry."

"And you wished to ask me," said Tredennis, breaking the short silence
which followed.

"I ask you to defend her against this pain. If I were a younger and
stronger man, I might do for her what I ask of you; but I cannot often
be with her. You are with her day after day. She likes you."

"I have fancied," Tredennis said, "that she did _not_ like me."

"It is only fancy. She sees in you the strength she vaguely longed for
when she was at the turning-point of her life. Let her feel that it is
always near her, and that she may rely upon it now. You are fond of her
children,--talk to her of them. When you see her inclined to be silent
and unlike herself, bring them to her mind; when that fellow is there,
manage that she shall think of them. Her tenderness for them is your
stronghold and mine. To-night, why did I take her to the nursery?
Because they lay asleep there, and when she saw them she stopped to
cover them more warmly, and touch them with her hand, and bend to kiss
them, and forgot her 'Serenade.' She loves them better than she loves
anything else on earth,--better than she could love anything else,
perhaps. That's her woman's way. God made it so. That is the one help
and safeguard He gave to women out of the whole bitter universe. Bring
her back to her children at her saddest and weariest, and when the fight
is hardest, and they will beat the rest back. It is Nature. You will do
what I ask, I know.

"I shall be more at ease," he said next, "that I have asked this of you.
When you are with her I shall feel that she is safe. I trust her in your
hands."

"I will try to be worthy of the trust."

"It is rather a strange one to repose in a man of your age, but I give
it to you with the rest,--it goes with the tie you wished for. It is a
relief to me to share it with a strong fellow who can bear it well."

They talked a little longer, walking across the floor two or three times
together, and then Tredennis went away. He was in a strange frame of
mind. It was almost as if he had received a blow which had partially
stunned him. When he reached the street he stood for a moment looking up
at the starlit sky.

"A strong fellow," he said. "_Am_ I such a strong fellow? And _I_ am to
stand between you and your lover,--_I_? That is a strange thing,
Bertha--a strange thing."

And, rousing himself suddenly, he strode down the street, and the
professor, who had gone to his room, heard his military tread ringing
steady and measured upon the pavement and felt a vague comfort in the
sound.




CHAPTER IX.


During the next few weeks Bertha did not appear as well as usual. The
changes Tredennis had seen in her became more marked. She lost color and
roundness, and now and then was forced to show signs of fatigue which
were not habitual with her. She made no alteration in her mode of life,
however. When Tredennis called in the evening the parlor was always
full, and she was always vivaciously occupied with her guests. Chief
among her attractions was counted her pet pretence of being interested
in politics. It was not a very serious pretence, but, being managed
deftly and with a sense of its dramatic value, animated many an hour
which might otherwise have been dull, in view of the social material
which occasionally fell into her hands.

"What should I do," Tredennis heard her say once, "if I knew nothing of
politics? There are times when they are my only salvation. What should I
have done last night with the new member from Arkansas if I had not
remembered that he was interested in the passage of the Currency Bill?
He is an excellent, solid, sensible creature; we are frivolous, aimless
beings compared with him. It is such men as he who do everything worth
doing and being done, but he is purely a politician, and he has spent
his life in a small provincial town, where he has been a most important
person, and he cares as much for the doings of society and discussions
of new novels and pictures as I do for the linseed-oil market--if there
is a linseed-oil market. When I began to ask him modest questions about
his bill, his face brightened at once, and he became a self-respecting
and well-informed person,--at ease with himself and with me, and quite
forgot his coat and his large boots, which had been slowly and
painfully dawning upon him a few moments before when he contrasted them
with Mr. Arbuthnot's silk attire. My very mistakes were a pleasure to
him, as they gave him an opportunity to say several things very well
worth remembering. He could not have told whether I was well or ill
dressed, but he detected my flimsiness in argument in a moment, and gave
me more information in half an hour than you scoffers could have given
me in a week, and"--with much modesty of demeanor--"he mentioned to
Senator Vaughan, in the course of the evening, that I was a most
intelligent woman."

Arbuthnot and Richard burst into the laughter which was always her
applause upon such occasions.

"You!" commented Arbuthnot. "You are Herodias' daughter, dancing for the
head of John the Baptist. You are always dancing in a quiet and
effective way for somebody's head. Whose would you like next? How does
mine strike you?"

"Thank you," said Bertha. "Would you really give it to me if I danced
for you in my ablest manner; and how do you think it would look on a
charger?"

There was more than one hard-worked politician who, after a day of
exciting debate or wearisome battling with windmills, found relief and
entertainment in the pretty parlors. Some of those who came had known
Bertha in her girlhood and were friends of her father, and with these it
was the fashion to encourage her to political argument, and affect the
deepest confidence in her statements, with a view to drawing forth all
her resources. These resources were varied and numerous, and marked by a
charming feminine daring and superiority to ordinary logic which were
the delights of the senatorial mind.

"Why should I endeavor to convince you by being logical?" she said. "You
have logic--at least we hope so--all day, and sometimes all night, in
the Senate and the House, and even then you are not convinced of
things. It is not logic which governs you, but a majority. And that is
what one should aspire to, after all,--not to be in the right, but to be
in the majority. And I am sure one's arguments are much more
untrammelled and brilliant for being illogical. And if I convince you
without logic, I win a victory worth having. It is like the triumph of
an ugly woman who is called a beauty. If I am pretty and you say so, it
is simply as if you said, 'white is white, blackness is dark'; but if I
am not pretty, and am ingenious enough to persuade you that I am--there
is a triumph to be proud of!"

It was nonsense, but it was often sparkling nonsense, whose very
lightness was its charm, and the rooms were rarely ever so gay and full
of laughter as when there was among the guests a sprinkling of men no
longer young, who had come there to forget that they were jaded, or
secretly anxious, or bitterly disappointed.

"It pleases me to dance before some of them," Bertha said to Arbuthnot.
"I like to think I make them forget things for a little while. If I can
do nothing greater and wiser, let me employ my one small accomplishment
to the best advantage, and do my harmless best to be both graceful and
agile. No one can persuade me that it can be a pleasant thing to engage
in a hand-to-hand conflict from three to eight months in the year, and
to sit day after day placidly endeavoring to confront men who differ
with you on every point, and who count the fact among their virtues, and
glory in it, and watch you and listen to you, with the single object of
seizing an opportunity to prove in public that you are an imbecile or a
falsifier, or a happy combination of both. When I reflect upon my own
feelings," she added, with delightful _naïveté_, "when people are stupid
and ill-mannered enough to differ with me, I am filled with the deepest
sympathy for the entire political body. There is nothing so perfectly
exasperating as to know people are differing with you, and I know there
is nothing so wearing to the mind."

An exciting debate in the Senate was occupying public attention at this
time, and to her other duties and entertainments she added that of
following it in its course. She spent an hour or so at the Capitol every
day, read the newspapers, and collected evidence and information with an
unflagging industry which would have been worthy of admiration if it had
been inspired by any serious intention. But she made no pretence of
seriousness of intention. She returned home from such visits with
derisive little arguments jotted down in her note-book and little
sketches of senatorial profiles adorning its pages, and entertained a
select audience with them in the evening,--an audience which not
infrequently included the political dignitaries themselves. Her manner
would have been a mystery to Tredennis if he had not remembered the
professor's words of warning, and even with their memory in his mind he
was often at a loss. There was a restless eagerness to be amused in all
she did, and he felt that, after all, she was privately less successful
in her efforts than she seemed. He was, at least, relieved to find that
he had but little to do in the role assigned him. When Arbuthnot
appeared again, he had entirely recovered his equilibrium, and was
unemotional, self-possessed, occasionally flippant, plainly cherishing,
at no time, any intention of regarding himself seriously. He did not
sing his "Serenade" again, and, when he sang at all, committed himself
to no outreaching warmth of feeling. He rarely spoke to Bertha alone,
and the old tendency to airy derision of each other's weaknesses
reasserted itself. Only once Tredennis heard him address her with any
degree of seriousness, and this was in reference to her visits to the
Senate. There had been an all-night session, and it had been her whim to
take part in it to the extent of sitting up until after midnight, and
she had returned home more tired than she was willing to confess.
Arbuthnot--who, with Richard, Tredennis, and a newspaper friend, had
been her companions in the dissipation--remonstrated with her after the
little supper they had on their arrival at the house.

Bertha had left the table, and was half reclining against a pile of
cushions on the sofa, and Arbuthnot followed her, and spoke in a
somewhat lowered voice.

"You are making a mistake in doing such things," he said. "Why will you
keep it up? It's all nonsense. You don't care for it really. It is only
one of your caprices. You have not a particle of serious interest in
it."

"I have as much serious interest in it as I have in anything else," she
answered. "More, indeed. Do you suppose I was not interested when
Senator Ayres got up to-night to be immeasurably superior by the hour?
It elevated my mental plane, and gave me food for reflection. It filled
me with a burning desire to be immeasurably superior, too. Is he always
immeasurably superior? Could he keep it up, do you suppose, in the bosom
of his family,--when he is putting salt on his eggs at breakfast, for
instance, and thinks no one is looking? When he tries on a new hat, does
he do it with a lofty air of scorn, and does he fall asleep and have the
nightmare with coldly contemptuous condescension? I don't mind
mentioning to you that it is one of my favorite moods to be immeasurably
superior. It is such a good way when you cannot get what you want; it
disposes of your antagonists so simply and makes you feel so deserving;
but I never could keep it up,--but that may be owing to weakness of
character, and the fact that I am only an unworthy imitator and lack the
vigor to convince myself of my own genuineness. Oh! I assure you, I was
very much interested indeed."

"Well," said Arbuthnot, "I might have expected you would say something
of this kind. It is your little way of evading matters. You have a knack
at it."

Bertha looked down at the footstool on which her small shoe rested, and
then up at him with a quiet face.

"Yes, it is my little way," she answered. "I suppose I might count it
among my few small accomplishments. But don't you think it is as good a
way as any,--particularly if it is the only way you have?"

"It is as good a way as any," replied Arbuthnot, with the calmness of a
sensible person addressing an attractive but obstinate child. "But you
know it will not prevent my saying again what I said at first. You are
very foolish to tire yourself out for nothing, and you will regret it
when it is too late."

"Yes," answered Bertha, "if I regret it I shall naturally regret it when
it is too late. Did you ever hear of any one's regretting a thing too
early, or just in time? That is what regret means--that one is too
late."

Arbuthnot sat down near her.

"If you want to talk in that style," he remarked, in the most impartial
manner, "I am entirely in the mood to listen, now I have expressed my
opinion. It isn't worth much as _my_ opinion, but it is worth something
as the truth, and I am not afraid you will forget it, but, in the
meantime, until Mrs. Dacre is in the mood to be escorted home, you can
pander to my lower nature by showing me the sketches you made of Senator
Ayres and the Speaker, and the gentleman from Iowa who was afraid to
fall asleep."

The next morning, calling with a newspaper she had wanted, Tredennis,
being handed into the room in which Bertha usually spent her mornings at
home, found her lying upon a sofa, and, as she did not hear him enter,
he had the opportunity to stand for a few seconds and look at her.

While he did so she opened her eyes languidly and saw him, and the
thought which held his mind for the moment sprang to his lips and
uttered itself.

"I do not think you know," he said, "how pale you are."

"I do not want to know," she answered, with a rather tired little
smile, "if it is unbecoming, and I am sure it is. But I will ask you to
excuse my getting up."

He entirely passed over the first part of her reply, as she had noticed
he had a habit of passing in silence many of her speeches, though she
had not been able to decide why he did so.

"You said," he went on, "that when the season was over you intended to
rest. Have you been doing it lately?"

"Yes," she answered, with entirely unembarrassed readiness. "I have been
very quiet indeed."

At this he was silent for a moment again, and during the pause she lay
and looked at him with an expression of curious interest--trying to make
up her mind whether he did not reply because he felt himself not
sufficiently ready of speech to meet her upon her own ground, or whether
his silence was a negative sign of disapprobation.

"I am never tired when anything is going on," she said, at last.

"That is the worst of it," he replied.

"Oh, no--the best of it," she said, and then she looked away from him
across the room, and added, in a tone altogether different, "One does
not want too much time on one's hands."

Once or twice before he had seen this slight, unconscious change fall
upon her, and, without comprehending, had been sharply moved by it, but
she always recovered herself quickly, and she did so now.

"I tried it once," she said, "and it did not agree with me, and since
then I have occupied myself. As Richard says, 'one must have an object,'
and mine is to occupy myself."

"You accomplish your end, at least," he remarked.

"Yes," she answered. "I congratulate myself upon that. Upon the whole I
do not know any one who is more fortunate than I am. No other life would
suit me half so well as the one I lead. I am fond of gayety, and
change, and freedom, and I have all three. Richard is amiable, the
children are like him, and there is nothing to interfere with my having
my own way, and amusing myself as I please. I should be thoroughly
unhappy if I could not have my own way; to have it invariably is one of
my laudable ambitions, and as I always get it you see I have reason for
being charmed with my lot."

"You are very fortunate," he said.

"I am more than fortunate," she answered. Then she broke into a little
laugh. "It is rather odd," she said, "that just before you came in I was
lying thinking of the time you were in Washington before, and there came
back to me something I said to you the night you gave me the
heliotrope."

"Was it," said Tredennis, "what you said to me about being happy?"

"What!" she said. "You remember it? I scarcely thought that you would
remember it."

"Yes," said Tredennis, "I remember it."

"I could not bear the thought of not being happy," she went on. "It had
never occurred to me that such a thing was a possibility until you said
something which suggested it to me. I recollect how it startled me. It
was such a new idea."

She stopped and lay for a moment silent.

"And this morning?" suggested Tredennis.

"This morning," she answered, rather slowly, though smiling as she
spoke, "this morning, as I said, I decided that I had been very
fortunate."

"Then," he said, "you _have_ been happy."

"If I had not been," she answered, "it would have been very curious. I
have never been interfered with in the least."

"That is happiness, indeed," said Tredennis.

Just now he was reflecting upon the fact that all their conversations
took the same turn and ended in the same way. It mattered little how
they began; in all cases she showed the same aptitude for making her
subject an entirely inconsequent source of amusement. Experience was
teaching him that he need expect nothing else. And, even as he was
thinking this, he heard her laugh faintly again.

"Shall I tell you what I see in your face," she said,--"what I see
oftener than anything else?"

"I should be glad to know," he replied.

"I see that you are thinking that I am very much changed, and that it is
not for the better."

He paused a moment before he answered her, and when he did so he spoke
with his eyes fixed on the floor, and slowly:

"You are not the Bertha I used to know," he said. "But that I should
have allowed myself to expect it shows simply that I am a dull,
unprogressive fellow."

"It shows that you are very amiable and sanguine," she said. "I should
have been even more fortunate than it has been my fate to be if I had
not changed in ten years. Think of the good fortune of having stood
still so long,--of having grown no older, no wiser. No," in a lower
voice, "I am not the Bertha you used to know."

But the next instant, almost as soon as she had uttered the words, she
lifted her eyes with the daring little smile in them.

"But I am very well preserved," she said. "I am really very well
preserved. I am scarcely wrinkled at all, and I manage to conceal the
ravages of time. And, considering my years, I am quite active. I danced
every dance at the Ashworths' ball, with the kindly assistance of Mr.
Arbuthnot and his friends. There were _débutantes_ in the room who did
not dance half as often. The young are not what they were in my
generation,--though probably the expiring energies of advanced age are
flaming in the socket and"--

She stopped suddenly, letting her hands drop at her sides. "No," she
said again, "I--I am not the Bertha you used to know--and this morning I
am--tired enough to be obliged to admit it."

Tredennis took a quick step toward her; the hot blood showed itself
under his dark skin. What he had repressed in the last months got the
better of him so far that he had no time to reflect that his stern,
almost denunciatory, air could scarcely be ranked among ordinary
conventionalities, and that an ordinarily conventional expression of
interest might have been more reasonably expected from him than a
display of emotion, denunciatory or otherwise.

"Can you expect anything else?" he said. "Is your life a natural one? Is
it a natural and healthy thing that every hour of it should contain its
own excitement, and that you should not know what simple, normal rest
means? Who could be blind to the change which has taken place in you
during the last few weeks? Last night you were so tired and unstrung
that your hand trembled when you lifted your glass to your lips.
Arbuthnot told you then it was a mistake; I tell you now that it is
worse,--it is madness and crime."

He had not thought of what effect he would produce,--his words were his
indignant masculine protest against her pallor and weakness, and the
pain he had borne in silence for so long. It seemed, however, that he
had startled her singularly. She rose from her reclining posture slowly
and sat upright, and her hands trembled more than they had done the
night before.

"Why," she faltered, "why are you so angry?"

"That," he returned bitterly, "means that I have no right to be angry,
of course! Well, I am willing to admit it,--I have no right. I am taking
a liberty. I don't even suggest that you are making a mistake,--as Mr.
Arbuthnot did; I am rough with you, and say something worse."

"Yes," she admitted, "you are very rough with me." And she sat a few
moments, looking down at the floor, her little hands trembling on her
lap. But presently she moved again. She pushed one of the cushions up in
the sofa-arm and laid her cheek against it, with a half-sigh of
weariness relieved and a half-smile.

"Go on!" she said. "After all,--since I have reflected,--I think I don't
dislike it. New things always please me,--for a little while,--and this
is new. No one ever spoke to me so before. I wonder whether it was
because I did not really deserve it or because people were afraid?"

Tredennis stopped in the walk he had begun and wheeled sharply about,
fronting her with his disproportionately stern gaze.

"Do you want to know why _I_ do it?" he demanded. "I think--since I have
reflected--that it is for the sake of--of the other Bertha."

There was a slight pause.

"Of the other Bertha," she said after it, in a low, unsteady tone. "Of
the Bertha who thought it an impossibility that she should be anything
but happy."

He had not been prepared for her replies before, but he was startled by
what she did now. She left her seat with a sudden, almost impassioned,
action; the cushion fell upon the floor. She put her hand upon the
mantel, as if to support herself.

"Why did you say that?" she exclaimed. "I do not like it! I do not like
to be reminded that it is so long since--since I was worth liking. I
suppose that is what it means. Why should you seem to accuse me when you
say you speak for the sake of the other Bertha? Am I so bad? You have
lived a quiet life because you liked it best; I did not chance to like
it best, and so I have been gay. I go out a great deal and am fond of
the world, but do I neglect my children and treat my husband badly?
Richard is very happy, and Jack and Janey and Meg enjoy themselves and
are very fond of me. If I was careless of them, and ill-tempered to
Richard, and made my home unhappy, you might accuse me. It is the most
mysterious thing to me, but I always feel as if I was defending myself
against you, even when you only look at me and do not speak at all.
It--it is a curious position! I do not understand it, and I do not like
it!"

Her sudden change of mood was a revelation to Tredennis. He began to
realize what he had dimly felt from the first, that her mental attitude
toward him was one of half-conscious defiance of his very thought of
her. He had not known why he had felt at times that his mere presence
prompted her to present her worldly, mocking little philosophies in
their most incontrovertible and daring form, and that it was her whim to
make the worst of herself and her theories for his benefit. He accused
himself angrily in secret of overestimating his importance in her eyes,
and had reiterated impatiently that there was no reason why she should
be at all specially aware of his existence when he was near her, and it
had been one of his grievances against himself that, in spite of this,
every time they met he had felt the same thing, and had resented and
been puzzled by it.

But he had never before seen her look as she looked now. One of his
private sources of wonder had been the perfect self-control which
restrained her from exhibiting anything approaching a shadow of real
feeling upon any subject. He had seen her under circumstances which
would have betrayed nine women out of ten into some slight display of
irritation, and she had always maintained the airy serenity of demeanor
which deprived all persons and incidents of any weight whatever when
they assumed the form of obstacles, and her practicable little smile and
calm impartiality of manner had never failed her. He had heard her
confess that it was her chief weakness to pride herself upon her quiet
adroitness in avoiding all things unpleasant or emotional, and upon her
faithfulness to her resolve not to permit herself to be disturbed.

"I have seen people who enjoyed their emotions," she had said, "but I
never enjoyed mine, even when I was very young. I definitely disliked
them. I am too self-conscious to give myself up to them simply. If I had
one, I should think about it and analyze it and its effects upon me. I
should be saying all the time, 'Now I am hot--now I am cold'; and when
it was over I should be tired, not only of the feeling itself, but of
taking my own temperature."

And now she stood before him for the instant a new creature,--weaker and
stronger than he had dreamed it possible she could be,--her eyes bright
with some strange feeling, a spot of color burning on each pale cheek.
He was so bewildered and impressed that he was slow to speak, and, when
he began, felt himself at so severe a disadvantage that his
consciousness of it gave his voice a rigid sound.

"I do not think," he began, "that I know what to say"--

Bertha stopped him.

"There is no need that you should say anything," she interrupted. "You
cannot say anything which will disapprove of me more than your
expression does. And it is not you who should defend yourself, but I.
But you were always severe. I remember I felt that when I was only a
child, and knew that you saw all that was frivolous in me. I was
frivolous then as I am now. I suppose I have a light nature,--but I do
not like to be reminded of it. After all, no one is harmed but myself,
and it would be charity in you to let me go my flippant way and not
despise me too much."

"Bertha," he answered, "it is not for me to say that I do not despise
you."

He stood with his arms folded and looked down at her steadily. It was
very easy for her to place him at a disadvantage. He knew nothing of
feminine ways and means, and his very masculine strength and largeness
were against him. If she gave him a wound he could not strike back, or
would not; and in her last speech she had given him more wounds than
one, and they were rankling in his great breast fiercely. And yet
despite this it was not she who came off entirely victor. After meeting
his gaze with undeniable steadiness for a few seconds, she turned away.

"I told you," she remarked with a persistence which was its own
betrayer, "that--it was not necessary for you to say anything." The next
moment an impatient laugh broke from her. She held up her unsteady hand
that he might see it.

"Look!" she said. "Why should I quarrel with you when you are right,
after all? It is certainly time that I should rest when I am so absurdly
unstrung as this. And my very mood itself is a proof that something
should be done with me. For a minute or so I have actually been out of
temper, or something humiliatingly like it. And I pride myself upon my
temper, you know, and upon the fact that I never lose it,--or have not
any to lose. I must be worn out when a few perfectly truthful speeches
will make me bad-tempered. Not that I object to it on moral grounds, but
it wounds my vanity to lose control of myself. And now I have reached my
vanity I am quite safe. I will leave for Fortress Monroe to-morrow."

"It would be better if you went to a quieter place," he said.

"Thank you," she answered. "I think it will be quiet enough,--if I take
the children, and avoid the ball-room, and am very decorous."

There seemed but little more for him to say. She changed the subject by
taking from the table the paper he had brought her, and beginning to
discuss its contents.

"Richard asked me to read the editorial and the letter from the
Washington correspondent," she said. "He is more interested in the
matter than I ever knew him to be in anything of the kind before. He is
actually making it one of his objects, and flatters me by wanting to
know my opinions and wishing me to share his enthusiasm." She sat down
to the table, with the paper open before her and her hands lying clasped
upon it.

"Have you read it?" she asked. "Is it very clever? Can I understand it?
Richard is so amiably sure I can."

"It is well done," replied Tredennis, "and you will certainly understand
it."

"I am glad of that," she said, and sat still a moment, with eyes
lowered. Then she spoke, rather suddenly. "Richard is very good to me,"
she said. "I ought to be very grateful to him. It is just like him to
feel that what I think of such things is worth hearing. That is his
affectionate, generous way. Of what value could my shallow little
fancies be?--and yet I think he really believes they should carry
weight. It is the most delightful flattery in the world."

"It is your good fortune," said Tredennis, "to be able to say things
well and with effect."

"What!" she said, with a half-smile, "are you going to flatter me, too?"

"No," he answered, grimly, "I am not going to flatter you."

"You would find it a very good way," she answered. "We should get along
much better, I assure you. Perhaps that is really what I have been
resenting so long--that you show no facility for making amiable
speeches."

"I am afraid my facility lies in the opposite direction," he returned.

"I have recovered my equilibrium sufficiently not to admit that," she
said.

When he went away, as he did shortly after, she followed him to the door
of the room.

"Was I very bad-tempered?" she said, softly. "If I was, suppose you
forgive me before you go away--for the sake of the other Bertha."

He took the hand she offered him, and looked down at it as it lay upon
his big brown palm. It was feverish and still a little unsteady, though
her manner was calm enough.

"There is nothing to forgive," he answered. "If there was--this
Bertha"--He checked himself, and ended abruptly. "I don't share your
gift," he said. "I said my say as bluntly and offensively as possible, I
suppose, and you had a right to be angry. It was all the worse done
because I was in earnest."

"So was I--for a moment," she said; "that was the trouble."

And that was the end of it, though even when he dropped her hand and
turned away, he was aware of her slender figure standing in the
door-way, and of a faint, inexplicable shadow in the eyes that followed
him.

He went back to his quarters bitterly out of humor with himself.

"A nice fellow I am to talk to women!" he said. "I have not lived the
life to fit me for it. Military command makes a man authoritative. What
right had I to seem to assume control over her? She's not used to that
kind of thing, even from those who might be supposed to have the right
to do it. Some one ought to have the right--though that has gone out of
fashion, too, I suppose." Something like a groan burst from him as he
laid his forehead upon his hands, resting his elbows on the table before
him. "If a man loved her well enough," he said, "he might do it and
never hurt her; but if she loved him perhaps there would be no need of
it."

He had passed through many such brief spasms of resentful misery of
late, and he was beginning to acknowledge to himself that each one was
stronger than the last. He had contended his ground with steady
persistence and with stubborn condemnation of his own weakness, but he
had lost it, inch by inch, until there were times when he felt his
foothold more insecure than he could have believed possible a year ago.

"Why should I think of myself as a man who has lost something?" he was
wont to say to himself, bitterly and impatiently. "I had won nothing,
and might never have won it. I had what would have been opportunity
enough for a quicker temperament. It is nothing but sentiment."

And, even as he said it, there would come back to him some tone of
Bertha's voice, some pretty natural turn of her head or figure as she
sat or stood in the parlor with her small court around her; and, slight
as the memory might be, the sudden leap of his pulses had more power
than his argument.

It was these trifles and their habit of haunting him which were harder
to combat than all the rest. His life had been so little affected by
femininity that hers had a peculiarly persistent influence upon him. He
noted in her things he might have seen in scores of other women, but
half fancied belonged specially to herself. The sweep and fall of her
dress, the perfume she used, the soft ruffles of lace she was given to
wearing,--each of her little whims of adornment had its distinct effect,
and seemed, in some mysterious way, to have been made her own, and to be
shared with no other being. Other women wore flowers; but what flowers
had ever haunted him as he had been haunted by the knot of heliotrope
and violets he had seen her tuck carelessly into the belt of her dress
one day? He had remembered them with a start again and again, and each
time they had bloomed and breathed their soft scent afresh.

"It is all sentiment," he persisted. "There would be nothing new in it
to--to that fellow Arbuthnot, for instance; but it is new to me, and I
can't get rid of it, somehow."

He had heard in his past stories of men who cherished as treasures for a
lifetime a ribbon or a flower, and had passed them by in undisturbed
composure as incidents belonging only to the realms of wild romance;
but he had never in the course of his existence felt anything so keen as
the inconsequent thrill which was the result of his drawing suddenly
from his pocket one night, on his return to his quarters after a romp
with the children, a small, soft, long-wristed glove which it had been
Master Jack's pleasure to hide there.

He had carried it sternly back the next morning and returned it to
Bertha, but the act cost him an effort; it had been like a living
presence in his room the night before, and he had slept less well
because of it.

He had used his very susceptibility to these influences as an argument
against his feeling.

"There is nothing substantial in it," he had said,--"nothing but what a
man should find it easy to live down. It is the folly of a boy,
intoxicated by the color of a girl's cheek and the curl of her hair. An
old fellow, who any day may find a sprinkling of gray in his scalp-lock,
should know better than to ponder over a pretty gown and--a bunch of
flowers; and yet how one remembers them!"

And to-day it was the little things, as usual, almost as much as the
great ones. The memory of the small, bright room, with its air of
belonging to Bertha, and being furnished by Bertha, and strewed with
appendages of Bertha; the slight figure, in its white morning dress,
lying upon the sofa or standing between the folding-doors; the soft,
full knot of her hair as he saw it when she turned her head proudly away
from him,--what trifles they were! And yet if the room had been another,
and the pretty dress not white, and the soft hair coiled differently,
everything might have had another effect, and he might have been in
another mood,--or so he fancied.

But he gave himself little leisure for the indulgence of his fancies,
and he made his usual effort to crush them down and undervalue them. His
groan was followed by a bitter laugh.

"It is the old story," he said. "I please myself by fancying that what
would please me would make her happier. Arbuthnot would know better.
Control would not suit her, even the gentlest. She has had her own way
too long. She is a small, slight creature, but it has been her lot to
rule all her life, in a small, slight creature's way. It is the natural
sentimentality of an obstinate, big-boned fellow to fancy she would
thrive under it. She would know better herself. She would laugh the
thought to scorn, and be wise in doing it."




CHAPTER X.


As he was saying it Bertha had gone back to her sofa, and sat there with
the faint, troubled smile still on her face.

"He was angry," she said, "and so was I. It made him look very large;
but I was not at all afraid of him,--no, positively, I was not afraid of
him, and I am glad of that. It is bad enough to remember that I was
emotional, and said things I did not mean to say. It is not like me to
say things I don't mean to say. I must be more tired out than I knew.
Ah, there is no denying that he was in the right! I will go away and
stay some time. It will be better in every way."

For some minutes she sat motionless, her hands clasped lightly upon her
knee, her eyes fixed on a patch of sunlight on the carpet. She did not
move, indeed, until she heard the sound of her husband's foot upon the
steps and his latch-key in the door. He entered the room immediately
afterward, looking rather warm and a trifle exhilarated, and all the
handsomer in consequence.

"Ah, Bertha, you are here!" he said. "I am glad you are not out! How
warm it is! Fancy having such weather early in May! And three days ago
we had fires. What a climate! There is something appropriate in it. It
is purely Washingtonian, and as uncertain as--as senators. There's a
scientific problem for the Signal Service Bureau to settle,--Does the
unreliability of the climate affect the senatorial mind, or does the
unreliability of the senatorial mind affect the climate?"

"It sounds like a conundrum," said Bertha, "and the Signal Service
Bureau would give it up. You have been walking too fast, you foolish
boy, and have overheated yourself. Come and lie down on the sofa and
rest."

She picked up the cushion, which had fallen, and put it in place for
him. There was always a pretty touch of maternal care for him in her
manner. He accepted her invitation with delighted readiness, and, when
he had thrown himself at luxurious full length upon the sofa, she took a
seat upon its edge near him, having first brought from the mantel a
large Japanese fan, with which she stirred the air gently.

"Why were you glad that I had not gone out?" she said. "Did you want
me?"

"Oh!" he answered, "I always want you. You are the kind of little person
one naturally wants,--and it is a sort of relief to find you on the
spot. How nice this Grand Pasha business is,--lying on cushions and
being fanned,--and how pretty and cool you look in your white frills!
White is very becoming to you, Bertha."

Bertha glanced down at the frills.

"Is it?" she said. "Yes, I think it is, and this is a pretty gown.
Richard!"

"Well?"

"You said it was a sort of relief to find me on the spot. Did you say it
because I am not always here when you want me? Do you think I go out too
much? Does it ever seem to you that I neglect you a little, and am not
quite as domesticated as I should be? Should you be--happier--if I lived
a quieter life and cared less for society?"

There was a touch of unusual earnestness in her voice, and her eyes were
almost childishly eager as she turned them upon him.

"Happier!" he exclaimed, gayly. "My dear child! I could not easily be
happier than I am. How could I accuse you of neglecting me? You satisfy
me exactly in everything. Whose home is more charming, and whose
children are better cared for than mine? It is not necessary for you to
cook my dinner, but you are the most delightful sauce to it in the
world when you sit at the head of the table. What more could a man
want?"

"I--I don't know," she said, slowly, "but I could not bear to think that
I was not what I should be in my own home. It has always seemed to me
that there could be no bad taste and bad breeding so inexcusable as the
bad taste and bad breeding of a woman who is disagreeable and negligent
in her own house. One has no need to put it on moral grounds even--the
bad taste of it is enough. I don't think I could ever be disagreeable,
or that you could think me so; but it struck me"--

"Don't let it strike you again," he interrupted, amiably. "It has struck
me that there were never two people so well suited to each other as our
married life has proved us to be. I don't mind admitting now that once
or twice during the first year I thought that you were a little restless
or unhappy, but it was when you were not well, and it was quite natural,
and it all passed away, and I don't think it would occur to any one in
these days to ask whether you are happy or not."

Bertha was playing with his watch-chain, and she separated one charm
upon it from another carefully as she answered him in a soft, natural
voice:

"There is a legend, you know," she said, "that the first year of one's
marriage is always uncomfortable."

"Oh, mine was not uncomfortable," he returned,--"it was delightful, as
all the other years have been; but--just occasionally, you know--there
was a--well, a vague something--which never troubles me now."

"I must have behaved badly in some way," said Bertha, smiling, "or it
would not have troubled you then."

And she stooped and kissed him on the forehead.

"I have a horrible conviction," she said after it, "that I was a vixen.
Was I a vixen? Perhaps I was a vixen, and never suspected it, and no
one suspected it but you. Poor boy! Why didn't you return me to papa
with thanks? Well, as you have kept me so long, you must make the best
of me. And it is very nice and polite in you to pretend that I am
satisfactory, and don't make you wretched and your hearth a wilderness
by being a hollow worldling."

"You are exactly what I want," he responded. "I am a hollow worldling
myself. If I were a bricklayer, my idea of domestic bliss might be to
spend my evenings at home and watch you mending stockings or knitting,
or doing something of that sort; but even then I am afraid I should tire
of it, and secretly long for something more frivolous."

"For something as frivolous as I am?" she said, with a nervous little
laugh. "Quite as frivolous, Richard--really? But I know you will say so.
You are always good to me and spoil me."

"No, I am not," he answered. "It is simply true that you always please
me. It is true I am a rather easy-natured fellow, but I know plenty of
good-natured fellows whose wives are terribly unsatisfactory. You are
clever and pretty, and don't make mistakes, and you are never exacting,
nor really out of humor, and it is impossible for me to tire of you"--

"Really?" she said, quickly, "is that last true?"

"Entirely true."

"Well," she commented, the color rising in her cheek, "that is a good
deal for one's husband to say! That is a triumph. It amounts to a
certificate of character."

"Well," he admitted, after a second's reflection, "upon the whole it is!
I know more husbands than one; but no matter. I was going to add that
long ago--before I met you, you know--my vague visions of matrimonial
venture were always clouded by a secret conviction that when I had
really passed the Rubicon, and had time for reflection, things might
begin to assume a rather serious aspect."

"And I," said Bertha, a little thoughtfully, "have never assumed a
serious aspect."

"Never," he replied, exultingly. "You have been a perfect success. There
is but one Bertha"--

"And her husband is her prophet!" she added. "You are very good to me,
Richard, and it is entirety useless for you to deny it, because I shall
insist upon it with--with wild horses, if necessary; which figure of
speech I hope strikes you as being strong enough."

She was herself again--neither eager nor in earnest, ready to amuse him
and to be amused, waving her fan for his benefit, touching up his
cushions to make him more comfortable, and seeming to enjoy her seat on
the edge of his sofa very much indeed.

"Do you know," she said, at length, "what I have thought of doing? I
have thought quite seriously of going in a day or so to Fortress Monroe
with the children."

She felt that he started slightly, and wondered why.

"Are you surprised?" she asked. "Would you rather I would not go?"

"No," he answered, "if you think it would be better for you. You are
tired, and the weather is very warm. But--have you set any particular
day?"

"No," she said, "I should not do that without speaking to you first."

"Well," he returned, "then suppose you do not go this week. I have
half-invited Senator Planefield, and Macpherson and Ashley to dinner for
Thursday."

"Is it because you want them to talk about the bill?" she said. "How
interested you are in it, Richard! Why is it? Railroads never struck me
as being particularly fascinating material. It seems to me that amateur
enthusiasm would be more readily awakened by something more romantic and
a little intangible,--a tremendous claim, for instance, which would make
some poor, struggling creatures fabulously rich. I am always interested
in claims; the wilder they are, the better and it invariably delights
me when the people get them 'through' to the utter consternation of the
Government. It has faintly dawned upon me, on two or three such
occasions, that I have no political morality, and I am afraid it is a
feminine failing. It is not a masculine one, of course; so it must be
feminine. I wish you had chosen a claim, Richard, instead of a railroad.
I am sure it would have been far more absorbing."

"The railroad is quite absorbing enough," he answered, "and there is
money enough involved in it. Just think of those Westoria lands, and
what they will be worth if the road is carried through them,--and as to
romance, what could be more romantic than the story attached to them?"

"But I don't know the story," said Bertha. "What is it?"

"It is a very effective story," he replied, "and it was the story which
first called my attention to the subject. There was a poor, visionary
fellow whose name was Westor, to whom a large tract of this land came
suddenly as an inheritance from a distant relative. He was not practical
enough to make much use of it, and he lived in the house upon it in a
desolate, shiftless way for several years, when he had the ill-fortune
to discover coal on the place. I say it was ill-fortune, because the
discovery drove him wild. He worked, and starved, and planned, and
scraped together all the money he could to buy more land, keeping his
secret closely for some time. When he could do no more he came to
Washington, and began to work for a railroad which would make his wealth
available. His energy was a kind of frenzy, they say. He neither ate,
slept, nor rested, and really managed to get the matter into active
movement. He managed to awaken a kind of enthusiasm, and, for a short
time, was a good deal talked of and noticed. He was a big, raw-boned
young Westerner, and created a sensation by his very uncouthness in its
connection with the wildly fabulous stories told about his wealth. He
had among his acquaintances a man of immense influence, and at this
man's house he met the inevitable young woman. She amused herself, and
he fell madly in love, and became more frenzied than ever. It was said
that she intended to marry him if he was successful, and that she made
his poor, helpless life such an anguish to him that he lost his balance
entirely. There came a time when he was entirely penniless, and his
prospects were so unpromising, and his despair so great, that he went to
his boarding-house one day with the intention of killing himself, and
just as he finished loading his pistol a letter was handed in to him,
and when he opened it he found it contained the information that another
distant relative, affected by the rumors concerning him, had left him
twenty thousand dollars. He laid his pistol in a drawer, and left the
house to begin again. He had an interview with his lady-love, and one
with his man of influence, and at the end of a few weeks had bought more
land, and parted in some mysterious way with the rest of his money, and
was on the very eve of success. Poor fellow!"

"Poor fellow!" said Bertha. "Oh! don't say that any thing went wrong!"

"It would not be half so dramatic a story if everything had gone right,"
said Richard, with fine artistic appreciation. "You could never guess
what happened. Everything he did seemed to work to a miracle; every
train was laid and every match applied. On the day that was to decide
his fate he did not go near the Capitol, but wandered out and took his
place on one of the seats in the park which faced the house at which the
young woman was visiting, and sat there, a lank, unshorn, haggard
figure, either staring at her window or leaning forward with his head
upon his hands. People actually heard of his being there and went to
look at him, and came away without having dared to address him. The
young woman looked out from behind her blind and was furious, and even
sent word to him to go away. But he would not go, and only glared at
this man who was sent to him with the message. He sat there until night,
and then staggered across and rang at the bell, and inquired for the man
of influence, and was told--what do you suppose he was told?"

"Oh!" cried Bertha, desperately. "I don't know."

"He was told that he was occupied."

"Occupied!" echoed Bertha.

Richard clasped his hands comfortably and gracefully behind his head.

"That's the climax of the story," he said. "He was occupied--in being
married to the young woman, of whom he had been greatly enamored for
some time, and who had discreetly decided to marry him because he had
proved to her that the other man's bill could not possibly pass. It
could not pass because he had the energy and influence to prevent its
doing so, and he prevented its passing because he knew he would lose the
young woman otherwise. At least that is the story, and I like the
version."

"I don't like it!" said Bertha. "It makes me feel desperate."

"What it made the poor fellow feel," Richard went on, "nobody ever found
out, as he said nothing at all about it. On hearing the truth he sat
down on the steps for a few minutes, and then got up and went away. He
went to his boarding-house and had an interview with his landlady, who
was a kind-hearted creature, and when she saw him began to cry because
his bill had not passed. But when she spoke of it she found he knew
nothing of it; he had never asked about it, and he said to her, 'Oh!
that doesn't matter,--it isn't of any consequence particularly; I'm only
troubled about _your_ bill. I haven't money enough to pay it. I've only
enough to take me home, and you'll have to let me give you the things I
have in my room for pay. I only want one thing out of there,--if you'll
let me go and get it I won't take anything else.' So she let him go, and
stood outside his door and cried, while he went in and took something
out of a drawer."

"Richard!" cried Bertha.

"Yes," said Richard. "He actually found a use for it, after all--but not
in Washington. He went as far as he could by rail, and then he tramped
the rest of the way to Westoria; they say it must have taken him several
days, and that his shoes were worn to shreds, and his feet cut and
bruised by the walk. When he reached the house, it had been shut up so
long that the honeysuckle which climbed about it had grown across the
door, and he could not have got in without breaking or pushing it aside.
People fancied that at first he thought of going in, but that when he
saw the vine it stopped him,--slight barrier as it was. They thought he
had intended to go in because he had evidently gone to the door, and
before he turned away had broken off a spray of the flowers which was
just beginning to bloom; he held it crushed in his hand when they found
him, two or three days later. He had carried it back to the edge of the
porch, and had sat down--and finished everything--with the only thing he
had brought back from Washington--the pistol. How does that strike you
as the romance of a railroad?"

Bertha clenched her hand, and struck her knee a fierce little blow.

"Richard," she said, "if that had happened in my day I should have
turned lobbyist, and every thought, and power, and gift I had would have
been brought to bear to secure the passage of that bill."

Richard laughed,--a pleased but slightly nervous laugh.

"Suppose you bring them to bear now," he suggested.

"There would not be any reason for my doing it now," she answered; "but
I shall certainly be interested."

Richard laughed again.

"By Jove!" he said, "the poor devils who own it would think there was
reason enough!"

"Who owns it?"

"Several people, who speculated in it because the railroad was talked of
again, and on a more substantial footing. It fell to Westor's only
living relation, who was an ignorant old woman, and sold it without
having any idea of its real value. Her impression was that, if she kept
it, it would bring her ill-luck. There is no denying that it looks just
now like a magnificent speculation."

"And that poor fellow," said Bertha,--"that _poor_ fellow"--

"That poor fellow?" Richard interposed. "Yes--but his little drama is
over, you know, and perhaps there are others going on quite as
interesting, if we only knew them. It is very like you, Bertha--and it
is very adorable," touching her shoulder caressingly with his hand, "to
lose sight entirely of the speculation, and care only for the poor
fellow. You insist upon having your little drama under all
circumstances."

"Yes," she admitted. "I confess that I like my little drama, and I have
not a doubt that--as I said before--I could not have lived in the midst
of that without turning lobbyist--which is certainly not my vocation."

"Not your vocation?" said Richard. "You would make the most successful
little lobbyist in the world!"

Bertha turned upon him an incredulous and rather bewildered smile.

"I!" she exclaimed. "I?"

"Yes, you!"

"Well," she replied, after a second's pause given to inspection of him,
"_this_ is open derision!"

"It is perfectly true," was his response; "and it is true for good
reasons. Your strength would lie in the very fact that you would be
entirely unlike your co-laborers in the field. You have a finished
little air of ingenuousness which would be your fortune."

She shook her head with a pretty gesture.

"No," she said. "I am very clever, and of course you cannot help
observing it, but I am not clever enough for that."

He gave her a glance at once curious and admiring.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "it is my belief you are clever enough for
anything."

"Richard," she said, "shall I tell you a secret?"

"Yes."

"And you will bury it in the innermost recesses of your soul, and
_never_ divulge it?"

"Certainly."

"And brace yourself for a shock when I reveal it to you?"

"Yes."

"Well, here it is! My cleverness is like what you--and two or three
other most charming people--are good enough to call my prettiness. It is
a delusion and a snare!"

"Come!" he said. "You are attempting to deceive me."

"No," she answered. "I am attempting to undeceive you. I am not really
pretty or clever at all, and it has been the object of my life to
prevent its being detected."

She opened her eyes in the most charmingly ingenuous manner and nodded
her head.

"I discovered it myself," she said, "long ago,--comparatively early in
life,--and resolved to conceal it. And nothing but the confidence I
repose in you would have induced me to mention it."

"Well," he replied, "you have concealed it pretty well under the
circumstances."

"Ah!" she said, "but you don't know what a burden it is to carry about,
and what subterfuges I have to resort to when I seem on the very verge
of being found out. There is Larry, for instance,--I am almost sure that
Larry suspects me, especially when I am tired, or chance to wear an
unbecoming gown. You know how particular I am about my gowns? Well,
that is my secret. I haven't an attraction, really, but my gowns and my
spirits and my speciousness. The solitary thing I do feel I have reason
to pride myself on is that I am bold enough to adapt my gowns in such a
way as to persuade you that I am physically responsible for the color
and shape of them. You fancy you are pleased with me when you are simply
pleased with some color of which I exist on the reflection or glow. In
nine cases out of ten it is merely a matter of pale blue or pink, and
silk or crèpe or cashmere; and in the tenth it is nothing but spirits
and speciousness."

"Oh," he said, "there is no denying that you would make a wonderful
lobbyist."

"Well," she answered, rising and going to the table to lay her fan down,
"when you invest largely in Westoria lands and require my services in
that capacity, I will try to distinguish myself. I think I should like
to begin with the Westoria lands if I begin at all. But in the meantime
I must go upstairs and talk to the seamstress about Janey's new white
dresses. You are cool enough now to enjoy your lunch when the bell rings
and you shall have some iced tea if you would like it."

"I would like it very well, and, by the by, did Tredennis bring the
'Clarion,' as he said he would?"

"Yes, it is here," and she handed it to him from the table. "You can
read it while I am upstairs."

"Have you read it?" he said, opening it and turning to the editorial.

"Not yet. I shall read it this afternoon."

"Yes, do. The facts are put very forcibly. And--you will decide not to
go to Fortress Monroe just yet?"

She hesitated a moment, but he did not observe it.

"I must be here when your friends dine with you, of course," she said.
"And a week or even a little more does not make so much difference,
after all. It may be quite cool again to-morrow."

And she went out of the room and left him to his paper.




CHAPTER XI.


It was two weeks after this that Arbuthnot, sauntering down the avenue
in a leisurely manner, on his way from his office, and having a fancy to
stroll through Lafayette Park, which was looking its best in its spring
bravery and bloom, on entering the iron gate-way found his attention
attracted by the large figure of Colonel Tredennis, who was approaching
him from the opposite direction, walking slowly and appearing deeply
abstracted. It cannot be said that Mr. Arbuthnot felt any special
delight in the prospective encounter. He had not felt that he had
advanced greatly in Colonel Tredennis' good opinion, and had, it must be
confessed, resigned himself to that unfortunate condition of affairs
without making any particular effort to remedy it,--his private
impression being that the result would scarcely be likely to pay for the
exertion, taking into consideration the fact that he was
constitutionally averse to exertion.

"Why," he had said to Bertha, "should I waste my vital energies in
endeavoring to persuade a man that I am what he wants, when perhaps I am
not? There are scores of people who will naturally please him better
than I do, and there are people enough who please me better than he
does. Let him take his choice,--and it is easy enough to see that I am
not his choice."

"What is he thinking of now, I wonder?" he said, a vague plan for
turning into another walk flitting through his mind. "Are his friends,
the Piutes, on the war-path and actively engaged in dissecting agents,
or is he simply out of humor? He is not thinking of where he is going.
He will walk over that nursemaid and obliterate the twins--yes, I
thought so."

The colonel had verified his prophecy, and, aroused from his reverie by
the devastation he had caused, he came to a stand-still with a perplexed
and distressed countenance.

"I beg your pardon," Arbuthnot heard him say, in his great, deep voice.
"I hope I did not hurt you. I had forgotten where I was." And he stooped
and set the nearest twin on its feet on the grass and then did the same
thing for the other, upon which both stood and stared at him, and, not
being hurt at all, having merely rolled over on the sod, were in
sufficiently good spirits to regard with interest the fact that he was
fumbling in his coat-pocket for something.

The article in question was a package of bonbons, which he produced and
gave to the nearest toddler.

"Here!" he said. "I bought these for another little girl, but I can get
some more. They are all right," he added, turning to the mulatto girl,
whose admiration of his martial bearing revealed itself in a most
lenient grin,--"they won't hurt them. They can eat them all without
being harmed."

And then he turned away, and in doing so caught sight of Arbuthnot, and,
somewhat to the surprise of the latter, advanced toward him at once with
the evident intention of joining him.

"It is rather a curious thing that I should meet you here," he said. "I
was thinking of you when I met with the catastrophe you saw just now. Do
you often go home this way?"

"Not very often," Arbuthnot replied. "Sometimes, when things look as
they do now," with a gesture indicating the brilliant verdure.

"Everything looks very fresh and luxuriant," said Tredennis. "The season
is unusually far advanced, I suppose. It is sometimes a great deal too
warm to be pleasant."

"It will be decidedly warmer every day," said Arbuthnot. "We shall have
a trying summer. The President is going out to the Soldiers' Home next
week--which is earlier than usual. There are only two or three of the
senators' families left in the city. The exodus began weeks ago."

"Such weather as we have had the last few days," said the colonel, with
his slight frown, "must be very exhausting to those who are not strong,
and who have gone through a gay winter."

"The best thing such people can do," responded Arbuthnot, dryly, "is to
make their way to the mountains or the sea as soon as possible. Most of
them do."

Tredennis' reply was characteristically abrupt.

"Mrs. Amory does not," he said.

"No," answered Arbuthnot, and he looked at the end of his cigar as if he
saw nothing else.

"Why doesn't she?" demanded Tredennis.

"She ought to," said Arbuthnot, with calm adroitness.

"Ought to!" Tredennis repeated. "She should have gone months ago.
She--she is actually ill. Why in heaven's name does she stay? She told
me two weeks since that she was going to Fortress Monroe, or some such
place."

"She had better go to a New England farm-house, and wear a muslin gown
and swing in a hammock," said Arbuthnot.

"You see that as well, do you?" said the colonel. "Why don't you tell
her so?" and having said it, seemed to pull himself up suddenly, as if
he felt he had been unconsciously impetuous.

Arbuthnot laughed.

His smile had died completely away, however, when he gave his side
glance at his companion's face a moment later.

"She was quite serious in her intention of going away two weeks ago," he
said. "She told me so; nothing but Richard's dinner-party prevented her
departure in the first place."

He spoke in an entirely non-committal tone, but there was a touch of
interest in his quiet glance at Tredennis.

"You dined there with Planefield and the rest, didn't you?" he added.

"Yes."

"I didn't. Richard was kind enough to invite me, but I should only have
been in the way." He paused an instant, and then added, without any
change of tone or manner, "I know nothing of the Westoria lands."

"Was it necessary that you should?" said Tredennis. "I did not."

"Oh," Arbuthnot answered, "I knew they would discuss them, and the bill,
as it pleases Amory to be interested in them just now."

"I remember that the matter was referred to several times," said
Tredennis; "even Mrs. Amory seemed to know a good deal of it."

"A good deal!" said Arbuthnot. "In favor of the bill?"

"Yes," Tredennis answered. "She had been reading up, it appeared. She
said some very good things about it--in a laughing way. Why does she
waste her time and strength on such folly?" he added, hotly. "Why--why
is she allowed to do it?"

"The New England farm would be better for her just now," said
Arbuthnot--again adroitly.

"Why should Amory waste his time upon it?" the colonel went on; "though
that is his affair, of course, and not mine!"

They had reached the gate by this time, but they did not pass through
it. Finding themselves near it, they turned--as if by mutual consent,
and yet without speaking of doing so--into the walk nearest them.

It was after taking a few steps in silence down this path, that Colonel
Tredennis spoke again, abruptly:

"When I was thinking of you just before we met," he said, "I was
thinking of you in connection with--with the Amorys."

He knew the statement had a blunt enough sound, and his recognition of
it irritated him, but he was beginning to be accustomed to his own
bluntness of statement, and, at any rate, this led him to the point he
meant to reach.

Arbuthnot's reply was characteristic. It was not blunt at all, and had
an air of simple directness, which was the result not only of a most
creditable tact and far-sightedness, but of more private good feeling
and sincerity than he was usually credited with.

"I am always glad to be thought of in connection with the Amorys," he
said. "And I am glad that it is perfectly natural that I should be
connected with them in the minds of their friends. There has been a very
close connection between us for several years, and I hope they have
found as much pleasure in it as I have."

Tredennis recognized the tact even if he was not aware of the good
feeling and far-sightedness. The obstacles had been removed from his
path, and the conversation had received an air of unconstrained
naturalness, which would make it easier for him to go on.

"Then," he said, "there will be no need to explain what I mean by saying
that I was thinking specially of your interest in Mrs. Amory
herself--and your influence over her."

"I wish my influence over her was as strong as my interest in her," was
his companion's reply. "My interest in her is a sincere enough feeling,
and a deep one. There is every reason why it should be."

"I,"--began the colonel,--"I"--And then he stopped.

"Your interest in her," Arbuthnot went on, seeming to enjoy his cigar
very much, "is even a more natural feeling than mine--though I scarcely
think it can be stronger. It is not a matter of relationship so
much,--as a rule, relationship does not amount to a great deal,--but the
fact that you knew her as a girl, and feel toward the professor as you
do, must give her a distinct place in your mind."

"It is a feeling," said Tredennis, "which disturbs me when I see that
she is in actual danger through her own want of care for herself. Are
women always so reckless? Is it a Washington fashion? Why should she
forget that her children need her care, if she does not choose to think
of herself? Is that a Washington fashion, too?"

"You were thinking," said Arbuthnot, "and flattering me in doing it,
that what I might say to her on the necessity of leaving the city might
have some little effect?"

"Yes," Tredennis answered. "And if not upon herself, upon Amory. He is
always ready to listen to you."

Arbuthnot was silent for some moments. He was following a certain train
of thought closely and rapidly, but his expression did not betray him at
all.

"She would have gone two weeks ago," he said quietly next, "if it had
not been for Richard's engagements with Planefield and the rest. He has
had them at his house two or three times since then, and they have made
little parties to Mount Vernon and Arlington and Great Falls. Planefield
is a lady's man, and he finds Mrs. Amory very charming."

"What!" exclaimed Tredennis, with intolerant haughtiness,--"that coarse
fellow?"

"He isn't a nice fellow," said Arbuthnot, "but he won't show his worst
side to her--any more than he can help. He is a very powerful fellow,
they say."

Here he stopped. They had reached their gate-way again.

"I'll do what I can," he said. "It won't be much, perhaps; but I will do
what I can. I fully appreciate the confidence you showed in speaking to
me."

"I fully appreciate the manner in which you listened to what I had to
say," said Tredennis.

And, somewhat to Arbuthnot's surprise, he held out his hand to him.




CHAPTER XII.


Instead of making his way home at once Arbuthnot turned up the side of
the street on which the Amorys' house stood. As he reached the house the
door was opened, and a man came out and walked down the steps. He was a
man with a large frame, a darkly florid complexion, and heavily handsome
features. As he passed Arbuthnot he gave him a glance and a rather
grudging bow, which expressed candidly exactly the amount of pleasure he
derived from encountering him.

Bertha was in the parlor alone. When Arbuthnot entered he found her
standing in the middle of the room, looking down at the roses on her
gayly painted fan, and evidently not seeing them.

"Well," he began, by way of greeting, "I hope you have been enjoying
yourself--with your senators."

She looked up, and made a quick, eager little movement toward him, as if
she was more glad to see him than usual.

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "I believe I was wishing you would come."

"Thank you," he said; "but the compliment would be greater if you were
sure of it."

"I think I am sure of it, now you are here," she answered, "though I
don't know at all why I wanted you--unless it was to tell you that I
have not been enjoying myself in the least--with my senators."

"I am delighted to hear it," he replied. "Nothing could please me
better. They are always too numerous, and lately one is continually
meeting them on the steps and being scowled at."

She shut her fan quickly, with a slight frown.

"Why scowled at?" she said. "That would be absurd enough."

"Absurd or not," he laughed, "it is true."

But, notwithstanding his laugh, there was no change in her face he did
not see.

They had seated themselves by this time, and Bertha was looking at her
fan again, and opening and shutting it slowly.

"They are not my senators," she said. "They are Richard's, and--I am
getting a little tired of them, though I should not like to tell him so.
When it is warm, as it is to-day, I am very tired of them."

"I should not think it at all improbable," remarked Arbuthnot, dryly.
"It has struck me that it would be necessary for the mercury to be
several degrees below zero before you would find the one who went out
just now, for instance, especially exhilarating."

"He is not exhilarating at all," she said. "Richard likes him," she
added, a moment afterward. "I don't know exactly why, but he really
seems to admire him. They are quite intimate. I think the acquaintance
began through some law business he gave him in connection with the
Westoria lands. I have tried to like him on Richard's account. You must
remember," she said, with a smile, "I first tried to like you on
Richard's account."

"I hope you succeeded better than you will with Planefield," he said.

"I might succeed with him if I persevered long enough," she answered.
"The difficulty lies in the perseverance. Richard says I would make a
good lobbyist, but I am sure I should not. I could not be persistently
amiable and entertaining to people who tired me."

"Don't deplore your deficiencies until it becomes necessary for you to
enter the profession," said Arbuthnot. "I don't like to hear you speak
of it," he added, with a touch of sharpness.

"I don't deplore them," said Bertha. "And it is only one of my little
jokes. But, if the fortunes of the Westoria lands depended on me, I am
afraid they would be a dismal failure."

"As they don't depend on you," he remarked, "doesn't it occur to you
that you might as well leave them to Senator Planefield? I must confess
it has presented itself to me in that light."

"It is rather odd," she said, in a tone of reflection, "that though I
have nothing whatever to do with them, they actually seem to have
detained me in town for the last two weeks."

"It is quite time you went away," said Arbuthnot.

"I know that," she answered. "And I feel it more every day."

She raised her eyes suddenly to his.

"Laurence," she said, "I am not well. Don't tell Richard, but I think I
am not well at all. I--I am restless and nervous--and--and morbid. I am
actually morbid. Things trouble me which never troubled me before.
Sometimes I lose all respect for myself. You know I always was rather
proud of my self-control. I am not quite as proud of it as I used to be.
About two weeks ago I--I positively lost my temper."

He did not laugh, as she had been half-afraid he would. His manner was
rather quiet; on the contrary--it was as if what she said struck him as
being worth listening to with some degree of serious attention, though
his reply was not exactly serious.

"I hope you had sufficient reason," he said.

"No," she answered. "I had no reason at all, which makes it all the more
humiliating. I think I have been rather irritable for a month or two. I
have allowed myself to--to be disturbed by things which were really of
no consequence, and I have taken offence at things and--and--resented
trifles, and it was the merest trifle which made me lose my temper--yes,
actually lose my temper, and say what I did not intend to say, in the
most open and abject manner. What could be more abject than to say
things you did not intend to say? You know I never was given to that
kind of thing."

"No," he responded, "it cannot be said that you were."

"It was so--so revolting to me after it was over," she went on, "that it
seemed to make me more weak-minded than ever. When you once give way to
your emotions it is all going down-hill--you do it again and again. I
never did it before, but I have been on the verge of doing it two or
three times since."

"Don't go any farther than the verge," he said.

"I don't intend to," she answered. "I don't like even the verge. I
resent it with all my strength. I should like to invent some kind of
horrible torture to pay myself for--for what I did."

He was watching her very closely, but she was not aware of it. She had
arrested his attention completely enough by this time, and the fact made
itself evident in his intent and rather startled expression.

"I hope it was nothing very serious," he said.

"It was serious enough for me," she replied. "Nobody else was hurt, but
it was serious enough for me--the mere knowing that for a few minutes I
had lost my hold on myself. I didn't like it--I didn't like it!"

There was an intensity in her manner, in her voice, in her face, in her
very figure itself, which was curiously disproportionate to her words.
She leaned forward a little, and laid her small, clenched hand upon her
knee.

"In all my life," she said, slowly,--"in all my life, I have never had a
feeling which was as strong as myself. I have been that fortunate. I
have been angry, but never so angry that I could not seem perfectly
still and calm; I have been happy, but never so happy that I could not
have hidden it if I chose; I have been unhappy--for a moment or so--but
never so unhappy that I had the horrible anguish of being found out. I
am not capable of strong, real emotions, I am too shallow and--and
light. I have been light all my life, and I _will_ be light until the
end.

"Only the children could make me suffer, really," she said after
it,--"only the children, and all women are like that. Through Janey, or
Jack, or Meg, my heart could be torn in two, if they were in pain, or
badly treated, or taken from me,--that is nothing but common nature; but
nothing else could hurt me so that I should cry out--nothing and
nobody--not even Richard!"

She stopped herself, and opened her fan again.

"There!" she exclaimed. "Why did I say so much then, and say it so
vehemently, as if it was of consequence? Nothing is of
consequence--nothing, nothing!" And she laughed, and rose and began to
take up and set down again some trifles on the mantel.

Arbuthnot still watched her.

"No," he said, "you are quite right; nothing is of consequence really,
and the sooner one learns that, the better for one's peace of mind. The
worst pain you could have to bear could not last you more than a few
score years, and you would get used to it in that time; the greatest
happiness you could yearn for would not last any longer, and you would
get tired of it in time, too."

"Tired of it!" she echoed. "One could tire of anything in threescore
years and ten. How tired one must be of one's self before it is
over--how tired! how tired!" and she threw up her hands in a sudden,
desperate gesture.

"No," he answered, in a tone whose level coolness was a forcible
contrast to her own. "Not necessarily, if one doesn't expect too much.
If we take things for what they are worth, and don't let ourselves be
deceived by them, there is plenty of rational entertainment to be had by
the way. We mayn't like it quite as well as what we set out with
expecting, but we can manage to subsist upon it. I hope I am logical. I
know I am not eloquent." He said it bitterly.

"No," she returned, without looking at him, "you are not eloquent,
perhaps, but you are speaking the truth--and I like to hear it. I want
to hear it. It is good for me. It is always good for people to hear the
truth; the bare, unvarnished, unadorned truth. Go on."

"If I go on," he said, still bitterly, "I shall begin to drag myself in,
and I don't care to do it. It is natural that I should feel the
temptation. I never knew the man yet who could talk in this strain and
not drag himself in."

"Drag yourself in as much as you like," she said, even fiercely, "and be
an example to me."

"I should be example enough if I said all I could," he replied. "Am _I_
a happy man?"

She turned, and for a moment they looked into each other's eyes; his
were stern, hard, and miserable.

"No," she cried out, "you are not. No one is happy in the world!" And
she dropped her face upon her hands as she leaned upon the mantel.

"I might have been happier if I had begun right, I suppose," he said.

"Begun!" she repeated. "Does any one ever begin right? One ought to
begin at the end and go backward, and then one might make something of
it all."

"I didn't make much of it," he said. "I was not as wise as you. I began
with emotions, and follies, and fires,--and the rest of it, and the
enjoyment I derived from them was scarcely what I anticipated it would
be. The emotions didn't last, and the follies didn't pay, and the fires
burnt out--and that was the worst of all. And they always do--and that
is worse still. It is in the nature of things. Look at that grate,"
pointing to it. "It looked different a week ago, when we had a rainy
night and sat around it. We could have burned ourselves at it then if we
had been feeble-minded enough to try it; we couldn't do it now; and yet
a few days ago it was hot enough. The fire has burned out, and even the
ashes are gone."

She stooped down, picked up her fan, and reseated herself upon the
sofa. She did not look quite like herself,--her face was very pale but
for the two red spots Tredennis had seen on her cheeks when her display
of feeling had startled him; but all at once a change had taken place in
her manner. There was a sort of deadly stillness in it.

"We are a long way from my temper," she said,--"a long way."

"Yes," he replied, "about as far as we could get in the space of time
allowed us; and we have been a trifle emotional."

"And it was my fault," she continued. "Isn't it time I went somewhere
cool and bracing? I think you must admit it is."

"Yes," he said, "it is time. Take my advice, and go."

"I'll go," she said, steadily, "the day after to-morrow. And I'll not go
to Fortress Monroe. I'll go into the mountains of Virginia,--to a
farm-house I know of, where one has forests, and silence, and
nature--and nothing else. I'll take the children, and live out-of-doors
with them, and read to them, and talk to them, and sew for them when I
want anything to do. I always was happy and natural when I was sewing
and doing things for them. I like it. Living in that simple, natural
way, and having the children with me, will rest and cure me if anything
will on earth; the children always--the children"--

She stopped and sat perfectly still; her voice had broken, and she had
turned her face a little away.

Arbuthnot got up. He stood a moment, as he always did before going, but
he did not look directly at her, though he did not seem to avoid her in
his glance.

"It is the best thing you can do," he said,--"the very best thing. You
will be thoroughly rested when you come home, and that is what you need.
I will go now; I hear Richard, and I want to speak to him alone."

And by the time the door opened and Richard stood on the threshold, he
had reached him and turned him around, throwing his arm boyishly over
his shoulder.

"You are just in time," he said. "Take me into the museum, or the
library. I want to have a confidential chat with you."

And they went out together.




CHAPTER XIII.


The following day Richard presented himself to Tredennis in the morning,
looking a little disturbed, and scarcely in such excellent spirits as
usual.

"Bertha and the children are going away to-morrow," he said. "And if you
have no other engagement you are to come and dine with us this evening
and say good-by."

"I have no other engagement," Tredennis answered. "I shall be glad to
come. They are really going to Fortress Monroe to-morrow?"

Richard threw himself into a chair with a rather discontented air. "They
are not going to Fortress Monroe at all," he said. "They are going to
bury themselves in the mountains of Virginia. It is a queer fancy of
Bertha's. I think she is making a mistake. She won't like it, really,
when she tries it."

"If she needs rest," said Tredennis, "certainly the mountains of
Virginia"--

"The mountains of Virginia," interrupted Richard, "were not made for
Bertha. She will tire of them in a week. I wish she would not go!" he
said, with the faintest possible touch of petulance.

"You will miss her very much, of course," said Tredennis.

"Oh, yes, I shall miss her. I always miss her--and I shall miss her
specially just now."

"Just now?" said Tredennis.

"Oh," said Richard, straightening himself somewhat and clearing his
slightly knitted brow, "I was only thinking of two or three plans which
had half-formed themselves in my mind. I was looking at it from a
selfish point of view, which I had no right to do. I suppose things
might wait--until she comes back."

"Are you going with her?" said Tredennis.

"I!" exclaimed Richard. "No, I could not do that. My business would not
allow of it. I have more than usual on hand just now. I shall run down
to see them once a week, if possible. I must confess," with a laugh,
"that I could not make up my mind to three months of it. Bertha knows
that."

Taking all things into consideration, he bore the prospect of his
approaching loneliness very well. He soon began to speak of other
matters, and before he took his departure had quite recovered his usual
gayety. As he talked Tredennis regarded him with some curiosity.

"He has a fortunate temperament," he was thinking. "He would have been
happy if she had remained, but he is not unhappy because she goes. There
are men who would take it less lightly--though, after all, he is the one
to be envied."

Tredennis did not feel that he himself was greatly to be envied. He had
said that she ought to go, and had been anxious and unhappy because she
had not gone; but now that she was going he was scarcely happier. There
were things he should miss every day. As he remembered them, he knew he
had not allowed himself to admit what their value had been to him. The
very fact that they had not been better friends made it harder. From the
first he had been aware that a barrier stood between them, and in the
interview which had revealed to him something of its nature he had
received some sharp wounds.

"There was truth in what she said," he had often pondered since, "though
she put it in a woman's way. I have resented what she has said and done,
often enough, and have contrasted it bitterly with what I
remembered--God knows why! I had no right to do it, and it was all
folly; but I did it, and made myself wretched through it--and she saw
the folly, and not the wretchedness."

But now that her presence would no longer color and animate the familiar
rooms he realized what their emptiness would be. He could not endure the
thought of what it would be to go into them for the first time and sit
alone with Richard,--no bright figure moving before them, or sitting in
its chair by the table, or the window, or the hearth. The absence of the
very things which had angered and disturbed him would leave a blank. It
would actually be a wretchedness to see no longer that she often chose
to be flippant, and mocked for mere mocking's sake.

"What!" he said, savagely, "am I beginning to care for her very faults?
Then it is best that she should go."

But his savageness was not against Bertha, but against himself and his
weakness.

When he arrived at the house in the evening he found Bertha in the
parlor, with Jack and Janey, who were to be allowed to share the
farewell dinner.

As she advanced to meet him with a child on either side, he was struck
by certain changes which he observed in her dress and manner. She wore a
dark, simple gown, her hair was dressed a trifle more closely and
plainly than usual, and there was no color about her. When she gave him
her hand, and stood with the other resting on Jack's shoulder, her eyes
uplifted to his own, he was bewildered by a feeling that he was suddenly
brought face to face with a creature quite strange to him. He could not
have said that she was actually cold and reserved, but there was that in
the quiet of her manner which suggested both reserve and coldness.

"I have allowed the children to stay downstairs," she said, "and they
are to dine with us if they will be good. They wished very much to see
as much of you as possible--as it will be some time before they
return--and I think they will be quiet."

"If you will seat one on each side of me," said Tredennis, "I will keep
them quiet."

"You are very kind," she answered, "but I should scarcely like to do
that."

And then she returned to her seat by the window, and he sat opposite her
on the end of a sofa, with Janey leaning against his knee.

"You are not going to Fortress Monroe?" he said.

"No," she replied; "I am going to the Virginia mountains."

"I should think that would be better," he said, putting an arm around
Janey.

"I thought so," she answered, "upon reflection. I am not as strong as I
should be, and I think I dislike ill-health even more than most people
do."

She held Jack's hand, and spoke in a quiet tone of common things,--of
her plans for the summer, of the children, of Richard; and Tredennis
listened like a man in a dream, missing the color and vivacity from her
manner as he had known he should miss her presence from the rooms when
she was gone.

"Tell Uncle Philip something of what we are going to do," she said to
Jack. "Tell him about the hammocks, and the spades we are to dig with,
and the books. We are to live out of doors and enjoy ourselves
immensely," she added, with a faint smile.

"Mamma is going to play with us every day," said Jack, triumphantly.
"And we are going to lie in our hammocks while she reads to us and tells
us stories."

"And there will be no parties and no company," added Janey. "Only we are
to be the company."

"And Jack is to take care of me," said Bertha, "because I am growing
old, and he is so big."

Jack regarded her dubiously.

"You haven't any wrinkles," he said.

"Yes, I have, Jack," she answered; "but they don't show." And a little
laugh broke from her, and she let her cheek rest against his dark
love-locks for a moment in a light caress.

Glancing up at the colonel's face at this juncture, Janey found cause in
it for serious dissatisfaction. She raised her hand, and drew a small
forefinger across his forehead.

"Uncle Philip," she said, "you are bad again. The black marks have come
back, and you are quite ugly; and you promised you would try not to let
them come any more."

"I beg your pardon, Janey," he answered, and then turned to Bertha. "She
does not like my black face," he said, "and no wonder. I am rather an
unfortunate fellow to have my faults branded upon me so plainly that
even a child can see them."

There was a touch of bitterness in the words, and in his manner of
uttering them. Bertha answered him in a soft, level voice.

"You are severe upon yourself," she said. "It is much safer to be severe
upon other people."

It was rather cruel, but she did not object to being cruel. There come
to most women moments when to be cruel is their only refuge against
themselves and others; and such a moment had come to her.

In looking back upon the evening, when it was over, the feeling that it
had been unreal was stronger in Tredennis's mind than any other. It was
all unreal from beginning to end,--the half-hour before dinner, when
Arbuthnot and Richard and the professor came in, and Bertha stood near
her father's chair and talked to him, and Tredennis, holding Janey on
his knee and trying to answer her remarks lucidly, was aware only of the
presence of the dark, slender figure near him, and the strange quiet of
the low voice; the dinner itself, during which Richard was in the most
attractive mood, and the professor was rather silent, and Arbuthnot's
vivacity was a little fitful at first and afterward seemed to recover
itself and rise to the occasion; while Bertha, with Jack on one hand
and Janey on the other, cared for their wants and answered Richard's
sallies, and aided him in them, and yet was not herself at all, but a
new being.

"And you think," said the professor, later in the evening, when they had
returned to the parlors,--"you think that you will like the quiet of the
mountains?"

"I think it will be good for me," she answered, "and the children will
like it."

"She will not like it at all," said Richard. "She will abhor it in ten
days, and she will rush off to Fortress Monroe, and dance every night to
make up for her temporary mental aberration."

"No, she will not," said Arbuthnot. "She has made preparations to enjoy
her seclusion in its dramatic aspects. She is going to retire from the
world in the character of a graceful anchorite, and she has already
begun to dress the part. She is going to be simple and serious, and a
trifle severe; and it even now expresses itself in the lines and color
of her gown."

She turned toward him, with the sudden gleam of some new expression in
her eyes.

"How well you understand me!" she said. "No one else would have
understood me so well. I never can deceive you, at least. Yes, you are
quite right. I am going to enjoy the thing dramatically. I don't want to
go, but as I feel it discreet I intend to amuse myself, and make the
best of it. I am going to play at being maternal and amiable, and even
domesticated. I have a costume for it, as I have one for bathing and
dining and making calls. This," she said, touching her dress, "is part
of it. Upstairs I have a little mob-cap and an apron, and a work-basket
to carry on my arm. They are not unbecoming, either. Shall I run up into
the nursery and put them on, and show them to you? Then you can be sure
that I comprehend the part."

"Have you a mob-cap and an apron?" asked Richard. "Have you, really?"

"Yes, really," she answered. "Don't you remember that I told you that
it was my dresses that were of consequence, and not myself? Shall I go
and put them on?"

Her tone was soft no longer; it was a little hard, and so was the look
which half hid itself behind the brightness of the eyes she turned
toward him.

"Yes," he answered. "Put them on, and let us see them."

She turned round and went out of the room, and Arbuthnot followed her
with a rather anxious glance. The professor stirred his tea as usual,
and Tredennis turned his attention to Janey, while Richard laughed.

"I have no doubt she has all three," he said. "And they will be well
worth seeing."

They were worth seeing. In a few minutes she returned,--the little
work-basket on her arm, the mob-cap upon her head, the apron around her
waist, and a plain square of white muslin crossed upon her bosom. She
stopped in the door-way, and made a courtesy.

"There ought to be a curtain, and somebody ought to ring it up," she
said. "Enter the domestic virtues."

And she came and stood before them, her eyes shining still, and her head
erect, but--perhaps through the rather severe black and white of her
costume--seeming to have a shade less color than before.

"I did not make them for this occasion," she said. "They have appeared
before. You don't remember them, Richard, but I had them when Jack was a
baby--and a novelty. I tried being maternal then."

"Why, yes," said Richard, "to be sure I remember them,--and very
becoming they were, too."

"Oh, yes," she answered. "I knew they were becoming!"

She turned and fronted Tredennis.

"I hope they are becoming now," she said, and made her little courtesy
again.

"They are very becoming," he answered, looking at her steadily. "I like
them better than--the silks and brocades."

"Thank you," she said. "I thought you would--or I would not have put
them on. Jack and Janey, come and stand on each side of me while I sit
down. I have always congratulated myself that you were becoming. This is
what we shall be constrained to do when we are in Virginia, only we
shall not have the incentive of being looked at."

"We will make up a party," said Richard, "and come down once a week to
look at you. Planefield would enjoy it, I am sure."

"Thank you," said Bertha. "And I will always bring out the work-basket,
with a lace-collar for Meg in it. Lace-collars are more becoming than
small aprons or stocking-mending. Do you remember the little shirt Mrs.
Rawdon Crawley was making for her boy, and which was always produced
when she was in virtuous company? Poor Rawdon was quite a big boy, and
very much too large for it, by the time it was finished. I wonder if Meg
will be grown up before she gets her collar."

She produced a needle, threaded it, and took a few stitches, bending her
head over her task with a serious air.

"Does it look as if I had done it before?" she said. "I hope it does. I
really have, you know. Once I sewed on a button for Richard."

But she did not sew many minutes. Soon she laid her work down in the
basket.

"There!" she said, "that is enough! I have made my impression, and that
is all I care for--or I _should_ have made my impression if you had been
strangers. If you had not known me you would have had time to say to one
another: 'What a simple, affectionate little creature she must be! After
all, there is nothing which becomes a woman so well as to sit at her
work in that quiet, natural way, with her children about her!' Come,
Jack and Janey, it is time for you to say good-night, and let me make a
pretty exit with you, in my mob-cap and apron."

She took them away, and remained upstairs with them until they were in
bed. When she came back she did not bring the work-basket, but she had
not taken off the cap and handkerchief. She held an open letter in her
hand, and went to Richard and sat down by him. Her manner had changed
again entirely. It was as if she had left upstairs something more than
the work-basket.

"Richard," she said, "I did not tell you I had had a letter from Agnes
Sylvestre."

"From Agnes Sylvestre!" he exclaimed. "Why, no, you didn't! But it is
good news. Laurence, you must remember Agnes Sylvestre!"

"Perfectly," was the answer. "She was not the kind of person you
forget."

"She was a beautiful creature," said Richard, "and I always regretted
that we lost sight of her as we did after her marriage. Where is she
now, Bertha?"

"When she wrote she was at Castellamare. She went abroad, you know,
immediately after her husband's death."

"He was not the nicest fellow in the world,--that Sylvestre," said
Richard. "He was not the man for a woman like that to marry. I wonder if
she did not find out that she had made a mistake?"

"If she did," said Bertha, "she bore it very well, and it has been all
over for more than two years."

She turned suddenly to Tredennis.

"Did not you once tell me"--she began.

"Yes," he replied. "I met her in Chicago, and Mr. Sylvestre was with
her."

"It must have been two or three weeks before his death," said Bertha.
"He died quite suddenly, and they were in Chicago at the time. Do you
remember how she looked, and if you liked her?--but of course you liked
her."

"I saw her only for a short time," he answered. "We talked principally
of you. She was very handsome, and had a sweet voice and large, calm
eyes."

Bertha was silent a moment.

"Yes," she said next, "she has beautiful eyes. They are large and clear,
like a child's, but they are not childish eyes. She sees a great deal
with them. I think there was never anything more effective than a way
she has of looking at you quietly and directly for a few seconds,
without saying anything at all."

"You wonder what she is thinking of," said Arbuthnot. "And you hope she
is thinking of yourself, and are inclined to believe she is, when there
are ten chances to one that she is not at all."

"But she generally is," said Bertha. "The trouble is that perhaps she is
not thinking exactly what you would like best, though she will never
tell you so, and you would not discover it from her manner. She had an
adorable manner; it is soft and well-bred, but she never wastes
herself."

"I remember," said Tredennis, "that I thought her very attractive."

Bertha turned more directly toward him.

"She is exactly what you would like," she said,--"exactly. When I said
just now that her way of looking at people was effective, I used the
worst possible word, and did her an injustice. She is never
effective--in that way. To be effective, it seems to me, you must apply
yourself. Agnes Sylvestre never applies herself. Trifles do not amuse
her as they amuse me. I entertain myself with my whims and with all
sorts of people; she has no whims, and cares only for the people she is
fond of. If she were here to-night she would look calmly at my mob-cap
and apron, and wonder what I meant by them, and what mental process I
had gone through to reach the point of finding it worth while to wear
them."

"Oh," said Arbuthnot, "I should not think she was slow at following
mental processes."

"No," answered Bertha, "I did not mean that. She would reason clearly
enough, after she had looked at me a few moments and asked herself the
question. But in talking of her I am forgetting to tell you that she is
coming home, and will spend next winter in Washington."

"Congratulate yourself, Laurence," said Richard. "We may all
congratulate ourselves. It will be something more to live for."

"As to congratulating myself," said Arbuthnot, "I should have no
objection to devoting the remainder of the evening to it, but I am
afraid"--

"Of what?" demanded Bertha.

"Oh," he answered, "she will see through _me_ with her calm eyes; and,
as you say, she never wastes herself."

"No," said Bertha, "she never wastes herself. And, after all, it is
Colonel Tredennis who has most reason to congratulate himself. He has
not thrown away his time. I am obliged to admit that she once said to me
of you, 'Why does he throw away his time? Does he never think at all?'
Yes, it is Colonel Tredennis who must be congratulated."

It was chiefly of Agnes Sylvestre they talked during the rest of the
evening.

"She is a person who says very little of herself," was Bertha's comment,
"but there is a great deal to say of her."

And so there seemed to be. There were anecdotes to be related of her,
the charm of her beauty and manner was to be analyzed, and all of her
attributes were found worth touching upon.

It was Tredennis who took his departure first. When he rose to go,
Bertha, who was talking to Arbuthnot, did not at first observe his
movement, and when he approached her she turned with an involuntary
start.

"You--are going now?" she said.

"Yes," he answered. "I wish you a pleasant summer and all the rest you
require."

She stood up and gave him her hand.

"Thank you," she replied. "I shall be sure to have the rest."

It scarcely seemed more than the ordinary conventional parting for the
night; to Tredennis it seemed something less. There were only a few
words more, and he dropped her hand and went out of the room.

He had certainly felt that this was the last, and only a powerful effort
of will held in check a feeling whose strength he would have been loath
to acknowledge.

"Such things are always a wrench," he said, mentally. "I never bore them
well."

And he had barely said it when he heard Bertha cross the parlor quickly
and pass through the door. He had bent to take up a paper he had left on
the hat-stand, and when he turned she was close to him.

Something in her look was so unusual that he recognized it with an
inward start. Her eyes were a little dilated, and her breath came with
soft quickness, as if she had moved rapidly and impulsively. She put out
both her hands with a simple, sudden gesture, and with an action as
simple and unpremeditated he took them and held them in his own.

"I came," she said, "to say good-by again. All at once I seemed to--to
realize that it would be months before I--we saw you again. And so many
things happen, and--" She stopped a second, but went on after it. "When
I come back," she said, "I shall be well and strong, and like a new
person. Say good-by to this person;" and a smile came and went as she
said it.

"A moment ago," he answered, "I was telling myself that good-byes were
hard upon me."

"They--they are not easy," she said.

This, at least, was not easy for him. Her hands were trembling in his
clasp. The thought came to him that perhaps some agitation she wished to
hide had driven her from the room within, and she had come to him for
momentary refuge because he was near. She looked up at him for a second
with a touch of desperation in her eyes, and then he saw her get over
it, and she spoke.

"Jack and Janey will miss you very much," she said. "You have been very
kind to them. I think--it is your way to be good to every one."

"My opportunities of being good have been limited," he said. "If--if one
should present itself,"--and he held her hands a little closer,--"you
won't let me miss my chance, will you? There is no reason for my saying
so much, of course, but--but you will try to remember that I am here and
always ready to come when I am called."

"Yes," she said, "I think you would come if I called you. And I thank
you very much. And good-by--good-by."

And she drew her hands away and stood with them hanging clasped before
her, as if she meant to steady them, and so she stood until he was gone.

He was breathing quickly himself when he reached the street.

"Yes," he said, "the professor was right. It is Arbuthnot--it is
Arbuthnot."




CHAPTER XIV.


When he passed the house the next day they were gone. The nursery
windows were thrown open, and he fancied that the place wore a deserted
look. The very streets seemed empty, and the glare of sunshine, whose
heat increased with every hour, added to the air of desolateness he
imagined.

"It _is_ imagination," he said. "And the feeling will die away all the
more quickly because I recognize the unreality of it. By to-morrow or
the day after I shall have got over it."

And yet a week later, when he dropped in upon the professor, one sultry
evening, to spend an hour with him, his old friend found cause for
anxious inspection of him.

"What," he said, "the hot weather begins to tell on you already! You are
not acclimatized yet,--that's it. You must spare yourself as much as
possible. It doesn't promise well that you look fagged so soon. I should
say you had not slept well."

"I don't sleep well," Tredennis answered.

"You are working too hard," said the professor; "that is it, perhaps."

"I am not working hard enough," replied Tredennis, with a slight
knitting of the brows. "I wish I had more to do. Leisure does not agree
with me."

"One must occupy one's self!" said the professor. He spoke
half-absently, and yet with a touch of significance in his tone
which--combined with the fact that he had heard the words before--caused
Tredennis to glance at him quickly.

He smiled slightly, in answer to the glance.

"Bertha?" he said. "Oh, yes, I am quoting Bertha. Your manner is not as
light as hers, but it reminded me of her in some way; perhaps because I
had a letter from her to-day, and she was in my thoughts."

"I hope she is well," said Tredennis, "and does not find her farm-house
too dull."

"She does not complain of it," the professor answered. "And she says
nothing of her own health, but tells me she is a little anxious about
Janey, who does not seem quite herself."

Tredennis looked out into the darkening street. They were sitting by the
opened window.

"She was not well when she went away," he said, a trifle abstractedly.

"Janey?" asked the professor, as if the idea was new to him; "I did not
know that."

Tredennis roused himself.

"I--was thinking of Bertha," he said.

"Oh, of Bertha," said the professor, and then he lapsed into a reverie
himself for a few moments; and seemed to watch the trees on the street
without seeing them.

"No, she was not well," he said, at length; "but I think she will be
better when she comes back."

"The rest and quiet"--began Tredennis.

"I think she had determined to be better," said the professor.

"Determined?" repeated Tredennis.

"She has a strong will," returned the professor, "though it is a thing
she is never suspected of. She does not suspect herself of it, and yet
she has relied upon its strength from the first, and is relying upon it
now. I am convinced that she went away with the determination to conquer
a restlessness whose significance she is just awakening to. And she
deliberately chose nature and the society of her children as the best
means of cure."

"Do you think," asked Tredennis, in a low voice, "that she will get over
it?"

The professor turned to look at him.

"I don't know," he answered, with a slight tone of surprise. "Why did
you fancy I would?"

"You seem to understand her," said Tredennis.

The professor sighed.

"I have studied her so long," he replied, "that I imagine I know what
she is _doing_, but you can't safely go beyond that with women; you
can't say what they are _going_ to do,--with any degree of certainty.
They are absorbingly interesting as a study, but they are not to be
relied on. And they rarely compliment your intelligence by doing what
you expect of them. _She_ has not done what I expected. She has lived
longer than I thought she would without finding herself out. A year ago
she believed that she had proved to herself that such an emotion as--as
this was impossible to her. It was a very innocent belief, and she was
entirely sincere in it, and congratulated herself upon it." He turned to
Tredennis again with a sudden movement and a curious look of pain in his
face. "I am afraid it's a great mistake," he said.

"What?" Tredennis asked.

"This--this feeling," he said, in a tremulous and troubled voice. "I
don't mean in her alone, but in any one, everywhere. I am not sure that
it ever brings happiness really in the end. I am afraid there always
_is_ an end. If there wasn't, it might be different; but I am afraid
there is. There are those of us who try to believe there is none,
but--but I am afraid those are happiest who lose all but their ideal.
There are many who lose even that, and Fate has done her worst by them."
He checked himself, and sank back in his chair.

"Ah!" he said, smiling half sadly. "I am an old man--an old man,--and it
is an old man's fancy, that the best thing in life is death. And Fate
did not do her worst by me; she left me my ideal. She had gray eyes," he
added, "and a bright face, like Bertha's. Perhaps, after all, if I had
won what I wanted, I should not feel so old to-night, and so tired. Her
face was very bright."

He had not been wholly well for some days, and to-night seemed fatigued
by the heat and languor in the air, but he was somewhat more hopeful
when he spoke of Bertha than he had been.

"I have confidence in the strength of her will," he said, "and I like
her pride and courage. She does not give away to her emotions; she
resents them fiercely, and refuses to acknowledge their powers over her.
She insists to herself that her restlessness is nervousness, and her
sadness morbid."

"She said as much to me," said Tredennis.

"Did she?" exclaimed the professor. "That is a good sign; it shows that
she has confidence in you, and that it is a feeling strong enough to
induce her to use you as a defence against her own weakness. She would
never have spoken if she had not believed that you were a sort of
stronghold. It is the old feeling of her girlhood ruling her again.
Thank Heaven for that!"

There was a ring at the front-door bell as he spoke, and a moment or so
later it was answered by a servant; buoyant feet were heard in the hall,
and paused a second on the threshold.

"Are you here, Professor?" some one inquired. "And may I come in?"

Professor Herrick turned his head.

"Come in, Richard," he said; "come in, by all means." And Amory entered
and advanced toward them.

The slight depression of manner Tredennis had fancied he had seen in him
on the last two occasions of their meeting had disappeared altogether.
He seemed even in gayer spirits than usual.

"I have come to tell you," he said to the professor, "that I am going
away for a short time. It is a matter of business connected with the
Westoria lands. I may be away a week or two."

"Isn't it rather a long journey?" asked the professor.

"Oh, yes," he replied, with no air of being daunted by the
prospect,--"and a tiresome one, but it is important that I should make
it, and I shall not be alone."

"Who is to be your companion?"

"Planefield--and he's rather an entertaining fellow, in his
way--Planefield. Oh, it won't be so bad, on the whole."

"It is Planefield who is interested in the lands, if I remember
rightly," suggested the professor.

"Oh, Planefield?" Richard replied, carelessly. "Well, more or less. He
is given to interesting himself in things, and, by Jove!" he added with
a laugh, "this promises to be a good thing to be interested in. I
shouldn't mind if I"--

"My dear Richard," interposed the professor, "allow me to advise you not
to do so. You'll really find it best. Such things rarely end well."

Richard laughed again.

"My dear Professor," he answered, with much good-humor, "you may rely
upon me. I haven't any money of my own."

"And if you had money?" said the professor.

"I think I should risk it. I really do. Though why I should say risk, I
hardly know. There is scarcely enough risk to make it exciting."

He was very sanguine, and once or twice became quite brilliant on the
subject. The great railroad, which was to give the lands an enormous
value, was almost an established fact; everything was being laid in
train: a man influenced here, a touch given there, a vigorous move made
in this direction, an interest awakened in that, and the thing was done.

"There isn't a doubt of the termination," he said, "not a doubt. It's a
brilliant sort of thing that is its own impetus, one might say, and the
right men are at work for it, and the right wom--"

"Were you going to say women?" asked Tredennis, when he pulled himself
up somewhat abruptly.

"Well, yes," Richard said, blithely. "After all, why not? I must confess
to finding the fact lend color and vivacity to the thing. And the
delightful cleverness the clever ones show is a marvellous power for or
against a thing, though I think the feminine tendency is to work for a
thing, not against it."

"I should like to know," said Tredennis, "how they begin it."

For a moment he thought he did not know why he asked the question; but
the self-delusion did not last long. He felt an instant later that he
did know, and wished that he did not.

"In nine cases out of ten," Richard replied, giving himself up at once
to an enjoyable analysis of the subject,--"in nine cases out of ten it
is my impression they begin with almost entire lack of serious
intention, and rarely, if ever, even in the end, admit to themselves
that they have done what they are accused of. Given a clever and pretty
woman whose husband or other male relative needs her assistance: why
should she be less clever and pretty in the society of one political
dignitary than in that of another, whose admiration of her charms may
not be of such importance? I suppose that is the beginning, and then
come the sense of power and the fascination of excitement. What woman
does not like both? What woman is better and more charming than Bertha,
and Bertha does not hesitate to admit, in her own delightful way, that
there must have been a fascination in the lives of those historical
charmers before whom prime ministers trembled, and who could make and
unmake a cabinet with a smile."

"What," was the thought that leaped into Tredennis' mind, "do we begin
to compare Bertha with a king's favorite!" But he did not say it
aloud--it was not for him to defend her against her husband's lightness;
and were they not her own words, after all? And so he could only sit
silent in the shadow of his darkening corner and knit his heavy brows
with hot resentment in his heart, while Richard went on:

"There are some few who make a profession of it," he said; "but they do
not carry the most power. The woman who is ambitious for her husband, or
eager for her son, or who wishes to escape from herself and find refuge
in some absorbing excitement, necessarily is more powerful than the more
sordid element. If I were going in for that kind of thing," he went on,
settling himself in his favorite graceful, lounging posture, and
throwing his arm lightly behind his head,--"if I were going in for it,
and might make a deliberate choice, I think I should choose a woman who
had something to forget,--a woman who had reached an emotional
crisis--who was young, and yet who could not take refuge in girlish
forgetfulness, and who, in spite of her youth, had lived beyond trusting
in the future--a woman who represented beauty, and wit, and despair (the
despair would be the strongest lever of all). There isn't a doubt of it
that such a woman, taken at such a turning-point in her existence, could
move--the world, if you like--the world itself;" and he arranged himself
a trifle more comfortably, and half-laughed again.

"But," suggested the professor, "you are not going in for that sort of
thing, my dear Richard."

"Oh, no, no!" answered Richard; "but _if_ I were, I must confess it
would have a fascination for me which would not permit of my regarding
it in cold blood. I am like Bertha, you know--I like my little drama."

"And, speaking of Bertha," said the professor, "if anything should
happen while you are away"--

"Now, really," said Richard, "that shows what a careless fellow I am! Do
you know, it never once occurred to me that anything could happen. We
have such an admirable record to look back upon, Bertha and I, though I
think I usually refer the fact to Bertha's tact and executive ability;
nothing ever has happened, and I feel that we have established a
precedent. But, if anything should happen, you had better telegraph to
Merritsville. In any ordinary event, however, I feel quite safe in
leaving Bertha in your hands and Tredennis's," he said, smiling at the
large shadow in the corner. "One is always sure, in the midst of the
ruling frivolity, that Tredennis is to be relied on."

He went away soon after, and Tredennis, bidding the professor
good-night, left the house with him.

As they passed down the steps Richard put his arm through his
companion's with caressing friendliness.

"It wouldn't do you any harm to take a run up into Virginia yourself,
once in a while," he said. "You have been losing ground since the heat
set in, and we can't submit to that. We need your muscular development
in its highest form, as an example to our modern deterioration. Kill two
birds with one stone when you have a day's leisure,--go and see Bertha
and the children, and lay in a new supply of that delightful robustness
we envy and admire."

"I should be glad to see Bertha," said Tredennis.

"She would be glad to see you," Richard answered. "And, while I am away,
it will be a relief to me to feel that she has you to call upon in case
of need. The professor--dear old fellow--is not as strong as he was. And
you--as I said before--one naturally takes the liberty of relying upon
your silent substantiality."

"Thank you," said Tredennis. "If it is a matter of avoirdupois"----

Richard turned quickly to look at him.

"Ah, no," he said, "not that; though, being human, we respect the
avoirdupois. It's something else, you know. Upon my word, I can't
exactly say what, but something which makes a man feel instinctively
that he can shift his responsibilities upon you and they will be in good
hands. Perhaps it is not an enviable quality in one's self, after all.
Here am I, you see, shifting Bertha and the children off on your
shoulders.

"If I can be of any use to Bertha and the children why not?" said
Tredennis, tersely.

"Oh, but one might also say 'Why?'" returned Richard. "We haven't any
claim on you, really, and yet we do it, or, rather, _I_ do it, which
speaks all the more strongly for your generosity and trustworthiness."

"And you will be away"--Tredennis began.

"Two or three weeks. It might be more, but I think not. We separate
here, I think, as I am going to drop in on Planefield. Good-night, and
thanks."

"Good-night," responded Tredennis, and they shook hands and parted.




CHAPTER XV.


During the hot days and nights of the next few weeks Tredennis found
life rather a dreary affair. Gradually the familiar faces he met on the
avenue became fewer and fewer; the houses he knew one after another
assumed their air of summer desertion, offering as their only evidences
of life an occasional colored servant sunning him or herself on the
steps; the crowds of nursery-maids, with their charges, thinned out in
the parks, and the freshness of the leaves was lost under a coating of
dust, while the countenances of those for whom there was no prospect of
relief expressed either a languid sense of injury or the patience of
despair.

"But, after all," Tredennis said, on two or three occasions, as he sat
in one of the parks in the evening,--"after all, I suppose most of them
have--an object," adding the last two words with a faint smile.

He was obliged to confess to himself that of late he found that the work
which he had regarded as his object had ceased to satisfy him. He gave
his attention to it with stern persistence, and refused to spare himself
when he found his attention wandering; he even undertook additional
labor, writing in his moments of leisure several notable articles upon
various important questions of the day, and yet he had time left to hang
heavily on his hands and fill him with weariness; and at last there came
an evening when, after sitting in one of the parks until the lamps were
lighted, he rose suddenly from his seat, and spoke as if to the silence
and shadow about him.

"Why should I try to hide the truth from myself?" he said. "It is too
late for that. I may as well face it like a man, and bear it like one.
Many a brave fellow has carried a bullet in his body down to his grave,
and seldom winced. This is something like that, I suppose, only that
pain"--And he drew a sharp, hard breath, and walked away down the
deserted path without ending the sentence.

He made a struggle after this to resist one poor temptation which beset
him daily,--the temptation to pass through the street in which stood the
familiar house, with its drawn blinds and closed doors. Sometimes, when
he rose in the morning, he was so filled with an unreasoning yearning
for a sight of its blankness that he was overwhelmed by it, and went out
before he breakfasted.

"It is weakness and self-indulgence," he would say; "but it is a very
little thing, and it can hurt no one--it is only a little thing, after
all." And he found a piteous pleasure--at which at first he tried to
smile, but at which before long he ceased even to try to smile--in the
slow walk down the street, on which he could see this window or that,
and remember some day when he had caught a glimpse of Bertha through it,
or some night he had spent in the room within when she had been gayer
than usual, or quieter,--when she had given him some new wound, perhaps,
or when she had half-healed an old one in some mood of relenting he had
not understood.

"There is no reason why I should understand any woman," was his simple
thought. "And why should I understand her, unless she chose to let me?
She is like no other woman."

He was quite sure of this. In his thoughts of her he found every word
and act of hers worth remembering and even repeating mentally again and
again for the sake of the magnetic grace which belonged only to herself,
and it never once occurred to him that his own deep sympathy and tender
fancy might brighten all she did.

"When she speaks," he thought, "how the dullest of them stir and listen!
When she moves across a room, how natural it is to turn and look at her,
and be interested in what she is going to do! What life I have seen her
put in some poor, awkward wretch by only seating herself near him and
speaking to him of some common thing! One does not know what her gift
is, and whether it is well for her or ill that it was given her, but one
sees it in the simplest thing she does."

It was hard to avoid giving himself up to such thoughts as these, and
when he most needed refuge from them he always sought it in the society
of the professor; so there were few evenings when he did not spend an
hour or so with him, and their friendship grew and waxed strong until
there could scarcely have been a closer bond between them.

About two weeks after Richard Amory's departure, making his call later
than usual one evening, he met, coming down the steps, Mr. Arbuthnot,
who stopped, with his usual civility, to shake hands with him.

"It is some weeks since we have crossed each other's paths, colonel," he
said, scrutinizing him rather closely: "and, in the meantime, I am
afraid you have not been well."

"Amory called my attention to the fact a short time ago," responded
Tredennis, "and so did the professor. So, perhaps, there is some truth
in it. I hadn't noticed it myself."

"You will presently, I assure you," said Arbuthnot, still regarding him
with an air of interest. "Perhaps Washington doesn't agree with you. I
have heard of people who couldn't stand it. They usually called it
malaria, but I think there was generally something"--He checked himself
somewhat abruptly, which was a rather unusual demonstration on his part,
as it was his habit to weigh his speech with laudable care and
deliberation. "You are going to see the professor?" he inquired.

"Yes," answered Tredennis.

The idea was presenting itself to his mind that there was a suggestion
of something unusual in the questioner's manner; that it was not so
entirely serene as was customary; that there was even a hint of some
inward excitement strong enough to be repressed only by an effort. And
the consciousness of this impressed itself upon him even while a flow of
light talk went on, and Arbuthnot smiled at him from his upper step.

"I have been to see the professor, too," he was saying, "and I felt it
was something of an audacity. His invitations to me have always been of
the most general nature; but I thought I would take the liberty of
pretending that I fancied he regarded them seriously. He was very good
to me, and exhibited wonderful presence of mind in not revealing that he
was surprised to see me. I tried not to stay long enough to tire him,
and he was sufficiently amiable to ask me to come again. He evidently
appreciated the desolation of my circumstances."

"You are finding it dull?" said Tredennis.

"Dull!" repeated Arbuthnot. "Yes; I think you might call it dull. The
people who kindly condescend to notice me in the winter have gone away,
and my dress-coat is packed in camphor. I have ceased to be useful; and,
even if Fate had permitted me to be ornamental, where should I air my
charms? There seems really no reason why I should exist, until next
winter, when I may be useful again, and receive in return my modicum of
entertainment. To be merely a superior young man in a department is not
remunerative in summer, as one ceases to glean the results of one's
superiority. At present I might as well be inferior, and neither dance,
nor talk, nor sing, and be utterly incapacitated by nature for either
carrying wraps or picking up handkerchiefs; and you cannot disport
yourself at the watering-places of the rich and great on a salary of a
hundred dollars a month; and you could only get your sordid 'month's
leave,' if such a thing were possible."

"I--have been dull myself," said Tredennis, hesitantly.

"If it should ever occur to you to drop in and see a fellow-sufferer,"
said Arbuthnot, "it would relieve the monotony of _my_ lot, at least,
and might awaken in me some generous emotions."

Tredennis looked up at him.

"It never has occurred to you so far, I see," was Arbuthnot's light
reply to the look; "but, if it should, don't resist the impulse. I can
assure you it is a laudable one. And my humble apartment has the
advantage of comparative coolness."

When Tredennis entered the library he found the professor sitting in his
usual summer seat, near the window. A newspaper lay open on his knee,
but he was not reading it; he seemed, indeed, to have fallen into a
reverie of a rather puzzling kind.

"Did you meet any one as you came in?" he asked of Tredennis, as soon as
they had exchanged greetings.

"I met Mr. Arbuthnot," Tredennis answered, "and stopped a few moments on
the steps to talk to him."

"He has been entertaining me for the last hour," said the professor,
taking off his glasses and beginning to polish them. "Now, will you tell
me," he asked, with his quiet air of reflective inquiry into an
interesting subject,--"will you tell me why he comes to entertain _me_?"

"He gave me the impression," answered Tredennis, "that his object in
coming was that you might entertain him, and he added that you were very
good to him, and he appeared to have enjoyed his call very much."

"That is his way," responded the professor, impartially. "And a most
agreeable way it is. To be born with such a way as a natural heritage is
to be a social millionnaire. And the worst of it is, that it may be a
gift entirely apart from all morals and substantial virtues. Bertha has
it. I don't know where she got it. Not from me, and not from her poor
mother. I say it _may be_ apart from all morals and substantial virtues.
I don't say it always is. I haven't at all made up my mind what
attributes go along with it in Arbuthnot's case. I should like to
decide. But it would be an agreeable way in a criminal of the deepest
dye. It is certainly agreeable that he should in some subtle manner be
able to place me in the picturesque attitude of a dignified and
entertaining host. I didn't entertain him at all," he added, simply. "I
sat and listened to him."

"He is frequently well worth listening to," commented Tredennis.

"He was well worth listening to this evening," said the professor. "And
yet he was light enough. He had two or three English periodicals under
his arm,--one of them was 'Punch,'--and--and I found myself laughing
quite heartily over it. And then there was something about a new comic
opera, and he seemed to know the libretto by heart, and ran over an air
or so on the piano. And he had been reading a new book, and was rather
clever about it--in his way, of course, but still it was cleverness. And
then he went to the piano again and sang a captivating little love-song
very well, and, after it, got up and said good-night--and on the whole I
regretted it. I liked his pictures, I liked his opera, I liked his talk
of the book, and I liked his little love-song. And how should he know
that an old dry-bones would like a tender little ballad and be touched
by it, and pleased because his sentiment was discovered and pandered to?
Oh, it is the old story. It's his way--it's the way."

"I am beginning to think," said Tredennis, slowly, "that 'his way' might
be called sympathy and good feeling and fine tact, if one wanted to be
specially fair to him."

The professor looked up rather quickly.

"I thought you did not like him," he said.

Tredennis paused a moment, looking down at the carpet as if
deliberating.

"I don't think I do," he said at length; "but it's no fault of his--the
fault lies in me. I haven't the way, and I am at a disadvantage with
him. He is never at a loss, and I am; he is ready-witted and
self-possessed; I am slow and rigid, and I suppose it is human that I
should try to imagine at times that I am at a disadvantage only because
my virtues are more solid than his. They are not more solid; they are
only more clumsy and less available."

"You don't spare yourself," said the professor.

"Why should I spare myself?" said Tredennis, knitting his brows. "After
all, _he_ never spares himself. He knows better. He would be just to me.
Why should I let him place me at a disadvantage again by being unjust to
him? And why should we insist that the only good qualities are those
which are unornamental? It is a popular fallacy. We like to believe it.
It is very easy to suspect a man of being shallow because we are sure we
are deep and he is unlike us. This Arbuthnot"--

"'This Arbuthnot,'" interposed the professor, with a smile. "It is
curious enough to hear you entering upon a defence of 'this Arbuthnot.'
You don't like him, Philip. You don't like him."

"I don't like myself," said Tredennis, "when I am compared with him; and
I don't like the tendency I discover in myself, the tendency to
disparage him. I should like to be fair to him, and I find it
difficult."

"Upon my word," said the professor, "it is rather fine in you to make
the effort, but"--giving him one of the old admiring looks--"you are
always rather fine, Philip."

"It would be finer, sir," said Tredennis, coloring, "if it were not an
effort."

"No," said the professor, quietly, "it would not be half so fine." And
he put out his hand and let it rest upon the arm of the chair in which
Tredennis sat, and so it rested as long as their talk went on.

In the meantime Arbuthnot walked rather slowly down the street, quite
conscious of finding it necessary to make something of an effort to
compose himself. It was his recognition of this necessity which had
caused him to change his first intention of returning to his bachelor
apartment after having made his call upon Professor Herrick. And he felt
the necessity all the more strongly after his brief encounter with
Colonel Tredennis.

"I will go into the park and think it over," he said to himself. "I'll
give myself time."

He turned into Lafayette Park, found a quiet seat, and took out a very
excellent cigar. He was not entirely surprised to see that, as he held
the match to it, his hand was not as steady as usual. Tredennis had
thought him a little pale.

The subject of his reflections, as he smoked his cigar, was a
comparatively trivial incident; taken by itself, but he had not taken it
by itself, because in a flash it had connected itself with a score of
others, which at the times of their occurring had borne no significance
whatever to him.

His visit to the professor had not been made without reasons; but they
had been such reasons as, simply stated to the majority of his ordinary
acquaintance, would have been received with open amazement or polite
discredit, and this principally because they were such very simple
reasons indeed. If such persons had been told that, finding himself
without any vestige of entertainment, he had wandered in upon the
professor as a last resource, or that he had wished to ask of him some
trivial favor, or that he had made his call without any reason whatever,
they would have felt such a state of affairs probable enough; but being
informed that while sitting in the easiest of chairs, in the coolest
possible _negligée_, reading an agreeable piece of light literature, and
smoking a cigar before his open window, he had caught sight of the
professor at _his_ window, sitting with his head resting on his hand,
and being struck vaguely by some air of desolateness and lassitude in
the solitary old figure, had calmly laid aside book and cigar, had put
himself into conventional attire, and had walked across the street with
no other intention than that of making the best of gifts of
entertainment it was certainly not his habit to overvalue,--those to
whom the explanation had been made would have taken the liberty of
feeling it somewhat insufficient, and would, in nine cases out of ten,
privately have provided themselves with a more complicated one,
cautiously insuring themselves against imposture by rejecting at the
outset the simple and unvarnished truth.

Upon the whole, the visit had been a success. On entering, it is true,
he found himself called upon to admire the rapidity with which the
professor recovered from his surprise at seeing him; but, as he had not
been deluded by any hope that his first appearance would awaken
unmistakable delight, he managed to make the best of the situation. His
opening remarks upon the subject of the weather were not altogether
infelicitous, and then he produced his late number of "Punch," and the
professor laughed, and, the ice being broken, conversation flourished,
and there was no further difficulty. He discovered, somewhat to his
surprise, that he was in better conversational trim than usual.

"It is a delusive condition to be in," he explained to the professor;
"but experience has taught me not to be taken in by it and expect future
development. It won't continue, as you no doubt suspect. It is the
result of entire social stagnation for several weeks. I am merely
letting off all my fireworks at once, inspired to the improvidence by
your presence. I am a poor creature, as you know; but even a poor
creature is likely to suffer from an idea a day. The mental
accumulations of this summer, carefully economized, will support me in
penury during the entire ensuing season. I only conjure you not to
betray me when you hear me repeat the same things by instalments at Mrs.
Amory's evenings."

And, saying it, he saw the professor's face change in some subtle way as
he looked at him. What there was in this look and change to make him
conscious of an inward start he could not have told. It was the merest
lifting of the lids, combined with an almost imperceptible movement of
the muscles about the mouth; and yet he found it difficult to avoid
pausing for a moment. But he accomplished the feat, and felt he had
reason to be rather proud of it. "Though what there is to startle him in
my mention of Mrs. Amory's evenings," he reflected, "it would require an
intellect to explain."

Being somewhat given to finding entertainment in quiet speculation upon
passing events, he would doubtless have given some attention to the
incident, even if it had remained a solitary unexplained and mystifying
trifle. But it was not left to stand alone in his mind.

It was not fifteen minutes before, in drawing his handkerchief from his
breast-pocket, he accidentally drew forth with it a letter, which fell
upon the newspaper lying upon the professor's lap, and for a moment
rested there with the address upward.

And the instant he glanced from the pretty feminine envelope to the
professor's face Arbuthnot recognized the fact that something altogether
unexpected had occurred again.

As he had looked from the envelope to the professor, so the professor
looked from the envelope to him. Then he picked the letter up and
returned it.

"It is a letter," Arbuthnot began,--"a letter"--and paused
ignominiously.

"Yes," said the professor, as if he had lost something of his own gentle
self-possession. "I see it is a letter."

It was not a happy remark, nor did Arbuthnot feel his own next effort a
particularly successful one.

"It is a letter from Mrs. Amory," he said. "She is kind enough to write
to me occasionally."

"Yes," responded the professor. "I saw that it was from Bertha. Her hand
is easily recognized."

"It is an unusual hand," said Arbuthnot. "And her letters are very like
herself. When it occurs to her to remember me--which doesn't happen as
frequently as I could wish--I consider myself fortunate. She writes as
she talks, and very few people do that."

He ended with a greater degree of composure than he had begun with, but
to his surprise he felt that his pulses had quickened, and that there
had risen to his face a touch of warmth suggestive of some increase of
color, and he did not enjoy the sensation. He began to open the letter.

"Shall I"--he said, and then suddenly stopped.

He knew why he had stopped, but the professor did not, and to make the
pause and return the letter to its envelope and its place in his pocket
without an explanation required something like hardihood.

"She is well, and seems to be taking advantage of the opportunity to
rest," he said, and picked up his "Punch" again, returning to his
half-finished comment upon its cartoon as if no interruption had taken
place.

As he sat on his seat in the park, apparently given up to undivided
enjoyment of his cigar, his mind was filled with a tumult of thought. He
had not been under the influence of such mental excitement for years.
Suddenly he found himself confronting a revelation perfectly astounding
to him.

"And so _I_ am the man!" he said, at last. "_I_ am the man!"

He took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at the end of it with an
air of deliberate reflection, as is the masculine habit.

"It doesn't say much for me," he added, "that I never once suspected
it--not once."

Then he replaced his cigar, with something like a sigh.

"We are a blind lot," he said.

He did not feel the situation a pleasant one; there were circumstances
under which he would have resented it with a vigor and happy ingenuity
of resource which would have stood him in good stead; but there was no
resentment in his present mood. From the moment the truth had dawned
upon him, he had treated it without even the most indirect reference to
his own very natural feelings, and there had been more sacrifice of
himself and his own peculiarities in his action when he had returned the
letter to his pocket than even he himself realized.

"It was not the letter to show him," was his thought. "She does not know
how much she tells me. He would have understood it as I do."

He went over a good deal of ground mentally as he sat in the deepening
dusk, and he thought clearly and dispassionately, as was his habit when
he allowed himself to think at all. By the time he had arrived at his
conclusions it was quite dark. Then he threw the end of his last cigar
away and arose, and there was no denying that he was pale still, and
wore a curiously intense expression.

"If there is one thing neither man nor devil can put a stop to," he
said, "it is an experience such as that. It will go on to one of two
ends,--it will kill her, or she will kill it. The wider of the mark they
shoot, the easier for her; and as for me," he added, with a rather faint
and dreary smile, "perhaps it suits me well enough to be merely an
alleviating circumstance. It's all I'm good for. Let them think as they
please."

And he brushed an atom of cigar-ash from his sleeve with his rather too
finely feminine hand, and walked away.




CHAPTER XVI.


He paid the professor another visit a few days later, and afterwards
another, and another.

"What," said the professor, at the end of his second visit, "is it ten
o'clock? I assure you it is usually much later than this when it strikes
ten."

"Thank you," said Arbuthnot. "I never heard that civility accomplished
so dexterously before. It is perfectly easy to explain the preternatural
adroitness of speech on which Mrs. Amory prides herself. But don't be
too kind to me, professor, and weaken my resolution not to present
myself unless I have just appropriated an idea from somewhere. If I
should appear some day _au naturel_, not having taken the precaution to
attire myself in the mature reflections of my acquaintance, I shouldn't
pay you for the wear and tear of seeing me, I'll confess beforehand."

"I once told you," said the professor to Tredennis, after the fourth
visit, "that I was not fond of him, but there had been times when I had
been threatened with it. This is one of the times. Ah!" with a sigh of
fatigue, "I understand the attraction--I understand it."

The following week Tredennis arrived at the house one evening to find it
in some confusion. The _coupé_ of a prominent medical man stood before
the pavement, and the servant who opened the door looked agitated.

"The professor, sir," he said, "has had a fall. We hope he aint much
hurt, and Mr. Arbuthnot and the doctor are with him."

"Ask if I may go upstairs," said Tredennis; and, as he asked it,
Arbuthnot appeared on the landing above, and, seeing who was below, came
down at once.

"There is no real cause for alarm," he said, "though he has had a
shock. He had been out, and the heat must have been too much for him. As
he was coming up the steps he felt giddy and lost his footing, and fell.
Doctor Malcolm is with him, and says he needs nothing but entire quiet.
I am glad you have come. Did you receive my message?"

"No," answered Tredennis. "I have not been to my room."

"Come into the library," said Arbuthnot. "I have something to say to
you."

He led the way into the room, and Tredennis followed him, wondering.
When they got inside Arbuthnot turned and closed the door.

"I suppose," he said, "you know no more certainly than I do where Mr.
Amory is to be found." And as he spoke he took a telegram from his
pocket.

"What is the matter?" demanded Tredennis. "What has"--

"This came almost immediately after the professor's accident," said
Arbuthnot. "It is from Mrs. Amory, asking him to come to her. Janey is
very ill."

"What!" exclaimed Tredennis. "And she alone, and probably without any
physician she relies on!"

"Some one must go to her," said Arbuthnot, "and the professor must know
nothing of it. If we knew of any woman friend of hers we might appeal to
her; but everybody is out of town."

He paused a second, his eyes fixed on Tredennis's changing face.

"If you will remain with the professor," he said, "I will go myself, and
take Doctor Wentworth with me."

"You!" said Tredennis.

"I shall be better than nothing," replied Arbuthnot, quietly. "I can do
what I am told to do, and she mustn't be left alone. If her mother had
been alive, she would have gone; if her father had been well, he would
have gone; if her husband had been here"--

"But he is not here," said Tredennis, with a bitterness not strictly
just. "Heaven only knows where he is."

"It would be rather hazardous to trust to a telegram reaching him at
Merrittsville," said Arbuthnot. "We are not going to leave her alone
even until we have tried Merrittsville. What must be done must be done
now. I will go and see Doctor Wentworth at once, and we can leave in an
hour if I find him. You can tell the professor I was called away."

He made a step toward the door, and as he did so Tredennis turned
suddenly.

"Wait a moment," he said.

Arbuthnot came back.

"What is it?" he asked.

There was a curious pause, which, though it lasted scarcely longer than
a second, was still a pause.

"If _I_ go," said Tredennis, "it will be easier to explain my absence to
the professor." And then there was a pause again, and each man looked at
the other, and each was a trifle pale.

It was Arbuthnot who spoke first.

"I think," he said, without moving a muscle, "that you had better let me
go."

"Why?" said Tredennis, and the unnatural quality of his voice startled
himself.

"Because," said Arbuthnot, as calmly as before, "you will be conferring
a favor on me, if you do. I want an excuse for getting out of town,
and--I want an opportunity to be of some slight service to Mrs. Amory."

Before the dignity of the stalwart figure towering above his slighter
proportions he knew he appeared to no advantage as he said the words;
but to have made the best of himself he must have relinquished his point
at the outset, and this he had no intention of doing, though he was not
enjoying himself. A certain cold-blooded pertinacity which he had
acquired after many battles with himself was very useful to him at the
moment.

"The worst thing that could happen to her just now," he had said to
himself, ten minutes before, "would be that he should go to her in her
trouble." And upon this conviction he took his stand.

In placing himself in the breach he knew that he had no means of defence
whatever; that any reasons for his course he might offer must appear, by
their flimsiness, to betray in him entire inadequacy to the situation in
which he seemed to stand, and that he must present himself in the
character of a victim to his own bold but shallow devices, and simply
brazen the matter out; and when one reflects upon human weakness it is
certainly not to his discredit that he had calmly resigned himself to
this before entering the room. There was no triviality in Tredennis's
mood, and he made no pretence of any. The half darkness of the room,
which had been shaded from the sun during the day, added to the
significance of every line in his face. As he stood, with folded arms,
the shadows seemed to make him look larger, to mark his pallor, and
deepen the intensity of his expression.

"Give me a better reason," he said.

Arbuthnot paused. What he saw in the man moved him strongly. In the
light of that past of his, which was a mystery to his friends, he often
saw with terrible clearness much he was not suspected of seeing at all,
and here he recognized what awakened in him both pity and respect.

"I have no better one," he answered. "I tell you I miss the exhilaration
of Mrs. Amory's society and want to see her, and hope she will not be
sorry to see me." And, having said it, he paused again before making his
_coup d'état_. Then he spoke deliberately, looking Tredennis in the
eyes. "That you should think anything detrimental to Mrs. Amory, even in
the most shadowy way, is out of the question," he said. "Think of me
what you please."

"I shall think nothing that is detrimental to any man who is her
friend," said Tredennis, and there was passion in the words, though he
had tried to repress it.

"Her friendship would be a good defence for a man against any wrong that
was in him," said Arbuthnot, and this time the sudden stir of feeling in
him was not altogether concealed. "Let me have my way," he ended. "It
will do no harm."

"It will do no good," said Tredennis.

"No," answered Arbuthnot, recovering his impervious air, "it will do no
good, but one has to be sanguine to expect good. Perhaps I need pity,"
he added. "Suppose you are generous and show it me."

He could not help seeing the dramatic side of the situation, and with
half-conscious irony abandoning himself to it. All at once he seemed to
have deserted the well-regulated and decently arranged commonplaces of
his ordinary life, and to be taking part in a theatrical performance of
rather fine and subtle quality, and he waited with intense interest to
see what Tredennis would do.

What he did was characteristic of him. He had unconsciously taken two or
three hurried steps across the room, and he turned and stood still.

"It is I who must go," he said.

"You are sure of that?" said Arbuthnot.

"We have never found it easy to understand each other," Tredennis
answered, "though perhaps you have understood me better than I have
understood you. You are quicker and more subtle than I am. I only seem
able to see one thing at a time, and do one thing. I only see one thing
now. It is better that I should go."

"You mean," said Arbuthnot, "better for me?"

Tredennis looked down at the floor.

"Yes," he answered.

A second or so of silence followed, in which Arbuthnot simply stood and
looked at him. The utter uselessness of the effort he had made was borne
in upon him in a manner which overpowered him.

"Then," he remarked at length, "if you are considering me, there seems
nothing more to be said. Will you go and tell the professor that you are
called away, or shall I?"

"I will go myself," replied Tredennis.

He turned to leave the room, and Arbuthnot walked slowly toward the
window. The next moment Tredennis turned from the door and followed him.

"If I have ever done you injustice," he said, "the time is past for it,
and I ask your pardon."

"Perhaps it is not justice I need," said Arbuthnot, "but mercy--and I
don't think you have ever been unjust to me. It wouldn't have been
easy."

"In my place," said Tredennis, with a visible effort, "you would find it
easier than I do to say what you wished. I"--

"You mean that you pity me," Arbuthnot interposed. "As I said before,
perhaps I need pity. Sometimes I think I do;" and the slight touch of
dreariness in his tone echoed in Tredennis's ear long after he had left
him and gone on his way.




CHAPTER XVII.


It was ten o'clock and bright moonlight when Tredennis reached his
destination, the train having brought him to a way-side station two
miles distant, where he had hired a horse, and struck out into the
county road. In those good old days when the dwelling of every Virginia
gentleman was his "mansion," the substantial pile of red brick before
whose gate-way he dismounted had been a mansion too, and had not been
disposed to trifle with its title, but had insisted upon it with a
dignified squareness which scorned all architectural devices to attract
attention. Its first owner had chosen its site with a view to the young
"shade-trees" upon it, and while he had lived upon his property had been
almost as proud of his trees as of his "mansion"; and when, long
afterward, changes had taken place, and the objects of his pride fell
into degenerate hands, as the glories of the mansion faded, its old
friends, the trees, grew and flourished, and seemed to close kindly in
about it, as if to soften and shadow its decay.

On each side of the drive which led down to the gateway grew an
irregular line of these trees, here and there shading the way from side
to side, and again leaving a space for the moonlight to stream upon. As
he tied his horse Tredennis glanced up this drive-way toward the house.

"There is a light burning in one of the rooms," he said. "It must be
there that"--He broke off in the midst of a sentence, his attention
suddenly attracted by a figure which flitted across one of the patches
of moonlight.

He knew it at once, though he had had no thought of seeing it before
entering the house. It was Bertha, in a white dress, and with two large
dogs following her, leaping and panting, when she spoke in a hushed
voice, as if to quiet them.

She came down toward the gate with a light, hurried tread, and, when she
was within a few feet of it, spoke.

"Doctor," she said, "oh, how glad I am--how glad!" and, as she said it,
came out into the broad moonlight again, and found herself face to face
with Tredennis.

She fell back from him as if a blow had been struck her,--fell back
trembling, and as white as the moonlight itself.

"What!" she cried, "is it _you_--_you_?"

He looked at her, bewildered by the shock his presence seemed to her.

"I did not think I should frighten you," he said. "I came to-night
because the professor was not well enough to make the journey. Doctor
Wentworth will be here in the morning. He would have come with me, but
he had an important case to attend."

"I did not think _you_ would come," she said, breathlessly, and put out
her hand, groping for the support of the swinging gate, which she caught
and held.

"There was no one else," he answered.

He felt as if he were part of some strange dream. The stillness, the
moonlight, the heavy shadows of the great trees, all added to the
unreality of the moment; but most unreal of all was Bertha herself,
clinging with one trembling hand to the gate, and looking up at him with
dilated eyes.

"I did not think _you_ would come," she said again, "and it startled
me--and"--She paused with a poor little effort at a smile, which the
next instant died away. "Don't--don't look at me!" she said, and,
turning away from him, laid her face on the hand clinging to the gate.

He looked down at her slight white figure and bent head, and a great
tremor passed over him. The next instant she felt him standing close at
her side.

"You must not--do that," he said, and put out his hand and touched her
shoulder.

His voice was almost a whisper; he was scarcely conscious of what his
words were; he had scarcely any consciousness of his touch. The feeling
which swept over him needed no sense of touch or sound; the one thing
which overpowered him was his sudden sense of a nearness to her which
was not physical nearness at all.

"Perhaps I was wrong to come," he went on; "but I could not leave you
alone--I could not leave you alone. I knew that you were suffering, and
I could not bear that."

She did not speak or lift her head.

"Has it been desolate?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, in a hushed voice.

"I was afraid so," he said. "You have been alone so long--I thought of
it almost every hour of the day; you are not used to being alone.
Perhaps it was a mistake. Why do you tremble so?"

"I don't know," she answered.

"My poor child!" he said. "My poor child!" And then there was a pause
which seemed to hold a lifetime of utter silence.

It was Bertha who ended it. She stirred a little, and then lifted her
face. She looked as he remembered her looking when he had first known
her, only that she was paler, and there was a wearied softness in her
eyes. She made no attempt at hiding the traces of tears in them, and she
spoke as simply as a child.

"I thought it was the doctor, when I heard the horse's feet," she said;
"and I was afraid the dogs would bark and waken Janey. She has just
fallen asleep, and she has slept so little. She has been very ill."

"_You_ have not slept," he said.

"No," she replied. "This is the first time I have left her."

He took her hand and drew it gently through his arm.

"I will take you up to the house," he said, "so that you can hear every
sound; but you must stay outside for a little while. The fresh air will
do you good, and we can walk up and down while I tell you the reason the
professor did not come."

All the ordinary conventional barriers had fallen away from between
them. He did not know why or how, and he did not ask. Suddenly he found
himself once again side by side with the Bertha he had fancied lost
forever. All that had bewildered him was gone. The brilliant little
figure, with its tinkling ornaments, the unemotional little smile, the
light laugh, were only parts of a feverish dream. It was Bertha whose
hand rested on his arm--whose fair, young face was pale with watching
over her child--whose soft voice was tremulous and tender with innocent,
natural tears. She spoke very little. When they had walked to and fro
before the house for a short time, she said:

"Let us go and sit down on the steps of the porch," and they went and
sat there together,--he upon a lower step, and she a few steps above,
her hands clasped on her knee, her face turned half away from him. She
rarely looked at him, he noticed, even when he spoke to her or she spoke
to him; her eyes rested oftener than not upon some far-away point under
the trees.

"You are no better than you were when you went away," he said, looking
at her cheek where the moonlight whitened it.

"No," she answered.

"I did not think to find you looking like this," he said.

"Perhaps," she said, still with her eyes fixed on the far-away shadows,
"perhaps I have not had time enough. You must give me time."

"You have had two months," he returned.

"Two months," she said, "is not so long as it seems." And between the
words there came a curious little catch of the breath.

"It has seemed long to you?" he asked.

"Yes."

She turned her face slowly and looked at him.

"Has it seemed long to you?" she said.

"Yes," he replied, "long and dreary."

She swayed a little toward him with a sort of unconscious movement; her
eyes were fixed upon his face with a wistful questioning; he had seen
her look at her children so.

"Was it very hot?" she said. "Were you tired? Why did you not go away?"

"I did not want to go away," he answered.

"But you ought to have gone away," she said. "You were not used to the
heat, and--Let the light fall on your face so that I can see it!"

He came a little nearer to her, and as she looked at him the wistfulness
in her eyes changed to something else.

"Oh," she cried, "it has done you harm. Your face is quite changed. Why
didn't I see it before? What have you been doing?"

"Nothing," he answered.

He did not stir, or want to stir, but sat almost breathlessly still,
watching her, the sudden soft anxiousness in her eyes setting every
pulse in his body throbbing.

"Oh," she said, "you are ill--you are ill! How could you be so careless?
Why did not papa"--

She faltered--her voice fell and broke. She even drew back a little,
though her eyes still rested upon his.

"You were angry with me when you thought I did not take care of myself,"
she said; "and you have been as bad as I was, and worse. You had not so
many temptations. And she turned away, and he found himself looking only
at her cheek again, and the soft side-curve of her mouth.

"There is less reason why I should take care of myself," he said.

"You mean"--she asked, without moving--"that there are fewer people who
would miss you?"

"I do not know of any one who would miss me."

Her hands stirred slightly, as they lay in her lap.

"That is underrating your friends," she said, slowly. "But"--altering
her tone--"it is true, I have the children and Richard."

"Where is Richard?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"When you heard from him last," he began.

"He is a bad correspondent," she said.

"He always finds so much to fill his time when he is away. There is an
understanding between us that he shall write very few letters. I am
responsible for it myself, because I know it spoils everything for him
when he has an unwritten letter on his conscience. I haven't heard from
him first yet since he went West."

She arose from her seat on the step.

"I will go in now," she said. "I must speak to Mrs. Lucas about giving
you a room, and then I will go to Janey. She is sleeping very well."

He arose, too, and stood below her, looking up.

"You must promise not to think of me," he said. "I did not come here to
be considered. Do you think an old soldier, who has slept under the open
sky many a night, cannot provide for himself?"

"Have you slept so often?" she asked, the very triviality of the
question giving it a strange sweetness to his ears.

"Yes," he answered. "And often with no surety of wakening with my scalp
on."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and made an involuntary movement toward him.

He barely restrained his impulse to put out his hands, but hers fell at
her sides the next instant.

"I am a great coward," she said. "It fills me with terror to hear of
things like that. Is it at all likely that you will be ordered back?"

"I don't know," he replied, his uplifted eyes devouring all the
sweetness of her face. "Would that"--

The very madness of the question forming itself on his lips was his own
check.

"I don't want to think of it," he said. Then he added, "As I stand here
I look up at you. I never looked up at you before."

"Nor I down at you," she returned. "You are always so high above me. It
seems strange to look down at you."

It was all so simple and inconsequent, but every word seemed full of the
mystery and emotion of the hour. When he tried afterward to recall what
they had said he was bewildered by the slightness of what had been
uttered, even though the thrill of it had not yet passed away.

He went up the steps and stood beside her.

"Yes," he said, speaking as gently as he might have spoken to a child.
"You make me feel what a heavy-limbed, clumsy fellow I am. All women
make me feel it, but you more than all the rest. You look almost like a
child."

"But I am not very little," she said; "it is only because I am standing
near you."

"I always think of you as a small creature," he said. "I used to think,
long ago, that some one should care for you."

"You were very good, long ago," she answered softly. "And you are very
good now to have come to try to help me. Will you come in?"

"No," he said, "not now. It might only excite the child to-night if she
saw me, and so long as she is quiet I will not run the risk of
disturbing her. I will tell you what I am going to do. I am not going to
leave you alone. I shall walk up and down beneath your window, and if
you need me you will know I am there, and you have only to speak in your
lowest voice. If she should be worse, my horse is at the gate, and I
can go for the doctor at once."

She looked up at him with a kind of wonder.

"Do you mean that you intend to stand sentinel all night?" she said.

"I have stood sentinel before," was his reply. "I came to stand
sentinel. All that I can do is to be ready if I am wanted."

"But I cannot let you stay up all night," she began.

"You said it had been desolate," he answered. "Won't it be less desolate
to know that--that some one is near you?"

"Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" she said. "But"--

"Go upstairs," he said, "and promise me that, if she still sleeps, you
will lie down and let your nurse watch her."

The gentle authority of his manner seemed to impress her curiously. She
hesitated as if she scarcely understood it.

"I--don't--know," she faltered.

"You will be better for it to-morrow," he persisted, "and so will she."

"I never did such a thing before," she said, slowly.

"I shall be beneath the open window," he said, "and I have the ears of
an Indian. I shall know if she stirs."

She drew a soft, troubled breath.

"Well," she said, "I will--go."

And, without another word, she turned away. He stood and watched her as
she moved slowly across the wide porch. At the door she stopped and
turned toward him.

"But," she said, faint lines showing themselves on her forehead, "I
shall be remembering that you--are not asleep."

"You must not remember me at all," he answered.

And then he stood still and watched her again until she had entered the
house and noiselessly ascended the staircase, which was a few yards from
the open door, and then, when he could see her white figure in the
darkness no more, he went out to his place beneath the window, and
strode silently to and fro, keeping watch and listening until after the
moon had gone down and the birds were beginning to stir in the trees.




CHAPTER XVIII.


At six o'clock in the morning Bertha came down the stairs again. Her
simple white gown was a fresh one, and there was a tinge of color in her
cheeks.

"She slept nearly all night," she said to Tredennis, when he joined her,
"and so did I. I am sure she is better." Then she put out her hand for
him to take. "It is all because you are here," she said. "When I wakened
for a moment, once or twice, and heard your footsteps, it seemed to give
me courage and make everything quieter. Are you very tired?"

"No," he answered, "I am not tired at all."

"I am afraid you would not tell me if you were," she said. "You must
come with me now and let me give you some breakfast."

She led him into a room at the side of the hall. When the house had been
a "mansion" it had been considered a very imposing apartment, and, with
the assistance of a few Washingtonian luxuries, which she had
dexterously grafted upon its bareness, it was by no means unpicturesque
even now.

"I think I should know that you had lived here," he said, as he glanced
around.

"Have I made it so personal?" she replied. "I did not mean to do that.
It was so bare at first, and, as I had nothing to do, it amused me to
arrange it. Richard sent me the rugs, and odds and ends, and I found the
spindle-legged furniture in the neighborhood. I am afraid it won't be
safe for you to sit down too suddenly in the chairs, or to lean heavily
on the table. I think you had better choose that leathern arm-chair and
abide by it. It is quite substantial."

He took the seat, and gave himself up to the pleasure of watching her
as she moved to and fro between the table and an antique sideboard, from
whose recesses she produced some pretty cups and saucers.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"I am going to set the table for your breakfast," she said, "because
Maria is busy with the children, and the other nurse is with Janey, and
the woman of the house is making your coffee and rolls."

"You are going to set the table!" he exclaimed.

"It doesn't require preternatural intelligence," she answered. "It is
rather a simple thing, on the whole."

It seemed a very simple thing as she did it, and a very pretty thing. As
he leaned against the leathern back of his chair, beginning vaguely to
realize by a dawning sense of weariness that he had been up all night,
he felt that he had not awakened from his dream yet, or that the visions
of the past months were too far away and too unreal to move him.

The early morning sunlight made its way through the vines embowering the
window, and cast lace-like shadows of their swaying leaves upon the
floor, and upon Bertha's dress when she passed near. The softness of the
light mellowed everything, and intensified the touches of color in the
fans and ornaments on the walls and mantel, and in the bits of drapery
thrown here and there as if by accident; and in the midst of this color
and mellowed light Bertha moved before him, a slender, quiet figure,
making the picture complete.

It was her quietness which impressed itself upon him more than all else.
After the first moments, when she had uttered her cry on seeing him, and
had given way in her momentary agitation, he had noticed that a curious
change fell upon her. When she lifted her face from the gate all emotion
seemed to have died out of it; her voice was quiet. One of the things he
remembered of their talk was that they had both spoken in voices so low
as to be scarcely above a whisper.

When the breakfast was brought in she took a seat at the table to pour
out his coffee and attend to his wants. She ate very little herself, but
he rarely looked up without finding her eyes resting upon him with
wistful interest.

"At least," she said once, "I must see that you have a good breakfast.
The kindest thing you can do this morning is to be hungry. Please be
hungry if you can."

The consciousness that she was caring for him was a wonderful and
touching thing to him. The little housewifely acts with which most men
are familiar were bewilderingly new to him. He had never been on
sufficiently intimate social terms with women to receive many of these
pretty services at their hands. His unsophisticated reverence for
everything feminine had worked against him, with the reserve which was
one of its results. It had been his habit to feel that there was no
reason why he should be singled out for the bestowal of favors, and he
had perhaps ignored many through the sheer ignorance of simple and
somewhat exaggerated humility.

To find himself sitting at the table alone with Bertha, in her new
mood,--Bertha quiet and beautiful,--was a moving experience to him. It
was as if they two must have sat there every day for years, and had the
prospect of sitting so together indefinitely. It was the very simplicity
and naturalness of it all which stirred him most. Her old vivid gayety
was missing; she did not laugh once, but her smile was very sweet. They
talked principally of the children, and of the common things about them,
but there was never a word which did not seem a thing to be cherished
and remembered. After a while the children were brought down, and she
took Meg upon her knee, and Jack leaned against her while she told
Tredennis what they had been doing, and the sun creeping through the
vines touched her hair and the child's and made a picture of them. When
she went upstairs she took Meg with her, holding her little hand and
talking to her in pretty maternal fashion; and, after the two had
vanished, Tredennis found it necessary to pull himself together with a
strong effort, that he might prove himself equal to the conversational
demands made upon him by Master Jack, who had remained behind.

"I will go and see Janey again," she had said. "And then, perhaps, you
will pay her a visit."

When he went up, a quarter of an hour later, he found his small favorite
touchingly glad to see him. The fever from which she had been suffering
for several days had left her languid and perishable-looking, but she
roused wonderfully at the sight of him, and when he seated himself at
her bedside regarded him with adoring admiration, finally expressing her
innocent conviction that he had grown very much since their last
meeting.

"But it doesn't matter," she hastened to assure him, "because I don't
mind it, and mamma doesn't, either."

When, in the course of the morning, Doctor Wentworth arrived, he
discovered him still sitting by the bedside, only Janey had crept close
to him and fallen asleep, clasping both her small hands about his large
one, and laying her face upon his palm.

"What!" said the doctor. "Can you do that sort of thing?"

"I don't know," answered Tredennis, slowly. "I never did it before."

He looked down at the small, frail creature, and the color showed itself
under his bronzed skin.

"I think she's rather fond of me--or something," he added with
_naïveté_, "and I like it."

"She likes it, that's evident," said the doctor.

He turned away to have an interview with Bertha, whom he took to the
window at the opposite end of the room, and after it was over they came
back together.

"She is not so ill as she was yesterday," he said; "and she was not so
ill then as you thought her." He turned and looked at Bertha herself.
"She doesn't need as much care now as you do," he said, "that's my
impression. What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Taking care of her," she answered, "since she began to complain of not
feeling well."

He was a bluff, kindly fellow, with a bluff, kindly way, and he shook a
big forefinger at her.

"You have been carrying her up and down in your arms," he said. "Don't
deny it."

"No," she answered, "I won't deny it."

"Of course," he said. "I know you--carrying her up and down in your
arms, and singing to her and telling her stories, and holding her on
your knee when you weren't doing anything worse. You'd do it if she were
three times the size."

She blushed guiltily, and looked at Janey.

"Good Heaven!" he said. "You women will drive me mad! Don't let me hear
any more about fashionable mothers who kill their children! I find my
difficulty in fashionable children who kill their mothers, and in little
simpletons who break down under the sheer weight of their maternal
nonsense. Who was it who nearly died of the measles?"

"But--but," she faltered, deprecatingly, "I don't think I ever had the
measles."

"They weren't your measles," he said, with amiable sternness. "They were
Jack's, and Janey's, and Meg's, and so much the worse."

"But," she interposed, with a very pretty eagerness, "they got through
them beautifully, and there wasn't a cold among them."

"There wouldn't have been a cold among them if you'd let a couple of
sensible nurses take care of them. Do you suppose I'm not equal to
bringing three children through the measles? It's all nonsense, and
sentiment, and self-indulgence. You like to do it, and you do it, and,
as a natural consequence, you die of somebody else's measles--or come as
near it as possible."

She blushed as guiltily as before, and looked at Janey again.

"I think she is very much better," she said.

"Yes," he answered, "she is better, and I want to see you better. Who is
going to help you to take care of her?"

"I came to try to do that," said Tredennis.

Bertha turned to look at him.

"You?" she exclaimed. "Oh, no! You are very good; but now the worst is
over, I couldn't"--

"Should I be in the way?" he asked.

She drew back a little. For a moment she had changed again, and returned
to the ordinary conventional atmosphere.

"No," she said, "you know that you would not be in the way, but I should
scarcely be likely to encroach upon your time in such a manner."

The doctor laughed.

"He is exactly what you need," he said. "And he would be of more use to
you than a dozen nurses. He won't stand any of your maternal weakness,
and he will see that my orders are carried out. He'll domineer over you,
and you'll be afraid of him. You had better let him stay. But you must
settle it between you after I am gone."

Bertha went downstairs with him to receive a few final directions, and
when she returned Tredennis had gently released himself from Janey, and
had gone to the window, where he stood evidently awaiting her.

"Do you know," he said, with his disproportionately stern air, when she
joined him,--"do you know why I came here?"

"You came," she answered, "because I alarmed you unnecessarily, and it
seemed that some one must come, and you were kind enough to assume the
responsibility."

"I came because there was no one else," he began.

She stopped him with a question she had not asked before, and he felt
that she asked it inadvertently.

"Where was Laurence Arbuthnot?" she said.

"That is true," he replied, grimly. "Laurence Arbuthnot would have been
better."

"No," she said, "he would not have been better."

She looked up at him with a curious mixture of questioning and defiance
in her eyes.

"I don't know why it is that I always manage to make you angry," she
said; "I must be very stupid. I always know you will be angry before you
have done with me. When we were downstairs"--

"When we were downstairs," he put in, hotly, "we were two honest human
beings, without any barriers of conventional pretence between us, and
you allowed me to think you meant to take what I had to offer, and then,
suddenly, all is changed, and the barrier is between us again, because
you choose to place it there, and profess that you must regard me, in
your pretty, civil way, as a creature to be considered and treated with
form and ceremony."

"Thank you for calling it a pretty way," she said.

And yet there was a tone in her low voice which softened his wrath
somehow,--a rather helpless tone, which suggested that she had said the
words only because she had no other resource, and still must utter her
faint protest.

"It is for _me_," he went on, "to come to you with a civil pretence
instead of an honest intention? I am not sufficiently used to
conventionalities to make myself bearable. I am always blundering and
stumbling. No one can feel that more bitterly than I do; but you have no
right to ignore my claim to do what I can when I might be of use. I
might be of use, because the child is fond of me, and in my awkward
fashion I can quiet and amuse her as you say no one but yourself can."

"Will you tell me?" she asked, frigidly, "what right I have to permit
you to make of yourself a--a nursemaid to my child?"

"Call it what you like," he answered. "Speak of it as you like. What
right does it need? I came because"--

His recollection of her desolateness checked him. It was not for him to
remind her again by his recklessness of speech that her husband had not
felt it necessary to provide against contingencies. But she filled up
the sentence.

"Yes, you are right," she said. "As you said before, there was no one
else--no one."

"It chanced to be so," he said; "and why should I not be allowed to fill
up the breach for the time being?"

"Because it is almost absurd," she said, inconsequently. "Don't you see
that?"

"No," he answered, obstinately.

Their eyes met, and rested upon each other.

"You don't care?" she said.

"No."

"I knew you wouldn't," she said. "You never care for anything. That is
what I like in you--and dread."

"Dread?" he said; and in the instant he saw that she had changed again.
Her cheeks had flushed, and there was upon her lips a smile,
half-bitter, half-sweet.

"I knew you would not go," she said, "as well as I knew that it was only
civil in me to suggest that you should. You are generous enough to care
for me in a way I am not quite used to--and you always have your own
way. Have it now; have it as long as you are here. Until you go away I
shall do everything you tell me to do, and never once oppose you again;
and--perhaps I shall enjoy the novelty."

There was a chair near her, and she put her hand against it as if to
steady herself, and the color in her face died out as quickly as it had
risen.

"I did not want you to go," she said.

"You did not want me to go?"

"No," she answered, in a manner more baffling than all the rest. "More
than anything in the world I wanted you to stay. There, Janey is
awakening!"

And she went to the bed and kneeled down beside it, and drew the child
into her arms against her bosom.




CHAPTER XIX.


From that day until they separated there was no change in her. It was
scarcely two weeks before their paths diverged again; but, in looking
back upon it afterward, it always seemed to Tredennis that some vaguely
extending length of time must have elapsed between the night when he
dismounted at the gate in the moonlight, and the morning when he turned
to look his last at Bertha, standing in the sun. Each morning when she
gave him his breakfast in the old-fashioned room, and he watched her as
she moved about, or poured out his coffee, or talked to Meg or Jack, who
breakfasted with them; each afternoon when Janey was brought down to lie
on the sofa, and she sat beside her singing pretty, foolish songs to
her, and telling her stories; each evening when the child fell asleep in
her arms, as she sang; each brief hour, later on, when the air had
cooled, and she went out to sit on the porch, or walk under the
trees,--seemed an experience of indefinite length, not to be marked by
hours, nor by sunrise and sunset, but by emotions. Her gentle interest
in his comfort continued just what it had been the first day he had been
so moved by it, and his care for her she accepted with a gratitude which
might have been sweet to any man. Having long since established his rank
in Janey's affections it was easy for him to make himself useful, in his
masculine fashion. During her convalescence his strong arms became the
child's favorite resting-place; when she was tired of her couch he could
carry her up and down the room without wearying; she liked his long,
steady strides, and the sound of his deep voice, and his unconscious air
of command disposed of many a difficulty. When Bertha herself was the
nurse he watched her faithfully, and when he saw in her any signs of
fatigue he took her place at once, and from the first she made no
protest against his quietly persistent determination to lighten her
burdens. Perhaps, through the fact that they were so lightened, or
through her relief from her previous anxiety, she seemed to grow
stronger as the child did. Her color became brighter and steadier, and
her look of lassitude and weariness left her. One morning, having been
beguiled out of doors by Jack and Meg, Tredennis heard her laugh in a
tone that made him rise from his chair by Janey, and go to the open
window.

He reached it just in time to see her run like a deer across the
sun-dappled grass, after a bright ball Meg had thrown to her, with an
infantile aimlessness which precluded all possibility of its being
caught. She made a graceful dart at it, picked it up, and came back
under the trees, tossing it in the air, and catching it again with a
deft turn of hand and wrist. She was flushed with the exercise, and, for
the moment, almost radiant; she held her dress closely about her figure,
her face was upturned and her eyes were uplifted, and she was as
unconscious as Meg herself.

When she saw him she threw the ball to the children, and came forward to
the window.

"Does Janey want me?" she asked.

"No. She is asleep."

"Do you want me?"

"I want to see you go on with your game."

"It is not my game," she answered, smiling. "It is Jack's and Meg's.
Suppose you come and join them. It will fill them with rapture, and I
shall like to look on."

When he came out she sat down under a tree leaning against the trunk,
and watched him, her eyes following the swift flight of the ball high
into the blue above them, as he flung it upward among the delighted
clamor of the children. He had always excelled in sports and feats of
strength, and in this simple feat of throwing the ball his physical
force and grace displayed themselves to decided advantage. The ball went
up, as an arrow flies from the bow, hurtling through the air, until it
was little more than a black speck to the eye. When it came back to
earth he picked it up and threw it again, and each time it seemed to
reach a greater height than the last.

"That is very fine," she said. "I like to see you do it."

"Why?" he asked, pausing.

"I like the force you put into it," she answered. "It scarcely seems
like play."

"I did not know that," he said; "but I am afraid I am always in earnest.
That is my misfortune."

"It is a great misfortune," she said. "Don't be in earnest," with a
gesture as if she would sweep the suggestion away with her hand. "Go on
with your game. Let us be like children, and play. Our holiday will be
over soon enough, and we shall have to return to Washington and effete
civilization."

"Is it a holiday?" he asked her.

"Yes," she answered. "Now that Janey is getting better I am deliberately
taking a holiday. Nothing rests me so much as forgetting things."

"Are you forgetting things?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, looking away; "everything."

Then the children demanded his attention, and he returned to his
ball-throwing.

If she was taking a holiday with deliberate intention she did it well.
In a few days Janey was well enough to be carried out and laid on one of
the two hammocks swung beneath the trees, and then far the greater part
of the day was spent in the open air. To Tredennis it seemed that Bertha
made the most of every hour, whether she swung in her hammock with her
face upturned to the trees, or sat reading, or talking as she worked
with the decorous little basket, at which she had jeered, upon her knee.

He was often reminded in these days of what the professor had said of
her tenderness for her children. It revealed itself in a hundred
trifling ways, in her touch, in her voice, in her almost unconscious
habit of caring for them, and, more than all, in a certain pretty,
inconvenient fashion they had of getting close to her, and clinging
about her, at all sorts of inopportune moments. Once when she had run to
comfort Meg who had fallen down, and had come back to the hammock,
carrying her in her arms, he was betrayed into speaking.

"I did not think,"--he began, and then he checked himself guiltily.

"You did not think?" she repeated.

He began to recognize his indiscretion.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "I was going to make a blunder."

She sat down in the hammock, with the child in her arms.

"You were going to say that you did not think I cared so much for my
children," she said, gently. "Do you suppose I did not know that? Well,
perhaps it was not a blunder. Perhaps it is only one of my pretences."

"Don't speak like that," he implored.

The next instant he saw that tears had risen in her eyes.

"No," she said. "I will not. Why should I? It is not true. I love them
very much. However bad you are, I think you must love your children. Of
course, my saying that I loved them might go for nothing; but don't you
see," she went on with a pathetic thrill in her voice, "that they love
_me_? They would not love me, if I did not care for them."

"I know that," he returned remorsefully. "It was only one of my
blunders, as I said. But you have so bewildered me sometimes. When I
first returned I could not understand you. It was as if I found myself
face to face with a creature I had never seen before."

"You did," she said. "That was it. Perhaps I never was the creature you
fancied me."

"Don't say that," he replied. "Since I have been here I have seen you as
I used to dream of you, when I sat by the fire in my quarters in the
long winter nights."

"Did you ever think of me like that?" she said slowly, and with surprise
in her face.

He had not thought of what he was revealing, and he did not think of it
now.

"I never forgot you," he said. "Never."

"It seems very strange--to hear that now," she said. "I never dreamed of
your thinking of me--afterwards. You seemed to take so little notice of
me."

"It is my good fortune," he said, with a touch of bitterness, "that I
never _seem_ to take notice of anything."

"I suppose," she went on, "that you remembered me because you were
lonely at first, and there was no one else to think of."

"Perhaps that was it," he answered.

"After all," she said, "it was natural--only I never thought"--

"It was as natural that you should forget as that I should remember," he
said.

Her face had been slightly averted, and she turned it toward him.

"But I did not forget," she said.

"You did not?"

"No. At first, it is true, I scarcely seemed to have time for anything,
but to be happy and enjoy the days, as they went by. Oh! what bright
days they were, and how far away they seem! Perhaps, if I had known that
they would come to an end really, I might have tried to make them pass
more slowly."

"They went slowly for me," he said. "I was glad when they were over."

"Were you so very lonely!" she asked.

"Yes."

"Would it have pleased you, if I had written to you when papa did?"

"Did you ever think of doing it?" he asked.

The expression dawning in her eyes was a curious one--there was a
suggestion of dread in it.

"Once," she replied. "I began a letter to you. It was on a dull day,
when I was restless and unhappy for the first time in my life; and
suddenly I thought of you, and I felt as if I should like to speak to
you again,--and I began the letter."

"But you did not finish it."

"No. I only wrote a few lines, and then stopped. I said to myself that
it was not likely that you had remembered me in the way I had remembered
you, so I laid my letter aside. I saw it only a few days ago among some
old papers in my trunk."

"You have it yet?"

"I did not know that I had it, until I saw it the other day. It seems
strange that it should have lain hidden all these years, and then have
come to light. I laid it away thinking I might find courage to finish it
sometime. There are only a few lines, but they prove that my memory was
not so bad as you thought."

He had been lying on the grass a few feet away from her. As she talked
he had looked not at her, but at the bits of blue sky showing through
the interlacing greenness of the trees above him. Now he suddenly half
rose and leaned upon his elbow.

"Will you give it to me?" he said.

"Do you want it? It is only a yellow scrap of paper."

"I think it belongs to me," he said. "I have a right to it."

She got up without a word and went toward the house, leading Meg by the
hand. Tredennis watched her retreating figure in silence until she went
in at the door. His face set, and his lips pressed together, then he
flung himself backward and lay at full length again, seeing only the
bright green of the leaves and the bits of intense blue between. It was
well that he was alone. His sense of impotent anguish was more than he
had strength to bear, and it wrung a cry from him.

"My God!" he said; "my God!" He was still lying so when Bertha returned.
She had not been away many minutes, and she came back alone with the
unfinished letter in her hand.

He took it from her without comment, and looked at it. The faint odor of
heliotrope he knew so well floated up to him as he bent over the paper.
As she had said, there were only a few lines, and she had evidently been
dissatisfied with them, and irresolute about them, for several words
were erased as if with girlish impatience. At the head of the page was
written first: _Dear Philip_, and then _Dear Captain Tredennis_, and
there were two or three different opening sentences. As he read each one
through the erasures, he thought he understood the innocent, unconscious
appeal in it, and he seemed to see the girl-face bending above it,
changing from eagerness to uncertainty, and from uncertainty to the
timidity which had made her despair.

"I wish you had finished it," he said.

"I wish I had," she answered, and then she added vaguely, "if it would
have pleased you."

He folded it, and put it in his breast-pocket and laid down once more,
and it was not referred to again.

It seemed to Tredennis, at least, that there never before had been such
a day as the one which followed. After a night of rain the intense heat
subsided, leaving freshness of verdure, skies of the deepest, clearest
blue, and a balmy, luxurious sweetness in the air, deliciously pungent
with the odors of cedar and pine.

When he came down in the morning, and entered the breakfast room, he
found it empty. The sunlight streamed through the lattice-work of vines,
and the cloth was laid, with the pretty blue cups and saucers in
waiting; but Bertha was not there, and, fancying she had risen later
than usual, he went out into the open air.

The next morning he was to return to Washington. There was no absolute
need of his remaining longer. The child had so far recovered that, at
the doctor's suggestion, in a few days she was to be removed to the
sea-side. Nevertheless, it had cost him a struggle to arrive at his
decision, and it had required resolution to announce it to Bertha. It
would have been far easier to let the days slip by as they would, and
when he told her of his intended departure, and she received the news
with little more than a few words of regret at it, and gratitude for the
services he had rendered, he felt it rather hard to bear.

"If it had been Arbuthnot," he thought, "she would not have borne it so
calmly." And then he reproached himself bitterly for his inconsistency.

"Did I come here to make her regret me, when I left her?" he said. "What
a fool a man can make of himself, if he gives way to his folly!"

As he descended the steps of the porch he saw her, and he had scarcely
caught sight of her before she turned and came toward him. He recognized
at once that she had made a change in her dress; that it was no longer
such as she had worn while in attendance upon Janey, and that it had a
delicate holiday air about it, notwithstanding its simplicity.

"Was there ever such a day before?" she said, as she came to him.

"I thought not, as I looked out of my window," he replied.

"It is your last," she said, "and I should like you to remember it as
being pleasanter than all the rest; though," she added, thoughtfully,
"the rest have been pleasant."

Then she looked up at him, with a smile.

"Do you see my gala attire?" she said. "It was Janey who suggested it.
She thinks I have not been doing myself justice since you have been
here."

"That," he said, regarding her seriously, "is a very beautiful gown,
but"--with an entirely respectful sense of inadequacy of
expression--"you always wear beautiful gowns, I believe."

"Did Mr. Arbuthnot tell you so?" she said, "or was it Miss Jessup?"


They breakfasted together in the sunny room, and after breakfast they
rambled out together. It was she who led, and he who followed, with a
curious, dreamy pleasure in all he did, and in every beauty around him,
even in the unreal passiveness of his very mood itself. He had never
been so keenly conscious of things before; everything impressed itself
upon him,--the blue of the sky, the indolent sway of the leaves, the
warmth of the air, and the sweet odors in it, the broken song of the
birds, the very sound of Bertha's light tread as they walked.

"I am going to give the day to you," she had said. "And you shall see
the children's favorite camping-ground on the hill. Before Janey was ill
we used to go there almost every day."

Behind the house was a wood-covered hill, and half-way up was the
favored spot. It was a sort of bower formed by the clambering of a great
vine from one tree to another, making a canopy, under which, through a
break in the trees, could be seen the most perfect view of the country
below, and the bend of the river. The ground was carpeted with moss, and
there was a moss-covered rock to lean against, which was still
ornamented with the acorn cups and saucers with which the children had
entertained their family of dolls on their last visit.

"See," said Bertha, taking one of them up when she sat down. "When we
were here last we had a tea-party, and it was poor Janey's headache
which brought it to a close. At the height of the festivities she laid
down her best doll, and came to me to cry, and we were obliged to carry
her home."

"Poor child!" said Tredennis. He saw only her face upturned under the
shadow of the white hat,--a pretty hat, with small, soft, downy plumes
upon it, and a general air of belonging to the great world.

"Sit down," said Bertha, "or you may lie down, if you like, and look at
the river, and not speak to me at all." He lay down, stretching his
great length upon the soft moss, and clasping his hands beneath his
head. Bertha clasped her hands about her knee and leaned slightly
forward, looking at the view as if she had never seen it before.

"Is this a dream?" Tredennis said, languidly, at last. "I think it must
be."

"Yes," she answered, "that is why the air is so warm and fragrant, and
the sky so blue, and the scent of the pines so delicious. It is all
different when one is awake. That is why I am making the most of every
second, and am determined to enjoy it to the very utmost."

"That is what I am doing," he said.

"It is not a good plan, as a rule," she began, and then checked herself.
"No," she said, "I won't say that. It is a worldly and Washingtonian
sentiment. I will save it until next winter."

"Don't save it at all," he said; "it is an unnatural sentiment. It isn't
true, and you do not really believe it."

"It is safer," she said.

He lay still a moment, looking down the hillside through the trees at
the broad sweep of the river bend and the purple hills beyond.

"Bertha," he said, at last, "sometimes I hate the man who has taught you
all this."

She plucked at the red-tipped moss at her side for a second or so before
she replied; she showed no surprise or hurry when she spoke.

"Laurence Arbuthnot!" she said. "Sometimes I hate him, too; but it is
only for a moment,--when he tells me the simple, deadly truth, and I
know it is the truth, and wish I did not."

She threw the little handful of moss down the hill as if she threw
something away with it.

"But this is not being happy," she said. "Let us be happy. I _will_ be
happy. Janey is better, and all my anxiety is over, and it is such a
lovely day, and I have put on my favorite gown to celebrate it in. Look
at the color of the hills over there--listen to those doves in the
pines. How warm and soft the wind is, and how the scent of my carnations
fills the air! Ah, what a bright world it is, after all!"

She broke into singing softly, and half under breath, a snatch of a gay
little song. Tredennis had never heard her sing it before, and thought
it wonderfully sweet. But she sang no more than a line or two, and then
turned to him, with a smile in her eyes.

"Now," she said, "it is your turn. Talk to me. Tell me about your life
in the West; tell me all you did the first year, and begin--begin just
where you left me the night you bade me good-by at the carriage-door."

"I am afraid it would not be a very interesting story," he said.

"It would interest me," she answered. "There are camp-fires in it, and
scalps, and Indians, and probably war-paths." And her voice falling a
little, "I want to discover why it was that you always seemed to be so
much alone, and sat and thought in that dreary way by the fire in your
quarters. It seems to me that you have been a great deal alone."

"I have been a great deal alone," he said; "that is true."

"It must have been so even when you were a child," she went on. "I heard
you tell Janey once that when you were her age you belonged to no one. I
don't like to think of that. It touches the maternal side of me. It
makes me think of Jack. Suppose Jack belonged to no one; and you were
not so old as Jack. I wonder if you were at all like him, and how you
looked. I wish there was a picture of you I could see."

He had never regarded himself as an object likely to interest in any
degree, and had lost many of the consolations and excitements of the
more personal kind thereby; and to find that she had even given a
sympathetic thought to the far-away childhood whose desolateness he
himself had never quite analyzed, at once touched and bewildered him.

"I have not been without friends," he said, "but I am sure no one ever
gave much special thought to me. Perhaps it is because men are scarcely
likely to give such thoughts to men, and I have not known women. My
parents died before I was a year old, and I don't think any one was ever
particularly fond of me. People did not dislike me, but they passed me
over. I never wondered at it, but I saw it. I knew there was something a
little wrong with me; but I could not understand what it was. I know
now: I was silent, and could not express what I thought and felt."

"Oh!" she cried; "and was there no one to help you?"

There was no thought of him as a full-grown person in the exclamation;
it was a womanish outcry for the child, whose desolate childhood seemed
for the moment to be an existence which had never ended.

"I know about children," she said, "and what suffering there is for them
if they are left alone. They can say so little, and we can say so much.
Haven't I seen them try to explain things when they were at a
disadvantage and overpowered by the sheer strength of some full-grown
creature? Haven't I seen them make their impotent little struggle for
words and fail, and look up with their helpless eyes and see the
uselessness of it, and break down into their poor little shrieks of
wrath and grief? The happiest of them go through it sometimes, and those
who are left alone--Why didn't some woman see and understand?--some
woman ought to have seen and cared for you."

Tredennis found himself absorbed in contemplation of her. He was not
sure that there were not tears in her eyes, and yet he could hardly
believe it possible.

"That is all true," he said; "you understand it better than I did. I
understood the feeling no better than I understood the reason for it."

"I understand it because I have children," she answered. "And because I
have watched them and loved them, and would give my heart's blood for
them. To have children makes one like a tiger, at times. The passion one
can feel through the wrongs of a child is something _awful_. One can
feel it for any child--for all children. But for one's own"--

She ended with a sharply drawn breath. The sudden uncontrollable
fierceness, which seemed to have made her in a second,--in her soft
white gown and lace, and her pretty hat, with its air of good
society,--a small, wild creature, whom no law of man could touch,
affected him like an electric shock; perhaps the thrill it gave him
revealed itself in his look, and she saw it, for she seemed to become
conscious of herself and her mood, with a start. She made a quick,
uneasy movement and effort to recover herself.

"I beg your pardon," she said, with a half laugh. "But I couldn't help
it. It was"--and she paused a second for reflection,--"it was the
primeval savage in me." And she turned and clasped her hands about her
knee again, resuming her attitude of attention, even while the folds of
lace on her bosom were still stirred by her quick breathing.

But, though she might resume her attitude, it was not so easy to resume
the calmness of her mood. Having been stirred once, it was less
difficult to be stirred again. When he began, at last, to tell the story
of his life on the frontier, if his vanity had been concerned he would
have felt that she made a good listener. But his vanity had nothing to
do with his obedience to her wish. He made as plain a story as his
material would allow, and also made persistent, though scarcely
successful, efforts to avoid figuring as a hero. He was, indeed, rather
abashed to find, on recurring to facts, that he had done so much to
bring himself to the front. He even found himself at last taking refuge
in the subterfuge of speaking of himself in the third person as "one of
the party," when recounting a specially thrilling adventure in which he
discovered that he had unblushingly distinguished himself. It was an
exciting story of the capture of some white women by the Indians at a
critical juncture, when but few men could be spared from the fort, and
the fact that the deadly determination of "one of the party" that no
harm should befall them was not once referred to in words, and only
expressed itself in daring and endurance, for which every one but
himself was supposed to be responsible, did not detract from its force.
This "one of the party," who seemed to have sworn a silent oath that he
would neither eat, nor sleep, nor rest until he had accomplished his end
of rescuing the captives, and who had been upon the track almost as soon
as the news had reached the fort, and who had followed it night and day,
with his hastily gathered and altogether insufficient little band, and
at last had overtaken the captors, and through sheer courage and
desperate valor had overpowered them, and brought back their prisoners
unharmed,--this "one of the party," silent, and would-be insignificant,
was, in spite of himself, a figure to stir the blood.

"It was _you_ who did that?" she said, when he had finished.

"I was only one of the company," he answered, abashed, "and obeyed
orders. Of course a man obeys orders."




CHAPTER XX.


When he took her hand to assist her to rise he felt it tremble in his
own.

"It was not a pleasant story," he said. "I ought not to have told it to
you."

They scarcely spoke at all as they descended. He did not understand his
own unreasoning happiness. What reason was there for it, after all? If
he had argued the matter, he was in the mood to have said that what he
gained in the strange sweetness of the flying moments could only hurt
himself, and was enough in itself to repay him for any sense of pain and
loss which might follow. But he did not argue at all. In Laurence
Arbuthnot's place he would scarcely have given himself the latitude he
was giving himself now.

"It is safe enough for _me_," was the sharp-edged thought which had cut
through all others once or twice. "It is safe enough for _me_ to be as
happy as I may."

But he forgot this as they went down the hill, side by side. For the
time being he only felt, and each glance he turned upon Bertha's
downcast face gave him cause to realize, what intensity his feelings had
reached, and wakened him to that sudden starting of pulse and heart
which is almost a pain. When they reached the house Bertha went in
search of Janey. She remained with her for about half an hour, and then
came out to the hammock with her work-basket. The carnations at her
waist were crushed a little, and something of the first freshness of her
holiday air was gone. She held a letter in her hand, which she had
evidently been reading. She had not returned it to its envelope, and it
was still half open.

"It is from Richard," she said, after she had taken her seat in the
hammock. "It was brought in from the post-office at Lowville about an
hour ago."

"From Richard?" he said. "He is coming home, I suppose."

"No," she answered, looking down at the closely written sheets,--"he is
not coming yet. He was wise enough not to take a serious view of Janey's
case. He is very encouraging, and expresses his usual confidence in my
management."

There was nothing like bitterness in her voice, and it struck him that
he had never seen so little expression of any kind in her face. She
opened the letter and looked over the first page of it.

"He has a great many interesting things to say," she went on; "and he is
very enthusiastic."

"About what?" Tredennis asked. She looked up.

"About the Westoria lands," she answered. "He finds all sorts of
complications of good fortune connected with them. I don't understand
them all, by any means. I am not good at business. But it seems as
though the persons who own the Westoria lands will be able to command
the resources of the entire surrounding country,--if the railroad is
carried through; of course it all depends upon the railroad."

"And the railroad," suggested Tredennis, "depends upon"--

"I don't know," she replied. "On several people, I suppose. I wish it
depended on me."

"Why?" said Tredennis.

She smiled slightly and rather languidly.

"I should like to feel that anything so important depended on me," she
said. "I should like the sense of power. I am very fond of power."

"I once heard it said that you had a great deal of it," Tredennis said;
"far more than most women."

She smiled again, a trifle less languidly.

"That is Laurence Arbuthnot," she observed. "I always recognize his
remarks when I hear them. He did not mean a compliment exactly, either,
though it sounds rather like one. He has a theory that I affect people
strongly, and he chooses to call that power. But it is too trivial. It
is only a matter of pleasing or displeasing, and I am obliged to exert
myself. It does not enable me to bestow things, and be a potentate. I
think that to be a potentate might console one for a great many
things,--and for the lack of a great many. If you can't take, it must
distract your attention to be able to give."

"I do not like to hear you speak as if the chief thing to be desired was
the ability to distract one's self," Tredennis said.

She paused a second.

"Then," she said, "I will not speak so now. To-day I will do nothing you
do not like." Then she added, "As it is your last day, I wish to
retrieve myself."

"What have you to retrieve?" he asked.

"Myself," she answered, "as I said."

She spread the letter upon her lap, and gave her attention to it.

"Isn't it rather like Richard," she said, "that, when he begins to
write, he invariably writes a letter like that? Theoretically he detests
correspondence, but when he once begins, his letter always interests
him, and even awakens him to a kind of enthusiasm, so that instead of
being brief he tells one everything. He has written twelve pages here,
and it is all delightful."

"That is a wonderful thing to do," remarked Tredennis; "but it does not
surprise me in Richard."

"No," she replied, "Richard can always interest himself; or, rather, he
does not interest _himself_,--it is that he is interested without making
an effort; that is his strong point."

She replaced the letter in the envelope and laid it in the basket, from
which she took a strip of lace-work, beginning to employ herself with it
in a manner more suggestive of graceful leisure than of industrious
intention. It seemed to accentuate the fact that they had nothing to do
but let the day drift by in luxurious idleness.

But Tredennis could not help seeing that for a while the tone of her
mood, so to speak, was lowered. And yet, curiously enough, nothing of
his own dreamy exaltation died away. The subtle shadow which seemed to
have touched her, for a moment, only intensified his feeling of
tenderness. In fact there were few things which would not have so
intensified it; his mental condition was one which must advance by
steady, silent steps of development to its climax. He was not by nature
a reckless man, but he was by no means unconscious that there was
something very like recklessness in his humor this last day.

As for the day itself, it also advanced by steady steps to its climax,
unfolding its beauties like a perfect flower. The fresh, rain-washed
morning drifted into a warm, languorous noon, followed by an afternoon
so long and golden that it seemed to hold within itself the flower and
sun, shade and perfume, of a whole summer. Tredennis had never known so
long an afternoon, he thought, and yet it was only lengthened by the
strange delight each hour brought with it, and was all too short when it
was over. It seemed full of minute details, which presented themselves
to his mind at the time as discoveries. Bertha worked upon her lace, and
he watched her, waiting for the moment when she would look up at him,
and then look down again with a quick or slow droop of the lids, which
impressed itself upon him as a charm in itself. There was a little ring
she wore which made itself a memory to him,--a simple turquoise, which
set upon the whiteness of her hand like a blue flower. He saw, with a
new sense of recognition, every fold and line of her thin, white
drapery, the slight, girlish roundness of her figure, the dashes of
brightness in the color of her hair, the smallness of the gold thimble
on her finger, her grace when she rose or sat down, or rested a little
against the red cushions in her hammock, touching the ground now and
then with her slender slipper and swaying lightly to and fro.

"Do you know," he said to her once, as he watched her do this, "do you
know,"--with absorbed hesitation,--"that I feel as if--as if I had never
really seen you until to-day--until this afternoon. You seem somehow to
look different."

"I am not sure," she answered, "that I have ever seen you before; but it
is not because you look different."

"Why is it?" he asked, quite ready to relinquish any idea of his own in
the pursuit of one of hers.

She looked down a moment.

"To-day," she said, "I don't think you have anything against me."

"You think," he returned, "that I have usually something against you?"

"Yes," she answered.

"Will you tell me what you think it is?"

"I do not need to tell you," she said. "You know so well--and it would
rather hurt me to put it into words."

"Hurt you?" he repeated.

"I should be harder than I am," she returned, "if it had not hurt me to
know it myself--though I would not tell you that at any other time than
now. I dare say I shall repent it to-morrow," she said.

"No," he answered, "you won't repent it. Don't repent it."

He felt the vehemence of his speech too late to check it. When he ended
she was silent, and it was as if suddenly a light veil had fallen upon
her face, and he felt that, too, and tried to be calmer.

"No," he repeated, "you must not repent. It is I who must repent that I
have given you even a little pain. It is hard on me to know that I have
done that."

The afternoon stretched its golden length to a sunset which cast deep,
velvet shadows upon the grass and filled the air with an enchanted
mellow radiance. Everything took a tinge of gold,--the green of the
pines and the broad-leaved chestnut trees, the gray and brown of their
trunks, the red of the old house, the honeysuckle and Virginia creeper
clambering about it, the birds flying homeward to their nests. When the
rich clearness and depth of color reached its greatest beauty Bertha
folded her strip of lace and laid it in the little basket.

"We ought simply to sit and watch this," she said. "I don't think we
ought even to speak. It will be all over in a few minutes, and we shall
never see it again."

"No," said Tredennis, with a sad prescience; "nor anything at all like
it."

"Ah!" was Bertha's rejoinder, "to _me_ it has always seemed that it is
not the best of such hours that one _does_ see others like them. I have
seen the sun set like this before."

"_I_ have not," he said.

As he stood silent in the stillness and glow a faint, rather bitter,
smile touched his lips and faded out. He found himself, he fancied, face
to face with Laurence Arbuthnot again. He was sharing the sunset with
him; there were ten chances against one that he had shared the day with
him also.

Bertha sat in the deepening enchanted light with a soft, dreamy look. He
thought it meant that she remembered something; but he felt that the
memory was one to which she yielded herself without reluctance, or that
she was happy in it. At last she lifted her eyes to his, and their
expression was very sweet in its entire gentleness and submission to the
spell of the moment.

"See!" she said, "the sun has slipped behind the pines already. We have
only a few seconds left."

And then, even as they looked at the great fire, made brighter by the
dark branches through which they saw it, it sank a little lower, and a
little lower, and with an expiring flame was gone.

Bertha drew a quick breath, there was a second or so of silence, and
then she stirred.

"It is over," she said; "and it has been like watching some one die,
only sadder."

She took up the little work-basket and rose from her seat.

"It seems a pity to speak of mundane things," she said; "but I think we
must go in to tea."


When the children were taken upstairs for the night Bertha went with
them. It had been her habit to do this during their sojourn in the
country, and naturally Janey had been her special care of late.

"I cannot often do such things when I am in Washington," she had
explained once to Tredennis. "And I really like it as much as they do.
It is part of the holiday."

As he sat on the porch in the starlight Tredennis could hear her voice
mingling with the children's. The windows were wide open; she was moving
from one room to the other, and two or three times she laughed in answer
to some childish speech.

It was one of these laughs which, at last, caused Tredennis to leave his
seat and go to the place under the trees where the hammocks were swung,
and which was far more the place of general rendezvous than the parlor
windows. From this point he could see the corner of the brightly lighted
room, near the window where it was Bertha's custom to sit in her low
chair, and rock Janey to sleep when she was restless.

She was doing it to-night. He could see the child's head lying on her
bosom, and her own bent so that her cheek rested against the bright
hair. In a few moments all was quiet, and she began to sing, and as she
sang, swaying to and fro, Tredennis looked and listened without
stirring.

But, though it was gay no longer, he liked to hear her song, and to his
mind the moments in which he stood in the odorous dark, looking upward
at the picture framed by the vine-hung window, were among the tenderest
of the day. It was his fate to be full of a homely sentiment, which
found its pleasure in unsophisticated primary virtues and affections.
Any deep passion he might be moved by would necessarily have its
foundation in such elements. He was slow at the subtle analysis whose
final result is frequently to rob such simplicities of their value. His
tendency was to reverence for age, tenderness to womanhood and
childhood, faithfulness to all things. There was something boyish and
quixotic in his readiness to kindle in defence of any womanly weakness
or pain. Nothing he had ever said, or done, had so keenly touched and
delighted Professor Herrick as his fiery denunciation, one night, of a
man who was the hero of a scandalous story. There had been no
qualifications of his sweeping assertion that in such cases it must be
the man who had earned the right to bear the blame.

"It is _always_ the man who is in the wrong," he had cried, flushing
fiercely, "coward and devil--it is in the nature of things that he
should be. Let him stand at the front and take what follows, if he has
ever been a man for an hour!" And the professor had flushed also,--the
fainter flush of age,--and had given some silent moments to reflection
afterwards, as he sat gazing at the fire.

It was these primitive beliefs and sentiments which stirred within him
now. He would not have lost one low note of the little song for the
world, and he had left his seat only that he might see what he saw
now,--her arm about her child, her cheek pressed against its hair.

It was not long before her little burden fell asleep he saw, but she did
not rise as soon as this happened. She sat longer, and her song went on,
finally dying away into brooding silence, which reigned for some time
before she moved.

At length she lifted her face gently. She looked down at the child a
few seconds, and slowly changed the position in which she lay, with an
indescribably tender and cautious movement. Then she rose, and after
standing an instant, holding her in her folding arms, crossed the room
and passed out of sight.

Tredennis turned and began mechanically to arrange the cushions in the
hammock. He felt sure she would come to-night and talk to him, for a
little while at least.

It was not very long before he recognized her white figure in the
door-way, and went toward it.

"They are all asleep," she said, in a voice whose hushed tone seemed to
belong half to the slumber she had left and half to the stillness of the
hour.

"Will you come out to the hammock," he said, "or will you sit here?"

She came forward and descended the steps.

"I will sit in the hammock," she replied. "I like the trees above me."

They went down the path together, and reaching the hammock she took her
usual seat among its cushions, and he his upon a rough rustic bench near
her.

"I was thinking before you came," he said, "of what you said this
afternoon of my having something against you. I won't deny that there
has been something in my thoughts of you that often has been miserable,
and you were right in saying it was not in them to-day. It has not been
in them for several days. What I was thinking just now was that it could
never be in them again."

She did not stir.

"Don't you see," he went on, "I can't go back. If there had been nothing
but to-day, I could not go back--beyond to-day. It would always be a
factor in my arguments about you. I should always say to myself when
things seemed to go wrong: 'There was no mistake about that day,--she
was real then,' and I should trust you against everything. To-day--and
in the other days too--I have seen you as you are, and because of that
I should trust you in spite of everything."

"Oh!" she cried. "Don't trust me too much!" There was anguish in the
sound, and he recognized it.

"I can't trust you too much," he answered, with obstinacy. "No honest
human being can trust another honest human being too much."

"Am I an honest human being?" she said.

"I shall believe you one until the end," he returned.

"That is saying a great deal," was her reply.

"Listen," he said. "You know I am not like Arbuthnot and the rest. If I
were to try to be like them I should only fail. But, though you never
told me that I could be of any use to you, and you never will, I shall
know if the time should come--and I shall wait for it. Have we not all
of us something that belongs to ourselves, and not to the world,--it may
be a pleasure or a pain, it does not matter which?"

"No," she put in, "it does not matter which."

"It does not matter to those on the outside," he went on; "it only
matters to us, and I think we all have it to bear. Even I"--

"What," she said, "you, too?"

"Yes," he answered, "I, too; but it does not matter, if no one is hurt
but ourselves."

"There are so many things that 'do not matter,'" she said. "To say that,
only means that there is no help."

"That is true," was his reply, "and I did not intend to speak of myself,
but of you."

"No," she said, "don't speak of me,--don't speak of me!"

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because I tell you that you are trusting me too much."

"Go on," he said.

She had covered her face with her hands, and held them so for a little
while, then she let them fall slowly to her lap.

"If I tell you the truth," she said, "it will not be my fault if you
still trust me too much. I don't want it to be my fault. The worst of me
is, that I am neither bad nor good, and that I cannot live without
excitement. I am always changing and trying experiments. When one
experiment fails, I try another. They all fail after a while, or I get
tired of them."

"Poor child!" he said.

She stirred slightly; one of the flowers fell from her belt upon her
lap, and she let it lie there.

"It does not matter," she answered. "All that matters is, that you
should know the truth about me,--that I am not to be depended upon, and
that, above all, you need not be surprised at any change you see in me."

"When we meet again in Washington?" he suggested.

She hesitated a moment and then made her response.

"When we meet again in Washington, or at any time."

"Are you warning me?" he inquired.

"Yes," was her reply, and he recognized that in spite of her effort it
was faintly given. "I am warning you."

He looked down at the grass and then at her. The determined squareness
of chin, which was one of the chief characteristics of his face, struck
her as being more marked than she had ever seen it.

"It is unnecessary," he said. "I won't profit by it."

He rose abruptly from his seat, and there was meaning in the movement,
and in his eyes looking down upon her deep and dark in the faint light.

"You cannot change _me_," he said. "And you would have to change me
before your warning would carry weight. Change yourself as you like--try
as many experiments as you like--you cannot change the last ten days."

Even as the words were uttered, the day was ended for them as they had
never once thought of its ending. There fell upon the quiet the sound of
horses' feet approaching at a rapid pace and coming to a stop before
the gate. The dogs came bounding and baying from the house, and above
their deep-mouthed barking a voice made itself heard, calling to some
one to come out,--a voice they both knew.

Tredennis turned toward it with a sharp movement.

"Do you hear that?" he exclaimed.

"Yes," said Bertha; and suddenly her manner was calm almost to
coldness,--"it is Laurence Arbuthnot, and papa is with him. Let us go
and meet them."

And in a few seconds they were at the gate, and the professor was
explaining their unexpected appearance.

"It is all Mr. Arbuthnot's fault, my dear," he said; "he knew that I
wished to see you, and, having an idea that I was not strong enough to
make the journey alone, he suddenly affected to have business in this
vicinity. It was entirely untrue, and I was not in the least deceived;
but I humored him, as I begin to find it best to do, and allowed him to
bring me to you."

Arbuthnot had dismounted, and was fastening his horse to the gate, and
he replied by one of the gayest and most discriminatingly pitched of the
invaluable laughs.

"It is no use," he said; "the professor does not believe in me. He
refuses to recognize in me anything but hollow mockery."

Bertha went to him. There was something hurried in her movement; it was
as if she was strangely, almost feverishly, glad to see him. She went to
his horse's head and laid her hand on the creature's neck.

"That takes me back to Washington," she said: "to Washington. It was
like you to come, and I am glad, but--you should have come a little
sooner."

And, as she stood there, faintly smiling up at him, her hand was
trembling like a leaf.




CHAPTER XXI.


It was New-Year's day, and His Excellency the President had had several
months in which to endeavor to adjust himself to the exigencies of his
position; though whether he had accomplished this with a result of
entire satisfaction to himself and all parties concerned and
unconcerned, had, perhaps unfortunately, not been a matter of record.
According to a time-honored custom, he had been placed at the slight
disadvantage of being called upon to receive, from time to time, the
opinions of the nation concerning himself without the opportunity of
expressing, with any degree of publicity, his own opinions regarding the
nation; no bold spirit having as yet suggested that such a line of
procedure might at least be embellished with the advantage of entire
novelty, apart from the possibility of its calling forth such
originality and force of statement as would present to the national mind
questions never before discussed, and perhaps not wholly unimportant.
All had, however, been done which could be done by a nation justly
distinguished for its patriotic consideration for, and courtesy toward,
the fortunate persons elevated to the position of representing its
dignity at home and abroad. Nothing which could add to that dignity had
been neglected; no effort which could place it in its proper light, and
remove all difficulty from the pathway of the figure endeavoring
creditably to support it, had been spared. The character of the
successful candidate for presidential office having been, during the
campaign, effectually disposed of,--his morals having been impugned, his
honor rent to tatters, his intellectual capacity pronounced far below
the lowest average,--united good feeling was the result, and there
seemed little more to attain. His past had been exhausted. Every event
of his political career and domestic life had been held up to public
derision, laudation, and criticism. It had been successfully proved that
his education had been entirely neglected, and that his advantages had
been marvellous; that he had read Greek at the tender age of four years,
and that he had not learned to read at all until he attained his
majority; that his wife had taught him his letters, and that he had
taught his wife to spell; that he was a liar, a forger, and a thief;
that he was a model of virtue, probity, and honor,--each and all of
which incontrovertible facts had been public property and a source of
national pride and delight.

After the election, however, the fact that he had had a past at all had
ceased to be of any moment whatever. A future--of four years--lay before
him, and must be utilized; after that, the Deluge. The opposing party
sneered, vilified, and vaunted themselves in the truth of their
predictions concerning his incapacity; the non-opposing party advised,
lauded, cautioned, mildly discouraged, and in a most human revulsion of
feeling showed their unprejudiced frankness by openly condemning on
frequent occasions. The head of the nation having appointed an official
from among his immediate supporters, there arose a clamor of adverse
criticism upon a course which lowered the gifts of his sacred office to
the grade of mere payment for value received. Having made a choice from
without the circle, he called down upon himself frantic accusations of
ingratitude to those to whom he owed all. There lay before him the
agreeable alternatives of being a renegade or a monument of bribery and
corruption, and if occasionally these alternatives lost for a moment
their attractiveness, and the head of the nation gave way to a sense of
perplexity, and was guilty of forming in secret a vague wish that the
head of the nation was on some other individual's shoulders, or even
went to the length of wishing that the head upon his own shoulders was
his own property, and not a football for the vivacious strength of the
nation to expend itself upon,--if this occurred, though it is by no
means likely, it certainly revealed a weakness of character and
inadequacy to the situation which the nation could not have failed to
condemn. The very reasonable prophecy,--made by the party whose
candidate had not been elected,--that the government must inevitably go
to destruction and the country to perdition, had, through some singular
oversight on the part of the powers threatened, not been fulfilled.
After waiting in breathless suspense for the occurrence of these
catastrophes, and finding that they had apparently been postponed until
the next election, the government had drawn a sigh of relief, and the
country had gained courage to bestir itself cheerfully, with a view to
such perquisites as might be obtained by active effort and a strong
sense of general personal worthiness and fitness for any position.

There had descended upon the newly elected ruler an avalanche of seekers
for office, a respectable number of whom laid in his hands the future
salvation of their souls and bodies, and generously left to him the
result. He found himself suddenly established as the guardian of the
widow, the orphan, and the friendless, and required to repair fortunes
or provide them, as the case might be, at a moment's notice; his
sympathies were appealed to, his interests, his generosity, as an
altogether omnipotent power in whose hands all things lay, and whose
word was naturally law upon all occasions, great or small; and any
failure on his part to respond to the entirely reasonable requests
preferred was very properly laid to a tendency to abandoned scheming or
to the heartless indifference of the great, which decision disposed of
all difficulties in the argument, apart from such trivial ones as were
left to the portion of the delinquent and were not referred to. Being
called upon in his selection of his cabinet to display the judgment of
Solomon, the diplomacy of Talleyrand, and the daring of Napoleon, and
above all to combine like powers in each official chosen, he might have
faltered but for the assistance proffered him from all sides. This, and
the fact that there was no lack of the qualifications required,
supported him. Each day some monument of said qualifications, and others
too numerous to mention, was presented to his notice. To propitiate the
South it was suggested that he should appoint A----; to secure the
North, B----; to control the East, C----; to sweep the West, D----; and
to unite the country, E----. Circumstances having finally led him to
decide upon G----, the government appeared to be in jeopardy again;
but--possibly through having made use of its numerous opportunities of
indulging in acrobatic efforts in the direction of losing its balance
and regaining it again in an almost incredible manner--it recovered from
the shock, and even retained its equilibrium, upon finding itself in the
end saddled with a cabinet whose selection was universally acknowledged
to be a failure when it was not denounced as a crime.

On this particular New Year's day there were few traces on the social
surface of the disasters which so short a time before had threatened to
engulf all. Washington wore an aspect even gayer than usual. The
presidential reception began the day in its most imposing manner. Lines
of carriages thronged the drive before the White House, and the
diplomatists, statesmen, officials, and glittering beings in naval and
military uniform, who descended from them, were possibly cheered and
encouraged by the comments of the lookers-on, who knew them and their
glories and their shortcomings by heart. The comments were not specially
loud, however. That which in an English crowd takes the form of amiable
or unamiable clamor, in an American gathering of a like order resolves
itself into a serene readiness of remark, which exalts or disposes of a
dignity with equal impartiality, and an ingenuous fearlessness of any
consequence whatever, which would seem to argue that all men are born
free and some equal, though the last depends entirely upon
circumstances. Each vehicle, having drawn up, deposited upon the stone
steps of the broad portico a more or less picturesque or interesting
personage. Now it was the starred and ribboned representative of some
European court; again, a calm-visaged Japanese or Chinese official, in
all the splendor of flowing robes and brilliant color; and, again, a man
in citizen's clothes, whose unimposing figure represented such political
eminence as to create more stir among the lookers-on than all the rest.
Among equipages, there drove up at length a rather elegant little
_coupé_, from which, when its door was opened, there sprang lightly to
the stone steps the graceful figure of a young man, followed by an elder
one. The young fellow, who was talking with much animation, turned an
exhilaratingly bright face upon the crowd about him.

"On the whole, I rather like it," he said.

"Oh!" responded his companion, "as to that, you like everything. I never
saw such a fellow."

The younger man laughed quite joyously.

"There is a great deal of truth in that," he said, "and I don't suppose
you will deny that it is an advantage."

"An advantage!" repeated the other. "By Jupiter, I should think it was
an advantage! Now, how long do you think this fellow will keep us
waiting when we want him?"

"Oh!" was the answer; "he is Mrs. Amory's coachman, you know, and there
isn't a doubt that he has had excellent training. She isn't fond of
waiting."

"No," said the other, with a peculiar smile. "I should fancy she wasn't.
Well, I guess we'll go in."

They turned to do so, and found themselves near a tall man in uniform,
who almost immediately turned also, and revealed the soldierly visage of
Colonel Tredennis.

He made a quick movement forward, which seemed to express some surprise.

"What, Amory!" he exclaimed. "You here, too? I was not at all sure that
you had returned."

"I am scarcely sure myself yet," answered Richard, as he shook hands.
"It only happened last night; but Bertha has been home a week. Is it
possible you haven't seen her?"

"I have not seen anybody lately," said Tredennis, "and I did not know
that she had returned until I read her name in the list of those who
would receive."

"Oh, of course she will receive," said Richard. "And Planefield and
I--you have met Senator Planefield?"

"How do you do?" said Senator Planefield, without any special
manifestation of delight.

Tredennis bowed, and Richard went on airily, as they made their way in:

"Planefield and I have been sent out to do duty, and our list extends
from Capitol Hill to Georgetown Heights."

"And he," said Senator Planefield, "professes to enjoy the prospect."

"Why not?" said Richard. "It is a bright, bracing day, and there is
something exhilarating in driving from house to house, to find one's
self greeted at each by a roomful of charming women,--most of them
pretty, some of them brilliant, all of them well dressed and in holiday
spirits. It is delightful."

"Do _you_ find it delightful?" inquired Planefield, turning with some
abruptness to Tredennis.

"I am obliged to own that I don't shine in society," answered Tredennis.

He knew there was nothing to resent in the question, but he was
conscious of resenting something in the man himself. His big,
prosperous-looking body and darkly florid face, with its heavy, handsome
outlines, and keen, bold eyes, had impressed him unpleasantly from the
first, and on each occasion of their meeting the impression seemed to
deepen.

"Well, Amory shines," was his response, "and so does Mrs. Amory. We are
to drop in and see her shine, as often as we happen to be in the
neighborhood through the day."

They had reached the threshold of the reception-room by this time, and
Richard, catching the last words, turned and spoke.

"Of course you will be there yourself in the course of the day," he
said. "We shall possibly meet you--and, by-the-by, you will see Mrs.
Sylvestre. She arrived two days ago."

When they came out again Richard was in more buoyant spirits than
before. The lighted rooms, the brilliant dresses, the many faces he knew
or did not know, the very crush itself, had acted upon him like a fine
wind. He issued forth into the light of day again, girded and eager for
his day's work.

"There is nothing like Washington," he announced, "and especially
nothing like Washington at the beginning of the season. Just at the
outset, when one is meeting people for the first time since their
return, they actually have the air of being glad to see one, and a man
has a delightful evanescent sense of being somehow positively popular."

"Does it make _you_ feel popular?" demanded Planefield of Tredennis, in
his unceremonious fashion.

Tredennis presented to him an entirely immovable front.

"How do _you_ find it?" he inquired.

The man laughed.

"Not as Amory does," he answered.

When the _coupé_ appeared and he took his place at Richard's side, he
bent forward to bestow on Tredennis, as they drove away, a glance
expressive of but little favor.

"I don't like that fellow," he said. "Confound him!"

Richard settled himself in his corner of the carriage, folding his
fur-trimmed coat about him quite luxuriously.

"Oh, no. Not confound him," he replied. "He is a delightful fellow--in
his way."

"Confound his way, then," responded Planefield. "There's too much of
it."

Richard leaned slightly forward to look at the tall, motionless figure
himself, and the faintest possible change passed over his face as he did
so.

"He is not exactly a malleable sort of fellow," he remarked, "and I
suppose there might arise occasions when he would be a little in the
way; but there is no denying that he is picturesque."

"Oh!" exclaimed his companion, with more fervor than grace. "The devil
take his picturesqueness!"

In the meantime Colonel Tredennis awaited the arrival of his own
carriage, which had fallen back in the line. The surging of the crowd
about him, the shouts of the policemen as they called up the vehicles,
the rolling of vehicles and opening and shutting of doors, united
themselves in an uproar which seemed to afford him a kind of seclusion.
The subject of his thoughts as he stood in the midst of the throng was
not a new one; it was one from whose presence he had ceased to expect to
free himself; but as the information in the morning paper had
accelerated the pulse of emotion in him, so his brief interview with
Richard Amory had quickened it again. Since the day when he had left her
in Virginia, five months before, he had not seen Bertha at all, and had
only heard from her directly once. She had been at Long Branch,
Saratoga, Newport, and afterward visiting friends in the northern
cities. After his return from the West, Richard had frequently been with
her, and their letters to the professor had informed him that they were
well and were involved in a round of gayeties.

How the time had passed for Tredennis he could not himself have told.
When he had returned to Washington he had lived and moved as a man in a
dream. The familiar streets and buildings wore an unfamiliar look. It
was a relief to find the places more deserted than before; his chief
desire was to be, if possible, entirely alone. In the first vivid
freshness of his impressions it seemed incredible that the days he had
been living through had come to an end, and that absolutely nothing
remained but the strange memory of them. At times it appeared that
something must happen,--some impossible thing which would give reality
to the past and motive to the future. If in any of his nightly walks
before the closed and silent house he had suddenly seen that the
shutters were opened and lights were shining within; if Bertha herself
had, without warning, stood at the window and smiled upon him, he would
have felt it at first only natural, even though he knew she was hundreds
of miles away.

This for a few weeks, and then his exaltation died a gradual death for
want of sustenance, and there remained only the long, sultry days to be
lived through and their work to be done. They were lived through, and
their work was not neglected; but there was no one of them which dragged
its slow length by without leaving marks upon him which neither time nor
change could erase in any future that might come.

"Five months," he said, as he waited with the clamor about him, "is
longer than it seems--it is longer."

And Miss Jessup, passing him at the moment and looking up, found herself
so utterly at a loss for an adjective adequate to the description of his
expression, that her own bright and alert little countenance fell, and
existence temporarily palled upon her.

It was late in the day when he reached the Amorys. When he drove up
several carriages stood before the door, one of them Bertha's own, from
which Richard and Planefield had just descended. Two or three men were
going into the house, and one or two were leaving it. Through the open
door were to be seen the lighted hall, and glimpses of bright rooms
beyond, from which came the sound of voices, laughter, and the clink of
glass.

Richard entered the house with Tredennis, and flung off his rather
sumptuous outer garment with a laugh of relief.

"We have made fifty calls so far," he said, "and have enjoyed them
enormously. What have you accomplished?"

"Not fifty, by any means," Tredennis answered, and then the man-servant
took his coat, and they went into the parlors.

They seemed to be full of men,--young men, middle-aged men, old men;
even a half-grown boy or two had timorously presented themselves, with
large hopes of finding dazzling entertainment in the convivialities of
the day. The shutters were closed and the rooms brilliantly alight;
there were flowers in every available corner, and three or four
charmingly dressed women, each forming a bright central figure in a
group of black coats, gave themselves to their task of entertainment
with delightful animation.

For a moment Tredennis stood still. He did not see Bertha at once,
though he fancied he heard her voice in the room adjoining, where,
through the half-drawn _portières_, were to be seen men standing, with
coffee-cups, wine-glasses, or little plates in their hands, about a
table bright with flowers, fruits, and all the usual glittering
appurtenances. The next instant, amid a fresh burst of laughter, which
she seemed to leave behind her, she appeared upon the threshold.

As she paused a second between the heavy curtains Tredennis thought
suddenly of a brilliant tropical bird he had once seen somewhere, and
the fancy had scarcely formed itself in his mind before she recognized
him and came forward.

He had never seen her so brilliantly dressed before. The wonderful
combination of rich and soft reds in her costume, the flash of the
little jewelled bands clasped close about her bare throat and arms,
their pendants trembling and glowing in the light, the color on her
cheeks, the look in her eyes, had a curiously bewildering effect upon
him. When she gave him her hand he scarcely knew what to do with it, and
could only wait for her to speak. And she spoke as if they had parted
only an hour ago.

"At last," she said. "And it was very nice in you to leave me until the
last, because now I know you will not feel obliged to go away so soon."
And she withdrew her hand and opened her fan, and stood smiling up at
him over its plumy border. "You see," she said, "that we have returned
to our native atmosphere and may begin to breathe freely. Now we are
real creatures again."

"Are we?" he answered. "Is that it?" and he glanced over the crowd, and
then came back to her and looked her over from the glittering buckle on
her slipper to the scintillating arrow in her hair. "I suppose we have,"
he added. "I begin to realize it."

"If you need anything to assist you to realize it," she said, "cast your
eye upon Mr. Arbuthnot, and I think you will find him sufficient; for
me, everything crystallized itself and all my doubts disappeared the
moment I saw his opera hat, and heard his first remark about the
weather. It is a very fine day," she added, with a serene air of
originality, "a little cold, but fine and clear. Delightful weather for
those of you who are making calls. It has often struck me that it must
be unpleasant to undertake so much when the weather is against you. It
is colder to-day than it was yesterday, but it will be likely to be
warmer to-morrow. It is to be hoped that we shall have an agreeable
winter."

"You might," he said, looking at her over the top of her fan, "induce
them to mention it in the churches."

"That," she answered, "is the inspiration of true genius, and it shall
be attended to at once, or--here is Senator Planefield; perhaps he
might accomplish something by means of a bill?"

The senator joined them in his usual manner, which was not always an
engaging manner, and was at times a little suggestive of a disposition
to appropriate the community, and was also a somewhat loud-voiced
manner, and florid in its decorative style. It was, on the whole, less
engaging than usual upon the present occasion. The fact that he was for
some reason not entirely at ease expressed itself in his appearing to be
very wonderfully at ease; indeed, metaphorically speaking, he appeared
to have his hands in his pockets.

"A bill!" he said. "You have the floor, and I stand ready to second any
motion you choose to make. I think we might put it through together.
What can we do for you?"

"We want an appropriation," Bertha answered,--"an appropriation of fine
weather, which will enable Colonel Tredennis to be as giddy a butterfly
of fashion as his natural inclination would lead him to desire to be."

Planefield glanced at Tredennis with a suggestion of grudging the
momentary attention.

"Is _he_ a butterfly of fashion?" he asked.

"What!" exclaimed Bertha,--"is it possible that you have not detected
it? It is the fatal flaw upon his almost perfect character. Can it be
that you have been taking him seriously, and mistakenly imagining that
it was Mr. Arbuthnot who was frivolous?"

"Arbuthnot," repeated the senator. "Which is Arbuthnot? How is a man to
tell one from the other? There are too many of them!"

"What an agreeable way of saying that Colonel Tredennis is a host in
himself!" said Bertha. "But I have certainly not found that there were
too many of him, and I assure you that you would know Mr. Arbuthnot from
the other after you had exchanged remarks with him. He has just been
beguiled into the next room by Mrs. Sylvestre, who is going to give him
some coffee."

"Mrs. Sylvestre," said Tredennis. "Richard told me she was with you,
and I was wondering why I did not see her."

"You did not see her," said Bertha, "because I wished her to dawn upon
you slowly, and, having that end in view, I arranged that Mr. Arbuthnot
should occupy her attention when I saw you enter."

"He couldn't stand it all at once, could he?" remarked Planefield, whose
manner of giving _her_ his attention was certainly not grudging. He kept
his eyes fixed on her face, and apparently found entertainment in her
most trivial speech.

"It was not that, exactly," she answered. Then she spoke to Tredennis.

"She is ten times as beautiful as she was," she said, "and it would not
be possible to calculate how many times more charming."

"That was not necessary," responded Tredennis.

He could not remove his own eyes from her face, even while he was
resenting the fact that Planefield looked at her; he himself watched her
every movement and change of expression.

"It was entirely unnecessary," she returned; "but it is the truth."

"You are trying to prejudice him against her," said Planefield.

"She is my ideal of all that a beautiful woman ought to be," she
replied, "and I should like to form myself upon her."

"Oh, we don't want any of that," put in Planefield. "You are good enough
for us."

She turned her attention to him. Her eyes met his with the most
ingenuous candor, and yet the little smile in them was too steady not to
carry suggestion with it.

"Quite?" she said.

"Yes, quite," he answered, not so entirely at ease as before.

Her little smile did not waver in the least.

"Do you know," she said, "it seems almost incredible, but I will try to
believe it. Now," she said to Tredennis, "if Senator Planefield will
excuse me for a moment, I will take you into the other room. You shall
speak to Mrs. Sylvestre. He has already seen her. Will you come?"

"I shall be very glad," he answered. He followed as she led him to the
adjoining room. On its threshold she paused an instant.

"Exactly as I expected," she said. "She is listening to Mr. Arbuthnot."

Mr. Arbuthnot was standing at the end of the low mantel. He held a cup
of coffee in his hand, but had apparently forgotten it in giving his
attention to his very charming companion. This companion was, of course,
Mrs. Sylvestre herself. Tredennis recognized her clear, faintly tinted
face and light, willowy figure at once. She wore a dress of black lace,
with purple passion-flowers, and she was looking at Arbuthnot with
reflective eyes, almost the color of the flowers. She did not seem to be
talking herself, but she was listening beautifully, with a graceful,
receptive attention. Arbuthnot evidently felt it, and was improving his
shining hour with a sense of enjoyment tempered by no lack of ability to
avail himself of its fleeting pleasure.

It is possible, however, that his rapture at seeing Tredennis may have
been tempered by the natural weakness of man, but he bore himself with
his usual unperturbed equanimity.

"There," he remarked to Mrs. Sylvestre, "is the most objectionable
creature in Washington."

"Objectionable!" Mrs. Sylvestre repeated. "Bertha is bringing him here."

"Yes," responded Arbuthnot, "that is the objection to him, and it leaves
him without a redeeming quality."

Mrs. Sylvestre gave him a charmingly interested glance, and the next
instant made a slight movement forward.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "it is Colonel Tredennis!" and she held out her
hand with the most graceful gesture of welcome imaginable.

"It is very good of you to remember me," Tredennis said.

"It was not difficult," she answered, with a smile. And they fell, in
the most natural manner, a step apart from the others, and she stood and
looked at him as he spoke just as she had looked at Arbuthnot a moment
before. Arbuthnot began to give mild attention to his coffee.

"It is quite cold," he said to Bertha. "Will you give me another cup?"

"Yes," she answered, and took it from his hand to carry it to the table.
He followed her, and stood at her side as she poured the fresh cup out.

"It is my impression," he said, with serene illiberality, "that she did
not remember him at all."

"Yes, she did," Bertha replied. "She remembers everybody. That is one of
her gifts. She has a great many gifts."

"I did not place implicit confidence in her intimation that she
remembered me," he proceeded, still serenely. "I liked the statement,
and saw the good taste of it, and the excellent reasons for its being
true; but I managed to restrain the naïve impulses of a trusting nature.
And it doesn't strike me as being so entirely plausible that she should
have remembered Tredennis."

He paused suddenly and looked at Bertha's hand, in which she held the
sugar-tongs and a lump of sugar.

"Will you have one lump, or two?" she asked.

Then he looked from her hand to her face. Her hand was trembling and her
face was entirely without color. The look of strained steadiness in her
uplifted eyes was a shock to him. It seemed to him that any one who
chanced to glance at her must see it.

"You have been standing too long," he said. "You have tired yourself out
again."

He took the cup of coffee from her.

"It is too late for you to expect many calls now," he said, "and if any
one comes you can easily be found in the conservatory. I am going to
take you there, and let you sit down for a few seconds, at least."

He gave her his arm and carried the cup of coffee with him.

"You will have to drink this yourself," he said. "Have you eaten
anything to-day?"

"No," she replied.

"I thought not. And then you are surprised to find your hand trembling.
Don't you see what nonsense it is?"

"Yes."

He stepped with her into the tiny conservatory at the end of the room,
and gave her a seat behind a substantial palm on a red stand. His eyes
never left her face, though he went on talking in the most
matter-of-fact tone.

"Drink that coffee," he said, "and then I will bring you a glass of wine
and a sandwich."

She put out her hand as if to take the cup, but it fell, shaking, upon
her lap.

"I can't," she said.

"You must," he replied.

The inflexibility of his manner affected her, as he had known it would.
When he sat down in the low seat at her side, and held out the cup, she
took it.

"Go and get the wine," she said, without looking at him.

He went at once, neither speaking nor glancing back at her. He was glad
of the opportunity of turning his face away from her, since he felt
that, in spite of his determination, it was losing something of its
expressionless calm.

When he entered the room Mrs. Sylvestre still stood where he had left
her. It was she who was speaking now, and Tredennis, who was listening,
looking down upon her with an expression of much interest.

When he had procured a glass of wine and a sandwich Arbuthnot went to
her.

"I have secreted Mrs. Amory in the conservatory," he said, "with a view
of inducing her to take something in the form of sustenance. I can
produce her at a moment's notice if she is needed."

"That was consideration," she replied.

"It was humanity," he answered, and went away.

Bertha had finished the coffee when he returned to her. The blanched
look had left her, and her voice, when she spoke, sounded more natural
and steady.

"It did me good," she said, and this time she looked at him, and there
was something in her uplifted eyes which touched him.

"I knew it would," he answered.

"You always know," she said. "There is no one who knows so well what is
good for me"; and she said it with great gentleness.

He took refuge from himself, as he sometimes found it discreet to do, in
his usual airy lightness.

"I am all soul myself," he remarked, "as you may have observed, and I
understand the temptation to scorn earthly food and endeavor to subsist
wholly upon the plaudits of the multitude. You will, perhaps, permit me
to remark that though the new gown"--with an approving glance at it--"is
an immense and unqualified success, I doubt its power to sustain nature
during the six or eight hours of a New Year's reception."

Bertha glanced down at it herself.

"Do you think it is pretty?" she asked.

"I shouldn't call it pretty," he replied. "I should call it something
more impressive."

She still looked at it.

"It is a flaring thing," she said.

"No, it isn't," he returned, promptly. "Not in the least. You might call
it brilliant--if you insist on an adjective. It is a brilliant thing,
and it is not like you in the least."

She turned toward him.

"No," she said, "it isn't like me in the least."

"It looks," remarked Arbuthnot, giving it some lightly critical
attention, "as if you had taken a new departure."

"That is it exactly," she returned. "You always say the right thing. I
have taken a new departure."

"Might I ask in what direction?" he inquired.

"Yes," she responded. "I will tell you, as a fair warning. I am going to
be a dazzling and worldly creature."

"You are?" he said. "Now that is entirely sensible, though I should
scarcely call it a new departure. You know you tried it last winter,
with the most satisfying results. When Lent came on you had lost several
pounds in weight and all your color; you had refined existence until
neither rest nor food appeared necessary to you, and the future was
naturally full of promise. Be gay, by all means; you'll find it pay, I
assure you. Go to a lunch-party at one, and a reception at four, a
dinner in the evening, and drop in at a German or so on your way home,
taking precautions at the same time against neglecting your calling-list
in the intervals these slight recreations allow you. Oh, I should
certainly advise you to be gay."

"Laurence," she said, "do you think if one should do that _every_ day,
_every_ day, and give one's self _no_ rest, that after a while it would
_kill_ one?"

He regarded her fixedly for an instant.

"Do you want to die?" he asked, at last.

She sat perfectly still, and something terribly like, and yet terribly
unlike, a smile crept slowly into her eyes as they met his. Then she
replied, without flinching in the least, or moving her gaze:

"No."

He held up a long, slender forefinger, and shook it at her, slowly, in
his favorite gesture of warning.

"No," he said, "you don't; but, even if you fancied you did, don't
flatter yourself that it would happen. Shall I tell you what would
occur? You would simply break down. You would lose your self-control and
do things you did not wish to do; you would find it a physical
impossibility to be equal to the occasion, and you would end by being
pale and haggard--haggard, and discovering that your gowns were not
becoming to you. How does the thing strike you?"

"It is very brutal," she said, with a little shudder; "but it is true."

"When you make ten remarks that are true," he returned, "nine of them
are brutal. That is the charm of life."

"I don't think," she said, with inconsequent resentment, "that you very
much mind being brutal to me."

"A few minutes ago you said I knew what was good for you," he responded.

"You do," she said, "that is it, and it is only like me that I should
hate you because you do. You must think," with a pathetic tone of appeal
for herself in her voice, "that I do not mind being brutal to you; but I
don't want to be. I don't want to do any of the things I am doing now."

She picked up the bouquet of Jacqueminot roses she had been carrying and
had laid down near her.

"Don't talk about me," she said. "Let us talk about something
else,--these, for instance. Do you know where they came from?"

"I could scarcely guess."

"Senator Planefield sent them to me."

He regarded them in silence.

"They match the dress," she said, "and they belong to it."

"Yes," he answered, "they match the dress."

Then he was silent again.

"Well," she said, restlessly, "why don't you say something to me?"

"There isn't anything to say," he replied.

"You are thinking that I am very bad?" she said.

"You are trying to persuade yourself that you are very bad, and are
finding a fictitious excitement in it; but it is all a mistake. It won't
prove the consolation you expect it to," he answered. "Suppose you give
it up before it gives rise to complications."

"We are talking of Bertha Amory again," she said. "Let us talk about
Agnes Sylvestre. Don't you find her very beautiful?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Why don't you say more than 'yes'?" she asked. "You mean more."

"I couldn't mean more," he answered. "I should think it was enough to
mean that much; there are even circumstances under which it might be too
much."

"She is lovelier than she used to be," said Bertha, reflectively; "and
more fascinating."

"Yes to that also," he responded.

"Any one might love her," she went on, in the same tone. "_Any_ one."

"I should think so," he replied, quietly.

"I do not see how it would be possible," she added, "for any one--who
was thrown with her--to resist her--unless it was some one like you."

She turned a faint smile upon him.

"I am glad," she said, "that _you_ are not susceptible."

"So am I," he said, with some dryness.

"If you were susceptible you would go too," she ended. "And I don't want
_every_ one to leave me."

"Every one?" he repeated.

She rose as if to go, giving a light touch to the folds of her dress,
and still smiling a little.

"Colonel Tredennis has fallen a victim," she said, "in the most natural
and proper manner. I knew he would, and he has distinguished himself by
at once carrying out my plans for him. Now we must go back to the
parlors. I have rested long enough."

They returned just in time to meet a fresh party of callers, and
Arbuthnot was of necessity thrown for the time being upon his own
resources. These did not fail him. He found entertainment in his
surroundings until a certain opportunity he had rather desired presented
itself to him. He observed that Mrs. Sylvestre was once more near him,
and that the men occupying her attention were on the point of taking
their leave. By the time they had done so he had dexterously brought to
a close his conversation with his male companion, and had unobtrusively
forwarded himself, in an entirely incidental manner, as an aspirant for
her notice.

She received him with a quiet suggestion of pleasure in her smile.

"Have you enjoyed the day?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "I am almost sorry that it is so nearly over. It has
been very agreeable."

Then he found her eyes resting upon him in the quiet and rather
incomprehensible way which Bertha had counted among her chiefest charms.

"Have you enjoyed it?" she inquired.

"If I had not," he said, "I should feel rather like a defeated
candidate. One may always enjoy things if one applies one's self."

She seemed to reflect upon him an instant again.

"You see a great deal of Bertha?" she said.

"Yes, a great deal. Would you mind telling me why you ask?"

"Because that remark was so entirely like her," she replied.

"Well," he returned, "there is no denying that I have formed myself upon
her, and though the fact reveals me in all my shallow imitative
weakness, I can offer the apology that the means justifies the end. Upon
the whole, I am glad to be detected, as it points to a measure of
success in the attempt."

"But," she went on, "she tells me that she has formed herself upon you."

"Ah!" he said; "she meant you to repeat it to me, her design being to
betray me into a display of intoxicated vanity."

"She is very fond of you," she remarked.

"I am very fond of her," he answered, quickly--and then relapsing into
his usual manner--"though that is not a qualification sufficiently rare
to distinguish me."

"No," she said, "it is not."

Then she gave Bertha one of the glances.

"It was very thoughtful in you to take her into the conservatory," she
said. "I was startled to see how pale she looked as you left the room."

"She is not strong," he said, "and she insists on ignoring the fact."

"Do you know," said Mrs. Sylvestre, "that was what struck me when we met
for the first time in the autumn--that she was not strong. She used to
be strong."

"If she would accept the fact she would get over it," he said; "but she
won't."

"I met her first at Newport," said Mrs. Sylvestre, "just after Janey's
illness. For a day or so I felt that I did not know her at all; but in
course of time I got over the feeling; or she changed--I scarcely know
which. I suppose the strain during the little girl's illness had been
very severe?"

"There is no doubt of that," said Arbuthnot; "and her anxiety had been
much exaggerated."

"I shall see a great deal of her this winter," she returned, "and
perhaps I may persuade her to take care of herself."

He spoke with a touch of eager seriousness in his manner.

"I wish you would," he said. "It is what she needs, that some woman
should call her attention to the mistake she is making."

"I will try to do it," she responded, gently. "I am fond of her too."

"And you intend remaining in Washington?" he asked.

"Yes. I have had no plans for three years. When first it dawned on me
that it would interest me to make plans again, I thought of Washington.
I have found a house in Lafayette Square, and I think I shall be
established in it, with the assistance of my aunt, who is to live with
me, in about three weeks."

"That sounds very agreeable," he remarked.

"I shall hope to make it sufficiently so," she said. "Will you come
sometimes to see if my efforts are successful?"

"If you knew how unworthy I am," he responded, "even my abject gratitude
for your kindness would not repay you for it."

"Are you so very unworthy?" she was beginning, when her eyes appeared to
be caught by some object at the other side of the room.

It was not a particularly interesting object. It was merely the figure
of an unprepossessing boy, whose provincial homeliness was rendered
doubly impressive by his frightful embarrassment. He had arrived a few
moments before, with two more finished youths, whose mother Bertha knew,
and, having been basely deserted by them at the outset, had stranded
upon the treacherous shores of inexperience as soon as he had shaken
hands.

Mrs. Sylvestre's beautiful eyes dwelt upon him a moment with sympathy
and interest.

"Will you excuse me," she said to Arbuthnot, "if I go and talk to that
boy? Bertha is too busy to attend to him, and he seems to know no one."

Arbuthnot gave the boy a glance. He would not have regretted any
comparatively harmless incident which would have removed him, but his
own very naturally ignoble desire not to appear to a disadvantage
restrained the impulse prompting a derisive remark. And while he
objected to the boy in his most pronounced manner, he did not object in
the least to what he was clever enough to see in his companion's words
and the ready sympathy they expressed. Indeed, there was a side of him
which derived definite pleasure from it.

"I will excuse you," he answered; "but I need you more than the boy
does, and I cannot help believing that I am more worthy of you; though,
of course, I only use the word in its relative sense. As I remarked
before, I am unworthy, but as compared to the boy--He is a frightful
boy," he added, seeming to take him in more fully; "but I dare say his
crimes are unpremeditated. Let me go with you and find out if I know his
mother. I frequently know their mothers."

"If you do know his mother, I am sure it will be a great relief to him,
and it will assist me," said Mrs. Sylvestre.

They crossed the room together, and, seeing them approach, the boy
blushed vermilion and moved uneasily from one foot to the other.
Gradually, however, his aspect changed a little. Here were rather
attractive worldlings whose bearing expressed no consciousness whatever
of his crime of boyhood. He met Mrs. Sylvestre's eyes and blushed less;
he glanced furtively at Arbuthnot, and suddenly forgot his hands and
became almost unconscious of his legs.

"I have been asking Mrs. Sylvestre," said Arbuthnot, with civil
mendacity, "if you did not come with the Bartletts. I thought I saw you
come in together."

"Yes," responded the boy. "I am a cousin of theirs."

"Then I have heard them speak of you," Arbuthnot returned. "And I think
I had the pleasure of meeting your sister several times last
winter,--Miss Hemmingway?"

"Yes," said the boy; "she was here on a visit."

In two minutes he found himself conversing almost fluently, and it was
Arbuthnot who was his inspiration equally with Mrs. Sylvestre. He was a
modest and inoffensive youth, and overestimated the brilliance of the
scenes surrounding him, and the gifts and charms of his new-found
friends, with all the ardor of his tender years. To him, Arbuthnot's
pale, well-bred face and simple, immaculate attire represented luxury,
fashion, and the whirling vortex of society. The kindly imagination of
simplicity bestowed upon him an unlimited income and an exalted position
in the diplomatic _corps_, at least; his ease of manner and readiness of
speech seeming gifts only possible of attainment through familiarity
with foreign courts and effete civilizations. When he was asked how he
liked Washington, if he intended to spend the season with his relations,
if he had made many calls, and if the day did not seem to be an
unusually gay one, he accomplished the feat of answering each question,
even adding an original remark or so of his own. The conversation seemed
to assume a tone of almost feverish brilliancy in view of the social
atmosphere surrounding these queries. When he was led into the adjoining
room to partake of refreshments he ate his lobster-salad with an honest
young appetite, much aided by the fact that Mrs. Sylvestre gave him his
coffee, and, taking a cup herself, sat down by him on a sofa. As he
watched her, Arbuthnot was thinking her manner very soft and pretty,
and, inspired by it, his own became all that could be desired in the way
of dexterity and tact. As he exercised himself in his entertainment, his
first objections to the boy gradually vanished; he plied him with
refreshments, and encouraged him to renewed conversational effort,
deriving finally some satisfaction from finding himself able to bring to
bear upon him with successful results his neatly arranged and classified
social gifts. When the young Bartletts--who had been enjoying themselves
immensely in the next room--suddenly remembered their charge, and came
in search of him, their frank countenances expressed some surprise at
the position they found him occupying. He was relating with some spirit
the story of a boat-race, and Mrs. Sylvestre, who sat at his side, was
listening with the most perfect air of attention and pleasure, while
Arbuthnot stood near, apparently bent upon losing nothing of the
history. He ended the story with some natural precipitation and rose to
go, a trifle of his embarrassment returning as he found himself once
more, as it were, exposed to the glare of day. He was not quite sure
what conventionality demanded of him in the way of adieus; but when Mrs.
Sylvestre relieved him by extending her hand, nature got the better of
him, and he seized it with ardor.

"I've had a splendid time," he said, blushing. "This is the nicest
reception I've been to yet. The house is so pretty and--and everything.
I was thinking I shouldn't go anywhere else; but I believe I shall now."

When he shook hands with Arbuthnot he regarded him with admiration and
awe.

"I'm much obliged to you," he said, his vague sense of indebtedness
taking form. "If you ever come to Whippleville I'm sure my father would
like to--to see you."

And he retired with his young relatives, blushing still, and
occasionally treading on their feet, but his modesty, notwithstanding,
bearing with him an inoffensive air of self-respect, which would be more
than likely to last him through the day, and perhaps a little beyond it.

Mrs. Sylvestre's eyes met Arbuthnot's when he was gone.

"You were _very_ kind to him," she said.

"I am obliged to confess," he replied, "that it was nothing but the low
promptings of vanity which inspired me. It dawned upon me that he was
impressed by my superior ease and elegance, and I seized the opportunity
of exhibiting them."

"You knew just what to say to him," she added.

"That," he replied, "was entirely owing to the fact that I was a boy
myself in the early part of the last century."

"He was an appreciative boy," she said, "and a grateful one; but I am
sure I could not have made him comfortable if you had not been so kind."

And she once again bestowed upon him the subtle flattery of appearing to
lose herself an instant in reflection upon him.

There were no more callers after this. Later on an unconventional little
dinner was served, during which Mrs. Sylvestre was placed between
Arbuthnot and Tredennis, Planefield loomed up massive and florid at
Bertha's side, and Richard devoted himself with delightful ardor to
discussing French politics with the young woman who fell to his share.

This young woman, whose attire was perfect and whose manner was
admirable, and who was furthermore endowed with a piquant, irregular
face and a captivating voice, had attracted Tredennis's attention early
in the evening. She had been talking to Richard when he had seen her
first, and she had been talking to Richard at intervals ever since, and
evidently talking very well.

"I don't know your friend," he said to Bertha, after dinner, "and I did
not hear her name when I was presented."

"Then you have hitherto lived in vain," said Bertha, glancing at her.
"That is what Richard would tell you. Her name is Helen Varien."

"It is a very pretty name," remarked Tredennis.

"Ah!" said Bertha. "You certainly might trust her not to have an ugly
one. She has attained that state of finish in the matter of her
appendages which insures her being invariably to be relied on. I think
she must even have invented her relatives--or have ordered them, giving
_carte blanche_."

She watched her a moment with a smile of interest.

"Do you see how her sleeves fit?" she asked. "It was her sleeves which
first attracted my attention. I saw them at a luncheon in New York, and
they gave me new theories of life. When a woman can accomplish sleeves
like those, society need ask nothing further of her."

Tredennis glanced down at her own.

"Have you accomplished"--he suggested.

"In moments of rashness and folly," she answered, "I have occasionally
been betrayed into being proud of my sleeves; but now I realize that the
feeling was simply impious."

He waited with grim patience until she had finished, and then turned his
back upon Miss Varien's sleeves.

"Will you tell me about Janey?" he said.

"When last I saw her, which was this morning," she replied, "she was as
well as usual, and so were the others. Now I have no doubt they are all
in bed."

"May I come and see them to-morrow, or the day after?"

"Yes," she answered. "And at anytime. I hope you will come often. Mrs.
Sylvestre will be with me until her house is ready for her, and, as I
said before, I wish you to know her well."

"I shall feel it a great privilege," he responded.

She leaned back a little in her chair, and regarded her with an
expression of interest even greater than she had been aroused to by the
contemplation of Miss Varien's sleeves.

"Have you found out yet," she inquired, "what her greatest charm is?"

"Is it by any chance a matter of sleeves?" he asked; and he made the
suggestion stolidly.

"No," she answered, "it is not sleeves. One's difficulty is to decide
_what_ it is. A week ago I thought it was her voice. Yesterday I was
sure it was her eyelashes and the soft shadow they make about her eyes.
About an hour ago I was convinced it was her smile, and now I think it
must be her power of fixing her attention upon you. See how it flatters
Mr. Arbuthnot, and how, though he is conscious of his weakness, he
succumbs to it. It will be very pleasant occupation during the winter to
watch his struggles."

"Will he struggle?" said Tredennis, still immovably. "I don't think I
would in his place."

"Oh, no," she answered. "You mustn't struggle."

"I will not," he returned.

She went on with a smile, as if he had spoken in the most responsive
manner possible.

"Mr. Arbuthnot's struggles will not be of the usual order," she
remarked. "He will not be struggling with his emotions, but with his
vanity. He knows that she will not fall in love with him, and he has no
intention of falling in love with her. He knows better--and he does not
like affairs. But he will find that she is able to do things which will
flatter him, and that it will require all his self-control to refrain
from displaying his masculine delight in himself and the good-fortune
which he has the secret anguish of knowing does not depend upon his
merits. And his struggles at a decently composed demeanor, entirely
untinged by weak demonstrations of pleasure or consciousness of himself,
will be a very edifying spectacle."

She turned her glance from Arbuthnot and Mrs. Sylvestre, whom she had
been watching as she spoke, and looked up at Tredennis. She did so
because he had made a rather sudden movement, and placed himself
immediately before her.

"Bertha," he said, "I am going away."

Her Jacqueminot roses had been lying upon her lap. She picked them up
before she answered him.

"You have made too many calls," she said. "You are tired."

"I have not made too many calls," he replied; "but I am tired. I am
tired of this."

"I was afraid you were," she said, and kept her eyes fixed upon the
roses.

"You were very fair to me," he said, "and you gave me warning. I told
you I should not profit by it, and I did not. I don't know what I
expected when I came here to-day, but it was not exactly this. You are
too agile for me; I cannot keep up with you."

"You are not modern," she said. "You must learn to adjust yourself
rapidly to changes of mental attitude."

"No, I am not modern," he returned; "and I am always behindhand. I do
not enjoy myself when you tell me it is a fine day, and that it was
colder yesterday, and will be warmer to-morrow; and I am at a loss when
you analyze Mr. Arbuthnot's struggles with his vanity."

"I am not serious enough," she interrupted. "You would prefer that I
should be more serious."

"It would avail me but little to tell you what I should prefer," he
said, obstinately. "I will tell you a simple thing before I go,--all
this counts for nothing."

She moved slightly.

"All this," she repeated, "counts for nothing."

"For nothing," he repeated. "You cannot change me. I told you that. You
may give me some sharp wounds,--I know you won't spare those,--and
because I am only a man I shall show that I smart under them; but they
will not move me otherwise. Be as frivolous as you like, mock at
everything human if you choose; but don't expect me to believe you."

She put the flowers to her face and held them there a second.

"The one thing I should warn you against," she said, "would be against
believing me. I don't make the mistake of believing myself."

She put the flowers down.

"You think I am trying to deceive you," she said. "There would have to
be a reason for my doing it. What should you think would be the reason?"

"So help me God!" he answered, "I don't know."

"Neither do I," she said.

Then she glanced about her over the room,--at Planefield, rather
restively professing to occupy himself with a pretty girl; at Miss
Varien, turned a trifle sidewise in her large chair so that her
beautiful sleeve was displayed to the most perfect advantage, and her
vivacious face was a little uplifted as she spoke to Richard, who leaned
on the high back of her seat; at Arbuthnot, talking to Agnes Sylvestre,
and plainly at no loss of words; at the lights and flowers and
ornamented tables seen through the _portières_,--and then she spoke
again.

"I tell you," she said, "it is _this_ that is real--_this_. The other
was only a kind of dream."

She made a sudden movement and sat upright on her chair, as if she meant
to shake herself free from something.

"There was no other," she said. "It wasn't even a dream. There never was
anything but this."

She left her chair and stood up before him, smiling.

"The sky was not blue," she said, "nor the hills purple; there were no
chestnut trees, and no carnations. Let us go and sit with the rest, and
listen to Mr. Arbuthnot and admire Miss Varien's sleeves."

But he stood perfectly still.

"I told you I was going away," he said, "and I am going. To-morrow I
shall come and see the children--unless you tell me that you do not wish
to see me again."

"I shall not tell you that," she returned, "because it would be at once
uncivil and untrue."

"Then I shall come," he said.

"That will be kind of you," she responded, and gave him her hand, and
after he had made his bow over it, and his adieus to the rest of the
company, he left them.

Bertha crossed the room and stood near the fire, putting one foot on the
fender, and shivering a little.

"Are you cold?" asked Miss Varien.

"Yes--no," she answered. "If I did not know better, I should think I
was."

"Allow me," said Miss Varien, "to make the cheerful suggestion that that
sounds quite like malaria."

"Thank you," said Bertha; "that seems plausible, and I don't rebel
against it. It has an air of dealing with glittering generalities, and
yet it seems to decide matters for one. We will call it malaria."




CHAPTER XXII.


The room which Mrs. Sylvestre occupied in her friend's house was a very
pretty one. It had been one of Mrs. Amory's caprices at the time she had
fitted it up, and she had amused herself with it for two or three
months, arranging it at her leisure, reflecting upon it, and making
additions to its charms every day as soon as they suggested themselves
to her.

"It is to be a purely feminine apartment," she had said to Richard and
Arbuthnot. "And I have a sentiment about it. When it is complete you
shall go and stand outside the door and look in, but nothing would
induce me to allow you to cross the threshold."

When this moment had arrived, and they had been admitted to the private
view from the corridor, they had evidently been somewhat impressed.

"It is very pretty," Mr. Arbuthnot had remarked, with amiable tolerance;
"but I don't approve of it. Its object is plainly to pamper and foster
those tendencies of the feminine temperament which are most prominent
and least desirable. Nothing could be more apparent than its intention
to pander to a taste for luxury and self-indulgence, combined in the
most shameless manner with vanity and lightness of mind. It will be
becoming to the frivolous creatures, and will exalt and inflate them to
that extent that they will spend the greater portion of their time in
it, utterly ignoring the superior opportunities for cultivating and
improving their minds they might enjoy downstairs on occasions when
Richard remains at home, and my own multifarious duties permit me to
drop in. It strikes me as offering a premium to feminine depravity and
crime."

"That expresses it exactly," agreed Richard.

Arbuthnot turned him round.

"Will you," he said, "kindly give your attention to the length and
position of that mirror, and the peculiar advantages to be derived from
the fact that the light falls upon it from that particular point, and
that its effects are softened by the lace draperies and suggestions of
pink and blue? The pink and blue idea is merely of a piece with all the
rest, and is prompted by the artfulness of the serpent. If it had been
all pink the blondes would have suffered, and if it had been all blue
the brunettes would have felt that they were not at their best; this
ineffably wily combination, however, truckles to either, and intimates
that each combines the attractions of both. Take me away, Richard; it is
not for the ingenuous and serious mind to view such spectacles as these.
Take me away,--first, however, making a mental inventory of the entirely
debasing sofas and chairs and the flagrant and openly sentimental nature
of the pictures, all depicting or insinuating the drivelling imbecility
and slavery of man,--'The Huguenot Lovers,' you observe, 'The Black
Brunswicker,' and others of like nature."

Mrs. Sylvestre had thought the room very pretty indeed when she had
first taken possession of it, and its prettiness and comfort impressed
her anew when, the excitement of the New Year's day at last at an end,
she retired to it for the night.

When she found herself within the closed doors she did not go to bed at
once. Too many impressions had been crowded into the last ten hours to
have left her in an entirely reposeful condition of mind and body, and,
though of too calm a temperament for actual excitement, she was still
not inclined to sleep.

So, having partly undressed and thrown on a loose wrap, she turned down
the light and went to the fire. It was an open wood-fire, and burned
cheerily behind a brass fender; a large rug of white fur was spread upon
the hearth before it; a low, broad sofa, luxurious with cushions, was
drawn up at one side of it, and upon the rug, at the other, stood a
deep easy-chair. It was this chair she took, and, having taken it, she
glanced up at an oval mirror which was among the ornaments on the
opposite wall. In it she saw reflected that portion of the room which
seemed to have arranged itself about her own graceful figure,--the faint
pinks and blues, the flowered drapery, the puffed and padded furniture,
and the hundred and one entirely feminine devices of ornamentation; and
she was faintly aware that an expression less thoughtful than the one
she wore would have been more in keeping with her surroundings.

"I look too serious to harmonize," she said. "If Bertha were here she
would detect the incongruity and deplore it."

But she was in a thoughtful mood, which was not an uncommon experience
with her, and the faint smile the words gave rise to died away as she
turned to the fire again. What she thought of as she sat and looked into
it, it would have been difficult to tell; but there was evidence that
she was mentally well occupied in the fact that she sat entirely still
and gazed at its flickering flame for nearly half an hour. She would not
have moved then, perhaps, if she had not been roused from her reverie by
a sound at the door,--a low knock, and a voice speaking to her.

"Agnes!" it said. "Agnes!"

She knew it at once as Bertha's, and rose to reply to the summons almost
as if she had expected or even waited for it. When she unlocked the
door, and opened it, Bertha was standing on the threshold. She had
partly undressed, too. She had laid aside the red dress, and put on a
long white _negligée_, bordered with white fur; there was no color about
her, and it made her look cold. Perhaps she was cold, for Agnes thought
she seemed to shiver a little.

"May I come in?" she asked. "I know it is very inconsiderate, but I had
a sort of conviction that you would not be asleep."

"I was not thinking of going to sleep yet," said Agnes. "I am glad you
have come."

Bertha entered, and, the door being closed, crossed the room to the
fire. She did not take a chair, but sat down upon the hearth-rug.

"This is very feminine," she said, "and we ought to be in bed; but the
day would not be complete without it."

Then she turned toward Agnes.

"You must have a great deal to think of to-night," she said.

Agnes Sylvestre looked at the fire.

"Yes," she answered, "I have a great deal to think of."

"Are they things you like to think of?"

"Some of them--not all."

"It must be a curious experience," said Bertha, "to find yourself here
again after so many years--with all your life changed for you."

Mrs. Sylvestre did not reply.

"You have not been here," Bertha continued, "since you went away on your
wedding journey. You were nineteen or twenty then,--only a girl."

"I was young," said Mrs. Sylvestre, "but I was rather mature for my
years. I did not feel as if I was exactly a girl."

Then she added, in a lower voice:

"I had experienced something which had ripened me."

"You mean," said Bertha, "that you knew what love was."

She had not intended to say the words, and their abrupt directness
grated upon her as she spoke; but she could not have avoided uttering
them.

Mrs. Sylvestre paused a moment.

"The experience I passed through," she said, "did not belong to my age.
It was not a girl's feelings. I think it came too soon."

"You had two alternatives to choose from," said Bertha,--"that it
should come too soon or too late."

Mrs. Sylvestre paused again.

"You do not think," she said, "that it ever comes to any one at the
right time?"

Bertha had been sitting with her hands folded about her knee. She
unclasped and clasped them with a sharply vehement movement.

"It is a false thing from beginning to end," she said. "I do not believe
in it."

"Ah," said Mrs. Sylvestre, softly, "I believe it. I wish I did not."

"What is there to be gained by it?" said Bertha; "a feeling that is not
to be reasoned about or controlled; a miserable, feverish emotion you
cannot understand, and can only resent and struggle against blindly.
When you let it conquer you, how can you respect yourself or the object
of it? What do women love men for? Who knows? It is like madness! All
you can say is, 'I love him. He is life or death to me.' It is so
unreasoning--so unreasoning."

She stopped suddenly, as if all at once she became conscious that her
companion was looking at herself instead of at the fire.

"You love a man generally," said Mrs. Sylvestre, in her tenderly
modulated voice,--"at least I have thought so,--because he is the one
human creature who is capable of causing you the greatest amount of
suffering. I don't know of any other reason, and I have thought of it a
great deal."

"It is a good reason," said Bertha,--"a good reason."

Then she laughed.

"This is just a little tragic, isn't it?" she said. "What a delightfully
emotional condition we must be in to have reached tragedy in less than
five minutes, and entirely without intention! I did not come to be
tragic; I came to be analytical. I want you to tell me carefully how we
strike you."

"We?" said Mrs. Sylvestre.

Bertha touched herself on the breast.

"We," she said,--"I, Richard, Laurence Arbuthnot, Colonel Tredennis,
Senator Planefield, the two hundred men callers,--Washington, in short.
How does Washington strike you, now that you have come to it again?"

"Won't you give me two weeks to reflect upon it?" said Agnes.

"No. I want impressions, not reflections. Is it all very much changed?"

"I am very much changed," was the reply.

"And we?" said Bertha. "Suppose--suppose you begin with Laurence
Arbuthnot."

"I do not think I could. He is not one of the persons I have
remembered."

"Agnes," said Bertha, "only wait with patience for one of those
occasions when you feel it necessary to efface him, and then tell him
that, in exactly that tone of voice, and he will in that instant
secretly atone for the crimes of a lifetime. He won't wince, and he will
probably reply in the most brilliant and impersonal manner; but,
figuratively speaking, you will have reduced him to powder and cast him
to the breeze."

"We shall not be sufficiently intimate to render such a thing possible,"
said Mrs. Sylvestre. "One must be intimate with a man to be angry enough
with him to wish to avenge one's self."

Bertha smiled.

"You don't like him," she said. "Poor Larry!"

"On the contrary," was her friend's reply. "But it would not occur to me
to 'begin with him,' as you suggested just now."

"With whom, then," said Bertha, "would you begin."

Her guest gave a moment to reflection, during which Bertha regarded her
intently.

"If I were going to begin at all," she said, rather slowly, "I think it
would be with Colonel Tredennis."

There was a moment of silence, and then Bertha spoke, in a somewhat
cold and rigid voice,

"What do you like about him?" she asked.

"I think I like everything."

"If you were any one else," said Bertha, "I should say that you simply
like his size. I think that is generally it. Women invariably fall
victims to men who are big and a little lumbering. They like to persuade
themselves that they are overawed and subjected. I never understood it
myself. Big men never pleased me very much--they are so apt to tread on
you."

"I like his eyes," said Agnes, apparently reflecting aloud; "they are
very kind. And I like his voice"--

"It is rather too deep," remarked Bertha, "and sometimes I am a little
afraid it will degenerate into a growl, though I have never heard it do
so yet."

Mrs. Sylvestre went on:

"When he bends his head a little and looks down at you as you talk," she
said, "he is very nice. He is really thinking of you and regarding you
seriously. I do not think he is given to trifling."

"No," returned Bertha; "I do not think he is given to anything special
but being massive. That is what you are thinking,--that he is massive."

"There is no denying," said her friend, "that that is one of the things
I like."

"Ah!" said Bertha, "you find the rest of us very flippant and trivial.
_That_ is how we strike you!"

A fatigued little sigh escaped her lips.

"After all," she said, "it is true. And we have obliged ourselves to be
trivial for so long that we are incapable of seriousness.
Sometimes--generally toward Lent, after I have been out a great deal--I
wonder if the other would not be interesting for a change; but, at the
same time, I know I could not be serious if I tried."

"Your seriousness will be deeper," said Mrs. Sylvestre, "when you
accomplish it without trying."

She was serious herself as she spoke, but her seriousness was extremely
gentle. She looked at Bertha even tenderly, and her clear eyes were very
expressive.

"We are both changed since we met here last," she said, with simple
directness, "and it is only natural that what we have lived through
should have affected us differently. We are of very different
temperaments. You were always more vivid and intense than I, and
suffering--if you had suffered"--

Her soft voice faltered a little, and she paused. Bertha turned and
looked her unflinchingly in the face.

"I--have not suffered," she said.

Agnes spoke as simply as before.

"I have," she said.

Bertha turned sharply away.

"I was afraid so," was her response.

"If we are to be as near to each other as I hope," Agnes continued, "it
would be useless for me to try to conceal from you the one thing which
has made me what I am. The effort to hide it would always stand between
us and our confidence in each other. It is much simpler to let you know
the truth."

She put her hands up to her face an instant, and Bertha broke the
silence with a curiously incisive question.

"Was he very cruel to you?"

Agnes withdrew her hands, and if her shadow of a smile had not been so
infinitely sad, it would have been bitter.

"He could not help it," she said; "and when I was calm enough to reason
I knew he was not to blame for my imagination. It was all over in a few
months, and he would have been quite content to bear what followed
philosophically. When the worst came to the worst, he told me that he
had known it could not last, because such things never did; but that he
had also known that, even after the inevitable termination, I should
always please him and display good taste. He had lived through so much,
and I had known so little. I only spoke openly to him once,--one awful
day, and after that I scarcely know what happened to me for months. I
asked him to let me go away alone, and I went to the sea-side. Since
then the sound of the sea has been a terror to me, and yet there are
times when I long to hear it. I used to tell myself that, on one of
those days when I sat on the sand and looked at the sea, I died, and
that I have never really lived since. Something happened to me--I don't
know what. It was one brilliant morning, when the sun beat on the blue
water and the white sand, and everything was a dazzling glare. I sat on
the beach for hours without moving, and when I got up and walked away I
remember hearing myself saying, 'I have left you behind,--I have left
you behind,--I shall never see you again.' I was ill for several days
afterward, and when I recovered I seemed to have become a new creature.
When my husband came I was able to meet him so calmly that I think it
was even a kind of shock to him."

"And that was the end?" said Bertha.

"Yes, that was the end--for me."

"And for him?"

"Once or twice afterward it interested him to try experiments with me,
and when they failed he was not pleased."

"Were you never afraid," said Bertha, "that they would not fail?"

"No. There is nothing so final as the ending of such a feeling. There is
nothing to come after it, because it has taken everything with
it,--passion, bitterness, sorrow,--even regret. I never wished that it
might return after the day I spoke of. I have thought if, by stretching
forth my hand, I could have brought it all back just as it was at first,
I should not have wished to do it. It had been too much."

"It is a false thing," said Bertha,--"a false thing, and there must
always be some such end to it."

Agnes Sylvestre was silent again, and because of her silence Bertha
repeated her words with feverish eagerness.

"It must always end so," she said.

"_You_ know that--you _must_ know it."

"I am only one person," was the characteristic answer. "And I do not
know. I do not want to know. I only want quiet now. I have learned
enough."

"Agnes," said Bertha, "that is very pathetic."

"Yes," Agnes answered. "I know it is pathetic, when I allow myself to
think of it." And for the first time her voice broke a little, and was
all the sweeter for the break in it. But it was over in a moment, and
she spoke as she had spoken before.

"But I did not mean to be pathetic," she said. "I only wanted to tell
you the entire truth, so that there should be nothing between us, and
nothing to avoid. There can be nothing now. You know of me all that is
past, and you can guess what is to come."

"No, I cannot do that," said Bertha.

Agnes smiled.

"It is very easy," she responded. "I shall have a pretty house, and I
shall amuse myself by buying new or old things for it, and by moving the
furniture. I shall give so much thought to it that after a while it will
be quite celebrated, in a small way, and Miss Jessup will refer to it as
'unique.' Mrs. Merriam will be with me, and I shall have my reception
day, and perhaps my 'evening,' and I shall see as many of the charming
people who come to Washington as is possible. You will be very good to
me, and come to see me often, and--so I hope will Mr. Arbuthnot, and
Colonel Tredennis"--

"Agnes," interposed Bertha, with an oddly hard manner, "if they do, one
or both of them will fall in love with you."

"If it is either," responded Mrs. Sylvestre, serenely, "I hope it will
be Mr. Arbuthnot, as he would have less difficulty in recovering."

"You think," said Bertha, "that nothing could ever touch you
again,--nothing?"

"Think!" was the response; "my safety lies in the fact that I do not
think of it at all. If I were twenty I might do so, and everything would
be different. Life is very short. It is not long enough to run risks in.
I shall not trifle with what is left to me."

"Oh," cried Bertha, "how calm you are--how calm you are!"

"Yes," she answered, "I am calm now."

But she put her hands up to her face again for an instant, and her
eyelashes were wet when she withdrew them.

"It was a horribly dangerous thing," she said, brokenly. "There were so
many temptations; the temptation to find excitement in avenging myself
on others was strongest of all. I suppose it is the natural savage
impulse. There were times when I longed to be cruel. And then I began to
think--and there seemed so much suffering in life--and everything seemed
so pitiful. And I could not bear the thought of it." And she ended with
the sob of a child.

"It is very womanish to cry," she whispered, "and I did not mean to do
it, but--you look at me so." And she laid her cheek against the
cushioned back of her chair, and, for a little while, was more pathetic
in her silence than she could have been in any words she might have
uttered. It was true that Bertha had looked at her. There were no tears
in her own eyes. Her feeling was one of obstinate resistance to all
emotion in herself; but she did not resent her friend's; on the
contrary, she felt a strange enjoyment of it.

"Don't stop crying because I am here," she said. "I like to see you do
it."

Mrs. Sylvestre recovered herself at once. She sat up, smiling a little.
There were no disfiguring traces of her emotion on her fair face.

"Thank you," she answered; "but I do not like it myself so much, and I
have not done it before for a long time."

It was, perhaps, because Mr. Arbuthnot presented himself as an entirely
safe topic, with no tendency whatever to develop the sensibilities, that
she chose him as the subject of her next remarks.

"I do not see much change in your friend," she observed.

"If you mean Laurence," Bertha replied, "I dare say not. He does not
allow things to happen to him. He knows better."

"And he has done nothing whatever during the last seven years?"

"He has been to a great many parties," said Bertha, "and he has read a
book or so, and sung several songs."

"I hope he has sung them well," was her friend's comment.

"It always depends upon his mood," Bertha returned; "but there have been
times when he has sung them very well indeed."

"It can scarcely have been a great tax to have done it occasionally,"
said Mrs. Sylvestre; "but I should always be rather inclined to think it
was the result of chance, and not effort. Still"--with a sudden
conscientious scruple brought about by her recollection of the fact that
these marks of disapproval had not expressed themselves in her manner
earlier in the day--"still he is very agreeable, one cannot deny that."

"It is always safe not to attempt to deny it, even if you feel
inclined," was Bertha's comment, "because, if you do, he will inevitably
prove to you that you were in the wrong before he has done with you."

"He did one thing I rather liked," her companion proceeded. "He was very
nice--in that peculiar, impartial way of his--to a boy"--

"The boy who came with the Bartletts?" Bertha interposed. "I saw him,
and was positively unhappy about him, because I could not attend to
him. Did he take him in hand?" she asked, brightening visibly. "I knew
he would, if he noticed him particularly. It was just like him to do
it."

"I saw him first," Mrs. Sylvestre explained; "but I am afraid I should
not have been equal to the occasion if Mr. Arbuthnot had not assisted
me. It certainly surprised me that he should do it. He knew the
Bartletts, and had met the boy's sister, and in the most wonderful, yet
the most uneffusive and natural, way he utilized his material until the
boy felt himself quite at home, and not out of place at all. One of the
nicest things was the way in which he talked about Whippleville,--the
boy came from Whippleville. He seemed to give it a kind of interest and
importance, and even picturesqueness. He did not pretend to have been
there; but he knew something of the country, which is pretty, and he was
very clever in saying neither too much nor too little. Of course that
was nice."

"Colonel Tredennis could not have done it," said Bertha.

Agnes paused. She felt there was something of truth in the statement,
but she was reluctant to admit it.

"Why not?" she inquired.

"By reason of the very thing which is his attraction for you,--because
he is too massive to be adroit."

Agnes was silent.

"Was it not Colonel Tredennis who went to Virginia when your little girl
was ill?" she asked, in a few moments.

"Yes," was Bertha's response. "He came because Richard was away and papa
was ill."

"It was Janey who told me of it," said Agnes, quietly. "And she made a
very pretty story of it, in her childish way. She said that he carried
her up and down the room when she was tired, and that when her head
ached he helped her not to cry. He must be very gentle. I like to think
of it. It is very picturesque; the idea of that great soldierly fellow
nursing a frail little creature, and making her pain easier to bear. Do
you know, I find myself imagining that I know how he looked."

Bertha sat perfectly still. She, too, knew how he had looked. But there
was no reason, she told herself, for the sudden horrible revulsion of
feeling which rushed upon her with the remembrance. A little while
before, when Agnes had told her story, there had been a reason why she
should be threatened by her emotions; but now it was different,--now
that there was, so to speak, no pathos in the air; now that they were
merely talking of commonplace, unemotional things. But she remembered so
well; if she could have forced herself to forget for one instant she
might have overcome the passion of unreasoning anguish which seized her;
but it was no use, and as she made the effort Agnes sat and watched her,
a strange questioning dawning slowly in her eyes.

"He looked--very large"--

She stopped short, and her hands clutched each other hard and close. A
wild thought of getting up and leaving the room came to her, and then
she knew it was too late.

A light flickered up from the wood-fire and fell upon her face as she
slowly turned it to Agnes.

For an instant Agnes simply looked at her, then she uttered a
terror-stricken exclamation.

"Bertha!" she cried.

"Well," said Bertha; "well!" But at her next breath she began to
tremble, and left her place on the hearth and stood up, trembling still.
"I am tired out," she said. "I must go away. I ought not to have come
here."

But Agnes rose and went to her, laying her hand on her arm. She had
grown pale herself, and there was a thrill of almost passionate feeling
in her words when she spoke.

"No," she said. "You were right to come. _This_ is the place for you."

She drew her down upon the sofa and held both her hands.

"Do you think I would let you go now," she said, "until you had told me
everything? Do you think I did not know there was something you were
struggling with? When I told you of my own unhappiness, it was because I
hoped it would help you to speak. If you had not known that I had
suffered you could not have told me. You _must_ tell me now. What
barrier could there be between us,--two women who have--who have been
hurt, and who should know how to be true to each other?"

Bertha slipped from her grasp and fell upon her knees by the sofa,
covering her face.

"Agnes," she panted, "I never thought of this--I don't know how it has
come about. I never meant to speak. Almost the worst of it all is that
my power over myself is gone, and that it has even come to this,--that I
am speaking when I meant to be silent. Don't look at me! I don't know
what it all means! All my life has been so different--it is so unlike
me--that I say to myself it cannot be true. Perhaps it is not. I have
never believed in such things. I don't think I believe now; I don't know
what it means, I say, or whether it will last, and if it is not only a
sort of illness that I shall get better of. I am trying with all my
strength to believe that, and to get better; but while it lasts"--

"Go on," said Agnes, in a hushed voice.

Bertha threw out her hands and wrung them, the pretty baubles she had
not removed when she undressed jingling on her wrists.

"It is worse for me than for any one else," she cried. "Worse, worse! It
is not fair. I was not prepared for it. I was so sure it was not true; I
can't understand it. But, whether it is true or not, while it lasts,
Agnes, while it lasts"--And she hid her face again and the bangles and
serpents of silver and gold jingled more merrily than ever.

"You think," said Agnes, "that you will get over it?"

"Get over it!" she cried. "How often do you suppose I have said to
myself that I _must_ get over it? How many thousand times? I _must_ get
over it. Is it a thing to trifle with and be sentimental over? It is a
degradation. I don't spare myself. No one could say to me more than I
say to myself. I cannot spare it, and I must get over it; but I don't--I
don't--I don't. And sometimes the horrible thought comes to me that it
is a thing you can't get over, and it drives me mad, but--but"--

"But what?" said Agnes.

Her hands dropped away from her face.

"If I tell you this," she said, breathlessly, "you will despise me. I
think I am going to tell it to you that you _may_ despise me. The
torture of it will be a sort of penance. When the thought comes to me
that I _may_ get over it, that it will go out of my life in time, and be
lost forever, then I know that, compared to that, all the rest is
nothing--nothing; and that I could bear it for an eternity, the anguish
and the shame and the bitterness, if only it might not be taken away."

"Oh!" cried Agnes, "I can believe it! I can believe it!"

"You can believe it?" said Bertha, fiercely. "You? Yes. But I--I
cannot!"

For some minutes after this Agnes did not speak. She sat still and
looked down at Bertha's cowering figure. There came back to her, with
terrible distinctness, times when she herself must have looked so,--only
she had always been alone,--and there mingled with the deep feeling of
the moment a far-away pity for her own helpless youth and despair.

"Will you tell me," she said, at last, "how it began?"

She was struck, when Bertha lifted her face from its cushions, by the
change which had come upon her. All traces of intense and passionate
feeling were gone; it was as if her weeping had swept them away, and
left only a weariness, which made her look pathetically young and
helpless. As she watched her Agnes wondered if she had ever looked up at
Tredennis with such eyes.

"I think," she said, "that it was long before I knew. If I had not been
so young and so thoughtless I think I should have known that I began to
care for him before he went away the first time. But I was very young,
and he was so quiet. There was one day, when he brought me some
heliotrope, when I wondered why I liked the quiet things he said; and
after he went away I used to wonder, in a sort of fitful way, what he
was doing. And the first time I found myself face to face with a trouble
I thought of him, and wished for him, without knowing why. I even began
a letter to him; but I was too timid to send it."

"Oh, if you had sent it!" Agnes exclaimed, involuntarily.

"Yes--if I had sent it! But I did not. Perhaps it would not have made
much difference if I had, only when I told him of it"--

"You told him of it?" said Agnes.

"Yes--in Virginia. All the wrong I have done, all the indulgence I have
allowed myself, is the wrong I did and the indulgence I allowed myself
in Virginia. There were days in Virginia when I suppose I was bad
enough"--

"Tell me that afterward," said Agnes. "I want to know how you reached
it."

"I reached it," answered Bertha, "in this way: the thing that was my
first trouble grew until it was too strong for me--or I was too weak for
it. It was my own fault. Perhaps I ought to have known, but I did not. I
don't think that I have let any one but myself suffer for my mistake. I
couldn't do that. When I found out what a mistake it was, I told myself
that it was mine, and that I must abide by it. And in time I thought I
had grown quite hard, and I amused myself, and said that nothing
mattered; and I did not believe in emotion, and thought I enjoyed living
on the surface. I disliked to hear stories of any strong feeling. I
tried to avoid reading them, and I was always glad when I heard clever
worldly speeches made. I liked Laurence first, because he said such
clever, cold-blooded things. He was at his worst when I first knew him.
He had lost all his money, and some one had been false to him, and he
believed nothing."

"I did not know," said Agnes, "that _he_ had a story." And then she
added, a trifle hurriedly, "But it does not matter."

"It mattered to him," said Bertha. "And we all have a story--even poor
Larry--and even I--even I!"

Then she went on again.

"There was one thing," she said, "that I told myself oftener than
anything else, and that was that I was not unhappy. I was always saying
that and giving myself reasons. When my dresses were becoming, and I
went out a great deal, and people seemed to admire me, I used to say,
'How few women are as happy! How many things I have to make me happy!'
and when a horrible moment of leisure came, and I could not bear it, I
would say, 'How tired I must be to feel as I do; and what nonsense it
is!' The one thing Richard has liked most in me has been that I have not
given way to my moods, and have always reasoned about them. Ah! Agnes,
if I had been happier I might have given way to them just a little
sometimes, and have been less tired. If I were to die now I know what
they would remember of me: that I laughed a great deal, and made the
house gay."

She went on without tears.

"I think," she said, "that I never felt so sure of myself as I did last
winter,--so sure that I had lived past things and was quite safe. It was
a very gay season, and there were several people here who amused me and
made things seem brilliant and enjoyable. When I was not going out the
parlors were always crowded with clever men and women; and when I did go
out I danced and talked and interested myself more than I had ever
seemed to do before. I shall never forget the inauguration ball.
Laurence and Richard were both with me, and I danced every dance, and
had the most brilliant night. I don't think one expects to be actually
brilliant at an inauguration ball, but that night I think we were, and
when we were going away we turned to look back, and Laurence said, 'What
a night it has been! We couldn't possibly have had such a night if we
had tried. I wonder if we shall ever have such a night again'; and I
said, 'Scores of them, I haven't a doubt'; but that was the last night
of all."

"The last night of all?" repeated Agnes.

"There have been no more nights at all like it, and no more days. The
next night but one the Winter Gardners gave a party, and I was there.
Laurence brought me some roses and heliotrope, and I carried them; and I
remember how the scent of the heliotrope reminded me of the night I sat
and talked to Philip Tredennis by the fire. It came back all the more
strongly because I had heard from papa of his return. I was not glad
that he had come to Washington, and I did not care to see him. He seemed
to belong to a time I wanted to forget. I did not know he was to be at
the Gardners' until he came in, and I looked up and saw him at the door.
You know how he looks when he comes into a room,--so tall, and strong,
and different from all the rest. Does he look different from all the
rest, Agnes--or is it only that I think so?"

"He is different," said Agnes. "Even I could see that."

"Oh!" said Bertha, despairingly, "I don't know what it is that makes it
so; but sometimes I have thought that, perhaps, when first men were on
earth they were like that,--strong and earnest, and simple and
brave,--never trifling with themselves or others, and always ready to be
tender with those who suffer or are weak. If you only knew the stories
we have heard of his courage and determination and endurance! I do not
think he ever remembers them himself; but how can the rest of us forget!

"The first thought I had when I saw him was that it was odd that the
mere sight of him should startle me so. And then I watched him pass
through the crowds, and tried to make a paltry satirical comment to
myself upon his size and his grave face. And then, against my will, I
began to wonder what he would do when he saw me, and if he would see
what had happened to me since he had given me the flowers for my first
party; and I wished he had stayed away--and I began to feel tired--and
just then he turned and saw me."

She paused and sank into a wearied sitting posture, resting her cheek
against the sofa cushion.

"It seems so long ago--so long ago," she said; "and yet it is not one
short year since."

She went on almost monotonously.

"He saw the change in me,--I knew that,--though he did not know what it
meant. I suppose he thought the bad side of me had developed instead of
the good, because the bad had predominated in the first place."

"He never thought that," Agnes interposed. "Never!"

"Don't you think so?" said Bertha. "Well, it was not my fault if he
didn't. I don't know whether it was natural or not that I should always
make the worst of myself before him; but I always did. I did not want
him to come to the house; but Richard brought him again and again, until
he had been so often that there must have been some serious reasons if
he had stayed away. And then--and then"--

"What then?" said Agnes.

She made a gesture of passionate impatience.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, "I don't know! I began to be restless and
unhappy. I did not care for going out, and I dared not stay at home.
When I was alone I used to sit and think of that first winter, and
compare myself with the Bertha who lived then as if she had been another
creature,--some one I had been fond of, and who had died in some sad,
unexpected way while she was very young. I used to be angry because I
found myself so easily moved,--things touched me which had never touched
me before; and one day, as I was singing a little German song of
farewell,--that poor little, piteous '_Auf Wiedersehn_' we all
know,--suddenly my voice broke, and I gave a helpless sob, and the tears
streamed down my cheeks. It filled me with terror. I have never been a
crying woman, and I have rather disliked people who cried. When I cried
I knew that some terrible change had come upon me, and I hated myself
for it. I told myself I was ill, and I said I would go away; but Richard
wished me to remain. And every day it was worse and worse. And when I
was angry with myself I revenged myself on the person I should have
spared. When I said things of myself which were false he had a way of
looking at me as if he was simply waiting to hear what I would say next,
and I never knew whether he believed me or not, and I resented that more
than all the rest."

She broke off for an instant, and then began again hurriedly.

"Why should I make such a long story of it?" she said. "I could not tell
it all, nor the half of it, if I talked until to-morrow. If I had been
given to sentiments and emotions I could not have deceived myself so
long as I did, that is all. I have known women who have had experiences
and sentiments all their lives, one after another. I used to know
girls, when I was a girl, who were always passing through some
sentimental adventure; but I was not like that, and I never understood
them. But I think it is better to be so than to live unmoved so long
that you feel you are quite safe, and then to waken up to face the
feeling of a lifetime all at once. It is better to take it by
instalments. If I had been more experienced I should have been safer.
But I deceived myself, and called what I suffered by every name but the
right one. I said it was resentment and wounded vanity and weakness; but
it was not--it was not. There was one person who knew it was not, though
he let me call it what I pleased"--

"He?" said Agnes.

"It was Laurence Arbuthnot who knew. He had been wretched himself once,
and while he laughed at me and talked nonsense, he cared enough for me
to watch me and understand."

"It would never have occurred to me," remarked Agnes, "to say he did not
care for you. I think he cares for you very much."

"Yes, he cares for me," said Bertha, "and I can see now that he was
kinder to me than I knew. He stood between me and many a miserable
moment, and warded off things I could not have warded off myself. I
think he hoped at first that I would get over it. It was he who helped
me to make up my mind to go away. It seemed the best thing, but it would
have been better if I had not gone."

"Better?" Agnes repeated.

"There was a Fate in it," she said. "Everything was against me. When I
said good-by to--to the person I wished to escape from--though I did not
admit to myself then that it was from him I wished to escape--when I
said good-by, I thought it was almost the same thing as saying good-by
forever. I had always told myself that I was too superficial to be
troubled by anything long, and that I could always forget anything I
was determined to put behind me. I had done it before, and I fancied I
could do it then, and that when I came back in the winter I should have
got over my moods, and be stronger physically, and not be emotional any
more. I meant to take the children and give them every hour of my days,
and live out-of-doors in a simple, natural way, until I was well. I
always called it getting well. But when he came to say good-by--it was
very hard. It was so hard that I was terrified again. He spent the
evening with us, and the hours slipped away--slipped away, and every
time the clock struck my heart beat so fast that, at last, instead of
beating, it seemed only to tremble and make me weak. And at last he got
up to go; and I could not believe that it was true, that he was really
going, until he went out of the door. And then so much seemed to go with
him, and we had only said a few commonplace words--and it was the
last--last time. And it all rushed upon me, and my heart leaped in my
side, and--and I went to him. There was no other way. And, O Agnes"--

"I know--I know!" said Agnes, brokenly. "But--try not to do that! It is
the worst thing you can do--to cry so."

"He did not know why I came," Bertha said. "I don't know what he
thought. I don't know what I said. He looked pale and startled at first,
and then he took my hand in both his and spoke to me. I have seen him
hold Janey's hand so--as if he could not be gentle enough. And he said
it was always hard to say good-by, and would I remember--and his voice
was quite unsteady--would I remember that if I should ever need any help
he was ready to be called. I had treated him badly and coldly that very
evening, but it was as if he forgot it. And I forgot, too, and for just
one little moment we were near each other, and there was nothing in our
hearts but sadness and kindness, as if we had been friends who had the
right to be sad at parting. And we said good-by again--and he went
away.

"I fought very hard in those next two months, and I was very determined.
I never allowed myself time to think in the daytime. I played with the
children and read to them and walked with them, and when night came I
used to be tired out; but I did not sleep. I laid awake trying to force
my thoughts back, and when morning broke it seemed as if all my strength
was spent. And I did not get well. And, when it all seemed at the worst,
suddenly Janey was taken ill, and I thought she would die, and I was all
alone, and I sent for papa"--

She broke off with the ghost of a bitter little laugh.

"I have heard a great deal said about fate," she went on. "Perhaps it
was fate; I don't know. I don't care now--it doesn't matter. That very
day papa was ill himself, and Philip Tredennis came to me--Philip
Tredennis!"

"Oh!" cried Agnes, "it was very cruel!"

"Was it cruel?" said Bertha. "It was something. Perhaps it would do to
call it cruel. I had been up with Janey for two or three nights. She had
suffered a great deal for a little creature, and I was worn out with
seeing her pain and not being able to help it. I was expecting the
doctor from Washington, and when she fell asleep at last I went to the
window to listen, so that I might go down and keep the dogs quiet if he
came. It was one of those still, white moonlight nights--the most
beautiful night. After a while I fancied I heard the far-away hoof-beat
of a horse on the road, and I ran down. The dogs knew me, and seemed to
understand I wished them to be quiet when I spoke to them. As the noise
came nearer I went down to the gate. I was trembling with eagerness and
anxiety, and I spoke before I reached it. I was sure it was Doctor
Malcolm; but it was some one larger and taller, and the figure came out
into the moonlight, and I was looking up at Philip Tredennis!"

Agnes laid her hand on her arm.

"Wait a moment before you go on," she said. "Give yourself time."

"No," said Bertha, hurrying, "I will go on to the end. Agnes, I have
never lied to myself since that minute--never once. Where would have
been the use? I thought he was forty miles away, and there he stood, and
the terror, and joy, and anguish of seeing him swept everything else
away, and I broke down. I don't know what he felt and thought. There was
one strange moment when he stood quite close to me and touched my
shoulder with his strong, kind hand. He seemed overwhelmed by what I
did, and his voice was only a whisper. There seemed no one in all the
world but ourselves, and when I lifted my face from the gate I knew what
all I had suffered meant. As he talked to me afterward I was saying over
to myself, as if it was a lesson I was learning, 'You are mad with joy
just because this man is near you. All your pain has gone away.
Everything is as it was before, but you don't care--you don't care.' I
said that because I wished to make it sound as wicked as I could. But it
was of no use. I have even thought since then that if he had been a bad
man, thinking of himself, I might have been saved that night by finding
it out. But he was not thinking of himself--only of me. He came, not for
his own sake, but for mine and Janey's. He came to help us and stand by
us and care for us; to do any common, simple service for us, as well as
any great one. We were not to think of him; he was to think of us. And
he sent me away upstairs to sleep, and walked outside below the window
all night. And I slept like a child. I should not have slept if it had
been any one else, but it seemed as if he had brought strength and
quietness with him, and I need not stay awake, because everything was so
safe. That has been his power over me from the first--that he rested
me. Sometimes I have been so tired of the feverish, restless way we have
of continually amusing ourselves, as if we dare not stop, and of
reasoning and wondering and arguing to no end. We are all introspection
and retrospection, and we call it being analytical and clever. If it is
being clever, then we are too clever. One gets so tired of it; one
wishes one could stop thinking and know less--or more. He was not like
that, and he rested me. That was it. He made life seem more simple.

"Well, he rested me then, and, though I made one effort to send him
away, I knew he would not go, and I did not try very hard. I did not
want him to go. So when he refused to be sent away, an obstinate feeling
came over me, and I said to myself that I would not do or say one unkind
thing to him while he was there. I would be as gentle and natural with
him as if--as if he had been some slight, paltry creature who was
nothing, and less than nothing, to me. I should have been amiable enough
to such a man if I had been indebted to him for such service."

"Ah!" sighed Agnes, "but it could not end there!"

"End!" said Bertha. "There is no end, there never will be! Do you think
I do not see the bitter truth? One may call it what one likes, and make
it as pathetic and as tragic and hopeless as words can paint it, but it
is only the old, miserable, undignified story of a woman who is married,
and who cares for a man who is not her husband. Nothing can be worse
than that. It is a curious thing, isn't it, that somehow one always
feels as if the woman must be bad?"

Agnes Sylvestre laid a hand on her again without speaking.

"I suppose I was bad in those days," Bertha continued. "I did not feel
as if I was--though I dare say that only makes it worse. I deliberately
let myself be happy. I let him be kind to me. I tried to amuse and
please him. Janey got well, and the days were beautiful. I did all he
wished me to do, and he was as good to me as he was to Janey. When you
spoke of his being so gentle it brought everything back to me in a
rush,--his voice, and his look, and his touch. There are so many people
who, when they touch you, seem to take something from you; he always
seemed to give you something,--protection, and sympathy, and generous
help. He had none of the gallant tricks of other men, and he was often a
little shy and restrained, but the night he held my hand in both his,
and the moment he touched my shoulder, when I broke down so at the gate,
I could not forget if I tried."

"But, perhaps," said Agnes, sadly, "you had better try."

Bertha looked up at her.

"When I have tried for a whole year," she said, "I will tell you what
success I have had."

"Oh!" Agnes cried, desperately, "it will take more than a year."

"I have thought it might," said Bertha; "perhaps it may take even two."

The fire gave a fitful leap of flame, and she turned to look at it.

"The fire is going out," she said, "and I have almost finished. Do you
care to hear the rest? You have been very patient to listen so long."

"Go on," Agnes said.

"Well, much as I indulged myself then I knew where I must stop, and I
never really forgot that I was going to stop at a certain point. I said
that I would be happy just so long as he was there, and that when we
parted that would be the end of it. I even laid out my plans, and the
night before he was to go away--in the evening, after the long,
beautiful day was over--I said things to him which I meant should make
him distrust me. The shallowest man on earth will hate you if you make
him think you are shallow, and capable of trifling as he does himself.
The less a man intends to remember you the more he intends you shall
remember him. It will be his religious belief that women should be
true,--some one should be true, you know, and it is easier to let it be
the woman. What I tried to suggest that night was that my treatment of
him had only been a caprice,--that what he had seen of me in Washington
had been the real side of my life, and that he would see it again and
need not be surprised."

"O Bertha!" her friend cried. "O Bertha!"

And she threw both arms about her with an intensely feminine swiftness
and expressiveness.

"Yes," said Bertha, "it was not easy. I never tried anything quite so
difficult before, and perhaps I did not do it well, for--he would not
believe me."

There was quite a long pause, in which she leaned against Agnes,
breathing quickly.

"I think that is really the end," she said at last. "It seems rather
abrupt, but there is very little more. He is a great deal stronger than
I am, and he is too true himself to believe lies at the first telling.
One must tell them to him obstinately and often. I shall have to be
persistent and consistent too."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Agnes. "What are you thinking of doing?"

"There will be a great deal to be done," she answered,--"a great deal.
There is only one thing which will make him throw me aside"--

"Throw you aside--you?"

"Yes. I have always been very proud,--it was the worst of my faults that
I was so deadly proud,--but I want him to throw me aside--me! Surely one
could not care for a man when he was tired and did not want one any
more. That _must_ end it. And there is something else. I don't know--I
am not sure--I could not trust myself--but there have been times when I
thought that he was beginning to care too--whether he knew it or not. I
don't judge him by the other men I have known, but sometimes there was
such a look in his eyes that it made me tremble with fear and joy. And
he shall not spoil his life for me. It would be a poor thing that he
should give all he might give--to Bertha Amory. He had better give it
to--to you, Agnes," she said, with a little tightening grasp.

"I do not want it," said Agnes, calmly. "I have done with such things,
and he is not the man to change."

"He must," said Bertha, "in time--if I am very unflinching and clever.
They always said I was clever, you know, and that I had wonderful
control over myself. But I shall have to be very clever. The only thing
which will make him throw me aside is the firm belief that I am worth
nothing,--the belief that I am false, and shallow, and selfish, and as
wicked as such a slight creature can be. Let me hide the little that is
good in me, and show him always, day by day, what is bad. There is
enough of that, and in the end he must get tired of me, and show me that
he has done with me forever."

"You cannot do it," said Agnes, breathlessly.

"I cannot do it for long, I know that; but I can do it for a while, and
then I will make Richard let me go away--to Europe. I have asked him
before, but he seemed so anxious to keep me--I cannot tell why--and I
have never opposed or disobeyed him. I try to be a good wife in such
things as that. I ought to be a good wife in something. Just now he has
some reason for wishing me to remain here. He does not always tell me
his reasons. But perhaps in the spring he will not object to my going,
and one can always spend a year or so abroad; and when he joins us, as
he will afterward, he will be sure to be fascinated, and in the end we
might stay away for years, and if we ever come back all will be over,
and--and I shall be forgotten."

She withdrew herself from her friend's arms, and rose to her feet.

"I shall be forgotten--forgotten!" she said. "Oh! how can I be! How can
such pain pass away and end in nothing! Just while everything is at the
worst, it is not easy to remember that one only counts for one, after
all, and that a life is such a little thing. It seems so much to one's
self. And yet what does it matter that Bertha Amory's life went all
wrong, and was only a bubble that was tossed away and broken? There are
such millions and millions of people that it means nothing, only to
Bertha Amory, and it cannot mean anything to her very long. Only just
while it lasts--and before one gets used to--to the torture of it"--

She turned away and crossed the room to the window, drawing aside the
curtain.

"There is a little streak of light in the East," she said. "It is the
day, and you have not slept at all."

Agnes went to her, and they stood and looked at it together,--a faint,
thin line of gray tinged with palest yellow.

"To-morrow has come," said Bertha. "And we must begin the New Year
properly. I must make up my visiting-book and arrange my lists.
Don't--don't call any one, Agnes--it is only--faintness." And with the
little protesting smile on her lips she sank to the floor.

Agnes knelt down at her side, and began to loosen her wrapper at the
throat and chafe her hands.

"Yes, it is only faintness," she said, in a low voice; "but if it were
something more you would be saved a great deal."




CHAPTER XXIII.


"_On dit_ that the charming Mrs. Sylvestre, so well known and so greatly
admired in society circles as Miss Agnes Wentworth, has, after several
years of absence, much deplored by her numberless friends, returned to
make her home in Washington, having taken a house on Lafayette Square.
The three years of Mrs. Sylvestre's widowhood have been spent abroad,
chiefly in Italy,--the land of love and beauty,--where Tasso sang and
Raphael dreamed of the Immortals."

Thus, the society column of a daily paper, and a week later Mrs. Merriam
arrived, and the house on Lafayette Square was taken possession of.

It was one of the older houses,--a large and substantial one, whose
rather rigorous exterior still held forth promises of possibilities in
the way of interior development. Arbuthnot heard Bertha mention one day
that one of Mrs. Sylvestre's chief reasons for selecting it was that it
"looked quiet," and he reflected upon this afterward as being rather
unusual as the reason of a young and beautiful woman.

"Though, after all, she 'looks quiet' herself," was his mental comment.
"If I felt called upon to remark upon her at all, I should certainly say
that she was a perfectly composed person. Perhaps that is the groove she
chooses to live in, or it may be simply her nature. I shouldn't mind
knowing which."

He was rather desirous of seeing what she would make of the place
inside, but the desire was by no means strong enough to lead him to make
his first call upon her an hour earlier than he might have been expected
according to the strictest canons of good taste.

On her part Mrs. Sylvestre found great pleasure in the days spent in
establishing herself. For years her life had been an unsettled one, and
the prospect of arranging a home according to her own tastes--and
especially a home in Washington--was very agreeable to her. Her fortune
was large, her time was her own, and as in the course of her rambling
she had collected innumerable charming and interesting odds and ends,
there was no reason why her house should not be a delightful one.

For several days she was quite busy and greatly interested. She found
her pictures, plaques, and hangings even more absorbing than she had
imagined they would be. She spent her mornings in arranging and
rearranging cabinets, walls, and mantels, and moved about her rooms
wearing a faint smile of pleasure on her lips, and a faint tinge of
color on her cheeks.

"Really," she said to Bertha, who dropped in to see her one morning, and
found her standing in the middle of the room reflecting upon a pretty
old blue cup and saucer, "I am quite happy in a quiet way. I seem to be
shut in from the world and life, and all busy things, and to find
interest enough in the color of a bit of china, or the folds of a
_portière_. It seems almost exciting to put a thing on a shelf, and then
take it down and put it somewhere else."

When Arbuthnot passed the house he saw that rich Eastern-looking stuffs
curtained the windows, and great Indian jars stood on the steps and
balconies, as if ready for plants. In exhausting the resources of the
universe Mr. Sylvestre had given some attention to India, and, being a
man of caprices, had not returned from his explorings empty-handed. A
carriage stood before the house, and the door being open, revealed
glimpses of pictures and hangings in the hall, which were pleasantly
suggestive.

"She will make it attractive," Arbuthnot said to himself. "That goes
without saying. And she will be rather perilously so herself."

His first call upon her was always a very distinct memory to him. It
was made on a rather chill and unpleasant evening, and, being admitted
by a servant into the hall he had before caught a glimpse of, its
picturesque comfort and warmth impressed themselves upon him in the
strongest possible contrast to the raw dampness and darkness of the
night. Through half-drawn _portières_ he had a flitting glance at two or
three rooms and a passing impression of some bright or deep point of
color on drapery, bric-à-brac, or pictures, and then he was ushered into
the room in which Mrs. Sylvestre sat herself. She had been sitting
before the fire with a book upon her lap, and she rose to meet him,
still holding the volume in her hand. She was dressed in violet and wore
a large cluster of violets loosely at her waist. She looked very
slender, and tall, and fair, and the rich, darkly glowing colors of the
furniture and hangings formed themselves into a background for her, as
if the accomplishment of that end had been the sole design of their
existence. Arbuthnot even wondered if it was possible that she would
ever again look so well as she did just at the instant she rose and
moved forward, though he recognized the folly of the thought before ten
minutes had passed.

She looked quite as well when she reseated herself, and even better when
she became interested in the conversation which followed. It was a
conversation which dealt principally with the changes which had taken
place in Washington during her absence from it. She found a great many.

"It strikes me as a little singular that you do not resent them more,"
said Arbuthnot.

"Most of them are changes for the better," she answered.

"Ah!" he returned; "but that would not make any difference to the
ordinary mind--unless it awakened additional resentment. There is a
sense of personal injury in recognizing that improvements have been made
entirely without our assistance."

"I do not feel it," was her reply, "or it is lost in my pleasure in
being at home again."

"She has always thought of it as 'home' then," was Arbuthnot's mental
comment. "That is an inadvertent speech which tells a story."

His impressions of the late Mr. Sylvestre were not agreeable ones. He
had heard him discussed frequently by men who had known him, and the
stories told of him were not pleasant. After fifteen minutes in the
crucible of impartial public opinion, his manifold brilliant gifts and
undeniable graces and attainments had a habit of disappearing in vapor,
and leaving behind them a residuum of cold-blooded selfishness and fine
disregard of all human feelings in others, not easily disposed of.
Arbuthnot had also noticed that there was but one opinion expressed on
the subject of his marriage.

"He married a lovely girl twelve or fifteen years younger than himself,"
he had heard a man say once. "I should like to see what he has made of
her."

"You would!" ejaculated an older man. "I shouldn't! Heaven forbid!"

It added greatly to Arbuthnot's interest in her that she bore no outward
signs of any conflict she might have passed through. Whatever it had
been, she had borne it with courage, and kept her secret her own. The
quiet of her manner was not suggestive either of sadness or
self-repression, and she made no apparent effort to evade mention of her
married life, though, as she spoke of herself but seldom, it seemed
entirely natural that she should refer rarely to the years she had
passed away from Washington.

When, a little later, Mrs. Merriam came in, she proved to be as
satisfactory as all other appurtenances to the household. She was a
picturesque, elderly woman, with a small, elegant figure, an acute
little countenance, and large, dark eyes, which sparkled in the most
amazing manner at times. She was an old Washingtonian herself, had
lived through several administrations, and had made the most of her
experience. She seemed to have personally known the notabilities of half
a century, and her reminiscences gave Arbuthnot a feeling of being
surpassingly youthful and modern. She had been living abroad for the
last seven years, and, finding herself at home once more, seemed to
settle down with a sense of relief.

"It is a bad habit to get into--this of living abroad," she said. "It is
a habit, and it grows on one. I went away intending to remain a year,
and I should probably have ended my existence in Europe if Mrs.
Sylvestre had not brought me home. I was always a little homesick, too,
and continually felt the need of a new administration; but I lacked the
resolution it required to leave behind me the things I had become
accustomed to."

When he went away Arbuthnot discovered that it was with her he had
talked more than with Mrs. Sylvestre, and yet, while he had been in the
room, it had not occurred to him that Mrs. Sylvestre was silent. Her
silence was not unresponsiveness. When he looked back upon it he found
that there was even something delicately inspiring in it. "It is that
expression of gentle attentiveness in her eyes," he said. "It makes your
most trivial remark of consequence, and convinces you that, if she
spoke, she would be sure to say what it would please you most to hear.
It is a great charm."

For a few moments before returning to his rooms he dropped in upon the
Amory household.

There was no one in the parlor when he entered but Colonel Tredennis,
who stood with his back to the fire, apparently plunged deep in thought,
his glance fixed upon the rug at his feet. He was in evening dress, and
held a pair of white gloves in his hand, but he did not wear a festive
countenance. Arbuthnot thought that he looked jaded and worn. Certainly
there were deep lines left on his forehead, even when he glanced up and
straightened it.

"I am waiting for Mrs. Amory," he said. "Amory is out of town, and, as
we were both going to the reception at the Secretary of State's, I am to
accompany her. I think she will be down directly. Yes, there she is."

They saw her through the _portières_ descending the staircase as he
spoke. She was gleaming in creamy satin and lace, and carried a wrap
over her arm. She came into the room with a soft rustle of trailing
draperies, and Tredennis stirred slightly, and then stood still.

"Did I keep you waiting very long?" she said. "I hope not," and then
turned to Arbuthnot, as she buttoned her long glove deliberately.

"Richard has gone to Baltimore with a theatre party," she explained.
"Miss Varien went and half-a-dozen others. I did not care to go; and
Richard persuaded Colonel Tredennis to assume his responsibilities for
the evening and take me to the Secretary of State's. The President is to
be there, and as I have not yet told him that I approve of his Cabinet
and don't object to his message, I feel I ought not to keep him in
suspense any longer."

"Your approval will naturally remove a load of anxiety from his mind,"
said Arbuthnot. "Can I be of any assistance to you in buttoning that
glove?"

She hesitated a second and then extended her wrist. To Arbuthnot, who
had occasionally performed the service for her before, there was
something novel both in the hesitation and the delicate suggestion of
coquettish surrender in her gesture. It had been the chief of her charms
for him that her coquetries were of the finer and more reserved sort,
and that they had never expended themselves upon him. This was something
so new that his momentary bewilderment did not add to his dexterity, and
the glove-buttoning was of longer duration than it would otherwise have
been.

While it was being accomplished Colonel Tredennis looked on in silence.
He had never buttoned a woman's glove in his life. It seemed to him that
it was scarcely the thing for a man who was neither husband, brother,
nor lover to do. If there was any deep feeling in his heart, how could
this careless, conventional fellow stand there and hold her little wrist
and meet her lifted eyes without betraying himself? His reasoning was
not very logical in its nature: it was the reasoning of pain and hot
anger, and other uneasy and masterful emotions, which so got the better
of him that he turned suddenly away that he might not see, scarcely
knowing what he did. It was an abrupt movement and attracted Arbuthnot's
attention, as also did something else,--a movement of Bertha's,--an
unsteadiness of the gloved hand which, however, was speedily controlled
or ended. He glanced at her, but only to find her smiling, though her
breath came a little quickly, and her eyes looked exceedingly bright.

"I am afraid you find it rather troublesome," she said.

"Extremely," he replied; "but I look upon it in the light of moral
training, and, sustained by a sense of duty, will endeavor to
persevere."

He felt the absurdity and triviality of the words all the more, perhaps,
because as he uttered them he caught a glimpse of Tredennis'
half-averted face. There was that in its jaded look which formed too
sharp a contrast to inconsequent jesting.

"It is not getting easier for him," was his thought. "It won't until it
has driven him harder even than it does now."

Perhaps there was something in his own humor which made him a trifle
more susceptible to outward influences than usual. As has been already
intimated, he had his moods, and he had felt one of them creeping upon
him like a shadow during his brief walk through the dark streets.

"I hear the carriage at the door," he said, when he had buttoned the
glove. "Don't let me detain you, I am on my way home."

"You have been?"--questioned Bertha, suddenly awakening to a new
interest on her own part.

"I called upon Mrs. Sylvestre," he answered.

And then he assisted her to put on her wrap and they all went out to the
carriage together. When she was seated and the door closed, Bertha
leaned forward and spoke through the open window.

"Don't you think the house very pretty?" she inquired.

"Very," was his brief reply, and though she seemed to expect him to add
more, he did not do so, and the carriage drove away and left him
standing upon the sidewalk.

"Ah!" said Bertha, leaning back, with a faint smile, "he will go again
and again, and yet again."

"Will he?" said the colonel. "Let us hope he will enjoy it." But the
truth was that the subject did not awaken in him any absorbing interest.

"Oh! he will enjoy it," she responded.

"And Mrs. Sylvestre?" suggested Tredennis.

"He will never be sure what she thinks of him, or what she wishes him to
think of her, though she will have no caprices, and will always treat
him beautifully, and the uncertainty will make him enjoy himself more
than ever."

"Such a state of bliss," said the colonel, "is indeed greatly to be
envied."

He was always conscious of a rather dreary sense of bewilderment when he
heard himself giving voice in his deep tones to such small change as the
above remark. Under such circumstances there was suggested to him the
idea that for the moment he had changed places with some more luckily
facile creature and represented him but awkwardly. And yet, of late, he
had found himself gradually bereft of all other conversational resource.
Since the New Year's day, when Bertha had called his attention to the
weather, he had seen in her no vestige of what had so moved him in the
brief summer holiday in which she had seemed to forget to arm herself
against him.

It appeared that his place was fixed for him, and that nothing remained
but to occupy it with as good a grace as possible. But he knew he had
not borne it well at the outset. It was but nature that he should have
borne it ill, and have made some effort at least to understand the
meaning of the change in her.

"All this goes for nothing," he had said to her; but it had not gone for
nothing, after all. A man who loves a woman with the whole force of his
being, whether it is happily or unhappily, is not a well-regulated
creature wholly under his own control. His imagination will play him
bitter tricks and taunt him many an hour, both in the bright day and in
the dead watches of the night, when he wakens to face his misery alone.
He will see things as they are not, and be haunted by phantoms whose
vague outlines torture him, while he knows their unreality.

"It is not true," he will say. "It cannot be--and yet if it should
be--though it is not."

A word, a smile, the simplest glance or tone, will distort themselves
until their very slightness seems the most damning proof. But that he
saw his own folly and danger, there were times on those first days when
Tredennis might have been betrayed by his fierce sense of injury into
mistakes which it would have been impossible for him to retrieve by any
after effort. But even in the moments of his greatest weakness he
refused to trifle with himself. On the night of the New Year's day when
Bertha and Agnes had sat together, he had kept a vigil too. The occupant
of the room below his had heard him walking to and fro, and had laid his
restlessness to a great number of New Year's calls instead of to a
guilty conscience. But the colonel had been less lenient with himself,
and had fought a desperate battle in the silent hours.

"What rights have I," he had said, in anguish and humiliation,--"what
rights have I at the best? If her heart was as tender toward me as it
seems hard, that would be worse than all. It would seem then that I must
tear myself from her for her sake as well as for my own. As it is I can
at least be near her, and torture myself and let her torture me, and
perhaps some day do her some poor kindness of which she knows nothing.
Only I must face the truth that I have no claim upon her--none. If she
chooses to change her mood, why should I expect or demand an
explanation? The wife of one man, the--the beloved of another--O Bertha!
Bertha!" And he buried his face in his hands and sat so in the darkness,
and in the midst of his misery he seemed to hear again the snatch of
song she had sung as she sat on the hill-side, with her face half
upturned to the blue sky.

The memory of that day, and of some of those which had gone before it,
cost him more than all else. It came back to him suddenly when he had
reduced himself to a dead level of feeling; once or twice, when he was
with Bertha herself, it returned to him with such freshness and vivid
truth, that it seemed for a moment that a single word would sweep every
barrier away, and they would stand face to face, speaking the simple
truth, whatever it might be.

"Why not?" he thought. "Why not, after all, if she is unhappy and needs
a friend, why should it not be the man who would bear either death or
life for her?" But he said nothing of this when he spoke to her. After
their first two or three interviews he said less than ever. Each of
those interviews was like the first. She talked to him as she talked to
Arbuthnot, to Planefield, to the _attachés_ of the legations, to the
clever newspaper man from New York or Boston, who was brought in by a
friend on one of her evenings, because he wished to see if the
paragraphists had overrated her attractions. She paid him graceful
conventional attentions; she met him with a smile when he entered; if
he was grave, she hoped he was not unwell or out of spirits; she made
fine, feathery, jesting little speeches, as if she expected them to
amuse him; she gave him his share of her presence, of her conversation,
of her laugh, and went her way to some one else to whom she gave the
same things.

"And why should I complain?" he said.

But he did complain, or some feverish, bitter ache in his soul
complained for him, and wrought him all sorts of evil, and wore him out,
and deepened the lines on his face, and made him feel old and hopeless.
He was very kind to Janey in those days and spent a great deal of time
with her. It was Janey who was his favorite, though he was immensely
liberal to Jack, and bestowed upon Meg, who was too young for him,
elaborate and expensive toys, which she reduced to fragments and
dissected and analyzed with her brother's assistance. He used to go to
see Janey in the nursery and take her out to walk and drive, and at such
times felt rather glad that she was not like her mother. She bore no
likeness to Bertha, and was indeed thought to resemble the professor,
who was given to wondering at her as he had long ago wondered at her
mother. The colonel fancied that it rested him to ramble about in
company with this small creature. They went to the parks, hand in hand,
so often that the nurse-maids who took their charges there began to know
them quite well, the popular theory among them being that the colonel
was an interesting widower, and the little one his motherless child. The
winter was a specially mild one, even for Washington, and it was
generally pleasant out of doors, and frequently Janey's escort sat on
one of the green benches and read his paper while she disported herself
on the grass near him, or found entertainment in propelling her family
of dolls up and down the walk in their carriage. They had long and
interesting conversations together, and once or twice even went to the
Capitol itself, and visited the House and the Senate, deriving much
pleasure and benefit from looking down upon the rulers of their country
"rising to points of order" in their customary awe-inspiring way. On one
of these occasions, possibly overpowered by the majesty of the scene,
Janey fell asleep, and an hour later, as Bertha stepped from her
carriage, with cards and calling-list in hand, she encountered a large,
well-known figure, bearing in its arms, with the most astonishing
accustomed gentleness and care, a supine little form, whose head
confidingly reposed on the broadest of shoulders.

"She went to sleep," said the colonel, with quite a paternal demeanor.

He thought at first that Bertha was going to kiss the child. She made a
step forward, an eager tenderness kindling in her eyes, then checked
herself and laughed, half shrugging her shoulders.

"May I ask if you carried her the entire length of the avenue in the
face of the multitude?" she said. "You were very good, and displayed
most delightful moral courage if you did; but it must not occur again.
She must not go out without a nurse, if she is so much trouble."

"She is no trouble," he answered, "and it was not necessary to carry her
the length of the avenue."

Bertha went into the house before him.

"I will ring for a nurse," she said at the parlor door. "She will be
attended to--and you are extremely amiable. I have been calling all the
afternoon and have just dropped in for Richard, who is going with me to
the Drummonds' _musicale_."

But Tredennis did not wait for the nurse. He knew the way to the nursery
well enough, and bore off his little burden to her own domains _sans
cérémonie_, while Bertha stood and watched him from below.

If she had been gay the winter before, she was gayer still now. She had
her afternoon for reception and her evening at home, and gave, also, a
series of more elaborate and formal entertainments. At these
festivities the political element was represented quite brilliantly. She
professed to have begun at last to regard politics seriously, and,
though this statement was not received with the most entire confidence,
the most liberal encouragement was bestowed upon her. Richard,
especially, seemed to find entertainment in her whim. He even admitted
that he himself took an interest in the affairs of the nation this
winter. He had been awakened to it by his intimacy with Planefield,
which increased as the business connected with the Westoria lands grew
upon him. There was a great deal of this business to be transacted, it
appeared, though his references to the particular form of his share of
it were never very definite, being marked chiefly by a brilliant
vagueness which, Bertha was wont to observe, added interest to the
subject.

"I should not understand if you explained it, of course," she said.
"And, as I don't understand, I can give play to a naturally vivid
imagination. All sorts of events may depend upon you. Perhaps it is even
necessary of you to 'lobby,' and you are engaged in all sorts of
machinations. How do people 'lobby,' Richard, and is there an opening in
the profession for a young person of undeniable gifts and charms?"

In these days Planefield presented himself more frequently than ever.
People began to expect to see his large, florid figure at the "evenings"
and dinner-parties, and gradually he and his friends formed an element
in them. It was a new element, and not altogether the most delightful
one. Some of the friends were not remarkable for polish of manner and
familiarity with the _convenances_, and one or two of them, after they
began to feel at ease, talked a good deal in rather pronounced tones,
and occasionally enjoyed themselves with a freedom from the shackles of
ceremony which seemed rather to belong to some atmosphere other than
that of the pretty, bright parlors. But it would not have been easy to
determine what Bertha thought of the matter. She accepted Richard's
first rather apologetic mention of it gracefully enough, and, after a
few evenings, he no longer apologized.

"They may be a trifle uncouth," he had said; "but some of them are
tremendous fellows when you understand them,--shrewd, far-seeing
politicians, who may astonish the world any day by some sudden,
brilliant move. Such men nearly always work their way from the ranks,
and have had no time to study the graces; but they are very interesting,
and will appreciate the attention you show them. There is that man
Bowman, for instance,--began life as a boy in a blacksmith's shop, and
has been in Congress for years. They would send him to the Senate if
they could spare him. He is a positive mine of political information,
and knows the Westoria business from beginning to end."

"They all seem to know more or less of it," said Bertha. "That is our
atmosphere now. I am gradually assimilating information myself."

But Tredennis did not reconcile himself to the invasion. He looked on in
restless resentment. What right had such men to be near her, was his
bitter thought. Being a man himself, he knew more of some of them than
he could remember without anger or distaste. He could not regard them
impartially as mere forces, forgetting all else. When he saw Planefield
at her side, bold, fulsome, bent on absorbing her attention and
frequently succeeding through sheer thick-skinned pertinacity, he was
filled with wrathful repulsion. This man at least he knew had no right
to claim consideration from her, and yet somehow he seemed to have
established himself in an intimacy which appeared gradually to become a
part of her every-day life. This evening, on entering the house, he had
met him leaving it, and when he went into the parlor he had seen upon
Bertha's little work-table the customary sumptuous offering of
Jacqueminot roses. She carried the flowers in her hand now--their heavy
perfume filled the carriage.

"There is no use in asking why she does it," he was thinking. "I have
given up expecting to understand her. I suppose she has a reason. I
won't believe it is as poor a one as common vanity or coquetry. Such
things are beneath her."

He understood himself as little as he understood her. There were times
when he wondered how long his unhappiness would last, and if it would
not die a natural death. No man's affection and tenderness could feed
upon nothing and survive, he told himself again and again. And what was
there to sustain his? This was not the woman he had dreamed of,--from
her it should be easy enough for him to shake himself free. What to him
were her cleverness, her bright eyes, her power over herself and others,
the subtle charms and graces which were shared by all who came near her?
They were only the gift of a finer order of coquette, who was a greater
success than the rest because nature had been lavish with her. It was
not these things which could have changed and colored all life for him.
If all his thoughts of her had been mere fancies it would be only
natural that he should outlive his experience, and in time look back
upon it as simply an episode which might have formed a part of the
existence of any man. There had been nights when he had left the house,
thinking it would be far better for him never to return if he could
remain away without awakening comment; but, once in the quiet of his
room, there always came back to him memories and fancies he could not
rid himself of, and which made the scenes he had left behind unreal. He
used to think it must be this which kept his tenderness from dying a
lingering death. When he was alone it seemed as if he found himself face
to face again with the old, innocent ideal that followed him with
tender, appealing eyes and would not leave him. He began to have an odd
fancy about the feeling. It was as if, when he left the silent room, he
left in it the truth and reality of his dream and found them there when
he returned.

"Why do you look at me so?" Bertha said to him one night, turning
suddenly aside from the group she had been the central figure of. "You
look at me as if--as if I were a ghost, and you were ready to see me
vanish into thin air."

He made a slight movement as if rousing himself.

"That is it," he answered. "I am waiting to see you vanish."

"But you will not see it," she said. "You will be disappointed. I am
real--real! A ghost could not laugh as I do--and enjoy itself. Its laugh
would have a hollow sound. I assure you I am very real indeed."

But he did not answer her, and, after looking at him with a faint smile
for a second or so, she turned to her group again. To-night, as they
drove to their destination, once or twice, in passing a street-lamp, the
light, flashing into the carriage, showed him that Bertha leaned back in
her corner with closed eyes, her flowers lying untouched on her lap. He
thought she seemed languid and pale, though she had not appeared so
before they left the house. And this touched him, as such things always
did. There was no moment, however deep and fierce his bewildered sense
of injury might have been before it, when a shade of pallor on her
cheek, or of sadness in her eyes, a look or tone of weariness, would not
undo everything, and stir all his great heart with sympathy and the
tender longing to be kind to her. The signs of sadness or pain in any
human creature would have moved him, but such signs in her overwhelmed
him and swept away every other feeling but this yearning desire to
shield and care for her. He looked at her now with anxious eyes and bent
forward to draw up her wrap which had slipped from her shoulders.

"Are you warm enough, Bertha?" he said, with awkward gentleness. "It is
a raw night. You should have had more--more shawls--or whatever they
are."

She opened her eyes with a smile.

"More shawls!" she said. "We don't wear shawls now when we go to
receptions. They are not becoming enough, even when they are very grand
indeed. This is not a shawl,--it is a _sortie du bal_, and a very pretty
one; but I think I am warm enough, thank you, and it was very good in
you to ask." And though he had not known that his own voice was gentle,
he recognized that hers was.

"Somebody ought to ask," he answered. And just then they turned the
corner into a street already crowded with carriages, and their own drew
up before the lighted front of a large house. Tredennis got out and gave
Bertha his hand. As she emerged from the shadow of the carriage, the
light fell upon her again, and he was impressed even more forcibly than
before with her pallor.

"You would have been a great deal better at home," he said, impetuously.
"Why did you come here?"

She paused a second, and it seemed to him as if she suddenly gave up
some tense hold she had previously kept upon her external self. There
was only the pathetic little ghost of a smile in her lifted eyes.

"Yes, I should be better at home," she said, almost in a whisper. "I
would rather be asleep with--with the children."

"Then why in Heaven's name do you go?" he protested. "Bertha, let me
take you home and leave you to rest. It must be so--I"--

But the conventionalities did not permit that he should give way to the
fine masculine impulse which might have prompted him in the heat of his
emotions to return her to the carriage by the sheer strength of his
unaided arm, and he recognized his own tone of command, and checked
himself with a rueful sense of helplessness.

"There is the carriage of the French minister," said Bertha, "and madame
wonders who detains her. But--if I were a regiment of soldiers, I am
sure I should obey you when you spoke to me in such a tone as that."

And as if by magic she was herself again, and, taking her roses from
him, went up the carpeted steps lightly, and with a gay rustle of
trailing silk and lace.

The large rooms inside were crowded with a distinguished company, made
up of the material which forms the foundation of every select
Washingtonian assemblage. There were the politicians, military and naval
men, _attachés_ of legations, foreign ministers and members of the
Cabinet, with their wives and daughters, or other female relatives. A
distinguished scientist loomed up in one corner, looking
disproportionately modest; a well-known newspaper man chatted in
another. The Chinese minister, accompanied by his interpreter, received
with a slightly wearied air of quiet patience the conversational
attentions proffered him. The wife of the Secretary of State stood near
the door with her daughter, receiving her guests as they entered. She
was a kindly and graceful woman, whose good breeding and self-poise had
tided her safely over the occasionally somewhat ruffled social waters of
two administrations. She had received a hundred or so of callers each
Wednesday,--the majority of them strangers, and in the moments of her
greatest fatigue and lassitude had endeavored to remember that each one
of them was a human being, endowed with human vanity and sensitiveness;
she had not flinched before the innocent presumption of guileless
ignorance; she had done her best by timorousness and simplicity; she had
endeavored to remember hundreds of totally uninteresting people, and if
she had forgotten one of them who modestly expected a place in her
memory had made an effort to repair the injury with aptness and grace.
She had given up pleasures she enjoyed and repose she needed, and had
managed to glean entertainment and interesting experience by the way,
and in course of time, having occupied for years one of the highest
social positions in the land, and done some of the most difficult and
laborious work, would retire simply and gracefully, more regretted than
regretting, and would look back upon her experience more as an episode
in her husband's career than her own.

She was one of the few women who produced in Professor Herrick neither
mild perturbation nor mental bewilderment. He had been a friend of her
husband's in his youth, and during their residence in Washington it had
been his habit to desert his books and entomological specimens once or
twice in the season for the purpose of appearing in their parlors. There
was a legend that he had once presented himself with a large and
valuable beetle pinned to the lapel of his coat, he having
absentmindedly placed it in that conspicuous position in mistake for the
flower Bertha had suggested he should decorate himself with.

He was among the guests to-night, her hostess told Bertha, as she shook
hands with her.

"We were very much pleased to see him, though we do not think he looks
very well," she said. "I think you will find him talking to Professor
Borrowdale, who has just returned from Central America."

She gave Bertha a kind glance of scrutiny.

"Are _you_ looking very well?" she said. "I am afraid you are not. That
is not a good way to begin a season."

"I am afraid," said Bertha, laughing, "that I have not chosen my dress
well. Colonel Tredennis told me, a few moments ago, that I ought to be
at home."

They passed on shortly afterward, and, on the way to the other room,
Bertha was unusually silent. Tredennis wondered what she was thinking
of, until she suddenly looked up at him and spoke.

"Am I so very haggard?" she said.

"I should not call it haggard," he answered. "You don't look very well."

She gave her cheek a little rub with her gloved hand.

"No; you should not call it haggard," she said, "that is true. It is bad
enough not to look well. One should always have a little rouge in one's
pocket. But you will see that the excitement will do me good."

"Will it, Bertha?" said the colonel.

But, whether the effect it produced upon her was a good or bad one, it
was certainly strong enough. The room was full of people she knew or
wished to know. She was stopped at every step by those who spoke to her,
exchanging gay speeches with her, paying her compliments, giving her
greeting. Dazzling young dandies forgot their indifference to the
adulation of the multitude, in their eagerness to make their bows and
their _bon mots_ before her; their elders and superiors were as little
backward as themselves, and in a short time she had gathered quite a
little court about her, in which there was laughter and badinage, and an
exhilarating exchange of gayeties. The celebrated scientist joined the
circle, the newspaper man made his way into it, and a stately,
gray-haired member of the Supreme Bench relaxed his grave face in it,
and made more clever and gallant speeches than all his younger rivals
put together; it was even remarked that the Oriental visage of the
Chinese ambassador himself exhibited an expression of more than slight
curiosity and interest. He addressed a few words to his interpreter as
he passed. But somehow Colonel Tredennis found himself on the outer edge
of the enchanted ground. It was his own fault, perhaps. Yes, it was his
own fault, without a doubt. Such changes were too rapid for him, as he
himself had said before. He did not understand them; they bewildered and
wounded him, and gave him a sense of insecurity, seeming to leave him
nothing to rely on. Was it possible that sadness or fatigue which could
be so soon set aside and lost sight of could be very real? And if these
things which had so touched his heart were unreal and caprices of the
moment, what was there left which might not be unreal too? Could she
look pale, and make her voice and her little hand tremulous at will when
she chose to produce an effect, and why should it please her to produce
effects upon him? She had never cared for him, or shown kindness or
friendly feeling for him, but in those few brief days in Virginia. Was
she so flippant, such a coquette and trifler that, when there was no one
else to play her pretty tricks upon, she must try them on him and work
upon his sympathies in default of being able to teach him the flatteries
and follies of men who loved her less? He had heard of women who were so
insatiable in their desire for sensation that they would stoop to such
things, but he did not believe he had ever met one. Perhaps he had met
several, and had been too ingenuous and generous to understand their
wiles and arts. At any rate, they had always been myths to him, and it
seemed to him that he himself, as well as all existence, must have
changed when he could even wonder if such a thing might be true of
Bertha. But nothing could be more certain than that there were no longer
any traces of her weariness about her. A brilliant color glowed in her
cheeks, her eyes were as bright as diamonds, there was something,--some
vividness about her before which every other woman in the room paled a
little, though there were two or three great beauties present, and she
had never taken the attitude of a beauty at all. The colonel began to
see, at last, that there was a shade of something else, too, in her
manner, from which it had always before been free. In the midst of all
her frivolities she had never been reckless, and there had never been
any possibility that the looker-on could bear away with him any memory
which had not the charm of fineness about it. But to-night, as one man
hung over her chair, and others stood around and about it, one holding
her fan, another wearing in his coat a rose which had fallen from her
bouquet, all sharing her smiles and vying in their efforts to win them,
Tredennis turned away more than once with a heavy heart.

"I would go home if I could leave her," he said. "I don't want to see
this. I don't know what it means. This is no place for me."

But he could not leave her, and so lingered about and looked on, and
when he was spoken to answered briefly and abstractedly, scarcely
knowing what he said. There was no need that he should have felt himself
desolate, since there were numbers of pretty and charming women in the
rooms who would have been pleased to talk to him, and who, indeed,
showed something of this kindly inclination when they found themselves
near him; his big, soldierly figure, his fine sun-browned face, his
grave manner, and the stories they heard of him, made him an object of
deep interest to women, though he had never recognized the fact. They
talked of him and wondered about him, and made up suitable little
romances which accounted for his silence and rather stern air of
sadness. The favorite theory was that he had been badly treated in his
early youth by some soulless young person totally unworthy of the
feeling he had lavished upon her, and there were two or three young
persons--perhaps even a larger number--who, secretly conscious of their
own worthiness of any depth of affection, would not have been loath to
bind up his wounds and pour oil upon them and frankincense and myrrh, if
such applications would have proved effectual. There were among these
some very beautiful and attractive young creatures indeed, and as their
parents usually shared their interest in the colonel, he was invited to
kettledrums and _musicales_, and theatre parties and dinners, and always
welcomed warmly when he was encountered anywhere. But though he received
these attentions with the simple courtesy and modest appreciation of all
kindness which were second nature with him, and though he paid his party
calls with the most unflinching, conventional promptness, and endeavored
to return the hospitalities in masculine fashion by impartially sending
bouquets to mammas and daughters alike, it frequently happened that
various reasons prevented his appearing at the parties; or if he
appeared he disappeared quite early; and, indeed, if he had been any
other man he would have found it difficult to make his peace with the
young lady who discovered that the previous engagement which had kept
him away from her kettledrum had been a promise made to little Janey
Amory that he would take her to see Tom Thumb.

"It is very kind in you to give us any of your time at all," Bertha had
said to him once, "when you are in such demand. Richard tells me your
table is strewn with invitations, and there is not a belle of his
acquaintance who is so besieged with attentions. Mr. Arbuthnot is filled
with envy. He has half-a-dozen new songs which he plays without music,
and he has learned all the new dances, and yet is not invited half so
much."

"It is my conversational powers they want," was the colonel's sardonic
reply.

"That goes without saying," responded Bertha. "And if you would only
condescend to waltz, poor Laurence's days of usefulness would be over.
Won't you be persuaded to let me give you a lesson?"

And she came toward him with mocking in her eyes and her hands extended.

But the colonel blushed up to the roots of his hair and did not take
them.

"I should tread on your slippers, and knock off the buckles, and grind
them into powder," he said. "I should tear your gown and lacerate your
feelings, and you could not go to the German to-night. I am afraid I am
not the size for waltzing."

"You are the size for anything and everything," said Bertha, with an
exaggerated little obeisance. "It is we who are so small that we appear
insignificant by contrast."

This, indeed, was the general opinion, that his stalwart proportions
were greatly to his advantage, and only to be admired. Among those who
admired them most were graceful young waltzers, who would have given up
that delightful and exhilarating exercise on any occasion, if Colonel
Tredennis would have sat out with them in some quiet corner, where the
eyes of a censorious world might be escaped. Several such were present
to-night, and cast slightly wistful glances at him as they passed to and
fro, or deftly managed to arrange little opportunities for conversations
which, however, did not flourish and grow strong even when the
opportunities were made. It was not entertainment of this sort--innocent
and agreeable as it might be--that Colonel Tredennis wanted. It would be
difficult to say exactly what he _wanted_, indeed, or what satisfaction
he obtained from standing gnawing his great mustache among Mrs. Amory's
more versatile and socially gifted adorers.

He did not want to be a witness of her coquetries--they were coquetries,
though to the sophisticated they might appear only delightful ones, and
a very proper exercise of feminine fascination upon their natural prey;
but to this masculine prude, who unhappily loved her and had no honest
rights in her, and whose very affection was an emotion against which his
honor must struggle, it was a humiliation that others should look on and
see that she could so amuse herself.

So he stood on the outer edge of the little circle, and was so standing
when he first caught sight of the professor at the opposite end of the
room. He left his place then and went over to him. The sight of the
refined, gentle, old face brought to him something bordering on a sense
of relief. It removed a little of his totally unreasonable feeling of
friendlessness and isolation.

"I have been watching you across the room," the professor said, kindly.
"I wondered what you were thinking about? You looked fierce, my boy, and
melancholy. I think there were two or three young ladies who thought you
very picturesque as you stared at the floor and pulled your mustache,
but it seemed to me that your air was hardly gay enough for a brilliant
occasion."

"I was thinking I was out of place and wishing I was at home," replied
the colonel, with a short laugh, unconsciously pulling his mustache
again. "And I dare say I was wishing I had Mrs. Amory's versatility of
gifts and humor. I thought she was tired and unwell when I helped her
out of the carriage; but it seems that I was mistaken, or that the
atmosphere of the great world has a most inspiring effect."

The professor turned his spectacles upon the corner Tredennis had just
left.

"Ah!" he remarked quietly; "it is Bertha, is it? I fancied it might be,
though it was not easy to see her face, on account of the breadth of
Commander Barnacles' back. And it was you who came with her?"

"Yes," said Tredennis.

"I rather expected to see Mr. Arbuthnot," said the professor. "I think
Richard gave me the impression that I should."

"We saw Mr. Arbuthnot just before we left the house," returned the
colonel. "He had been calling upon Mrs. Sylvestre."

"Upon Mrs. Sylvestre!" echoed the professor, and then he added, rather
softly, "Ah, she is another."

"Another!" Tredennis repeated.

"I only mean," said the professor, "that I am at my old tricks again. I
am wondering what will happen now to that beautiful, graceful young
woman."

He turned his glance a little suddenly upon Tredennis' face.

"Have you been to see her?" he inquired.

"Not yet."

"Why not yet?"

"Perhaps because she is too beautiful and graceful," Tredennis answered.
"I don't know of any other reason. I have not sufficient courage."

"Mr. Arbuthnot has sufficient courage," said the professor. "And some of
those gentlemen across the room would not shrink from the ordeal. They
will all go to see her,--Commander Barnacles included,--and she will be
kind to them every one. She would be kind to me if I went to see
her--and some day I think I shall."

He glanced across at Bertha. She was talking to Commander Barnacles, who
was exhibiting as much chivalric vivacity as his breadth would allow.
The rest of her circle were listening and laughing, people outside it
were looking at her with interest and curiosity.

"She is very gay to-night," the professor added. "And I dare say Mrs.
Sylvestre could give us a better reason for her gayety than we can see
on the surface."

"Is there always a reason?" said the colonel. For the moment he was
pleasing himself with the fancy that he was hardening his heart.

But just at this moment a slight stir at one of the entrances attracted
universal attention. The President had come in, and was being welcomed
by his host and hostess. He presented to the inspection of those to whom
he was not already a familiar object, the unimposing figure of a man
past middle life, his hair grizzled, his face lined, his expression a
somewhat fatigued one.

"Yes, he looks tired," said Bertha to the newspaper man who stood near
her, "though it is rather unreasonable in him. He has nothing to do but
satisfy the demands of two political parties who hate each other, and to
retrieve the blunders made during a few score years by his predecessors,
and he has four years to do it in--and every one will give him advice. I
wonder how he likes it, and if he realizes what has happened to him. If
he were a king and had a crown to look at and try on in his moments of
uncertainty, or if he were obliged to attire himself in velvet and
ermine occasionally, he might persuade himself that he was real; but how
can he do so when he never wears anything but an ordinary coat, and
cannot cut people's heads off, or bowstring them, and hasn't a dungeon
about him? Perhaps he feels as if he is imposing on us and is secretly a
little ashamed of himself. I wonder if he is not haunted by a
disagreeable ghost who persists in reminding him of the day when he will
only be an abject ex-President and we shall pity where we don't condemn
him; and he will be dragged to the Capitol in the triumphal car of the
new one and know that he has awakened from his dream; or, perhaps, he
will call it a nightmare and be glad it is over."

"That is Planefield who came in with him," said her companion. "He would
not object to suffer from a nightmare of the same description."

"Would he be willing to dine off the indigestibles most likely to
produce it?" said Bertha. "You have indigestibles on your political
_menu_, I suppose. I have heard so, and that they are not always easy to
swallow because the cooks at the Capitol differ so about the flavoring."

"Planefield would not differ," was the answer. "And he would dine off
them, and breakfast and sup off them, and get up in the night to enjoy
them, if he could only bring about the nightmare."

"Is there any possibility that he will accomplish it?" Bertha inquired.
"If there is, I must be very kind to him when he comes to speak to me. I
feel a sort of eagerness to catch his eye and nod and beck and bestow
wreathed smiles upon him already; but don't let my modest thrift waste
itself upon a mere phantasy if the prospect is that the indigestibles
will simply disagree with him and will _not_ produce the nightmare." And
the colonel, who was just approaching with the professor, heard her and
was not more greatly elated than before.

It was not very long, of course, before there was an addition to the
group. Senator Planefield found his way to it--to the very centre of it,
indeed,--and so long as it remained a group formed a permanent feature
in its attractions. When he presented himself Bertha gave him her hand
with a most bewitching little smile, whose suggestion of archness was
somehow made to include the gentleman with whom she had previously been
talking. Her manner was so gracious and inspiring that Planefield was
intoxicated by it and wondered what it meant. He was obliged to confess
to himself that there were many occasions when she was not so gracious,
and if he had been easily rebuffed, the wounds his flourishing and
robust vanity received might have led him to retire from the field.
Frequently, when he was most filled with admiration of her cleverness
and spirit, he was conscious of an uneasy sense of distrust, not only of
her, but of himself. There was one special, innocent, and direct gaze of
which her limpid eyes were capable, which sometimes made him turn hot
and cold with uncertainty, and there was also a peculiarly soft and
quiet tone in her voice which invariably filled him with perturbation.

"She's such a confounded cool little devil," he had said, gracefully, to
a friend on one occasion when he was in a bad humor. "She's afraid of
nothing, and she's got such a hold on herself that she can say anything
she likes, with a voice as soft as silk, and look you straight in the
eyes like a baby while she does so; and when you say the words over to
yourself you can't find a thing to complain of, while you know they
drove home like knives when she said them herself. She looks like a
school-girl half the time; but she's made up of steel and iron, and--the
devil knows what."

She did not look like a school-girl this evening,--she was far too
brilliant and self-possessed and entertaining; but he had nothing to
complain of and plenty to congratulate himself upon. She allowed him to
take the chair near her which its occupant reluctantly vacated for him;
she placed no obstacles in the way of his conversational desires, and
she received all his jokes with the most exhilarating laughter. Perhaps
it was because of all this that he thought he had never seen her so
pretty, so well dressed, and so inspiring. When he told her so, in a
clumsy whisper, a sudden red flushed her cheek, her eyes fell, and she
did not reply, as he had feared she would, with a keen little two-edged
jest far more discouraging than any displeasure at his boldness would
have been. He could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses, and
found it necessary to remain silent a few seconds to give himself time
to recover his equilibrium. It was he who was with her when Tredennis
saw her presentation to the President, who, it was said, had observed
her previously and was pleased, after the interview was over, to comment
admiringly upon her and ask various questions concerning her. It
doubtless befell His Excellency to be called upon to be gracious and
ready of speech when confronted with objects less inspiring than this
young person, and it might have been something of this sort which caused
him to wear a more relaxed countenance and smile more frequently than
before when conversing with her, and also to appear to be in no degree
eager to allow her to make her bow and withdraw.

It was just after she had been permitted to make this obeisance and
retire that Colonel Tredennis, standing near a group of three persons,
heard her name mentioned and had his ears quickened by the sound.

The speakers were a man and two women.

"Her name," he heard a feminine voice say, "is Amory. She is a little
married woman who flirts."

"Oh!" exclaimed the man, "that is Mrs. Amory, is it--the little Mrs.
Amory? And--yes--that is Planefield with her now. He generally is with
her, isn't he?"

"At present," was the answer. "Yes."

The colonel felt his blood warming. He began to think he recognized the
voice of the first speaker, and when he turned found he was not
mistaken. It belonged to the "great lady" who had figured prominently in
the cheery little encounter whose story had been related with such
vivacity the first evening he had dined with the Amorys. She had,
perhaps, not enjoyed this encounter as impartially as had her opponent,
and had probably not forgotten it so soon. She wore the countenance of a
woman with an excellent memory, and not totally devoid of feminine
prejudice. Perhaps she had been carrying her polished little stone in
her pocket, and turning it occasionally ever since the memorable
occasion when justice had been meted out to her not so largely tempered
with mercy as the faultless in character might have desired.

"The matter gives rise to all the more comment," she remarked, "because
it is something no one would have expected. Her family is entirely
respectable. She was a Miss Herrick, and though she has always been a
gay little person, she has been quite cleverly prudent. Her
acquaintances are only just beginning to realize the state of affairs,
and there is a great division of opinion, of course. The Westoria lands
have dazzled the husband, it is supposed, as he is a person given to
projects, and he has dazzled her--and the admirer is to be made use of."

The man--a quiet, elderly man, with an astutely humorous
countenance--glanced after Bertha as she disappeared into the
supper-room. She held her roses to her face, and her eyes smiled over
them as Planefield bent to speak to her.

"It is a tremendous affair,--that Westoria business," he said. "And it
is evident she has dazzled the admirers. There is a good deal of life
and color, and--audacity about her, isn't there?"

"There is plenty of audacity," responded his companion with calmness. "I
think that would be universally admitted, though it is occasionally
referred to as wit and self-possession."

"But she has been very much liked," timorously suggested the third
member of the group, who was younger and much less imposing. "And--and I
feel sure I have heard women admire her as often as men."

"A great deal may be accomplished by cleverness and prudence of that
particular kind," was the answer. "And, as I said, she has been both
prudent and clever."

"It isn't pleasant to think about," remarked the man. "She will lose her
friends and--and all the rest of it, and may gain nothing in the end.
But I suppose there is a good deal of that sort of thing going on here.
We outsiders hear it said so, and are given to believing the statement."

"It does not usually occur in the class to which this case belongs," was
the response. "The female lobbyist is generally not so--not so"--

"Not so picturesque as she is painted," ended her companion with a
laugh. "Well, I consider myself all the more fortunate in having seen
this one who is picturesque, and has quite a charming natural color of
her own."




CHAPTER XXIV.


They moved away and went to the supper-room themselves, leaving
Tredennis to his reflections. What these were he scarcely knew himself
for a few seconds. The murmur of voices and passing to and fro confused
him. For half an hour of quiet in some friendly corner, where none could
see his face, he felt that he would have given a year or so of his
life--perhaps a greater number of years than a happier man would have
been willing to part with. It was of Bertha these people had been
speaking--of Bertha, and it was Bertha he could see through the open
doors of the supper-room, eating ices, listening to compliment and
laughter and jest! It was Planefield who was holding her flowers, and
the man who had just picked up her fan was one of his friends; in two or
three others near her, Tredennis recognized his associates: it seemed as
if the ground had been ceded to them by those who had at first formed
her little court.

Tredennis was seized with a wild desire to make his way into their
midst, take her hand in his arm, and compel her to come away--to leave
them all, to let him take her home--to safety and honor and her
children. He was so filled with the absurd impulse that he took half a
step forward, stopping and smiling bitterly, when he realized what he
was prompted to do.

"How she would like it," he thought, "and like me for doing it; and what
a paragraph it would make for the society column!"

Incidents which had occurred within the last few weeks came back to him
with a significance they had never before borne. Speeches and moods of
Richard's, things he had done, occasional unconscious displays of
eagerness to please Planefield and cultivate him, his manner toward
Bertha, and certain touches of uneasiness when she was not at her best.

From the first the colonel had not felt himself as entirely prepossessed
by this amiable and charming young man as he desired to be, and he had
been compelled to admit that he was not always pleased by his gay
good-humor, evanescent enthusiasms, and by his happy, irresponsible
fashion of looking at life. When he had at last made this confession to
himself he had not shrunk from giving himself an explanation of the
matter, from which a nature more sparing of itself would have flinched.
He had said that his prejudice was one to blush at and conquer by
persistent effort, and he had done his sternly honest best to subdue it.
But he had not succeeded as he had hoped he should. When he fancied he
was making progress and learning to be fair, some trifle continually
occurred which made itself an obstacle in his path. He saw things he did
not wish to see, and heard things he did not wish to hear,--little
things which made him doubt and ponder, and which somehow he could not
shake off, even when he tried to forget them and persuade himself that,
after all, they were of slight significance. And as he had seen more of
the gay good-humor and readiness to be moved, his first shadowy feeling
had assumed more definite form. He had found himself confronted by a
distrust which grew upon him; he had met the young man's smiling eyes
with a sense of being repelled by their very candor and brightness; he
had learned that they were not so candid as they seemed, and that his
boyish frankness was not always to be relied upon. He had discovered
that he was ready to make a promise and forget it; that his
impressionable mind could shift itself and change its color, and that
somehow its quickness of action had a fashion of invariably tending
toward the accomplishment of some personal end,--a mere vagary or
graceful whim, perhaps, but always a fancy pertaining to the indulgence
of self. Tredennis had heard him lie,--not wickedly or awkwardly, so
far; but with grace and freedom from embarrassment. It was his
accidental detection of one of the most trivial and ready of these
falsehoods which had first roused him to distrust. He remembered now, as
by a flash, that it had been a lie about Planefield, and that it had
been told to Bertha. He had wondered at the time what its object could
be; now he thought he saw, and in a measure comprehended, the
short-sighted folly which had caused the weak, easily swayed nature to
drift into such danger.

"He does not realize what he is doing," was his thought. "He would lie
to me if I accused him of it."

Of these two things he was convinced: that the first step had been
merely one of many whims, whatever the results following might be, and
that no statement or promise Amory might make could be relied on. There
was no knowing what he had done or what he would do. As he had found
entertainment in the contents of the "museum," so it was as probable he
had, at the outset, amused himself with his fancies concerning the
Westoria lands, which had, at last, so far fascinated and dazed him as
to lead him into the committal of follies he had not paused to excuse
even to himself. He had not thought it necessary to excuse them. Why
should he not take the legal business in hand, and since there was no
reason against that, why should he not also interest himself in the
investigations and be on intimate terms with the men who were a part of
the brilliant project? Why should not his wife entertain them, as she
entertained the rest of her friends and acquaintances? Tredennis felt
that he had learned enough of the man's mental habits to follow him
pretty closely in his reasoning--when he reasoned. While he had looked
on silently, the colonel had learned a great deal and grown worldly-wise
and quicker of perception than he could have believed possible in times
gone by. He was only half conscious that this was because he had now an
object in view which he had not had before; that he was alert and
watchful because there was some one he wished to shield; that he was no
longer indifferent to the world and its ways,--no longer given to
underrating its strength and weaknesses, its faults and follies, because
he wished to be able to defend himself against them, if such a thing
should become necessary. He had gained wisdom enough to appreciate the
full significance of the low-voiced, apparently carelessly uttered words
he had just heard; and to feel his own almost entire helplessness in the
matter. To appeal to Amory would be useless; to go to the professor
impossible; how could he carry to him such a story, unless it assumed
proportions such as to make the step a last terrible resource? He had
been looking older and acknowledging himself frailer during the last
year; certainly he was neither mentally nor physically in the condition
to meet such a blow, if it was possible to spare it to him.

Tredennis looked across the room at Bertha again. It seemed that there
was only one very simple thing he could do now.

"She will probably be angry and think I have come to interfere, if I go
to her," he said; "but I will go nevertheless. At least, I am not one of
them,--every one knows that,--and perhaps it will occur to her to go
home."

There was resolution on his face when he approached her. He wore the
look which never failed to move her more strongly than any other thing
on earth had ever done before, and whose power over her cost her all the
resistance of which she was capable. It had sometimes made her wonder
if, after all, it was true that women liked to be subdued--to be ruled a
little--if their rulers were gentle as well as strong. She had heard it
said so, and had often laughed at the sentiment of the popular fallacy.
She used to smile at it when it presented itself to her even in this
manner; but there had been occasions--times perhaps when she was very
tired--when she had known that she would have been glad to give way
before this look, to obey it, to feel the relief of deciding for herself
no more.

Such a feeling rose within her now. She looked neither tired nor worn;
but a certain deadly sense of fatigue, which was becoming a physical
habit with her, had been growing upon her all the evening. The color on
her cheeks was feverish, her limbs ached, her eyes were bright with her
desperate eagerness to sustain herself. Once or twice, when she had
laughed or spoken, she had been conscious of such an unnatural tone in
her voice that her heart had trembled with fear lest others should have
heard it too. It seemed impossible to her that they should not, and that
these men who listened and applauded her should not see that often she
scarcely heard them, and that she dare not stop for fear of forgetting
them altogether and breaking down in some dreadful way, which would show
that all her spirit and gayety was a lie, and only a lie poorly acted,
after all.

She thought she knew what Tredennis had come to her for. She had not
lost sight of him at any time. She had known where he stood or sat, and
whom he spoke to, and had known that he had seen her also. She had met
his eyes now and then, and smiled and looked away again, beginning to
talk to her admirers with more spirit than ever each time. What else was
there to do but go on as she had begun? She knew only too well what
reason there was in herself that she should not falter. If it had been
strong yesterday, it was ten times stronger to-day, and would be
stronger to-morrow and for many a bitter day to come. But when he came
to her she only smiled up at him, as she would have smiled at
Planefield, or the gallant and spacious Barnacles, or any other of the
men she knew.

"I hope you have had a pleasant evening," she said. "You enjoy things of
this sort so much, however, that you are always safe. I saw you talking
in the most vivacious manner to that pretty Miss Stapleton,--the one
with the eyelashes,--or rather you were listening vivaciously. You are
such a good listener."

"That's an accomplishment, isn't it?" said Planefield, with his easy
air.

"It is a gift of the gods," she answered. "And it was bestowed on
Colonel Tredennis."

"There _are_ talkers, you know," suggested the Senator, "who would make
a good listener of a man without the assistance of the gods."

"Do you mean the Miss Stapleton with the eyelashes?" inquired Bertha,
blandly.

"Oh, come now," was the response. "I think you know I don't mean the
Miss Stapleton with the eyelashes. If I did, it would be more economical
to make the remark to her."

"Ah!" said Bertha, blandly again. "You mean me? I hoped so. Thank you
very much. And I am glad you said it before Colonel Tredennis, because
it may increase his confidence in me, which is not great. I am always
glad when any one pays me a compliment in his presence."

"Does he never pay you compliments himself?" asked Planefield.

Bertha gave Tredennis a bright, full glance.

"Did you ever pay me a compliment?" she said. "Will you ever pay me a
compliment--if I should chance to deserve one?"

"Yes," he answered, his face unsmiling, his voice inflexible. "May I
begin now? You always deserve them. My only reason for failing to pay
them is because I am not equal to inventing such as would be worthy of
you. Your eyes are like stars--your dress is the prettiest in the
room--every man present is your slave and every woman pales before
you--the President is going home now only because you have ceased to
smile upon him."

The color on Bertha's cheek faded a little, but her smile did not. She
checked him with a gesture.

"Thank you," she said, "that will do! You are even better than Senator
Planefield. My eyes are like stars--my dress is perfection! I myself am
as brilliant as--as the chandelier! Really, there seems nothing left for
me to do but to follow the President, who, as you said, has been good
enough to take his leave and give us permission to retire." And she rose
from her chair.

She made her adieus to Planefield, who bestowed upon Tredennis a
sidelong scowl, thinking that it was he who was taking her away. It
consoled him but little that she gave him her hand--in a most gracious
farewell. He had been enjoying himself as he did not often enjoy
himself, and the sight of the colonel's unresponsive countenance filled
him with silent rage. It happened that it was not the first time, or
even the second, that this gentleman had presented himself
inopportunely.

"The devil take his grim airs!" was his cordial mental exclamation.
"What does he mean by them, and what is he always turning up for when no
one wants to see him?"

Something of this amiable sentiment was in his expression, but the
colonel did not seem to see it; his countenance was as unmoved as ever
when he led his charge away, her little hand resting on his arm. In
truth, he was thinking of other things. Suddenly he had made up his mind
that there was one effort he could make: that, if he could conquer
himself and his own natural feeling of reluctance, he might speak to
Bertha herself in such words as she would be willing to listen to and
reflect upon. It seemed impossible to tell her all, but surely he might
frame such an appeal as would have some small weight with her. It was
not an easy thing to do. He must present himself to her in the _rôle_ of
an individual who, having no right to interfere with her actions, still
took upon himself to do so; who spoke when it would have seemed better
taste to be silent; who delivered homilies with the manner of one who
thought himself faultless, and so privileged to preach and advise.

"But what of that?" he said, checking himself impatiently in the midst
of these thoughts. "I am always thinking of myself, and of how I shall
appear in her eyes! Am I a boy lover trying to please her, or a man who
would spare and shield her? Let her think poorly of me if she chooses,
if she will only listen and realize her danger when her anger is over."

The standard for his own conduct which he had set up was not low, it
will be observed. All that he demanded of himself was utter freedom from
all human weakness, and even liability to temptation; an unselfishness
without blemish, a self-control without flaw; that he should bear his
own generous anguish without the movement of a muscle; that he should
wholly ignore the throbbing of his own wounds, remembering only the task
he had set himself; that his watchfulness over himself should never
falter, and his courage never be shaken. It was, perhaps, indicative of
a certain degree of noble simplicity that he demanded this of himself,
which he would have asked of no other human creature, and that at no
time did the thought cross his mind that the thing he demanded was
impossible of attainment. When he failed, as he knew he often did; when
he found it difficult to efface himself utterly from his own thoughts
and was guilty of the weakness of allowing himself to become a factor in
them; when his unhappiness was stronger than himself; when he was
stirred to resentment, or conscious of weariness, and the longing to
utter some word which would betray him and ask for pity,--he never
failed to condemn himself in bitterness of spirit as ignoble and
unworthy.

"Let her be angry with me if she chooses," he thought now. "It is for me
to say my say, and leave the rest to her--and I will try to say it
kindly."

He would set aside the bitter feeling and resentment of her trifling
which had beset him more than once during the evening; he would forget
them, as it was but right and just that they should be forgotten. When
he spoke, as they went up the staircase together, his tone was so kind
that Bertha glanced up at him, and saw that his face had changed, and,
though still grave, was kind, too. When she joined him after leaving the
cloak-room, he spoke to her of her wrap again, and asked her to draw it
more closely about her; when he helped her into the carriage, there was
that in his light touch which brought back to her with more than its
usual strength the familiar sense of quiet protection and support.

"It would be easier," she thought, "if he would be angry. Why is he not
angry? He was an hour ago--and surely I have done enough."

But he showed no signs of disapproval,--he was determined that he would
not do that,--though their drive was rather a silent one again. And yet,
by the time they reached home, Bertha was in some indefinite way
prepared for the question he put to her as he assisted her to alight.

"May I come in for a little while?" he asked. "I know it is late,
but--there is something I must say to you."

"Something you must say to me?" she repeated. "I am sure it must be
something interesting and something I should like to hear. Come in, by
all means."

So they entered the house together, and went into the parlor. They found
a fire burning there, and Bertha's chair drawn up before it. She
loosened her wrap rather deliberately and threw it off, and then sat
down as deliberately, arranging her footstool and draperies until she
had attained the desired amount of languid comfort in her position.
Tredennis did not speak until she was settled. He leaned against the
mantel, his eyes bent on the fire.

Being fairly arranged, Bertha held out her hand.

"Will you give me that feather screen, if you please?" she said,--"the
one made of peacock feathers. When one attains years of discretion, one
has some care for one's complexion. Did it ever occur to you how
serious such matters are, and that the difference between being eighteen
and eighty is almost wholly a matter of complexion? If one could remain
pink and smooth, one might possibly overcome the rest, and there would
be no such thing as growing old. It is not a single plank which is
between ourselves and eternity, but a--Would the figure of speech appear
appropriate if one said 'a single cuticle'? I am afraid not."

He took the screen from its place and regarded it a little absently.

"You had this in your hand the first night I came here," he said, "when
you told the story of your great lady."

She took it from him.

"That was a pretty little story," she said. "It was a dear little story.
My great lady was present to-night. We passed and repassed each other,
and gazed placidly at each other's eyebrows. We were vaguely haunted by
a faint fancy that we might have met before; but the faculties become
dimmed with advancing years, and we could not remember where or how it
happened. One often feels that one has met people, you know."

She balanced her gleaming screen gracefully, looking at him from under
its shadow.

"And it is not only on account of my complexion that I want my peacock
feathers," she continued, dropping her great lady by the way as if she
had not picked her up in the interim. "I want them to conceal my
emotions if your revelations surprise me. Have you never seen me use
them when receiving the compliments of Senator Planefield and his
friends? A little turn to the right or the left--the least graceful
little turn--and I can look as I please, and they will see nothing and
only hear my voice, which, I trust, is always sufficiently under
control."

She wondered if it was sufficiently under control now. She was not sure,
and because she was not sure she made the most reckless speeches she
could think of. There was a story she had heard of a diplomatist, who
once so entirely bewildered his fellow-diplomats that they found it
impossible to cope with him; they were invariably outwitted by him: the
greatest subtlety, the most wondrous _coup d'état_, he baffled alike;
mystery surrounded him; his every act was enshrouded in it; with such
diplomatic methods it was madness to combat. When his brilliant and
marvellous career was at an end his secret was discovered; on every
occasion he had told the simple, exact truth. As she leaned back in her
chair and played with her screen Bertha thought of this story. She had
applied it to herself before this. The one thing which would be
incredible to him at this moment, the one thing it would appear more
than incredible that she should tell him, would be the truth--if he
realized what that truth was. Any other story, however wild, might have
its air or suggestion of plausibility; but that, being what it was, she
should have the nerve, the daring, the iron strength of self-control,
which it would require to make a fearless jest of the simple, terrible
truth, it would seem to him the folly of a madman to believe, she knew.
To look him in the eye with a smile, and tell him that she feared his
glance and dreaded his words, would place the statement without the pale
of probability. She had told him things as true before, and he had not
once thought of believing them. "It is never difficult to persuade him
_not_ to believe me," she thought. There was no one of her many moods of
which she felt such terror, in her more natural moments, as of the one
which held possession of her now; and yet there was none she felt to be
so safe, which roused her to such mental exhilaration while its hour
lasted, or resulted in such reaction when it had passed. "I am never
afraid then," she said to Agnes once. "There is nothing I could not
bear. It seems as if I were made of steel, and had never been soft or
timid in my life. Everything is gone but my power over myself,
and--yes, it intoxicates me. Until it is over I am not really hurt, I
think. There was something I read once about a man who was broken on the
wheel, and while it was being done he laughed, and shrieked, and sang. I
think all women are like that sometimes: while they are being broken
they laugh, and shriek, and sing; but afterward--afterward"--

So now she spoke the simple truth.

"I shall have you at a disadvantage, you may observe," she said. "I
shall see your face, and you will not see mine--unless I wish you to do
so. A little turn of my wrist, and you have only my voice to rely upon.
Do you wish to speak to me before Richard comes in? If so, I am afraid
you must waste no time, as his train is due at twelve. You were going to
say"--

"I am afraid it is something you will not like to hear," he answered,
"though I did not contradict you when you suggested that it was."

"You were outside then," she replied, "and I might not have let you come
in."

"No," he said, "you might not."

He looked at the feather screen which she had inclined a trifle.

"Your screen reminded me of your great lady, Bertha," he said, "because
I saw her to-night, and--and heard her--and she was speaking of you."

"Of me!" she replied. "That was kind indeed."

"No," he returned, "it was not. She was neither generous nor lenient;
she did not even speak the truth; and yet, as I heard her, I was obliged
to confess that, to those who did not know you and only saw you as you
were to-night, what she said might not appear so false."

Bertha turned her screen aside and looked at him composedly.

"She was speaking of Senator Planefield," she remarked, "and Judge
Ballard, and Commander Barnacles. She reprehended my frivolity and
deplored the tendency of the age."

"She was speaking of Senator Planefield," he answered.

She moved the screen a little.

"Has Senator Planefield been neglecting her?" she said. "I hope not."

"Lay your screen aside, Bertha," he commanded, hotly. "You don't need
it. What I have to say will not disturb you, as I feared it would--no, I
should say as I hoped it would. It is only this: that these people were
speaking lightly of you--that they connected your name with Planefield's
as--as no honest man is willing that the name of his wife should be
connected with that of another man. That was all; and I, who am always
interfering with your pleasures, could not bear it, and so have made the
blunder of interfering again."

There were many things she had borne, of which she had said nothing to
Agnes Sylvestre in telling her story,--things she had forced herself to
ignore or pass by; but just now some sudden, passionate realization of
them was too much for her, and she answered him in words she felt it was
madness to utter even as they leaped to her lips.

"Richard has not been unwilling," she said. "Richard has not resented
it!"

"If he had been in my place," he began, feeling ill at ease--"if he
understood"--

She dropped her screen upon her lap and looked at him with steady eyes.

"No," she interposed, "that is a mistake. He would not have looked upon
the matter as you do. It is only a trifle, after all. You are
overestimating its importance."

"Am I?" he said. "Do you regard it in that light?"

"Yes," she replied, "you are too fastidious. Is the spiteful comment of
an ill-natured, unattractive woman, upon a woman who chances to be more
fortunate than herself, of such weight that it is likely to influence
people greatly? Women are always saying such things of one another when
they are angry. I cannot say them of our friend, it is true,
because--because she is so fortunate as to be placed by nature beyond
reproach. If I had her charms, and her manner, and her years, I should,
perhaps, be beyond reproach too."

She wondered if he would deign to answer her at all. It seemed as if the
execrable bad taste of her words must overwhelm him. If he had turned
his back upon her and left the room, she would have felt no surprise. To
have seen him do so would have been almost a relief. But, for him, he
merely stood perfectly still and watched her.

"Go on," he said, at length.

She faintly smiled.

"Do you want me to say more?" she asked. "Is not that enough? My great
lady was angry, and was stupid enough to proclaim the fact." She made a
quick turn toward him. "To whom was she speaking?" she demanded. "To a
man or a woman?"

"To a man," he answered.

She sank back into her chair and smiled again.

"Ah," she said, "then it is of less consequence even than I imagined. It
is pleasant to reflect that it was a man. One is not afraid of men."

She lifted the screen from her lap, and for a moment he could not see
her face.

"Now he will go," she was saying to herself breathlessly behind it. "Now
he must go. He will go now--and he will not come back."

But he did not go. It was the irony of fate that he should spare her
nothing. In the few moments of silence which followed he had a great
struggle with himself. It was such a struggle that, when it was at an
end, he was pale and looked subdued. There was a chair near her. He went
to it and sat down at her side.

"Bertha," he said, "there has been one thing in the midst of all--all
this, to which you have been true. You have loved your children when it
has seemed that nothing else would touch you. I say 'seemed,' because I
swear to you I am unmoved in my disbelief in what you persist in holding
before me--for what reason you know best. You love your children; you
don't lie to me about that--you don't lie to yourself about it. Perhaps
it is only nature, as you said once, and not tenderness; I don't know. I
don't understand you; but give yourself a few moments to think of them
now."

He saw the hand holding the screen tremble; he could not see her face.

"What--must I think of them?"

He looked down at the floor, knitting his brows and dragging at his
great mustache.

"I overestimate the importance of things," he said. "I don't seem to
know much about the standards society sets up for itself; but it does
not seem a trifle to me that their mother should be spoken of lightly.
There was a girl I knew once--long ago"--He stopped and looked up at her
with sudden, sad candor. "It is you I am thinking of, Bertha," he said;
"you, as I remember you first when you came home from school. I was
thinking of your mother and your dependence upon her, and the tenderness
there was between you."

"And you were thinking," she added, "that Janey's mother would not be so
good and worthy of trust. That is true."

"I have no answer to make to that, Bertha," he said. "None."

She laid the screen upon her lap once more.

"But it _is_ true," she said; "it is _true_. Why do you refuse to
believe it? Are you so good that you cannot? Yes, you are! As for
me--what did I tell you? I am neither good nor bad, and I want
excitement. Nine people out of ten are so, and I am no worse than the
rest of the nine. One must be amused. If I were religious, I should have
Dorcas societies and missions. As I am not, I have"--she paused one
second, no more--"I have Senator Planefield."

She could bear the inaction of sitting still no longer. She got up.

"You have an ideal for everything," she said, "for men, women, and
children,--especially for women, I think. You are always telling
yourself that they are good, and pure, and loving, and faithful; that
they adore their children, and are true to their friends. It is very
pretty, but it is not always the fact. You try to believe it is true of
me; but it is not. I am not your ideal woman. I have told you so. Have
you not found out yet that Bertha Amory is not what you were so sure
Bertha Herrick would be?"

"Yes," he answered. "You--you have convinced me of that."

"It was inevitable," she continued. "I was very young then. I knew
nothing of the world or of its distractions and temptations. A thousand
things have happened to change me. And, after all, what right had you to
expect so much of me? I was neither one thing nor the other, even then;
I was only ignorant. You could not expect me to be ignorant always."

"Bertha," he demanded, "what are you trying to prove to me?"

"Only a little thing," she answered; "that I need my amusements, and
cannot live without them."

He rose from his seat also.

"That you cannot live without Senator Planefield?" he said.

"Go and tell him so," was her reply. "It would please him, and perhaps
this evening he would be inclined to place some confidence in the
statement."

She turned and walked to the end of the room; then she came back and
stood quite still before him.

"I am going to tell you something I would rather keep to myself," she
said. "It may save us both trouble if I don't spare myself as my vanity
prompts me to do. I said I was no worse than the other nine; but I
am--a little. I am not very fond of anything or any one. Not so fond
even of--Richard and the children, as I seem. I know that, though they
do not. If they were not attractive and amiable, or if they interfered
with my pleasures, my affection would not stand many shocks. In a
certain way I am emotional enough always to appear better than I am.
Things touch me for a moment. I was touched a little just now when you
spoke of remembering my being a girl. I was moved when Janey was ill and
you were so good to me. I almost persuaded myself that I was good too,
and faithful and affectionate, and yet at the same time I knew it was
only a fancy, and I should get over it. It is easy for me to laugh and
cry when I choose. There are tears in my eyes now, but--they don't
deceive me."

"They look like real tears, Bertha," he said. "They would have deceived
me--if you had not given me warning."

"They always _look_ real," she answered. "And is not there a sort of
merit in my not allowing you to believe in them? Call it a merit, won't
you?"

His face became like a mask. For several seconds he did not speak. The
habit he had of taking refuge in utter silence was the strongest weapon
he could use against her. He did not know its strength; he only knew
that it was the signal of his own desperate helplessness; but it left
her without defence or resource.

"Won't you?" she said, feeling that she must say something.

He hesitated before replying.

"No," he answered, stonily, after the pause. "I won't call it a merit. I
wish you would leave me--something."

That was very hard.

"It is true," she returned, "that I do not--leave you very much."

The words cost her such an effort that there were breaks between them.

"No," he said, "not much."

There was something almost dogged in his manner. He could not bear a
great deal more, and his consciousness of this truth forced him to brace
himself to outward hardness.

"I don't ask very much," he said. "I only ask you to spare yourself and
your children. I only ask you to keep out of danger. It is yourself I
ask you to think of, not me. Treat me as you like, but don't--don't be
cruel to yourself. I am afraid it does not do for a woman--even a woman
as cool as you are--to trifle with herself and her name. I have heard it
said so, and I could not remain silent after hearing what I did
to-night."

He turned as if to move away.

"You are going?" she said.

"Yes," he replied. "It is very late, and it would be useless to say any
more."

"You have not shaken hands with me," she said when he was half way to
the door. The words forced themselves from her. Her power of endurance
failed her at the last moment, as it had done before and would do again.

He came back to her.

"You will never hold out your hand to me when I shall not be ready to
take it, Bertha," he said. "You know that."

She did not speak.

"You are chilled," he said. "Your hand is quite cold."

"Yes," she replied. "I shall lie down on the sofa by the fire a little
while before going upstairs."

Without saying anything he left her, drew the sofa nearer to the hearth
and arranged the cushions.

"I would advise you not to fall asleep," he said when this was done.

"I shall not fall asleep," she answered. She went to the sofa and sat
down on it.

"Good-night," she said.

And he answered her "Good-night," and went out of the room.

She sat still a few seconds after he was gone, and then lay down. Her
eyes wandered over the room. She saw the ornaments, the pictures on the
wall, the design of the rug, every minute object, with a clearness which
seemed to magnify its importance and significance. There was a little
Cloissoné jar whose pattern she never seemed to have seen before; she
was looking at it when at last she spoke.

"It is very hard to live," she said. "I wish it was not--so hard. I wish
there was some way of helping one's self, but there is not. One can only
go on--and on--and there is always something worse coming."

She put her hand upon her breast. Something rose beneath it which gave
her suffocating pain. She staggered to her feet, pressing one hand on
the other to crush this pain down. No woman who has suffered such a
moment but has done the same thing, and done it in vain. She fell,
half-kneeling, half-sitting, upon the rug, her body against her chair,
her arms flung out.

"Why do you struggle with me?" she cried, between her sobs. "Why do you
look at me so? You--hurt me! I love you! Oh! let me go--let me go! Don't
you know--I can't bear it!"

In the street she heard the carriages rolling homeward from some gay
gathering. One of them stopped a few doors away, and the people got out
of it laughing and talking.

"Don't laugh!" she said, shuddering. "No one--should laugh! I laugh! O
God! O God!"


In half an hour Richard came in. He had taken Miss Varien home, and
remained to talk with her a short time. As he entered the house Bertha
was going up the staircase, her gleaming dress trailing behind her, her
feather-trimmed wrap over her arm. She turned and smiled down at him.

"Your charms will desert you if you keep such hours as these," she said.
"How did you enjoy yourself, or, rather, how did you enjoy Miss Varien,
and how many dazzling remarks did she make?"

"More than I could count," he said, laughing. "Wait a moment for me--I
am coming up." And he ran up the steps lightly and joined her, slipping
his arm about her waist.

"You look tired," he said, "but your charms never desert you. Was that
the shudder of guilt? Whose peace of mind have you been destroying?"

"Colonel Tredennis'," she answered.

"Then it was not the shudder of guilt," he returned, laughing again.
And, as she leaned gently against him, he bent and kissed her.




CHAPTER XXV.


It was generally conceded that nothing could be more agreeable than Mrs.
Sylvestre's position and surroundings. Those of her acquaintance who had
known her before her marriage, seeking her out, pronounced her more full
of charm than ever; those who saw her for the first time could scarcely
express with too much warmth their pleasure in her grace, gentleness,
and beauty. Her house was only less admired than herself, and Mrs.
Merriam, promptly gathering a coterie of old friends about her,
established herself most enviably at once. It became known to the world,
through the medium of the social columns of the dailies, that Mrs.
Sylvestre was at home on Tuesday afternoons, and that she also received
her friends each Wednesday evening. On these occasions her parlors were
always well filled, and with society so agreeable that it was not long
before they were counted among the most attractive social features of
the week. Professor Herrick himself appeared on several Wednesdays, and
it was gradually remarked that Colonel Tredennis presented himself upon
the scene more frequently than their own previous knowledge of his
habits would have led the observers to expect. On seeing Mrs. Sylvestre
in the midst of her guests and admirers, Miss Jessup was reminded of
Madame Récamier and the _salons_ of Paris, and wrote almost an entire
letter on the subject, which was printed by the "Wabash Times," under
the heading of "A Recent Récamier," and described Mrs. Sylvestre's
violet eyes, soft voice, and willowy figure, with nothing short of
enthusiasm.

Under these honors Mrs. Sylvestre bore herself very calmly. If she had a
fault, an impetuous acquaintance once remarked, it was that she was too
calm. She found her life even more interesting than she had hoped it
would be; there was pleasure in the renewal of old friendships and
habits and the formation of new ones, and in time it became less
difficult to hold regrets and memories in check with a steady hand. She
neither gave herself to retrospection nor to feverish gayety; she felt
she had outlived her need of the latter and her inclination for the
former. Without filling her life with excitement, she enjoyed the
recreations of each day as they came, and felt no resulting fatigue.
When Professor Herrick came to spend an evening hour with her and sat by
the fire gently admiring her as he was led on to talk, and also gently
admiring Mrs. Merriam, who was in a bright, shrewd humor, she herself
was filled with pleasure in them both. She liked their ripeness of
thought and their impartial judgment of the life whose prejudices they
had outlived. And as genuinely as she liked this she enjoyed Colonel
Tredennis, who now and then came too. In the first place he came because
he was asked, but afterwards because, at the end of his first visit, he
left the house with a sense of being in some vague way the better for
it. Agnes' manner toward him had been very kind. She had shown an
interest in himself and his pursuits, which had somehow beguiled him out
of his usual reticence and brought the best of his gifts to the surface,
though nothing could have been more unstrained and quiet than the tone
of their conversation. He was at no disadvantage when they talked
together; he could keep pace with her and understand her gentle
thoughts; she did not bewilder him or place him on the defensive. Once,
as he looked at her sweet, reposeful face, he remembered what Bertha had
said of his ideal woman and the thought rose in his mind that this was
she--fair, feminine, full of all tender sympathy and kindly thought; not
ignorant of the world nor bitter against it, only bearing no stain of it
upon her. "All women should be so," he thought, sadly. And Agnes saw
the shadow fall upon his face, and wondered what he was thinking of.

She began to speak to him of Bertha soon afterward, and, perhaps, if the
whole truth were told, it was while she so spoke that he felt her grace
and sweetness most movingly. The figure her words brought before him was
the innocent one he loved, the one he only saw in memory and dreams, and
whose eyes followed him with an appeal which was sad truth itself. At
first Agnes spoke of the time when they had been girls together, making
their _entrée_ into society, with others as young and untried as
themselves--Bertha the happiest and brightest of them all.

"She was always a success," she said. "She had that quality. One don't
know how to analyze it. People remembered her and were attracted, and
she never made them angry or envious. Men who had been in love with her
remained her friends. It was because she was so true to them. She was
always a true friend."

She remembered so many incidents of those early days, and in her
relation of them Bertha appeared again and again the same graceful,
touching young presence, always generous and impetuous, ready of wit,
bright of spirit, and tender of heart.

"We all loved her," said Agnes. "She was worth loving; and she is not
changed."

"Not changed," said Tredennis, involuntarily.

"Did you think her so?" she asked, gently.

"Sometimes," he answered, looking down. "I am not sure that I know her
very well."

But he knew that he took comfort with him when he went away, and that he
was full of heartfelt gratitude to the woman who had defended him
against himself. When he sat among his books that night his mind was
calmer than it had been for many a day, and he felt his loneliness less.
What wonder that he went to the house again and again, and oftener to
spend a quiet hour than when others were there! When his burdens
weighed most heavily upon him, and his skies looked darkest, Agnes
Sylvestre rarely failed to give him help. When he noted her
thoughtfulness for others, he did not know what method there was in her
thoughtfulness for himself, and with what skilful tact and delicate care
she chose the words in which she spoke to him of Bertha; he only felt
that, after she had talked to him, the shadow which was his companion
was less a shadow, and more a fair truth to be believed in and to draw
faith and courage from.

The professor, who met him once or twice during his informal calls,
spoke of the fact to Arbuthnot with evident pleasure.

"He was at his best," he said, "and I have noticed that it is always so
when he is there. The truth is, it would be impossible to resist the
influence of that beautiful young woman."

His acquaintance with Mr. Arbuthnot had taken upon itself something of
the character of an intimacy. They saw each other almost daily. The
professor had indeed made many discoveries concerning the younger man,
but none which caused him to like him less. He had got over his first
inclination towards surprise at finding they had many things in common,
having early composed himself to meet with calmness any source of
momentary wonder which might present itself, deciding, at length, that
he, himself, was either younger or his new acquaintance older than he
had imagined, without making the matter an affair of years. The two fell
into a comfortable habit of discussing the problems of the day, and,
though their methods were entirely different, and Arbuthnot was, at the
outset, much given to a light treatment of argument, they always
understood each other in the end, and were drawn a trifle nearer by the
debate. It was actually discovered that Laurence had gone so far as to
initiate the unwary professor into the evil practice of smoking, having
gradually seduced him by the insidious temptings of the most delicate
cigars. The discussions, it was observed, were always more enjoyable
when, the professor, having his easy-chair placed in exactly the right
position with regard to light and fire, found himself, with his cigar in
hand, carefully smoking it, and making the most of its aroma. His
tranquil enjoyment of and respect for the rite were agreeable things to
see.

"It soothes me," he would say to Arbuthnot. "It even inspires and
elevates me. I feel as if I had discovered a new sense. I am really
quite grateful."

It was Arbuthnot who generally arranged his easy-chair, showing a
remarkable instinct in the matter of knowing exactly what was necessary
to comfort. Among his discoveries concerning him the professor counted
this one, that he had in such things the silent quickness of perception
and deft-handedness of a woman, and perhaps it had at first surprised
him more than all else.

It may have been for some private reason of his own that the professor
occasionally gave to the conversation a lighter tone, even giving a
friendly and discursive attention to social topics, and showing an
interest in the doings of pleasure-lovers and the butterfly of fashion.
At such times Arbuthnot noticed that, beginning with a reception at the
British Embassy, they not unfrequently ended with Bertha; or, opening
with the last dinner at the White House, closed with Richard and the
weekly "evenings" adorned by the presence of Senator Planefield and his
colleague. So it was perfectly natural that they should not neglect Mrs.
Sylvestre, to whom the professor had taken a great fancy, and whose
progress he watched with much interest. He frequently spoke of her to
Arbuthnot, dwelling upon the charm which made her what she was, and
analyzing it and its influence upon others. It appeared to have
specially impressed itself upon him on the occasion of his seeing
Tredennis, and having said that it would be impossible to resist this
"beautiful young woman,"--as he had fallen into the unconscious habit
of calling her,--he went on to discourse further.

"She is too tranquil to make any apparent effort," he said. "And yet the
coldest and most reserved person must be warmed and moved by her. You
have seen that, though you are neither the most reserved nor the
coldest."

Arbuthnot was smoking the most perfectly flavored of cigars, and giving
a good deal of delicate attention to it. At this he took it from his
mouth, looked at the end, and removed the ash with a touch of his
finger, in doing which he naturally kept his eyes upon the cigar, and
not upon the professor.

"Yes," he said, "I have recognized it, of course."

"You see her rather often, I think?" said the professor.

"I am happy to be permitted that privilege," was the answer; "though I
am aware I am indebted for it far more to Mrs. Amory than to my own
fascinations, numberless and powerful though they may be."

"It is a privilege," said the professor; "but it is more of one to
Philip than to you--even more of one than he knows. He needs what such a
woman might give him."

"Does he?" said Arbuthnot. "Might I ask what that is?"

And he was angry with himself because he did not say it with more ease
and less of a sense of unreasonable irritation. The professor seemed to
forget his cigar, he held it in the hand which rested on his chair-arm,
and neglected it while he gave himself up to thought.

"He has changed very much during the past year," he said. "In the few
last months I have noticed it specially. I miss something from his
manner, and he looks fagged and worn. It has struck me that he rather
needs an interest, and feels his loneliness without being conscious that
he does so. After all, it is only natural. A man who leads an isolated
life inevitably reaches a period when his isolation wearies him, and he
broods over it a little."

"And you think," said Arbuthnot, "that Mrs. Sylvestre might supply the
interest?"

"Don't you think so yourself?" suggested the professor, mildly.

"Oh," said Laurence, "_I_ think the man would be hard to please who did
not find she could supply him with anything and everything."

And he laughed and made a few rings of smoke, watching them float upward
toward the ceiling.

"He would have a great deal to bring her," said the professor, speaking
for the moment rather as if to himself than to any audience. "And she
would have a great deal in return for what she could bestow. He has
always been what he is to-day, and only such a man is worthy of her. No
man who has trifled with himself and his past could offer what is due to
her."

"That is true," said Laurence.

He made more rings of smoke and blew them away.

"As for Tredennis," he said, with a deliberateness he felt necessary to
his outward composure, "his advantage is that he does not exactly belong
to the nineteenth century. He has no place in parlors; when he enters
one, without the least pretension or consciousness of himself, he towers
over the rest of us with a gigantic modesty it is useless to endeavor to
bear up against. He ought to wear a red cross, and carry a battle-axe,
and go on a crusade, or right the wrongs of the weak by unhorsing the
oppressor in single combat. He might found a Round Table. His crush hat
should be a helmet, and he should appear in armor."

The professor smiled.

"That is a very nice figure," he said, "though you don't treat it
respectfully. It pleases my fancy."

Arbuthnot laughed again, not the gayest laugh possible.

"It is he who is a nice figure," he returned. "And, though he little
suspects it, he is the one most admired of women. He could win anything
he wanted and would deserve all he won. Oh, I'm respectful enough. I'm
obliged to be. There's the rub!"

"Is it a rub?" asked the professor, a little disturbed by an illogical
fancy which at the moment presented itself without a shadow of warning.

"_You_ don't want the kind of thing he might care for."

This time Laurence's laugh had recovered its usual delightful tone. He
got up and went to the mantel for a match to light a new cigar.

"I!" he said. "I want nothing but the assurance that I shall be
permitted to retain my position in the Treasury until I don't need it.
It is a modest ambition, isn't it? And yet I am afraid it will be
thwarted. And then--in the next administration, perhaps--I shall be
seedy and out at elbows, and Mrs. Amory won't like to invite me to her
Thursday evenings, because she will know it will make me uncomfortable,
and then--then I shall disappear."

"Something has disturbed you," commented the professor, rather
seriously. "You are talking nonsense."

And as he said it the thought occurred to him that he had heard more of
that kind of nonsense than usual of late, and that the fact was likely
to be of some significance. "It is the old story," he thought, "and it
is beginning to wear upon him until he does not control himself quite so
completely as he did at first. That is natural too. Perhaps Bertha
herself has been a little cruel to him, in her woman's way. She has not
been bearing it so well either."

"My dear professor," said Laurence, "everything is relative, and what
you call nonsense I regard as my most successful conversational efforts.
_I_ could not wield Excalibur. Don't expect it of me, I beg you."

If he had made an effort to evade any further discussion of Mrs.
Sylvestre and the possibilities of her future, he had not failed in it.
They talked of her no more, in fact, they talked very little at all. A
shade had fallen upon the professor's face and did not pass away. He
lighted his cigar again, but scarcely seemed to enjoy finishing it. If
Arbuthnot had been in as alert a mental condition as usual, his
attention would have been attracted by the anxious thoughtfulness of his
old friend's manner; but he himself was preoccupied and rather glad of
the opportunity to be silent. When the cigars were finished, and he was
on the point of taking his departure, the professor seemed to rouse
himself as if from a reverie.

"That modest ambition of yours"--he began slowly.

"Thank you for thinking of it," said Arbuthnot, as he paused.

"It interests me," replied the professor. "You are continually finding
something to interest me. There is no reason why it should be thwarted,
you know."

"I wish I did," returned Laurence. "But I don't, you see. They are shaky
pieces of architecture, those government buildings. The
foundation-stones are changed too often to insure a sense of security to
the occupants. No; my trouble is that I don't know."

"You have a great many friends," said the professor.

"I have a sufficient number of invitations to make myself generally
useful," said Laurence, "and of course they imply an appreciation of my
social gifts which gratifies me; but a great deal depends on a man's
wardrobe. I might as well be without talents as minus a dress-coat. It
interests me sometimes to recognize a brother in the 'song and dance
artist' who is open to engagements. I, my dear professor, am the 'song
and dance artist.' When I am agile and in good voice I am recalled; but
they would not want me if I were hoarse and out of spirits, and had no
spangles."

"You might get something better than you have," said the professor,
reflectively. "You ought to get something."

"To whom shall I apply?" said Laurence. "Do you think the President
would receive me to-morrow? Perhaps he has already mentioned his
anxiety to see me." Then, his manner changing, he added, with some
hurry, "You are very good, but I think it is of no use. The mistake was
in letting myself drift as I did. It would not have happened if--if I
hadn't been a fool. It was my own fault. Thank you! Don't think of me.
It wouldn't pay me to do it myself, and you may be sure it would not pay
you."

And he shook the professor's hand and left him.

He was not in the best of humor when he reached the street, and was
obliged to acknowledge that of late the experience had not been as rare
a one as discretion should have made it. His equable enjoyment of his
irresponsible existence had not held its own entirely this winter. It
had been disturbed by irrational moods and touches of irritability. He
had broken, in spite of himself, the strict rules he had laid down
against introspection and retrospection; he had found himself deviating
in the direction of shadowy regrets and discontents; and this in the
face of the fact that no previous season had presented to him greater
opportunities for enjoyment than this one. Certainly he counted as the
most enviable of his privileges those bestowed upon him by the inmates
of the new establishment in Lafayette Place. His intimacy with the
Amorys had placed him upon a more familiar footing than he could have
hoped to attain under ordinary circumstances, and, this much gained, his
social gifts and appreciation of the favor showed him did the rest.

"Your Mr. Arbuthnot," remarked Mrs. Merriam, after having conversed with
him once or twice, "or, I suppose, I ought rather to say little Mrs.
Amory's Mr. Arbuthnot, is a wonderfully suitable person."

"Suitable?" repeated Agnes. "For what?"

"For anything--for everything. He would never be out of place, and his
civility is absolute genius."

Mrs. Sylvestre's smile was for her relative's originality of statement,
and apparently bore not the slightest reference to Mr. Arbuthnot
himself.

"People are never entirely impersonal," Mrs. Merriam went on. "But an
appearance of being so may be cultivated, as this gentleman has
cultivated his, until it is almost perfection. He never projects himself
into the future. When he picks up your handkerchief he does not appear
to be thinking how you will estimate his civility; he simply restores
you an article you would miss. He does nothing with an air, and he never
forgets things. Perhaps the best part of his secret is that he never
forgets himself."

"I am afraid he must find that rather tiresome," Agnes remarked.

"My dear," said Mrs. Merriam, "no one could forget herself less often
than you do. That is the secret of your repose of manner. Privately you
are always on guard, and your unconsciousness of the fact arises from
the innocence of youth. You are younger than you think."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Sylvestre, rising and crossing the room to move a yellow
vase on the top of a cabinet, "don't make me begin life over again."

"You have reached the second stage of existence," said the older woman,
her bright eyes sparkling. "There are three: the first, when one
believes everything is white; the second, when one is sure everything is
black; the third, when one knows that the majority of things are simply
gray."

"If I were called upon to find a color for your favorite," said Agnes,
bestowing a soft, abstracted smile on the yellow vase, "I think I should
choose gray. He is certainly neutral."

"He is a very good color," replied Mrs. Merriam; "the best of colors. He
matches everything,--one's tempers, one's moods, one's circumstances. He
is a very excellent color indeed."

"Yes," said Agnes, quietly.

And she carried her vase to another part of the room, and set it on a
little ebony stand.

It had become an understood thing, indeed, that her relative found
Laurence Arbuthnot entertaining, and was disposed to be very gracious
toward him. On his part he found her the cleverest and most piquant of
elderly personages. When he entered the room where she sat it was her
habit to make a place for him at her own side, and to enjoy a little
agreeable gossip with him before letting him go. After they had had a
few such conversations together Arbuthnot began to discover that his
replies to her references to himself and his past had not been so
entirely marked by reticence as he had imagined when he had made them.
His friend had a talent for putting the most adroit leading questions,
which did not betray their significance upon the surface; and once or
twice, after answering such a one, he had seen a look in her sparkling
old eyes which led him to ponder over his own words as well as hers.
Still, she was always astute and vivacious, and endowed him for the time
being with a delightful sense of being at his best, for which he was
experienced enough to be grateful. He had also sufficient experience to
render him alive to the fact that he preferred to be at his best when it
was his good fortune to adorn this particular drawing-room with his
presence. He knew, before long, that when he had made a speech upon
which he privately prided himself, after the manner of weak humanity, he
found it agreeable to be flattered by the consciousness that Mrs.
Sylvestre's passion-flower-colored eyes were resting upon him with that
delicious suggestion of reflection. He was not rendered happier by the
knowledge of this susceptibility, but he was obliged to admit its
existence in himself. Few men of his years were as little prone to such
natural weaknesses, and he had not attained his somewhat abnormal state
of composure without paying its price. Perhaps the capital had been too
large.

"If one has less, one is apt to be more economical," Bertha had heard
him remark, "and, at least, retain a small annuity to exist upon in
one's maturer years. I did not retain such an annuity."

Certainly there was one period of his life upon which he never looked
back without a shudder; and this being the case, he had taught himself,
as time passed, not to look back upon it at all. He had also taught
himself not to look forward, finding the one almost as bad as the other.
As Bertha had said, he was not fond of affairs, and even his enemies
were obliged to admit that he was ordinarily too discreet or too cold to
engage in the most trivial of such agreeable entanglements.

"If I pick up a red-hot coal," he said, "I shall burn my fingers, even
if I throw it away quickly. Why should a man expose himself to the
chance of being obliged to bear a blister about with him for a day or
so? If I may be permitted, I prefer to stand before the fire and enjoy
an agreeable warmth without personal interference with the blaze."

Nothing could have been farther from his intentions than interference
with the blaze, where Mrs. Sylvestre was concerned; though he had
congratulated himself upon the glow her grace and beauty diffused,
certainly no folly could have been nearer akin to madness than such
folly, if he had been sufficiently unsophisticated to indulge in it. And
he was not unsophisticated; few were less so. His perfect and just
appreciation of his position bounded him on every side, and it would
have been impossible for him to lose sight of it. He had never blamed
any one but himself for the fact that he had accomplished nothing
particular in life, and had no prospect of accomplishing anything. It
had been his own fault, he had always said; if he had been a better and
stronger fellow he would not have been beaten down by one blow, however
sharp and heavy. He had given up because he chose to give up and let
himself drift. His life since then had been agreeable enough; he had had
his moments of action and reaction; he had laughed one day and felt a
little glum the next, and had let one mood pay for the next, and
trained himself to expect nothing better. He had not had any inclination
for marriage, and had indeed frequently imagined that he had a strong
disinclination for it; his position in the Amory household had given him
an abiding-place, which was like having a home without bearing the
responsibility of such an incumbrance.

"I regard myself," Bertha sometimes said to him, "as having been a
positive boon to you. If I had not been so good to you there would have
been moments when you would have almost wished you were married; and if
you had had such moments the day of your security would have been at an
end."

"Perfectly true," he invariably responded, "and I am grateful
accordingly."

He began to think of this refuge of his, after he had walked a few
minutes. He became conscious that, the longer he was alone with himself,
the less agreeable he found the situation. There was a sentence of the
professor's which repeated itself again and again, and made him feel
restive; somehow he could not rid himself of the memory of it.

"No man who had trifled with himself and his past could offer what is
due to her." It was a simple enough truth, and he found nothing in it to
complain of; but it was not an exhilarating thing to dwell upon and be
haunted by.

He stopped suddenly in the street and threw his cigar away. A half-laugh
broke from him.

"I am resenting it," he said. "It is making me as uncomfortable as if I
was a human being, instead of a mechanical invention in the employ of
the government. My works are getting out of order. I will go and see
Mrs. Amory; she will give me something to think of. She always does."

A few minutes later he entered the familiar parlor. The first object
which met his eye was the figure of Bertha, and, as he had anticipated
would be the case, she gave him something to think of. But it was not
exactly the kind of thing he had hoped for, though it was something, it
is true, which he had found himself confronted with once or twice
before. It was something in herself, which on his first sight of her
presented itself to him so forcibly that it gave him something very near
a shock.

He had evidently broken in upon some moment of absorbed thought. She was
standing near the mantel, her hands clasped behind her head, her eyes
seeming fixed on space. The strangeness of her attitude struck him
first, and then the unusualness of her dress, whose straight, long lines
of unadorned black revealed, as he had never seen it revealed before,
the change which had taken place in her.

She dropped her hands when she saw him, but did not move toward him.

"Did you meet Richard?" she said.

"No," he replied. "Did he want to see me?"

"He said something of the kind, though I am not quite sure what it was."

Their eyes rested on each other as he approached her. In the questioning
of hers there was a touch of defiance, but he knew its meaning too well
to be daunted by it.

"I would not advise you to wear that dress again," he said.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Go to the mirror and look at yourself," he said.

She turned, walked across the room with a slow, careless step, as if the
effort was scarcely worth while. There was an antique mirror on the
wall, and she stopped before it and looked herself over.

"It isn't wise, is it?" she said. "It makes me look like a ghost. No, it
doesn't _make_ me look like one; it simply shows me as I am. It couldn't
be said of me just now that I am at my best, could it?"

Then she turned around.

"I don't seem to care!" she said. "_Don't_ I care! That would be a bad
sign in _me_, wouldn't it?"

"I should consider it one," he answered. "It is only in novels that
people can afford not to care. You cannot afford it. Don't wear a dress
again which calls attention to the fact that you are so ill and worn as
to seem only a shadow of yourself. It _isn't_ wise."

"Why should one object to being ill?" she said. "It is not such a bad
idea to be something of an invalid, after all; it insures one a great
many privileges. It is not demanded of invalids that they shall always
be brilliant. They are permitted to be pale, and silent, and heavy-eyed,
and lapses are not treasured up against them." She paused an instant.
"When one is ill," she said, "nothing one does or leaves undone is of
any special significance. It is like having a holiday."

"Do you want to take such a holiday?" he asked. "Do you need it?"

She stood quite still a moment, and he knew she did it because she
wished to steady her voice.

"Sometimes," she said at last, "I think I do."

Since he had first known her there had been many times when she had
touched him without being in the least conscious that she did so. He had
often found her laughter as pathetic as other people's tears, even while
he had joined in it himself. Perhaps there was something in his own mood
which made her seem in those few words more touching than she had ever
been before.

"Suppose you begin to take it now," he said, "while I am with you."

She paused a few seconds again before answering. Then she looked up.

"When people ask you how I am," she said, "you might tell them that I am
not very well, that I have not been well for some time, and that I am
not getting better."

"Are you getting--worse?" he asked.

Her reply--if reply it was--was a singular one. She pushed the sleeve
of her black dress a little way from her wrist, and stood looking down
at it without speaking. There were no bangles on the wrist this morning,
and without these adornments its slenderness seemed startling. The
small, delicate bones marked themselves, and every blue vein was
traceable.

Neither of them spoke, and in a moment she drew the sleeve down again,
and went back to her place by the fire. To tell the truth, Arbuthnot
could not have spoken at first. It was she who at length broke the
silence, turning to look at him as he sat in the seat he had taken, his
head supported by his hand.

"Will you tell me," she said, "what has hurt _you_?"

"Why should you ask that?" he said.

"I should be very blind and careless of you if I had not seen that
something had happened to you," she answered. "You are always caring for
me, and--understanding me. It is only natural that I should have learned
to understand you a little. This has not been a good winter for you.
What is it, Larry?"

"I wish it was something interesting," he answered; "but it is not. It
is the old story. I am out of humor. I'm dissatisfied. I have been
guilty of the folly of not enjoying myself on one or two occasions, and
the consciousness of it irritates me."

"It is always indiscreet not to enjoy one's self," she said.

And then there was silence for a moment, while she looked at him again.

Suddenly she broke into a laugh,--a laugh almost hard in its tone. He
glanced up to see what it meant.

"Do you want to know what makes me laugh?" she said. "I am thinking how
like all this is the old-fashioned tragedy, where all the _dramatis
personæ_ are disposed of in the last act. We go over one by one, don't
we? Soon there will be no one left to tell the tale. Even Colonel
Tredennis and Richard show signs of their approaching doom. And
you--some one has shown you your dagger, I think, and you know you
cannot escape it."

"I am the ghost," he answered; "the ghost who was disposed of before the
tragedy began, and whose business it is to haunt the earth, and remind
the rest of you that once I had blood in my veins too."

He broke off suddenly and left his seat. The expression of his face had
altogether changed.

"We always talk in this strain," he exclaimed. "We are always jeering!
Is there anything on earth, any suffering or human feeling, we could
treat seriously? If there is, for God's sake let us speak of it just for
one hour."

She fixed her eyes on him, and there was a sad little smile in their
depths.

"Yes, you have seen your dagger," she said. "You have seen it. Poor
Larry! Poor Larry!"

She turned away and sat down, clasping her hands on her knee, and he saw
that suddenly her lashes were wet, and thought that it was very like her
that, though she had no tears for herself, she had them for him.

"Don't be afraid that I will ask you any questions," she said. "I won't.
You never asked me any. Perhaps words would not do you any good."

"Nothing would do me any good just now," he answered. "Let it go at
that. It mayn't be as bad as it seems just for the moment--such things
seldom are. If it gets really worse, I suppose I shall find myself
coming to you some day to make my plaint; but it's very good in you to
look at me like that. And I was a fool to fancy I wanted to be serious.
I don't, on the whole."

"No, you were not a fool," she said. "There is no reason why _you_
should not be what you want. Laurence," with something like sudden
determination in her tone, "there is something I want to say to you."

"What is it?" he asked.

"I have got into a bad habit lately," she said,--"a bad habit of
thinking. When I lie awake at night"--

"Do you lie awake at night?" he interrupted.

She turned her face a little away, as if she did not wish to meet his
inquiring gaze.

"Yes," she answered, after a pause. "I suppose it is because of
this--habit. I can't help it; but it doesn't matter."

"Oh," he exclaimed, "it does matter! You can't stand it."

"Is there anything people 'cannot stand'?" she said. "If there is, I
should like to try it."

"You may well look as you do," he said.

"Yes, I may well," she answered. "And it is the result of the evil
practice of thinking. When once you begin, it is not easy to stop. And I
think you have begun."

"I shall endeavor to get over it," he replied.

"No," she said, "don't!"

She rose from her seat and stood up before him, trembling, and with two
large tears falling upon her cheeks.

"Larry," she said, "that is what I wanted to say--that is what I have
been thinking of. I shall not say it well, because we have laughed at
each other so long that it is not easy to speak of anything seriously;
but I must try. See! I am tired of laughing. I have come to the time
when there seems to be nothing left but tears--and there is no help; but
you are different, and if you are tired too, and if there is anything
you want, even if you could not be sure of having it, it would be better
to be trying to earn it, and to be worthy of it."

He rested his forehead on his hands, and kept his eyes fixed on the
carpet.

"That is a very exalted way of looking at things," he said, in a low
voice. "I am afraid I am not equal to it."

"In the long nights, when I have lain awake and thought so," she went
on, "I have seemed to find out that--there were things worth altering
all one's life for. I did not want to believe in them at first, but now
it is different with me. I could not say so to any one but you--and
perhaps not to you to-morrow or the day after--and you will hear me
laugh and jeer many a time again. That is my fate; but it need not be
yours. Your life is your own. If mine were my own--oh, if mine were my
own!" She checked the passionate exclamation with an effort. "When one's
life belongs to one's self," she added, "one can do almost anything with
it!"

"I have not found it so," he replied.

"You have never tried it," she said. "One does not think of these things
until the day comes when there is a reason--a reason for everything--for
pain and gladness, for hope and despair, for the longing to be better
and the struggle against being worse. Oh, how can one give up when there
is such a reason, and one's life is in one's own hands! I am saying it
very badly, Larry, I know that. Agnes Sylvestre could say it better,
though she could not mean it more."

"She would not take the trouble to say it at all," he said.

Bertha drew back a pace with an involuntary movement. The repressed ring
of bitterness in the words had said a great deal.

"Is it--?" she exclaimed, involuntarily, as she had moved, and then
stopped. "I said I would not ask questions," she added, and clasped her
hands behind her back, standing quite still, in an attitude curiously
expressive of agitation and suspense.

"What!" he said; "have I told you? I was afraid I should. Yes, it is
Mrs. Sylvestre who has disturbed me; it is Mrs. Sylvestre who has
stirred the calm of ages."

She was silent a second, and when she spoke her eyes looked very large
and bright.

"I suppose," she said, slowly, "that it is very womanish in me,--that I
almost wish it had been some one else."

"Why?" he asked.

"You _all_ have been moved by Mrs. Sylvestre," she replied, more slowly
than before,--"_all_ of you."

"How many of us are there?" he inquired.

"Colonel Tredennis has been moved, too," she said. "Not long before you
came in he paid me a brief visit. He does not come often now, and his
visits are usually for Janey, and not for me. I displeased him the night
he went with me to the reception of the Secretary of State, and he has
not been able to resign himself to seeing me often; but this evening he
came in, and we talked of Mrs. Sylvestre. He had been calling upon her,
and her perfections were fresh in his memory. He finds her beautiful and
generous and sincere; she is not frivolous or capricious. I think that
was what I gathered from the few remarks he made. I asked him questions;
you see, I wanted to know. And she has this advantage,--she has all the
virtues which the rest of us have not."

"You are very hard on Tredennis sometimes," he said, answering in this
vague way the look on her face which he knew needed answer.

"Sometimes," she said; "sometimes he is hard on me."

"He has not been easy on _me_ to-day," he returned.

"Poor Larry!" she said again. "Poor Larry!"

He smiled a little.

"You see what chance I should be likely to have against such a rival,"
he said. "I wonder if it ought to be a consolation to me to reflect that
my position is such that it cannot be affected by rivals. If I had the
field to myself I should stand exactly where I do at this moment. It
saves me from the risk of suffering, don't you see? I know my place too
well to allow myself to reach that point. I am uncomfortable only
because circumstances have placed it before me in a strong light, and I
don't like to look at it."

"What is your place?" she asked.

"It is in the Treasury," he replied. "The salary is not large. I am
slightly in debt--to my tailor and hosier, who are, however, patient,
because they think I am to be relied on through this administration."

"I wish I knew what to say to you!" she exclaimed. "I wish I knew!"

"I wish you did," he answered. "You have said all you could. I wish I
believed what you say. It would be more dignified than to be simply out
of humor with one's self, and resentful."

"Larry," she said, gently, "I believe you are something more."

"No! no! Nothing more!" he exclaimed. "Nothing more, for Heaven's sake!"
And he made a quick gesture, as if he was intolerant of the thought, and
would like to move it away. So they said no more on this subject, and
began soon after to talk about Richard.

"What did you mean," Arbuthnot asked, "by saying that Richard showed
signs of his approaching doom? Isn't he in good spirits?"

"It seems incredible," she answered, "that Richard should not be in good
spirits; but it has actually seemed to me lately that he was not. The
Westoria lands appear to have worried him."

"The Westoria lands," he repeated, slowly.

"He has interested himself in them too much," she said. "Things don't go
as easily as he imagined they would, and it annoys him. To-day"--

"What happened to-day?" Laurence asked, as she stopped.

"It was not very much," she said; "but it was unlike him. He was a
little angry."

"With whom?"

"With me, I think. Lately I have thought I would like to go abroad, and
I have spoken of it to him once or twice, and he has rather put it off;
and to-day I wanted to speak of it again, and it seemed the wrong time,
somehow, and he was a trifle irritable about it. He has not always been
quite himself this winter, but he has never been irritable with me. That
isn't like him, you know."

"No, it isn't like him," was Laurence's comment.

Afterward, when he was going away, he asked her a question:

"Do you wish very much to go abroad?" he said.

"Yes," she answered.

"You think the change would do you good?"

"Change often does one good," she replied. "I should like to try it."

"I should like to try it myself," he said. "Go, if you can, though no
one will miss you more than I shall."

And, having said it, he took his departure.




CHAPTER XXVI.


But Bertha did not go abroad, and the season reached its height and its
wane, and, though Miss Jessup began to refer occasionally to the
much-to-be regretted delicacy of the charming Mrs. Amory's health, there
seemed but little alteration in her mode of life.

"I will confide to you," she said to Colonel Tredennis, "that I have set
up this effective little air of extreme delicacy as I might set up a
carriage,--if I needed one. It is one of my luxuries. Do you remember
Lord Farintosh's tooth, which always ached when he was invited out to
dinner and did not want to go,--the tooth which Ethel Newcome said
nothing would induce him to part with? My indisposition is like that. I
refuse to become convalescent. Don't prescribe for me, I beg of you."

It was true, as she had said, that the colonel presented himself at the
house less often than had been his wont, and that his visits were more
frequently for Janey than for herself. "You will never hold out your
hand to me when I shall not be ready to take it," he had said; but she
did not hold out her hand, and there was nothing that he could do, and
if he went to her he must find himself confronted with things he could
not bear to see, and so he told himself that, until he was needed, it
was best that he should stay away, or go only now and then.

But he always knew what she was doing. The morning papers told him that
she was involved in the old, unceasing round of excitement,--announcing
that she was among the afternoon callers; that she received at home;
that she dined, lunched, danced, appeared at charitable entertainments,
and was seen at the theatre. It became his habit to turn unconsciously
to the society column before he read anything else, though he certainly
found himself none the happier for its perusal.

But, though he saw Bertha less frequently, he did not forget Richard. At
this time he managed to see him rather often, and took some pains to
renew the bloom of their first acquaintance, which had, perhaps, shown
itself a little on the wane, as Richard's friendships usually did in
course of time. And, perhaps, this waning having set in, Richard was not
at first invariably so enthusiastically glad to see the large military
figure present itself in his office. He had reasons of his own for not
always feeling entirely at ease before his whilom favorite. As he had
remarked to Planefield, Philip Tredennis was not a malleable fellow. He
had unflinching habits of truth, and remorseless ideas of what a man's
integrity should be, and would not be likely to look with lenient or
half-seeing eyes upon any palterings with falsehood and dishonor,
however colored or disguised. And he did not always appear at the most
convenient moment; there were occasions, indeed, when his unexpected
entrance had put an end to business conferences of a very interesting
and slightly exciting nature. These conferences had, it is true, some
connection with the matter of the Westoria lands, and the colonel had
lately developed an interest in the project in question which he had not
shown at the outset. He had even begun to ask questions about it, and
shown a desire to inform himself as to the methods most likely to be
employed in manipulating the great scheme. He amassed, in one way and
another, a large capital of information concerning subsidies and land
grants, and exhibited remarkable intelligence in his mental investment
of it. Indeed, there were times when he awakened in Richard a rather
uneasy sense of admiration by the clearness of his insight and the
practical readiness of his views.

"He has always been given to digging into things," Amory said to
Planefield, after one of their interviews. "That is his habit of mind,
and he has a steady business capacity you don't expect to find."

"What is he digging into this thing for?" Planefield asked. "He will be
digging up something, one of these days, that we are not particularly
anxious to have dug up. I am not overfond of the fellow myself. I never
was."

Richard laughed a trifle uneasily.

"Oh, he's well enough," he said; "though I'll admit he has been a little
in the way once or twice."

It is quite possible that the colonel himself had not been entirely
unaware of this latter fact, though he had exhibited no signs of his
knowledge, either in his countenance or bearing; indeed, it would be
difficult, for one so easily swayed by every passing interest as Richard
Amory was, to have long resisted his manly courtesy and good nature. Men
always found him an agreeable companion, and he made the most of his
powers on the occasions which threw him, or in which he threw himself,
in Amory's way. Even Planefield admitted reluctantly, once or twice,
that the fellow had plenty in him. It was not long before Richard
succumbed to his personal influence with pleasurable indolence. It would
have cost him too much effort to combat against it; and, besides this,
it was rather agreeable to count among one's friends and supporters a
man strong enough to depend on and desirable enough to be proud of.
There had been times during the last few months when there would have
been a sense of relief in the feeling that there was within reach a
stronger nature than his own,--one on whose strength he knew he could
rely. As their intimacy appeared to establish itself, if he did not
openly confide in Tredennis, he more than once approached the borders of
a confidence in his moments of depression. That he had such moments had
become plain. He did not even look so bright as he had looked;
something of his care-free, joyous air had deserted him, and now and
then there were to be seen faint lines on his forehead.

"There is a great deal of responsibility to be borne in a matter like
this," he said to Tredennis, "and it wears on a man." To which he added,
a few seconds later, with a delightfully unconscious mixture of
petulance and protest: "Confound it! why can't things as well turn out
right as wrong?"

"Have things been turning out wrong?" the colonel ventured.

Richard put his elbows on the table before him, and rested his forehead
on his hands a second.

"Well, yes," he admitted; "several things, and just at the wrong time,
too. There seems a kind of fate in it,--as if when one thing began the
rest must follow."

The colonel began to bite one end of his long mustache reflectively as
he looked at the young man's knitted brow.

"There is one thing you must understand at the outset," he said, at
length. "When I can be made useful--supposing such a thing were
possible--I am here."

Richard glanced up at him quickly. He looked a little haggard for the
moment.

"What a steady, reliable fellow you are!" he said. "Yes, I should be
sure of you if--if the worst came to the worst."

The colonel bit the ends of his mustache all the way home, and more than
one passer-by on the avenue was aroused to wonder what the subject of
his reflections might be, he strode along with so absorbed an air, and
frowned so fiercely.

"I should like to know what the worst is," he was saying to himself. "I
should like to know what that means."

It was perhaps his desire to know what it meant which led him to
cultivate Richard more faithfully still, to join him on the street, to
make agreeable bachelor dinners for him, to carry him off to the
theatres, and, in a quiet way, to learn something of what he was doing
each day. It was, in fact, a delicate diplomatic position the colonel
occupied in these days, and it cannot be said that he greatly enjoyed it
or liked himself in it. He was too honest by nature to find pleasure in
diplomacy, and what he did for another he would never have done for
himself. For the sake of the woman who rewarded his generosity and care
with frivolous coldness and slight, he had undertaken a task whose
weight lay heavily upon him. Since his first suspicions of her danger
had been aroused he had been upon the alert continually, and had seen
many things to which the more indifferent or less practical were blind.
As Richard had casually remarked, he was possessed of a strong business
sense and faculty of which he was not usually suspected, and he had seen
signs in the air which he felt boded no good for Richard Amory or those
who relied on his discretion in business affairs. That the professor had
innocently relied upon it when he gave his daughter into his hands he
had finally learned; that Bertha never gave other than a transient
thought--more than half a jest--to money matters he knew. Her good
fortune it had been to be trammelled neither by the weight of money nor
the want of it,--a truly enviable condition, which had, not unnaturally,
engendered in her a confidence at once unquestioning and somewhat
perilous. Tredennis had recalled more than once of late a little scene
he had taken part in on one occasion of her signing a legal document
Richard had brought to her.

"Shall I sign it here?" she had said, with exaggerated seriousness, "or
shall I sign it there? What would happen to me if I wrote on the wrong
line? Could not Laurence sign it for me in his government hand, and give
it an air of distinction? Suppose my hand trembled and I made a blot? I
am not obliged to read it, am I?"

"I think I should insist that she read it," the colonel had said to
Richard, with some abruptness.

Bertha had looked up and smiled.

"_Shall_ you insist that I read it?" she said; "I know what it says. It
says 'whereas' and 'moreover' and 'in accordance' with 'said agreement'
and 'in consideration of.' Those are the prevailing sentiments, and I am
either the 'party of the first part' or the 'party of the second part';
and if it was written in Sanskrit, it would be far clearer to my
benighted mind than it is in its present lucid form. But I will read it
if you prefer it, even though delirium should supervene."

It was never pleasant to Colonel Tredennis to remember this trivial
episode, and the memory of it became a special burden to him as time
progressed and he saw more of Amory's methods and tendencies. But it was
scarcely for him to go to her, and tell her that her husband was not as
practical a business man as he should be; that he was visionary and too
easily allured by glitter and speciousness. He could not warn her
against him and reveal to her the faults and follies she seemed not to
have discovered. But he could revive something of Richard's first fancy
for him, and make himself in a measure necessary to him, and perhaps
gain an influence over him which might be used to good purpose.
Possibly, despite his modesty, he had a half-conscious knowledge of the
power of his own strong will and nature over weaker ones, and was
resolved that this weak one should be moved by them, if the thing were
possible.

Nor was this all. There were other duties he undertook, for reasons best
known to himself. He became less of a recluse socially, and presented
himself more frequently in the fashionable world. He was no fonder of
gayety than he had been before, but he faced it with patience and
courage. He went to great parties, and made himself generally useful. He
talked to matrons who showed a fancy for his company, and was the best
and most respectful of listeners; he was courteous and attentive to both
chaperones and their charges, and by quietly persistent good conduct
won additional laurels upon each occasion of his social appearance.
Those who had been wont to stand somewhat in awe of him, finding nothing
to fear on more intimate acquaintance, added themselves to the list of
his admirers. Before the season was over he had made many a stanch
friend among matronly leaders of fashion, whose word was law. If such a
thing could be spoken of a person of habits so grave, it might have been
said that he danced attendance upon these ladies, but, though such a
phrase would seem unfitting, it may certainly be remarked that he walked
attendance on them, and sought their favor and did their bidding with a
silent faithfulness wonderful to behold. He accepted their invitations
and attended their receptions; he escorted them to their carriages,
found their wraps, and carried their light burdens with an imperturbable
demeanor.

"What!" said Bertha, one night, when she had seen him in attendance on
the wife of the Secretary of State, whose liking for him was at once
strong and warm; "what! is it Colonel Tredennis who curries the favor of
the rich and great? It has seemed so lately. Is there any little thing
in foreign missions you desire, or do you think of an
Assistant-Secretaryship?"

"There is some dissatisfaction expressed with regard to the Minister to
the Court of St. James," was his reply. "It is possible that he will be
recalled. In that case may I hope to command your influence?"

But, many a time as he carried his shawls, or made his grave bow over
the hand of a stately dowager, a half-sad smile crossed his face as he
thought of the true reason for his efforts, and realized with a generous
pang the depth of his unselfish perfidy. They were all kind to him, and
he was grateful for their favors; but he would rather have been in his
room at work, or trying to read, or marching up and down, thinking, in
his solitude. Janey entertained him with far more success than the
prettiest _débutante_ of the season could hope to attain, though there
was no _débutante_ among them who did not think well of him and admire
him not a little. But the reason which brought him upon this brightly
lighted stage of action? Well, there was only one reason for everything
now, he knew full well; for his being sadder than usual, or a shade less
heavy of heart; for his wearing a darker face or a brighter one; for his
interest in society, or his lack of interest in it; for his listening
anxiously and being upon the alert. The reason was Bertha. When he heard
her name mentioned he waited in silent anxiety for what followed; when
he did not hear it he felt ill at ease, lest it had been avoided from
some special cause.

"What she will not do for herself," he said, "I must try to do for her.
If I make friends and win their good opinions I may use their influence
in the future, if the worst should come to the worst, and she should
need to be upheld. It is women who sustain women or condemn them. God
forbid that she should ever lack their protection!"

And so he worked to earn the power to call upon this protection, if it
should be required, and performed his part with such steadfastness of
purpose that he made a place for himself such as few men are fortunate
enough to make.

There was one friendship he made in these days, which he felt would not
be likely to fade out or diminish in value. It was a friendship for a
woman almost old enough to have been his mother,--a woman who had seen
the world and knew it well, and yet had not lost her faith or charitable
kindness of heart. It was the lady whom Bertha had seen him attending
when she had asked him what object he had in view,--the wife of the
Secretary of State, whose first friendly feeling for him had become a
most sincere and earnest regard, for which he was profoundly grateful.

"A man to whom such a woman is kind must be grateful," he had said, in
speaking of her to Agnes Sylvestre. "A woman who is good and generous,
who is keen, yet merciful, whose judgment is ripe, and whose heart is
warm, who has the discernment of maturity and the gentleness of
youth,--it is an honor to know her and be favored by her. One is better
every time one is thrown with her, and leaves her presence with a
stronger belief in all good things."

It had, perhaps, been this lady's affection for Professor Herrick which
had, at the outset, directed her attention to his favorite; but, an
acquaintance once established, there had been no need of any other
impetus than she received from her own feminine kindliness, quickness of
perception, and sympathy. The interest he awakened in most feminine
minds he had at once awakened in her own.

"He looks," she said to herself, "as if he had a story, and hardly knew
the depth of its meaning himself."

But, though she was dexterous enough at drawing deductions, and heard
much of the small talk of society, she heard no story. He was at once
soldier and scholar; he was kind, brave, and generous; men spoke well of
him, and women liked him; his past and present entitled him to respect
and admiration; but there was no story mentioned in any discussion of
him. He seemed to have lived a life singularly uneventful, so far as
emotional experiences were concerned.

"Nevertheless," she used to say, when she gave a few moments to
sympathetic musing upon him, "nevertheless"--

She observed his good behavior, notwithstanding he did not enjoy himself
greatly in society. He was attentive to his duties without being
absorbed in them, and, when temporarily unoccupied, wore a rather weary
and abstracted look.

"It is something like the look," she once remarked inwardly,
"_something_ like the look I have seen in the eyes of that bright and
baffling little Mrs. Amory, who seems at times to be obliged to recall
herself from somewhere."

She had not been the leader of this world of hers without seeing many
things and learning many lessons; and, as she had stood giving her
greeting to the passing multitude week after week, she had gained a
wonderful amount of experience and knowledge of her kind. She had seen
so many weary faces, so many eager ones, so many stamped with care and
disappointment; bright eyes had passed before her which one season had
saddened; she had heard gay voices change and soft ones grow hard; she
had read of ambitions frustrated and hopes denied, and once or twice had
seen with a pang that somewhere a heart had been broken.

Naturally, in thus looking on, she had given some attention to Bertha
Amory, and had not been blind to the subtle changes through which she
had passed. She thought she could date the period of these changes. She
remembered the reception at which she had first noted that the girlish
face had begun to assume a maturer look, and the girlish vivacity had
altered its tones. This had happened the year after the marriage, and
then Jack had been born, and when society saw the young mother again the
change in her seemed almost startling. She looked worn and pale, and
showed but little interest in the whirl about her. It was as if suddenly
fatigue had overtaken her, and she had neither the energy nor the desire
to rally from it. But, before the end of the season she had altered
again, and had a touch of too brilliant color, and was gayer than ever.

"Rather persistently gay," said the older woman. "That is it, I think."

Lately there had been a greater change still and a more baffling one,
and there had appeared upon the scene an element so new and strange as
to set all ordinary conjecture at naught. The first breath of rumor
which had wafted the story of Planefield's infatuation and the Westoria
schemes had been met with generous displeasure and disbelief; but, as
time went on, it had begun to be more difficult to make an effort
against discussion which grew with each day and gathered material as it
passed from one to another. The most trivial circumstance assumed the
proportions of proof when viewed in the light of the general too
vivacious interest. When Senator Planefield entered a room people
instantly cast about in search of Mrs. Amory, and reposed entire
confidence in the immediately popular theory that, but for the presence
of the one, the absence of the other would have been a foregone
conclusion. If they met each other with any degree of vivacity the fact
was commented upon in significant asides; if Bertha's manner was cold or
quiet it was supposed to form a portion of her deep-laid plan for the
entire subjugation of her victim. It had, indeed, come to this at last,
and Tredennis' friend looked on and listened bewildered to find herself
shaken in her first disbelief by an aspect of affairs too serious to be
regarded with indifference. By the time the season drew toward its close
the rumor, which had at first been accepted only by rumor-lovers and
epicures in scandal, had found its way into places where opinion had
weight, and decision was a more serious matter. In one or two quiet
establishments there was private debating of various rather troublesome
questions, in which debates Mrs. Amory's name was frequently mentioned.
Affairs as unfortunate as the one under discussion had been known to
occur before, and it was not impossible that they might occur again; it
was impossible to be blind to them; it was impossible to ignore or treat
them lightly, and certainly something was due to society from those who
held its reins in their hands for the time being.

"It is too great leniency which makes such things possible," some one
remarked. "To a woman with a hitherto unspotted reputation and in an
entirely respectable position they should be impossible."

It was on the very evening that this remark was made that Bertha
expressed a rather curious opinion to Laurence Arbuthnot.

"It is dawning upon me," she said, "that I am not quite so popular as I
used to be, and I am wondering why."

"What suggested the idea?" Laurence inquired.

"I scarcely know," she replied, a little languidly, "and I don't care so
much as I ought. People don't talk to me in so animated a manner as they
used to--or I fancy they don't. I am not very animated myself, perhaps.
There is a great deal in that. I know I am deteriorating
conversationally. What I say hasn't the right ring exactly, and I
suppose people detect the false note, and don't like it. I don't wonder
at it. Oh, there is no denying that I am not so much overpraised and
noticed as I used to be!"

And then she sat silent for some time and appeared to be reflecting, and
Laurence watched her with a dawning sense of anxiety he would have been
reluctant to admit the existence of even to himself.




CHAPTER XXVII.


A few days after this she told Richard that she wished to begin to make
her arrangements for going away for the summer.

"What, so early!" he exclaimed, with an air of some slight discontent.
"It has been quite cool so far."

"I remained too late last year," she answered; "and I want to make up
for lost time."

They were at dinner, and he turned his wineglass about restlessly on the
table-cloth.

"Are you getting tired of Washington?" he asked. "You seem to be."

"I am a little tired of everything just now," she said; "even"--with a
ghost of a laugh--"of the Westoria lands and Senator Planefield."

He turned his wineglass about again.

"Oh," he said, his voice going beyond the borders of petulance, "it is
plain enough to see that you have taken an unreasonable dislike to
Planefield!"

"He is too large and florid, and absorbs too much of one's attention,"
she replied, coldly.

"He does not always seem to absorb a great deal of yours," Richard
responded, knitting his delicate dark brows. "You treated him cavalierly
enough last night, when he brought you the roses."

"I am tired of his roses!" she exclaimed, with sudden passion. "They are
too big, and red, and heavy. They cost too much money. They fill all the
air about me. They weight me down, and I never seem to be rid of them. I
won't have any more! Let him give them to some one else!" And she threw
her bunch of grapes on her plate, and dropped her forehead on her hands
with a childish gesture of fatigue and despair.

Richard knit his brows again. He regarded her with a feeling very
nearly approaching nervous dread. This would not do, it was plain.

"What is the matter with you?" he said. "What has happened? It isn't
like _you_ to be unreasonable, Bertha."

She made an effort to recover herself, and partly succeeded. She lifted
her face and spoke quite gently and deprecatingly.

"No," she said. "I don't think it is; so you will be all the readier to
overlook it, and allow it to me as a luxury. The fact is, Richard, I am
not growing any stronger, and"--

"Do you know," he interrupted, "I don't understand that. You used to be
strong enough."

"One has to be very strong to be strong _enough_," she replied, "and I
seem to have fallen a little short of the mark."

"But it has been going on rather a long time, hasn't it?" he inquired.
"Didn't it begin last winter?"

"Yes," she answered, in a low voice, "it _began_ then."

"Well, you see, that is rather long for a thing of that sort to go on
without any special reason."

"It has seemed so to me," she responded, without any change of tone.

"Haven't you a pretty good appetite?" he inquired.

She raised her eyes suddenly, and then dropped them again. He had not
observed what a dozen other people had seen.

"No," she answered.

"Don't you sleep well?"

"No."

"Are you thinner? Well, yes," giving her a glance of inspection. "You
are thinner. Oh! come, now, this won't do at all!"

"I am willing to offer any form of apology you like," she said.

"You must get well," he answered; "that is all." And he rose from his
seat, went to the mantel for a cigarette, and returned to her side,
patting her shoulder encouragingly. "You would not be tired of
Planefield if you were well. You would like him well enough."

The change which settled on her face was one which had crossed it many a
time without his taking note of it. Possibly the edge of
susceptibilities so fine and keen as his is more easily dulled than that
of sensitiveness less exquisite. She arose herself.

"That offers me an inducement to recover," she said. "I will begin
immediately--to-day--this moment. Let me light your cigarette for you."

After it was done they sauntered into the library together and stood for
a moment looking out of the window.

"Do you know," she said at length, laying her hand on his sleeve, "I
think even you are not quite yourself. Are you an invalid, too?"

"I," he said. "Why do you think so?"

"For a very good reason," she answered. "For the best of reasons. Two or
three times lately you have been a trifle out of humor. Are you aware of
it? Such, you see, is the disadvantage of being habitually amiable. The
slightest variation of your usually angelic demeanor lays you open to
the suspicion of bodily ailment. Just now, for instance, at table, when
I spoke to you about going away, you were a little--not to put too fine
a point upon it--cross."

"Was I?"

Her touch upon his sleeve was very soft and kind, and her face had a
gentle, playful appeal on it.

"You really were," she returned. "Just a little--and so was I. It was
more a matter of voice and manner, of course; but we didn't appear to
our greatest advantage, I am afraid. And we have never done things like
that, you know, and it would be rather bad to begin now, wouldn't it?"

"It certainly would," he replied. "And it is very nice in you to care
about it."

"It would not be nice in me not to care," she said. "Just for a moment,
you know, it actually sounded quite--quite married. It seemed as if we
were on the verge of agreeing to differ about--Senator Planefield."

"We won't do it again," he said. "We will agree to make the best of
him."

She hesitated a second.

"I will try not to make the worst," she returned. "There is always a
best, I suppose. And so long as you are here to take care of me, I need
not--need not be uncomfortable."

"About what?" he asked.

She hesitated again, and a shade of new color touched her cheek.

"I don't think I am over-fastidious," she said, "but he has a way I
don't like. He is too fulsome. He admires me too much. He pays me too
many compliments. I wish he would not do it."

"Oh! come, now," he said, gayly, "that _is_ prejudice! It is worse than
all the rest. I never heard you complain of your admirers before, or of
their compliments."

She hesitated a moment again. It was not the first time she had
encountered this light and graceful obstinacy, and found it more
difficult to cope with than words apparently more serious.

"I have never had an admirer of exactly that quality before," she said.

"Oh," he said, airily, "don't argue from the ground that it is a bad
quality!"

"Has it never struck you," she suggested, "that there is something of
the same quality, whether it is good, bad, or indifferent, in all the
persons who are connected with the Westoria lands? I have felt once or
twice lately, when I have looked around the parlors, as if I must have
suddenly emigrated, the atmosphere was so different. They have actually
rather crowded out the rest--those men."

It was his turn to pause now, and he did so, looking out of the window,
evidently ill at ease, and hesitant for the moment.

"My dear child," he said, at length, "there may be truth in what you
say; but--I may as well be frank with you--the thing is necessary."

"Richard," she said, quickly, prompted to the question by a sudden,
vague thought, "what have _you_ to do with the Westoria lands? Why do
you care so much about them?"

"I have everything to do with them--and nothing," he answered. "The
legal business connected with them, and likely to result from the
success of the scheme, will be the making of me, that is all. I haven't
been an immense success so far, you know, and it will make me an immense
success and a man of property. Upon my word, a nice little lobbyist
_you_ are, to look frightened at the mere shadow of a plot!"

"I am not a lobbyist," she exclaimed. "I never wanted to be one. That
was only a part of the nonsense I have talked all my life. I have talked
too much nonsense. I wish--I wish I had been different!"

"Don't allow your repentance to be too deep," he remarked, dryly. "You
won't be able to get over it."

"It's too late for repentance; but I shall not be guilty of that
particular kind of folly again. It was folly--and it was bad taste"--

"As I had not observed it, you might have been content to let it rest,"
he interrupted.

She checked herself in the reply she was about to make, clasping her
hands helplessly.

"O Richard!" she said; "we are beginning again!"

"So we are," he responded, coolly; "we seem to have a tendency in that
direction."

"And it always happens," she said, "when I speak of Senator Planefield,
or of going away."

"You have fallen into the habit of wanting to go away lately," he
answered. "You wanted to go to Europe"--

"I want to go still," she interposed, "very much."

"And I wish you to remain here," he returned, petulantly. "What's the
use of a man's having a wife at the other side of the globe?"

She withdrew a pace and leaned against the side of the window, letting
her eyes rest upon him with a little, bitter smile. For the moment she
had less care of herself and of him than she had ever had before.

"Ah!" she said, "then you keep me here because you love me?"

"Bertha!" he exclaimed.

Even his equable triviality found a disturbing element in the situation.

"Richard," she said, "go and finish your cigarette out of doors. It will
be better for both of us. This has gone far enough."

"It has gone too far," he answered, nervously. "It is deucedly
uncomfortable, and it isn't our way to be uncomfortable. Can't we make
it smooth again? Of course we can. It would not be like you to be
implacable. I am afraid I was a trifle irritable. The fact is, I have
had a great deal of business anxiety lately,--one or two investments
have turned out poorly,--and it has weighed on my mind. If the money
were mine, you know; but it is yours"--

"I have never wished you to feel the difference," she said.

"No," he replied. "Nothing could have been nicer than your way about it.
You might have made me very uncomfortable, if you had been a hard,
business-like creature; but, instead of that, you have been charming."

"I am glad of that," she said, and she smiled gently as he put his arm
about her, and kissed her cheek.

"You have a right to your caprices," he said. "Go to your summer haunts
of vice and fashion, if you wish to, and I will follow you as soon as I
can; but we won't say any more about Europe, just at present, will we?
Perhaps next year."

And he kissed her again.

"Perhaps next year or the year after," she repeated, with a queer little
smile. "And--and we will take Senator Planefield with us."

"No," he answered, "we will leave him at home to invest the millions
derived from the Westoria lands."

And he went out with a laugh on his lips.


A week later Colonel Tredennis heard from Richard that Bertha and the
children were going away.

"When?" asked the colonel. "That seems rather sudden. I saw Janey two
days ago, and did not understand that the time was set for their
departure."

"It is rather sudden," said Richard. "The fact is, they leave Washington
this morning. I should be with them now if it were not for a business
engagement."




CHAPTER XXVIII.


The next few weeks were not agreeable ones to Richard Amory. There was
too much feverish anxiety and uncertainty in them. He had not yet
acquired the coolness and hardihood of experience, and he felt their
lack in himself. He had a great deal at stake, more than at the outset
it had seemed possible he could have under any circumstances. He began
to realize, with no little discomfort, that he had run heavier risks
than he had intended to allow himself to be led into running. When they
rose before him in their full magnitude, as they did occasionally when
affairs assumed an unencouraging aspect, he wished his enthusiasm had
been less great. It could not be said that he had reached remorse for,
or actual repentance of, his indiscretions; he had simply reached a
point when discouragement led him to feel that he might be called upon
to repent by misfortune. Up to this time it had been his habit to drive
up to the Capitol in his _coupé_, to appear in the galleries, to saunter
through the lobby, and to flit in and out of committee-rooms with
something of the air of an amateur rather enjoying himself; he had made
himself popular; his gayety, his magnetic manner, his readiness to be
all things to all men had smoothed his pathway for him, while his
unprofessional air had given him an appearance of harmlessness.

"He's a first-rate kind of fellow to have on the ground when a thing of
this sort is going on," one of the smaller satellites once remarked.
"Nobody's afraid of being seen with him. There's an immense deal in
that. There are fellows who come here who can half ruin a man with
position by recognizing him on the street. Regular old hands they are,
working around here for years, making an honest living out of their
native land. Every one knows them and what they are up to. Now, this one
is different, and that wife of his"--

"What has she been doing?" flung in Planefield, who was present. "What
has she got to do with it?"

He said it with savage uneasiness. He was full of restive jealousy and
distrust in these days.

"I was only going to say that she is known in society," he remarked,
"and she is the kind the most particular of those fellows don't object
to calling on."

But, as matters took form and a more critical point was neared; as the
newspapers began to express themselves on the subject of the Westoria
lands scheme, and prophesy its failure or success; as it became the
subject of editorials applauding the public-spiritedness of those most
prominent in it, or of paragraphs denouncing the corrupt and
self-seeking tendency of the times; as the mental temperature of certain
individuals became a matter of vital importance, and the degree of
cordiality of a greeting an affair of elation or despair,--Richard felt
that his air of being an amateur was becoming a thing of the past. He
was too anxious to keep it up well; he did not sleep at night, and began
to look fagged, and it required an effort to appear at ease.

"Confound it!" he said to Planefield, "how can one be at ease with a man
when his yes or no may be success or destruction to you? It makes him of
too much consequence. A fellow finds himself trying to please, and it
spoils his manner. I never knew what it was to feel a human being of any
particular consequence before."

"You have been lucky," commented Planefield, not too tolerantly.

"I have been lucky," Richard answered; "but I'm not lucky now, and I
shall be deucedly unlucky if that bill doesn't pass. The fact is, there
are times when I half wish I hadn't meddled with it."

"The mistake _you_ made," said Planefield, with stolid ill-humor, "was
in letting Mrs. Amory go away. Now is the time you need her most.
There's no denying that there are some things women can do better than
men; and when a man has a wife as clever as yours, and as much of a
social success, he's blundering when he doesn't call on her for
assistance. One or two of her little dinners would be the very things
just now for the final smoothing down of one or two rough ones who
haven't opinions unless you provide them with them. She'd provide them
with them fast enough. They'd only have one opinion when she'd done with
them, if she was in one of the moods I've seen her in sometimes. Look
how she carried Bowman and Pell off their feet the night she gave them
the description of that row in the House. And Hargis, of North Carolina,
swears by her; he's a simple, domesticated fellow, and was homesick the
night I brought him here, and she found it out,--Heaven knows how,--and
talked to him about his wife and children until he said he felt as if
he'd seen them. He told me so with tears in his eyes. It is that kind of
thing we want now."

"Well," said Richard, nervously, "it isn't at our disposal. I don't mind
telling you that she was rather out of humor with the aspect of affairs
before she went away, and I had one interview with her which showed me
it would be the safest plan to let her go."

"Out of humor!" said Planefield. "She has been a good deal out of humor
lately, it seems to me. Not that it's any business of mine; but it's
rather a pity, considering circumstances."

Richard colored, walked a few steps, put his hands in his pockets, and
took them out again. Among the chief sources of anxious trouble to him
had been that of late he had found his companion rather difficult to get
along with. He had been irritable, and even a trifle overbearing, and
had at times exhibited an indifference to results truly embarrassing to
contemplate, in view of the crisis at hand. When he intrenched himself
behind a certain heavy stubbornness, in which he was specially strong,
Richard felt himself helpless. The big body, the florid face, the
doggedly unresponsive eye, were too much to combat against. When he was
ill-humored Richard knew that he endeavored to conciliate him; but when
this mood held possession he could only feel alarm and ask himself if it
could be possible that, after all, the man might be brutal and false
enough to fail him. There were times when he sat and looked at him
unwillingly, fascinated by the likeness he found in him to the man who
had sent poor Westor to his doom. Naturally, the old story had been
revived of late, and he heard new versions of it and more minute
descriptions of the chief actors, and it was not difficult for an
overwrought imagination to discover in the two men some similarity of
personal characteristics. Just at this moment there rose within him a
memory of a point of resemblance between the pair which would have been
extremely embarrassing to him if he had permitted it to assume the
disagreeable form of an actual fact. It was the resemblance between the
influences which had moved them. In both cases it had been a woman,--in
this case it was his own wife, and if he had not been too greatly
harassed he would have appreciated the indelicacy of the situation. He
was not an unrefined person in theory, and his sensitiveness would have
caused him to revolt at the grossness of such a position if he had not
had so much at stake and been so overborne by his associates. His
mistakes and vices were always the result of circumstance and
enthusiasm, and he hurried past them with averted eyes, and refused to
concede to them any substantiality. There is nothing more certain than
that he had never allowed himself to believe that he had found Bertha of
practical use in rendering Planefield docile and attracting less
important luminaries. Bertha had been very charming and amiable, that
was all; she was always so; it was her habit to please people,--her
nature, in fact,--and she had only done what she always did. As a mental
statement of the case, nothing could be more simple than this, and he
was moved to private disgust by his companion's aggressive clumsiness,
which seemed to complicate matters and confront him with more crude
suggestions.

"I am afraid she would not enjoy your way of putting it," he said.

Planefield shut his teeth on his cigar and looked out of the window.
That was his sole response, and was a form of bullying he enjoyed.

"We must remember that--that she does not realize everything," continued
Richard, uneasily; "and she has not regarded the matter from any serious
stand-point. It is my impression," he added, with a sudden sense of
growing irritation, "that she wouldn't have anything to do with it if
she thought it was a matter of gain or loss!"

Planefield made no movement. He was convinced that this was a lie, and
his look out of the window was his reply to it.

Richard put his hands into his pockets again and turned about, irritated
and helpless.

"You must have seen yourself how unpractical she is," he exclaimed. "She
is a mere child in business matters. Any one could deceive her."

He stopped and flushed without any apparent reason. He found himself
looking out of the window too, with a feeling of most unpleasant
confusion. He was obliged to shake it off before he spoke again, and
when he did so it was with an air of beginning with a fresh subject.

"After all," he said, "everything does not depend upon influence of that
sort. There are other things to be considered. Have you seen Blundel?"

"You can't expect a man like Blundel," said Planefield, "to be easy to
manage. Blundel is the possessor of a moral character, and when a man
has capital like that--and Blundel's sharpness into the bargain--he is
not going to trifle with it. He's going to hang on to it until it
reaches its highest market value, and then decide which way he will
invest it."

Richard dropped into a seat by the table. He felt his forehead growing
damp.

"But if we are not sure of Blundel?" he exclaimed.

"Well, we are not sure of Blundel," was the answer. "What we have to
hope is that he isn't sure of himself. The one thing you can't be sure
of is a moral character. Impeccability is rare, and it is never easy for
an outsider to hit on its exact value. It varies, and you have to run
risks with it. Blundel's is expensive."

"There has been a great deal of money used," hesitated Richard; "a great
deal."

Planefield resorted to the window again. It had not been his money that
had been used. He had sufficient intellect to reap advantages where they
were to be reaped, and to avoid indiscreet adventures.

"You had better go and see Blundel yourself," he said, after a pause. "I
have had a talk with him, and made as alluring a statement of the case
as I could, with the proper degree of caution, and he has had time to
put the matter in the scales with his impeccability and see which weighs
the heavier, and if they can't be made to balance. He will try to
balance them, but if he can't--You must settle what is to be done
between you. I have done my best."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Richard, virtuously, "what corruption!"

It was an ingenuous ejaculation, but he was not collected enough to
appreciate the native candor of it himself at the moment. He felt that
he was being hardly treated, and that the most sacred trusts of a great
nation were in hands likely to betray them at far too high a figure. The
remark amounted to an outburst of patriotism.

"Have they _all_ their price?" he cried.

Planefield turned his head slowly and glanced at him over his shoulder.

"No," he said; "if they had, you'd find it easier. There's your
difficulty. If they were all to be bought, or none of them were to be
sold, you'd see your way."

It did not seem to Richard that his way was very clear at the present
moment. At every step of late he had found new obstacles in his path and
new burdens on his shoulders. People had so many interests and so many
limitations, and the limitations were always related to the interests.
He began to resolve that it was a very sordid and business-like world in
which human lot was cast, and to realize that the tendency of humanity
was to coarse prejudice in favor of itself.

"Then I had better see Blundel at once," he said, with feverish
impatience.

"You haven't any time to lose," was Planefield's cool response. "And you
will need all the wit you can carry with you. You are not going to offer
_him_ inducements, you know; you are only going to prove to him that his
chance to do something for his country lies before him in the direction
of the Westoria lands. After that"--

"After that," repeated Richard, anxiously.

"Do what you think safest and most practicable."

As the well-appointed equipage drew up under the archway before the
lower entrance to the north wing of the Capitol, a group of men who
stood near the door-way regarded it with interest. They did so because
three of them were strangers and sight-seers, and the fourth, who was a
well-seasoned Washingtonian, had called their attention to it.

"There," he said, with an experienced air, "there is one of them this
moment. It is beginning to be regarded as a fact that he is mixed up
with one of the biggest jobs the country has ever known. He is up to his
ears in this Westoria business, it's believed, though he professes to be
nothing more than a sort of interested looker-on and a friend of the
prime movers. He's a gentleman, you see, with a position in society, and
a pretty wife, who is a favorite, and the pretty wife entertains his
friends; and when a man is in an uncertain frame of mind the husband
invites him to dinner, and the pretty wife interests herself in
him,--she knows how to do it, they say,--and he goes away a wiser and a
better man, and more likely to see his way to making himself agreeable.
Nothing professional about it, don't you see? All quite proper and
natural. No lobbying about that, you know; but it helps a bill through
wonderfully. I tell you there's no knowing what goes on in these tip-top
parlors about here."

He said it with modest pride and exultation, and his companions were
delighted. They represented the average American, with all his ingenuous
eagerness for the dramatic exposure of crime in his fellow-man. They had
existed joyously for years in the belief that Washington was the seat of
corruption, bribery, and fraud; that it was populated chiefly with
brilliant female lobbyists and depraved officials, who carried their
privileges to market and bartered and sold them with a guileless candor,
whose temerity was only to be equalled by its brazen cheerfulness of
spirit. They were, probably, not in the least aware of their mental
attitude toward their nation's government; but they revelled in it none
the less, and would have felt a keen pang of disappointment if they had
been suddenly confronted with the fact that there was actually an
element of most unpicturesque honesty in the House and a flavor of
shameless impeccability in the Senate. They had heard delightful stories
of "jobs" and "schemes," and had hoped to hear more. When they had been
taken to the visitors' gallery, they had exhibited an earnest anxiety to
be shown the members connected with the last investigation, and had
received with private rapture all anecdotes connected with the ruling
political scandal. They decided that the country was in a bad way, and
felt a glow of honest pride in its standing up at all in its present
condition of rottenness. Their ardor had been a little dampened by an
incautious statement made by their friend and guide, to the effect that
the subject of the investigation seemed likely to clear himself of the
charges made against him, and the appearance of Richard Amory, with his
personal attractions, his neat equipage, and his air of belonging to the
great world, was something of a boon to them. They wished his wife had
been with him; they had only seen one female lobbyist as yet, and she
had been merely a cheap, flashy woman, with thin, rouged cheeks and
sharp, eager eyes.

"Looks rather anxious, doesn't he?" one asked the other, as Amory went
by. He certainly looked anxious as he passed them; but once inside the
building he made an effort to assume something of his usual air of gay
good cheer. It would not do to present himself with other than a
fearless front. So he walked with a firm and buoyant tread through the
great vaulted corridors and up the marble stairways, exchanging a
salutation with one passer-by and a word of greeting with another.

He found Senator Blundel in his committee-room, sitting at the
green-covered table, looking over some papers. He was a short, stout
man, with a blunt-featured face, grayish hair, which had a tendency to
stand on end, and small, shrewd eyes. When he had been in the House, his
rising to his feet had generally been the signal for his fellow-members
to bestir themselves and turn to listen, as it was his habit to display
a sharp humor, of a rough-and-ready sort. Richard had always felt this
humor coarse, and, having but little confidence in Blundel's possessing
any other qualification for his position, regarded it as rather trying
that circumstances should have combined to render his sentiments of such
importance in the present crisis. Looking at the thick-set figure and
ordinary face he felt that Planefield had been right, and that Bertha
might have done much with him, principally because he presented himself
as one of the obstacles whose opinions should be formed for them all
the more on account of their obstinacy when once biassed in a wrong
direction.

But there was no suggestion of these convictions in his manner when he
spoke. It was very graceful and ready, and his strong points of
good-breeding and mental agility stood him in good stead. The man before
him, whose early social advantages had not been great, was not too dull
to feel the influence of the first quality, and find himself placed at a
secretly acknowledged disadvantage by it. After he had heard his name
his small, sharp eyes fixed themselves on his visitor's handsome
countenance, with an expression not easy to read.

"It is not necessary for me to make a new statement of our case," said
Richard, easily. "I won't fatigue you and occupy your time by repeating
what you have already heard stated in the clearest possible manner by
Senator Planefield."

Blundel thrust his hands into his pockets and nodded.

"Yes," he responded. "I saw Planefield, and he said a good deal about
it."

"Which, of course, you have reflected upon?" said Richard.

"Well, yes. I've thought it over--along with other things."

"I trust favorably," Richard suggested.

Blundel stretched his legs a little and pushed his hands further down
into his pockets.

"Now, what would you call favorably?" he inquired.

"Oh," replied Richard, with a self-possessed promptness, "favorably to
the connecting branch."

It was rather a fine stroke, this airy candor, but he had studied it
beforehand thoroughly and calculated its effect. It surprised Blundel
into looking up at him quickly.

"You would, eh?" he said; "let us hear why."

"Because," Richard stated, "that would make it favorable to us."

Blundel was beguiled into a somewhat uneasy laugh.

"Well," he remarked, "you're frank enough."

Richard fixed upon him an open, appreciative glance.

"And why not?" he answered. "There is our strong point,--that we can
afford to be frank. We have nothing to conceal. We have something to
gain, of course--who has not?--but it is to be gained legitimately--so
there is no necessity for our concealing that. The case is simplicity
itself. Here are the two railroads. See,"--and he laid two strips of
paper side by side upon the table. "A connecting branch is needed. If it
runs through this way," making a line with his finger, "it makes certain
valuable lands immeasurably more valuable. There is no practical
objection to its taking this direction instead of that,--in either case
it runs through the government reservations,--the road will be built;
somebody's property will be benefited,--why not that of my clients?"

Blundel looked at the strips of paper, and his little eyes twinkled
mysteriously.

"By George!" he said, "that isn't the way such things are generally put.
What you ought to do is to prove that nobody is to be benefited, and
that you are working for the good of the government."

Richard laughed.

"Oh," he said, "I am an amateur, and I should be of no use whatever to
my clients if they had anything to hide or any special reason to fear
failure. We have opposition to contend with, of course. The southern
line is naturally against us, as it wants the connecting branch to run
in the opposite direction; but, if it has no stronger claim than we
have, the struggle is equal. They are open to the objection of being
benefited by the subsidies, too. It is scarcely ground enough for
refusing your vote, that some one will be benefited by it. The people is
the government in America, and the government the people, and the
interest of both are too indissolubly connected to admit of being
easily separated on public measures. As I said, I am an amateur, but I
am a man of the world. My basis is a natural, human one. I desire to
attain an object, and, though the government will be benefited, I am
obliged so confess I am arguing for my object more than for the
government."

This was said with more delightful, airy frankness than ever. But
concealed beneath this genial openness was a desperate anxiety to
discover what his companion was thinking of, and if the effect of his
stroke was what he had hoped it would be. He knew that frankness so
complete was a novelty, and he trusted that his bearing had placed him
out of the list of ordinary applicants for favor. His private
conviction, to which he did not choose to allow himself to refer
mentally with any degree of openness, was that, if the man was honest,
honesty so bold and simple must disarm him; and, if he was not,
ingenuousness so reckless must offer him inducements. But it was not
easy to arrive at once at any decision as to the tenor of Blundel's
thoughts. He had listened, and it being his habit to see the humor of
things, he had grinned a little at the humor he saw in this situation,
which was perhaps not a bad omen, though he showed no disposition to
commit himself on the spot.

"Makes a good story," he said; "pretty big scheme, isn't it?"

"Not a small one," answered Richard, freely. "That is one of its
merits."

"The subsidies won't have to be small ones," said Blundel. "That isn't
one of its merits. Now, let us hear your inducements."

Richard checked himself on the very verge of a start, realizing
instantaneously the folly of his first flashing thought.

"The inducements you can offer to the government," added Blundel. "You
haven't gone into a thing of this sort without feeling you have some on
hand."

Of course there were inducements, and Richard had them at his fingers'
ends, and was very fluent and eloquent in his statement of them. In
fact, when once fairly launched upon the subject, he was somewhat
surprised to find how many powerful reasons there were for its being to
the interest of the nation that the land grants should be made to the
road which ran through the Westoria lands and opened up their resources.
His argument became so brilliant, as he proceeded, that he was moved by
their sincerity himself, and gained impetus through his confidence in
them. He really felt that he was swayed by a generous desire to benefit
his country, and enjoyed his conviction of his own honesty with a
refinement which, for the moment, lost sight of all less agreeable
features of the proceeding. All his fine points came out under the glow
of his enthusiasm,--his grace of speech and manner; his picturesque
habit of thought, which gave color and vividness to all he said,--his
personal attractiveness itself.

Blundel bestirred himself to sit up and look at him with renewed
interest. He liked a good talker; he was a good talker himself. His mind
was of a practical business stamp, and he was good at a knock-down blow
in argument, or at a joke or jibe which felled a man like a meat-axe;
but he had nothing like this, and he felt something like envy of all
this swiftness and readiness and polish.

When he finished, Richard felt that he must have impressed him; that it
was impossible that it should be otherwise, even though there were no
special external signs of Blundel being greatly affected. He had thrust
his hands into his pockets as before, and his hair stood on end as
obstinately.

"Well," he said, succinctly, "it _is_ a good story, and it's a big
scheme."

"And you?"--said Richard. "We are sure of your"--

Blundel took a hand out of his pocket and ran it over his upright hair,
as if in a futile attempt at sweeping it down.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said. "I'll see you day after
to-morrow."

"But"--exclaimed Richard, secretly aghast.

Blundel ran over his hair again and returned his hand to his pocket.

"Oh, yes," he answered. "I know all about that. You don't want to lose
time, and you want to feel sure; but, you see, I want to feel sure, too.
As I said, it's a big business; it's too big a business to assume the
responsibility of all at once. _I'm_ not going to run any risks. I don't
say you want me to run any; but, you know, you are an amateur, and there
may be risks you don't realize. I'll see you again."

In his character of amateur it was impossible for Richard to be
importunate, but his temptations to commit the indiscretion were strong.
A hundred things might happen in the course of two days; delay was more
dangerous than anything else. The worst of it all was that he had really
gained no reliable knowledge of the man himself and how it would be best
to approach him. He had seen him throughout the interview just as he had
seen him before it. Whether or not his sharpness was cunning and his
bluntness a defence he had not been able to decide.

"At any rate, he is cautious," he thought. "_How_ cautious it is for us
to find out."

When he left him Richard was in a fever of disappointment and
perplexity, which, to his ease and pleasure-loving nature, was torment.

"Confound it all!" he said. "Confound the thing from beginning to end!
It will have to pay well to pay for this."

He had other work before him, other efforts to make, and after he had
made them he returned to his carriage fatigued and overwrought. He had
walked through the great corridors, from wing to wing, in pursuit of
men who seemed to elude him like will-o'-the-wisps; he had been driven
to standing among motley groups, who sent in cards which did not always
intercede for them; he had had interviews with men who were outwardly
suave and pliable, with men who were ill-mannered and impatient, with
men who were obstinate and distrustful, and with men who were too much
occupied with their own affairs to be other than openly indifferent; if
he had met with a shade of encouragement at one point, he had found it
amply balanced by discouragement at the next; he had seen himself
regarded as an applicant for favor, and a person to be disposed of as
speedily as possible, and, when his work was at an end, his physical
condition was one of exhaustion, and his mental attitude marked chiefly
by disgust and weariness of spirit.

This being the state of affairs he made a call upon Miss Varien, who
always exhilarated and entertained him.

He found her in her bower, and was received with the unvarying tact
which characterized her manner upon all occasions. He poured forth his
woes, as far as they could be told, and was very picturesque about them
as he reclined in the easiest of easy-chairs.

"It is my opinion that nothing can be done without money," he said,
"which is disgraceful!"

"It is, indeed," acknowledged Miss Varien, with a gleam of beautiful
little teeth.

She had lived in Washington with her exceptional father and entirely
satisfactory mother from her earliest infancy, and had gained from
observation--at which she was brilliant, as at all else--a fund of
valuable information. She had seen many things, and had not seen them in
vain. It may be even suspected that Richard, in his character of
amateur, was aware of this. There was a suggestion of watchfulness in
his glance at her.

"Things ought to be better or worse to simplify the system," she said.

"That is in effect what I heard said this morning," answered Richard.

"I am sorry it is not entirely new," she returned. "Was it suggested,
also, that since we cannot have incorruptibility we might alter our
moral standards and remove corruption by making all transactions mere
matters of business? If there was no longer any penalty attached to the
sale and barter of public privileges, such sale and barter would cease
to be dishonor and crime. We should be better if we were infinitely
worse. The theory may appear bold at first blush,--no, not at first
blush, for blushes are to be done away with,--at first sight, I will say
in preference; it may appear bold, but after much reflection I have
decided that it is the only practicable one."

"It is undoubtedly brilliant," replied Richard; "but, as you say, it
would simplify matters wonderfully. I should not be at such a loss to
know what Senator Blundel will do, for instance, and my appetite for
luncheon would be better."

"It might possibly be worse," suggested Miss Varien.

Richard glanced at her quickly.

"That is a remark which evidently has a foundation," he said. "I wish
you would tell me what prompted it."

"I am not sure it was very discreet," was the reply. "My personal
knowledge of Senator Blundel prompted it."

"You know him very well," said Richard, with some eagerness.

"I should not venture to say I knew any one very well," she said, in the
captivating voice which gave to all her words such value and
suggestiveness. "I know him as I know many other men like him. I was
born a politician, and existence without my politics would be an arid
desert to me. I have talked to him and read his speeches, and followed
him in his career for some time. I have even asked questions about him,
and, consequently, I know something of his methods. I _think_--you see,
I only say I think--I know what he will do."

"In Heaven's name, what is it?" demanded Richard.

She unfurled her fan and smiled over it with the delightful gleam of
little white teeth.

"He will take his time," she answered. "He is slow, and prides himself
on being sure. Your bill will not be acted upon; it will be set aside to
lie over until the next session of Congress."

Richard felt as if he changed color, but he bore himself with outward
discretion.

"You have some ulterior motive," he said. "Having invited me to remain
to luncheon, you seek to render me incapable of doing myself justice.
You saw in my eye the wolfish hunger which is the result of interviews
with the savage senator and the pitiless member of Congress. Now I see
the value of your theory. If it were in practice, I could win Blundel
over with gold. What is your opinion of his conscience as it stands?"

It was said with admirable lightness and answered in a like strain, but
he had never been more anxiously on the alert than he was as he watched
Miss Varien's vivacious and subtly expressive face.

"I have not reached it yet," she said. "And consciences are of such
different make and material; I have not decided whether his is made of
interest or honesty. He is a mixture of shrewdness and crudeness which
is very baffling; just when you are arguing from the shrewdness the
crudeness displays itself, and _vice versá_. But, as I said, I _think_
your bill will not be acted upon."

And then they went into luncheon, and, as he ate his lobster-salad and
made himself agreeable beyond measure, Richard wondered, with an inward
tremor, if she could be right.




CHAPTER XXIX.


Mrs. Sylvestre did not leave town early. The weather was reasonably
cool, the house on Lafayette Square was comfortable, and Washington in
spring is at its loveliest. She liked the lull after the season, and
enjoyed it to its utmost, wisely refusing all invitations to fitful
after-Lent gayeties. She held no more receptions, but saw her more
intimate acquaintances in the evening, when they made their informal
calls. With each week that passed, her home gave her greater pleasure
and grew prettier.

"I never lose interest in it," she said to Arbuthnot. "It is a continued
delight to me. I find that I think of it a great deal, and am fond of it
almost as if it was a friend I had found. I think I must have been
intended for a housewife."

Mrs. Merriam's liking for Laurence Arbuthnot having increased as their
acquaintance progressed, his intimacy in the household became more and
more an established fact.

"One should always number among one's acquaintance," the clever dowager
remarked, "an agreeable, well-bred, and reliable man-friend,--a man one
can ask to do things, if unforeseen occasions arise. He must be
agreeable, since one must be intimate with him, and for the same reason
he must be well-bred. Notwithstanding our large circle, we are a rather
lonely pair, my dear."

Gradually Mrs. Sylvestre herself had found a slight change taking place
in her manner toward Arbuthnot. She became conscious of liking him
better, and of giving him more mental attention, as she saw him more
familiarly. The idea dawned by slow degrees upon her that the
triviality of which she accused him was of an unusual order; that it was
accompanied by qualities and peculiarities which did not seem to belong
to it. She had discovered that he could deny himself pleasures he
desired; that he was secretly thoughtful for others; that he was--also
secretly--determined, and that he had his serious moments, however
persistently he endeavored to conceal them. Perhaps the professor had
given her more information concerning him than she could have gained by
observation in any comparatively short space of time. "This frivolous
fellow," he said to her one night, laying an affectionate hand on
Arbuthnot's arm, as they were on the point of leaving the house
together, after having spent the evening there,--"this frivolous fellow
is the friend of my old age. I wonder why."

"So do I," said Arbuthnot. "I assure you that you could not find a
reason, professor."

"There is a kind of reason," returned the professor, "though it is
scarcely worthy of the name. This frivolous fellow is not such a trifler
as he seems, and it interests me to see his seriousness continually
getting the better of him when he fancies he has got it under and
trodden it under his feet."

Arbuthnot laughed again,--the full, careless laugh which was so
excellent an answer to everything.

"He maligns me, this dissector of the emotions," he said. "He desires
artfully to give you the impression that I am not serious by nature. I
am, in fact, seriousness itself. It is the wicked world which gets the
better of me."

Which statement Mrs. Sylvestre might have chosen to place some reliance
in as being a plausible one, if she had not seen the professor at other
times, when he spoke of this friendship of his. It was certainly a warm
one, and then, feeling that there must be reason for it, she began to
see these reasons for herself, and appreciate something of their
significance and value.

The change which finally revealed itself in her manner was so subtle in
its character that Arbuthnot himself could not be sure when he had first
felt it; sometimes he fancied it had been at one time, and again at
another, and even now it was not easy for him to explain to himself why
he knew that they were better friends.

But there was an incident in their acquaintance which he always
remembered as a landmark.

This incident occurred at the close of the season. One bright moonlight
night, having a fancy for making a call upon Bertha, who was not well
enough to go out for several days, Mrs. Sylvestre made the visit on
foot, accompanied by her maid. The night was so pleasant that they were
walking rather slowly under the trees near Lafayette Park, when their
attention was attracted by the sound of suppressed sobbing, which came
from one of two figures standing in the shadow, near the railings, a few
yards ahead of them. The figures were those of a man and a young woman,
and the instant she saw the man, who was well dressed, Agnes Sylvestre
felt her heart leap in her side, for she recognized Laurence Arbuthnot.
He stood quite near the woman, and seemed trying to console or control
her, while she--less a woman than a girl, and revealing in her childish
face and figure all that is most pathetic in youth and
helplessness--wept and wrung her hands.

"You must be quiet and have more confidence in"--Agnes heard Arbuthnot
say; and then, prompted by some desperate desire to hear no more, and to
avoid being seen, she spoke to her maid.

"Marie," she said, "we will cross the street."

But when they had crossed the street some chill in the night air seemed
to have struck her, and she began to shiver so that Marie looked at her
in some affright.

"Madame is cold," she said. "Is it possible that madame has a chill?"

"I am afraid so," her mistress replied, turning about hurriedly. "I
will not make the visit. I will return home."

A few minutes later, Mrs. Merriam, who had settled her small figure
comfortably in a large arm-chair by the fire, and prepared to spend the
rest of the evening with a new book, looked up from its first chapter in
amazement, as her niece entered the room.

"Agnes!" she exclaimed. "What has happened! Are you ill? Why, child! you
are as white as a lily."

It was true that Mrs. Sylvestre's fair face had lost all trace of its
always delicate color, and that her hands trembled as she drew off her
gloves.

"I began--suddenly--to feel so cold," she said, "that I thought it
better to come back."

Mrs. Merriam rose anxiously.

"I hope it is not malaria, after all," she said. "I shall begin to think
the place is as bad as Rome. You must have some hot wine."

"Send it upstairs, if you please," said Agnes. "I am going to my room;
there is a large fire there."

And she went out as suddenly as she had appeared.

"I really believe she does not wish me to follow her," said Mrs. Merriam
to herself.

"_Is_ this malaria?" And having pondered upon this question, while she
gave orders that the wine should be heated, she returned to her book
after doing it, with the decision, "No, it is not."

Agnes drank very little of the wine when it was brought. She sat by the
fire in her room and did not regain her color. The cold which had struck
her had struck very deep; she felt as if she could not soon get warm
again. Her eyes had a stern look as they rested on the fire; her
delicate mouth was set into a curve of hopeless, bitter scorn; the quiet
which settled upon her was even a little terrible, in some mysterious
way. She heard a ring at the door-bell, but did not move, though she
knew a caller was allowed to go to Mrs. Merriam. She was not in a mood
to see callers; she could see nobody; she wished to be left alone; but,
in about half an hour, a servant came into her room.

"Mr. Arbuthnot is downstairs, and Mrs. Merriam wishes to know if Mrs.
Sylvestre is better."

Mrs. Sylvestre hesitated a second before she replied.

"Say to Mrs. Merriam that I am better, and will join her."

She was as white as ever when she rose, even a shade whiter, and she
felt like marble, though she no longer trembled.

"I will go down," she said, mechanically. "Yes, I will go down."

What she meant to say or do when she entered the room below perhaps she
had not clearly decided herself. As she came in, and Arbuthnot rose to
receive her, he felt a startled thrill of apprehension and surprise.

"I am afraid you are not really better," he said. "Perhaps I should not
have asked to be allowed to see you."

He had suddenly an absurd feeling that there was such distance between
them--that something inexplicable had set them so far apart--that it
might almost be necessary to raise his voice to make her hear him.

"Thank you," she replied. "I was not really ill," and passed the chair
he offered her, as if not seeing it, taking another one which placed the
table between them.

Arbuthnot gave her a steady glance and sat down himself. Resolving in a
moment's time that something incomprehensible had happened, he gathered
himself together with another resolve, which did equal credit to his
intelligence and presence of mind. This resolution was that he would not
permit himself to be overborne by the mystery until he understood what
it was, and that he would understand what it was before he left the
house, if such a thing were possible. He had the coolness and courage to
refuse to be misunderstood.

"I should not have hoped to see you," he said, in a quiet, level tone,
still watching her, "but Mrs. Merriam was so kind as to think you would
be interested in something I came to tell her."

"Of course she will be interested," said Mrs. Merriam. "Such a story
would interest any woman. Tell it to her at once."

"I wish you would do it for me," said Arbuthnot, with a rather reluctant
accession of gravity. "It is really out of my line. You will make it
touching--women see things so differently. I'll confess to you that I
only see the miserable, sordid, forlorn side of it, and don't know what
to do with the pathos. When that poor, little wretch cried at me and
wrung her hands I had not the remotest idea what I ought to say to stop
her--and Heaven knows I wanted her to stop. I could only make the
mistaken remark that she must have confidence in me, and I would do my
best for the childish, irresponsible pair of them, though why they
should have confidence in me I can only say 'Heaven knows,' again."

After she had seated herself Agnes had lightly rested her head upon her
hand, as if to shade her eyes somewhat. When Arbuthnot began to speak
she had stirred, dropping her hand a moment later and leaning forward;
at this juncture she rose from her chair, and came forward with a swift,
unconscious-looking movement. She stood up before Arbuthnot, and spoke
to him.

"I wish to hear the story very much," she said, with a thrill of appeal
in her sweet voice. "I wish you to tell it to me. You will tell it
as--as we should hear it."

Nothing but a prolonged and severe course of training could have enabled
Arbuthnot to preserve at this moment his outward composure. Indeed, he
was by no means sure that it was preserved intact; he was afraid that
his blond countenance flushed a little, and that his eyes were not
entirely steady. He felt it necessary to assume a lightness of demeanor
entirely out of keeping with his mental condition.

"I appreciate your confidence in me," he answered, "all the more
because I feel my entire inadequacy to the situation. The person who
could tell it as you ought to hear it is the young woman who waylaid me
with tears near Lafayette Park about half an hour ago. She is a very
young woman, in fact, an infant, who is legally united in marriage to
another infant, who has been in the employ of the government, in the
building I adorn with my presence. Why they felt it incumbent upon
themselves to marry on an income of seventy-five dollars a month they do
not explain in any manner at all satisfactory to the worldly mind. They
did so, however, and lived together for several months in what is
described as a state of bliss. They had two small rooms, and the female
infant wore calico gowns, and did her own ridiculous, sordid, inferior
housework, and rejoiced in the society of the male infant when a
grateful nation released him from his daily labors."

Agnes quietly slipped into the chair he had first placed for her. She
did it with a gentle, yielding movement, to which he was so little blind
that he paused a second and looked at the fire, and made a point of
resuming his story with a lighter air than before.

"They could not have been either happy or content under such absurd
circumstances," he said; "but they thought they were. I used to see the
male infant beaming over his labors in a manner to infuriate you. His
wife used to come down to bear him from the office to the two rooms in a
sort of triumphal procession. She had round eyes and dimples in her
cheeks, and a little, round head with curls. Her husband, whose tastes
were simple, regarded her as a beauty, and was given to confiding his
opinion of her to his fellow-clerks. There was no objection to him but
his youth and innocence. I am told he worked with undue enthusiasm in
the hope of keeping his position, or even getting a better one, and had
guileless, frenzied dreams of being able, in the course of the ensuing
century, to purchase a small house 'on time.' I don't ask you to
believe me when I tell you that the pair actually had such a house in
their imbecile young minds, and had saved out of their starvation income
a few dollars toward making their first payment on it. I didn't believe
the man who told me, and I assure you he is a far more reliable fellow
than I am."

He paused a second more. Was it possible that he found himself obliged
to do so?

"They said," he added, "they said they 'wanted a home.'"

He heard a soft, little sound at his side,--a soft, emotional little
sound. It came from Mrs. Sylvestre. She sat with her slender hands
clasped upon her knee, and, as the little sound broke from her lips, she
clasped them more closely.

"Ah!" she said. "Ah! poor children!"

Arbuthnot went on.

"Ought I to blush to admit that I watched these two young candidates for
Saint Elizabeth, and the poorhouse, with interest? They assisted me to
beguile away some weary hours in speculation. I wondered when they would
begin to be tired of each other; when they would find out their mistake,
and loathe the paltriness of their surroundings; when the female infant
would discover that her dimples might have been better invested, and
that calico gowns were unworthy of her charms? I _do_ blush to confess
that I scraped an acquaintance with the male infant, with a view to
drawing forth his views on matrimony and life as a whole. He had been
wont to smoke inferior cigarettes in the days of his gay and
untrammelled bachelorhood, but had given up the luxurious habit on
engaging himself to the object of his affections. He remarked to me that
'a man ought to have principle enough to deny himself things when he had
something to deny himself for, and when a man had a wife and a home he
_had_ something to deny himself for, and if he was a man he'd do it.'
He was very ingenuous, and very fond of enlarging confidingly upon
domestic topics and virtues and joys, and being encouraged could be
relied upon so to enlarge--always innocently and with inoffensive,
youthful enthusiasm--until deftly headed off by the soulless worldling.
I gave him cigars, and an order of attention, which seemed to please
him. He remarked to his fellow-clerks that I was a man who had
'principles' and 'feelings,' consequently I felt grateful to him. He had
great confidence in 'principles.' The bold thought had presented itself
to him that if we were more governed by 'principles,' as a nation, we
should thrive better, and there would be less difficulty in steering the
ship of state; but he advanced the opinion hesitantly as fearing
injustice to his country in the suggestion."

"You are making him very attractive," said Mrs. Merriam. "There is
something touching about it all."

"He was attractive to me," returned Laurence, "and he was touching at
times. He was crude, and by no means brilliant, but there wasn't an evil
spot in him; and his beliefs were of a strength and magnitude to bring a
blush to the cheek of the most hardened. He recalled the dreams of
youth, and even in his most unintelligently ardent moments appealed to
one. Taking all these things into consideration, you will probably see
that it was likely to be something of a blow to him to find himself
suddenly thrown out upon the world without any resource whatever."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Sylvestre, earnestly. "Surely you are not going to
tell us"--

"That he has lost his office," said Laurence. "Yes. Thrown out.
Reason--place wanted for some one else. I shouldn't call it a good
reason myself. I find others who would not call it a good reason; but
what are you going to do?"

"What did he do?" asked Agnes.

"He came into my room one day," answered Laurence, "just as I was
leaving it. He was white and his lips trembled in a boyish way that
struck me at the moment as being rather awful. He looked as if he had
been knocked down. He said to me, 'Mr. Arbuthnot, I've lost my place,'
and then, after staring at me a few seconds, he added, 'Mr. Arbuthnot,
what would you do?'"

"It is very cruel," said Agnes. "It is very hard."

"It is as cruel as Death!" said Arbuthnot. "It is as hard as Life! That
such a thing is possible--that the bread and home and hopes of any
honest, human creature should be used as the small change of power above
him, and trafficked with to sustain that power and fix it in its place
to make the most of itself and its greed, is the burning shame and
burden which is slung around our necks, and will keep us from standing
with heads erect until we are lightened of it."

He discovered that he was in earnest, and recklessly allowed himself to
continue in earnest until he had said his say. He knew the
self-indulgence was indiscreet, and felt the indiscretion all the more
when he ended and found himself confronted by Mrs. Sylvestre's eyes.
They were fixed upon him, and wore an expression he had never had the
pleasure of seeing in them before. It was an expression full of charming
emotion, and the color was coming and going in her cheek.

"Go on," she said, rather tremulously, "if you please."

"I did not go on," he replied. "I regret to say I couldn't. I was unable
to tell him what I should do."

"But you tried to comfort him?" said Agnes. "I am sure you did what you
could."

"It was very little," said Laurence. "I let him talk, and led him on a
little to--well, to talking about his wife. It seemed the only thing at
the moment. I found it possible to recall to his mind one or two things
he had told me of her,--probably doing it in a most inefficient
manner,--but he appeared to appreciate the effort. The idea presented
itself to me that it would be well to brace him up and give him a less
deathly look before he went home to her, as she was not very well, and a
childish creature at best. I probably encouraged him unduly; but I had
an absurd sense of being somehow responsible for the preservation of the
two rooms and the peace of mind of the female infant, and the truth is,
I have felt it ever since, and so has she."

He was extremely conscious of Mrs. Sylvestre's soft and earnest eyes.

"That was the reason she called to see me to-night, and, finding I had
just left the house, followed me. Tom is ill,--his name is Tom Bosworth.
It is nearly two months since he lost his place, and he has walked
himself to a shadow in making efforts to gain another. He has written
letters and presented letters; he has stood outside doors until he was
faint with hunger; he has interviewed members of Congress, senators,
heads of departments, officials great and small. He has hoped and longed
and waited, and taken buffetings meekly. He is not a strong fellow, and
it has broken him up. He has had several chills, and is thin and nervous
and excitable. Kitty--his wife's name is Kitty--is pale and thin too.
She has lost her dimples, and her eyes look like a sad little owl's, and
always have tears in them, which she manages to keep from falling so
long as Tom is within sight. To-night she wanted to ask me if I knew any
ladies who would give her sewing. She thinks she might sew until Tom
gets a place again."

"I will give her sewing," exclaimed Agnes. "I can do something for them
if they will let me. Oh, I am very glad that I can!"

"I felt sure you would be," said Arbuthnot. "I thought of you at once,
and wished you could see her as I saw her."

She answered him a little hurriedly, and he wondered why her voice
faltered.

"I will see her to-morrow," she said, "if you will give me the
address."

"I have naturally wondered if it was possible that anything could be
done for the husband," he said. "If you could use your influence in any
way,--you see how inevitably we come to that; it always becomes a
question of influence; our very charities are of the nature of schemes;
it is in the air we breathe."

"I will do what I can," she replied. "I will do anything--anything you
think would be best."

Mrs. Merriam checked herself on the very verge of looking up, but though
by an effort she confined herself to apparently giving all her attention
to her knitting-needles for a few moments, she lost the effect of
neither words nor voice. "No," she made mental comment, "it was _not_
malaria."

Arbuthnot had never passed such an evening in the house as this one
proved to be, and he had spent many agreeable evenings there. To-night
there was a difference. Some barrier had melted or suddenly broken down.
Mrs. Sylvestre was more beautiful than he had ever seen her. It thrilled
his very soul to hear her speak to him and to look at her. While still
entirely ignorant of the cause of her displeasure against him he knew
that it was removed; that in some mysterious way she had recognized the
injustice of it, and was impelled by a sweet, generous penitence to
endeavor to make atonement. There was something almost like the humility
of appeal in her voice and eyes. She did not leave him to Mrs. Merriam,
but talked to him herself. When he went away, after he had left her at
the parlor door, she lingered a moment upon the threshold, then crossed
it, and followed him into the hall. They had been speaking of the
Bosworths, and he fancied she was going to ask some last question. But
she did not; she simply paused a short distance from where he stood and
looked at him. He had often observed it in her, that she possessed the
inestimable gift of being able to stand still and remain silent with
perfect grace, in such a manner that speech and movement seemed
unnecessary; but he felt that she had something to say now and scarcely
knew how best to say it, and it occurred to him that he might, perhaps,
help her.

"You are very much better than you were when I came in," he said.

She put out her hand with a gentle, almost grateful gesture.

"Yes, I am much better," she said. "I was not well--or happy. I thought
that I had met with a misfortune; but it was a mistake."

"I am glad it was a mistake," he answered. "I hope such things will
always prove so."

And, a quick flush rising to his face, he bent and touched with his lips
the slim, white fingers lying upon his palm.

The flush had not died away when he found himself in the street; he felt
its glow with a sense of anger and impatience.

"I might have known better than to do such a thing," he said. "I _did_
know better. I am a fool yet, it seems--a fool!"

But, notwithstanding this, the evening was a landmark. From that time
forward Mrs. Merriam looked upon the intimacy with renewed interest. She
found Agnes very attractive in the new attitude she assumed toward their
acquaintance. She indulged no longer in her old habit of depreciating
him delicately when she spoke of him, which was rarely; her tone
suggested to her relative that she was desirous of atoning to herself
for her past coldness and injustice. There was a delicious hint of this
in her manner toward him, quiet as it was; once or twice Mrs. Merriam
had seen her defer to him, and display a disposition to adapt herself to
his opinions, which caused a smile to flicker across her discreet
countenance. Their mutual interest in their _protégées_ was a tie
between them, and developed a degree of intimacy which had never before
existed. The day after hearing their story Agnes had paid the young
people a visit. The two rooms in the third story of a boarding-house
presented their modest household goods to her very touchingly. The very
bridal newness of the cheap furniture struck her as being pathetic, and
the unsophisticated adornments in the form of chromos and bright
tidies--the last, Kitty's own handiwork--expressed to her mind their
innocent sentiment. Kitty looked new herself, as she sat sewing, in a
little rocking-chair, drawn near to the sofa on which Tom lay, flushed
and bright-eyed after his chill; but there were premonitory signs of
wear on her pretty, childish face. She rose, evidently terribly nervous
and very much frightened at the prospect of receiving her visitor, when
Mrs. Sylvestre entered, and, though reassured somewhat by the mention of
Arbuthnot's name, glanced timorously at Tom in appeal for assistance
from him. Tom gave it. His ingenuous mind knew very little fear. He
tried to stagger to his feet, smiling, but was so dizzy that he made an
ignominious failure, and sat down again at Agnes' earnest request.

"Thank you," he said. "I will, if you don't mind. It's one of my bad
days, and the fever makes my head go round. Don't look so down-hearted,
Kitty. Mrs. Sylvestre knows chills don't count for much. You see," he
said to Agnes, with an effort at buoyancy of manner, "they knock a man
over a little, and it frightens her."

Agnes took a seat beside the little rocking-chair, and there was
something in the very gentleness of her movements which somewhat calmed
Kitty's tremor.

"It is very natural that she should feel anxious, even when there is
only slight cause," Mrs. Sylvestre said, in her low, sweet voice. "Of
course, the cause is slight in your case. It is only necessary that you
should be a little careful."

"That's all," responded Tom. "A man with a wife and home can't be too
careful. He's got others to think of besides himself."

But, notwithstanding his cheerfulness and his bright eyes, he was
plainly weaker than he realized, and was rather glad to lie down again,
though he did it apologetically.

"Mr. Arbuthnot came in this morning and told us you were coming," he
said. "You know him pretty well, I suppose."

"I see him rather frequently," answered Agnes; "but perhaps I do not
know him very well."

"Ah!" said Tom. "You've got to know him very well to find out what sort
of fellow he is; you've got to know him as _I_ know him--as _we_ know
him. Eh! Kitty?"

"Yes," responded Kitty, a little startled by finding herself referred
to; "only you know him best, Tom. You see, you're a man"--

"Yes," said Tom, with innocent complacency, "of course it's easier for
men to understand each other. You see"--to Agnes, though with a fond
glance at Kitty--"Kitty was a little afraid of him. She's shy, and
hasn't seen much of the world, and he's such a swell, in a quiet way,
and when she used to come to the office for me, and caught a glimpse of
him, she thought he was always making fun of everything."

"I thought he _looked_ as if he was," put in Kitty. "And his voice
sounded that way when he spoke to you, Tom. I even used to think,
sometimes, that he was laughing a little at _you_--and I didn't like
it."

"Bless you!" responded Tom, "he wasn't thinking of such a thing. He's
got too much principle to make friends with a fellow, and then laugh at
him. What I've always liked in him was his principle."

"I think there are a great many things to like in him," said Mrs.
Sylvestre.

"There's everything to like in him," said Tom, "though, you see, I
didn't find that out at first. The truth is, I thought he was rather
too much of a swell for his means. I've told him so since we've been
more intimate, and he said that I was not mistaken; that he was too much
of a swell for his means, but that was the fault of his means, and the
government ought to attend to it as a sacred duty. You see the trouble
is he hasn't a family. And what a fellow he would be to take care of a
woman! I told him that, too, once, and he threw back his head and
laughed; but he didn't laugh long. It seemed to me that it set him off
thinking, he was so still after it."

"He'd be very good to his wife," said Kitty, timidly. "He's very kind to
me."

"Yes," Tom went on, rejoicing in himself, "he sees things that men don't
see, generally. Think of his noticing that you weren't wrapped up enough
that cold day we met him, and going into his place to get a shawl from
his landlady, and making me put it on!"

"And don't you remember," said Kitty, "the day he made me so ashamed,
because he said my basket was too heavy, and would carry it all the way
home for me?"

Tom laughed triumphantly.

"He would have carried a stove-pipe just the same way," he said, "and
have looked just as cool about it. You'd no need to be ashamed; _he_
wasn't. And it's not only that: see how he asks me about you, and cheers
me up, and helps me along by talking to me about you when I'm knocked
over, and says that you mustn't be troubled, and I must bear up, because
I've got you to take care of, and that when two people are as fond of
each other as we are, they've got something to hold on to that will help
them to let the world go by and endure anything that don't part them."

"He said that to me, too, Tom," said Kitty, the ready tears starting to
her eyes. "He said it last night when I met him on the street and
couldn't help crying because you were ill. He said I must bear up for
you--and he was so nice that I forgot to be afraid of him at all. When
I began to cry it frightened me, because I thought he wouldn't like it,
and that made it so much worse that I couldn't stop, and he just put my
hand on his arm and took me into Lafayette Park, where there was a seat
in a dark corner under the trees. And he made me sit down and said,
'Don't be afraid to cry. It will do you good, and you had better do it
before me than before Tom. Cry as much as you like. I will walk away a
few steps until you are better.' And he did, and I cried until I was
quiet, and then he came back to me and told me about Mrs. Sylvestre."

"He's got feelings," said Tom, a trifle brokenly,--"he's got feelings
and--and principles. It makes a man think better of the world, even when
he's discouraged, and it's dealt hard with him."

Mrs. Sylvestre looked out of the nearest window, there was a very
feminine tremor in her throat, and something seemed to be melting before
her eyes; she was full of the pain of regret and repentance; there rose
in her mind a picture of herself as she had sat before the fire in her
silent room; she could not endure the memory of her own bitter contempt
and scorn; she wished she might do something to make up for that half
hour; she wished that it were possible that she might drive down to the
Treasury and present herself at a certain door, and appeal for pardon
with downcast eyes and broken voice. She was glad to remember the light
touch upon her hand, even though it had been so very light, and he had
left her after it so hurriedly.

"I am glad he spoke to you of me," she said. "I--I am grateful to him. I
think I can help you. I hope you will let me. I know a great many
people, and I might ask for their influence. I will do
anything--anything Mr. Arbuthnot thinks best."

Tom gave her a warmly grateful glance, his susceptible heart greatly
moved by the sweetness and tremor of her voice. She was just the woman,
it seemed to him, to be the friend of such a man as his hero; only a
woman as beautiful, as sympathetic, and having that delicate,
undefinable air of belonging to the great enchanted world, in which he
confidingly believed Arbuthnot figured with unrivalled effect, could be
worthy of him. It was characteristic of his simple nature that he should
admire immensely his friend's social popularity and acquirements, and
dwell upon their unbounded splendor with affectionate reverence.

"He's a society fellow," he had said to Kitty, in his first description
of him. "A regular society fellow! Always dressed just so, you
know--sort of quiet style, but exactly up to the mark. He knows
everybody and gets invited everywhere, though he makes believe he only
gets taken in because he can dance and wait in the supper-room. He's out
somewhere every night, bless you, and spends half his salary on kid
gloves and flowers. He says people ought to supply them to fellows like
him, as they supply gloves and hat-bands at English funerals. He doesn't
save anything; you know, he can't, and he knows it's a mistake, but you
see when a fellow is what he is, it's not easy to break off with
everything. These society people want such fellows, and they _will_ have
them."

It had been this liberal description of his exalted position and elegant
habits which had caused Kitty to stand greatly in awe of him, at the
outset, and to feel that her bearing would never stand the test of
criticism by so proficient an expert, and she had trembled before him
accordingly and felt herself unworthy of his condescending notice, until
having, on one or two occasions, seen something in his manner which did
not exactly coincide with her conception of him as a luxurious and
haughty worldling, she had gained a little courage. She had been greatly
alarmed at the sight of Mrs. Sylvestre, feeling vaguely that she, also,
was a part of these mysterious splendors; but after she heard the soft
break in the tone in which she said, with such gentle simplicity, "I
will do anything--anything--Mr. Arbuthnot thinks best," she felt
timorous no more, and allowed herself to be led into telling her little
story, with a girlish pathos which would have melted Agnes Sylvestre's
heart, if it had not been melted already. It might, perhaps, better have
been called Tom's story than her own, as it was all about Tom,--Tom's
struggles, Tom's disappointments, Tom's hopes, which all seemed
prostrated; the little house Tom had been thinking of buying and making
nice for her; the member of Congress who had snubbed Tom; the senator
who had been rough with him; the cold he had taken; the chills and
fevers which had resulted; the pain in his side. "We have used all our
money," she ended, with a touching little catch of her breath,--"if it
had not been for Mr. Arbuthnot--Mr. Arbuthnot"--

"Yes," said Tom, wofully, "he'll have to go without a pair or so of
gloves this month and smoke fewer cigars; and I couldn't have believed
that there was a man living I could have borne to take money from, but,
somehow, he made it seem almost as if he owed it to me."

When Mrs. Sylvestre went away she left hope and comfort behind her.
Kitty followed her into the passage with new light in her eyes.

"If I have the sewing," she said, clasping her hands, "it will be _such_
a load off Tom's mind to know that we have a little money, that he will
get better. And he knows I like sewing; so, perhaps, he will not mind it
so much. I am so thankful to you! If Tom will only get well," she
exclaimed, in a broken whisper,--"if Tom will only get well!" And,
suddenly, in response to some look on Agnes' face, and a quick,
caressing gesture, she leaned forward, and was folded in her arms.

It is very natural to most women to resort to the simple feminine device
of tears, but it was not often Mrs. Sylvestre so indulged herself, and
there were tears in her eyes and in her voice, too, as she held the
gentle, childish creature to her breast. She had felt a great deal
during the last twenty-four hours, and the momentary display of emotion
was a relief to her. "He will get better," she said, with almost
maternal tenderness, "and you must help him by taking care of yourself,
and giving him no cause for anxiety. You must let me help to take care
of you. We will do all we can,"--and there was something akin to fresh
relief to her in the mere use of the little word "we."




CHAPTER XXX.


Mrs. Merriam saw faint traces of tears in Mrs. Sylvestre's eyes when she
returned from her call on the Bosworths, and speculated, with some
wonder, as to what her exact mental condition was, but asked very few
questions, feeling that, upon the whole, she would prefer to hear the
version of the story given to Mr. Arbuthnot when he called. He did so
the following evening, and, having seen the Bosworths in the interval,
had comments of his own to make.

"It was very good in you to call so soon," he said to Agnes.

"I wished very much to call," she replied. "I could not have waited
longer."

"You left a transcendent impression," said Arbuthnot. "Tom was very
enthusiastic, and Kitty feels that all their troubles are things of the
past."

"They talked to me a great deal of you," said Agnes. "I felt after
hearing them that I had not known you very well--and wished that I had
known you better."

She said it with a sweet gravity which he found strangely disturbing;
but his reply did not commit him to any special feeling.

"They will prove fatal to me, I see," he said. "Don't allow them to
prejudice you against me in that manner."

"I wish," she said, "that my friends might be prejudiced against me in
the same way."

Then he revealed a touch of earnestness in spite of himself. They had
both been standing upon the hearth, and he took a step toward her.

"For pity's sake," he said, "don't overrate me! Women are always too
generous. Don't you see, you will find me out, and then it will be
worse for me than before."

She stood in one of her perfect, motionless attitudes, and looked down
at the rug.

"I wish to find you out," she said, slowly. "I have done you injustice."

And then she turned away and walked across the room to a table where
there were some books, and when she returned she brought one of them
with her and began to speak of it. He always felt afterward that the
memory of this "injustice," as she called it, was constantly before her,
and he would have been more than human if he had not frequently wondered
what it was. He could not help feeling that it had taken a definite
form, and that she had been betrayed into it on the evening he had first
spoken to her of the Bosworths, and that somehow his story had saved him
in her eyes. But he naturally forbore to ask questions or even touch
upon the subject, and thanked the gods for the good which befell him as
a result of the evil he had escaped. And yet, as the time passed by, and
he went oftener to the house, and found keener pleasure in each visit,
he had his seasons of fearing that it was not all going to be gain for
him; when he faced the truth, indeed, he knew that it was not all gain,
and yet he was not stoic enough to turn his back and fly.

"It will cost!" he said to himself. "It will cost! But"--

And then he would set his lips together and be silent for an hour or so,
and those of his acquaintance who demanded constant vivacity from him
began to wonder among themselves if he was quite the fellow he had been.
If the friendship was pleasant during the season, it was pleasanter when
the gayeties ceased and the spring set in, with warmer air and sunshine,
and leaves and blossoms in the parks. There was a softness in the
atmosphere not conducive to sternness of purpose and self-denial. As he
walked to and from his office he found his thoughts wandering in paths
he felt were dangerous, and once, unexpectedly meeting Mrs. Sylvestre
when so indulging himself, he started and gained such sudden color that
she flushed also, and, having stopped to speak to him, forgot what she
had intended to say, and was a little angry, both with herself and him,
when a confusing pause followed their greeting.

Their interest in the Bosworths was a tie between them which gave them
much in common. Agnes went to see them often, and took charge of Kitty,
watching over and caring for her in a tender, half-maternal fashion.
Arbuthnot took private pleasure in contemplating. He liked to hear Kitty
talk about her, and, indeed, had on more than one occasion led her with
some dexterity into doing so. It was through Kitty, at last, that his
mystery was solved for him.

This happened in the spring. There had been several warm days, one so
unusually warm, at last, that in the evening Mrs. Sylvestre accepted his
invitation to spend an hour or so on the river with him. On their way
there they stopped to leave a basket of fruit for Tom, whose condition
was far from being what they had hoped for, and while making their call
Kitty made a remark which caused Arbuthnot's pulse to accelerate its
pace somewhat.

"When you saw me crying on the street that night," she began, addressing
Agnes. Arbuthnot turned upon her quickly.

"What night?" he asked.

"The night you took me into Lafayette Square," said Kitty; "Mrs.
Sylvestre saw me, though I did not know it until yesterday. She was
going to call on Mrs. Amory, and"--

Arbuthnot looked at Agnes; he could not have forborne, whatever the look
had cost him. The color came into her cheek and died out.

"Did you?" he demanded.

"Yes," she answered, and rose and walked to the window, and stood there
perfectly still.

Arbuthnot did not hear the remainder of Kitty's remarks. He replied to
them blindly, and as soon as possible left his chair and went to the
window himself.

"If you are ready, perhaps we had better go," he said.

They went out of the room and down the stairs in silence. He wanted to
give himself time to collect his thoughts, and get the upper hand of a
frantic feeling of passionate anger which had taken possession of him.
If he had spoken he might have said something savage, which he would
have repented afterward in sackcloth and ashes. His sense of the
injustice he had suffered, however momentary, at the hands of this woman
whose opinion he cared for, was natural, masculine, and fierce. He saw
everything in a flash, and for a moment or so forgot all else in his
bitterness of spirit. But his usual coolness came to the rescue when
this moment was past, and he began to treat himself scornfully, as was
his custom. There was no reason why she should not think ill of him,
circumstances evidently having been against him, he said to himself; she
knew nothing specially good of him; she had all grounds for regarding
him as a creature with neither soul nor purpose nor particularly fixed
principles, and with no other object in life than the gratification of
his fancies; why should she believe in him against a rather black array
in the form of facts? It was not agreeable, but why blame her? He would
not blame her or indulge in any such personal folly. Then he glanced at
her and saw that the color had not come back to her face. When he roused
himself to utter a civil, commonplace remark or so, there was the sound
of fatigue in her voice when she answered him, and it was very low. She
did not seem inclined to talk, and he had the consideration to leave her
to herself as much as possible until they reached the boat-house. He
arranged her cushions and wraps in the boat with care and dexterity,
and, when he took the oars, felt that he had himself pretty well in
hand. The river was very quiet, and the last glow of sunset red was
slowly changing to twilight purple on the water; a sickle-shaped moon
hung in the sky, and somewhere farther up the shore a night bird was
uttering brief, plaintive cries. Agnes sat at the end of the boat, with
her face a little turned away, as if she were listening to the sound.
Arbuthnot wondered if she was, and thought again that she looked tired
and a little pathetic. If he had known all her thoughts he would have
felt the pathos in her eyes a thousand times more keenly.

She had a white hyacinth in her hand, whose odor seemed to reach him
more powerfully at each stroke of the oars, and at last she turned and
spoke, looking down at the flower.

"The saddest things that are left to one of a bitter experience," she
said, in a low voice, "are the knowledge and distrust that come of it."

"They are very natural results," he replied, briefly.

"Oh, they are very hard!" she exclaimed. "They are very hard. They leave
a stain on all one's life, and--and it can never be wiped away.
Sometimes I think it is impossible to be generous--to be kind--to trust
at all"--

Her voice broke; she put her hands up before her face, and he saw her
tremble.

"One may have been innocent," she said, "and have believed--and thought
no evil--but after one has been so stained"--

He stopped rowing.

"There is no stain," he said. "Don't call it one."

"It must be one," she said, "when one sees evil, and is suspicious, and
on the alert to discover wrong. But it brings suffering, as if it were a
punishment. I have suffered."

He paused a second and answered, looking backward over his shoulder.

"So did I--for a moment," he said. "But it is over now. Don't think of
me."

"I must think of you," she said. "How could I help it?"

She turned a little more toward him and leaned forward, the most
exquisite appeal in her delicate face, the most exquisite pathos in her
unsteady voice.

"If I ask you to forgive me," she said, "you will only say that I was
forgiven before I asked. I know that. I wish I could say something else.
I wish--I wish I knew what to do."

He looked up the river and down, and then suddenly at her. The set,
miserable expression of his face startled her, and caused her to make an
involuntary movement.

"Don't do anything--don't say anything!" he said. "I can bear it
better."

And he bent himself to his oars and rowed furiously.

She drew back, and turned her face aside. Abrupt as the words were,
there was no rebuff in them; but there was something else which silenced
her effectually. She was glad of the faint light, and her heart
quickened, which last demonstration did not please her. She had been
calm too long to enjoy any new feeling of excitement; she had liked the
calmness, and had desired beyond all things that it should remain
undisturbed.

"There is one prayer I pray every morning," she had once said to Bertha,
earnestly. "It is that the day may bring nothing to change the tone of
my life."

She had felt a little ripple in the current ever since the eventful
night, and had regretted it sorely, and now, just for the moment, it was
something stronger. So she was very still as she sat with averted face,
and the hour spent upon the water was a singularly silent one.

When they returned home they found Colonel Tredennis with Mrs. Merriam,
but just on the point of leaving her.

"I am going to see Amory," he said. "I have heard some news he will
consider bad. The Westoria affair has been laid aside, and will not be
acted upon this session, if at all. It is said that Blundel heard
something he did not like, and interfered."

"And you think Mr. Amory will be very much disappointed?" said Agnes.

"I am afraid so," answered Tredennis.

"And yet," said Agnes, "it isn't easy to see why it should be of so much
importance to him."

"He has become interested in it," said Mrs. Merriam. "That is the
expression, isn't it? It is my opinion that it would be better for him
if he were less so. I have seen that kind of thing before. It is like
being bitten by a tarantula."

She was not favorably inclined toward Richard. His sparkling moods did
not exhilarate her, and she had her private theories concerning his
character. Tredennis she was very fond of; few of his moods escaped her
bright eyes; few of the changes in him were lost upon her. When he went
away this evening she spoke of him to Agnes and Arbuthnot.

"If that splendid fellow does not improve," she said, "he will begin to
grow old in his prime. He is lean and gaunt; his eyes are dreary; he is
beginning to have lines on his forehead and about his mouth. He is
enduring something. I should be glad to be told what it is."

"Whatever he endured," said Agnes, "he would not tell people. But I
think 'enduring' is a very good word."

"How long have you known him?" Mrs. Merriam asked of Arbuthnot.

"Since the evening after his arrival in Washington on his return from
the West," was the reply.

"Was he like this then?" rather sharply.

Arbuthnot reflected.

"I met him at a reception," he said, "and he was not Washingtonian in
his manner. My impression was that he would not enjoy our society, and
that he would finally despise us; but he looked less fagged then than he
does now. Perhaps he begins to long for his daily Pi-ute. There _are_
chasms which an effete civilization does not fill."

"You guess more than you choose to tell," was Mrs. Merriam's inward
thought. Aloud she said:

"He is the finest human being it has been my pleasure to meet. He is the
natural man. If I were a girl again I think I should make a hero of him,
and be unhappy for his sake."

"It would be easy to make a hero of him," said Agnes.

"Very!" responded Arbuthnot. "Unavoidable, in fact." And he laid upon
the table the bit of hyacinth he had picked up in the boat and brought
home with him. "If I carry it away," was his private thought, "I shall
fall into the habit of sitting and weakening my mind over it. It is weak
enough already." But he knew, at the same time, that Colonel Tredennis
had done something toward assisting him to form the resolution. "A
trivial masculine vanity," he thought, "not unfrequently strengthens
one's position."

In the meantime Tredennis went to Amory. He found him in the room which
was, in its every part, so strong a reminder of Bertha. It wore a
desolate look, and Amory had evidently been walking up and down it,
pushing chairs and footstools aside carelessly, when he found them in
his way. He had thrown himself, at last, into Bertha's own special
easy-chair, and leaned back in it, with his hands thrown out over its
padded arms. He had plainly not slept well the night before, and his
dress had a careless and dishevelled look, very marked in its contrast
with the customary artistic finish of his attire.

He sprang up when he saw Tredennis, and began to speak at once.

"I say!" he exclaimed, "this is terrible!"

"You have been disappointed," said Tredennis.

"I have been rui"--he checked himself; "disappointed isn't the word,"
he ended. "The whole thing has been laid aside--_laid aside_--think of
it! as if it were a mere nothing; an application for a two-penny
half-penny pension! Great God! what do the fellows think they are
dealing with?"

"Who do you think is to blame?" said the colonel, stolidly.

"Blundel, by Jove!--Blundel, that fool and clown!" and he flung himself
about the room, mumbling his rage and irritation.

"It is not the first time such a thing has happened," said Tredennis,
"and it won't be the last. If you continue to interest yourself in such
matters you will find that out, as others have done before you. Take my
advice, and give it up from this hour."

Amory wheeled round upon him.

"Give it up!" he cried, "I can't give it up, man! It is only laid aside
for the time being. Heaven and earth shall be moved next year--Heaven
and earth! The thing won't fail--it _can't_ fail--a thing like that; a
thing I have risked my very soul on!"

He dashed his hand through his tumbled hair and threw himself into the
chair again, quite out of breath.

"Ah, confound it!" he exclaimed, "I am too excitable! I am losing my
hold on myself."

Tredennis rose from his seat, feeling some movement necessary. He stood
and looked down at the floor. As he gazed up at him Amory entered a
fretful mental protest against his size and his air of being able to
control himself. He was plainly deep in thought even when he spoke, for
his eyes did not leave the floor.

"I suppose," he said, "this is really no business of mine. I wish it
was."

"What do you mean?" said Amory.

Tredennis looked up.

"If it were my business I would know more about it," he said.--"I would
know what _you_ mean, and how deep you have gone into this--this
accursed scheme."

The last two words had a sudden ring of intensity in their sound, which
affected Amory tremendously. He sprang up again and began to pace the
floor.

"Nothing ever promised so well," he said, "and it will turn out all
right in the end--it must! It is the delay that drives one wild. It will
be all right next season--when Bertha is here."

"What has she to do with it?" demanded Tredennis.

"Nothing very much," said Amory, restively; "but she is effective."

"Do you mean that you are going to set her to lobbying?"

"Why should you call it that? I am not going to set her at anything. She
has a good effect, that is all. Planefield swears that if she had stayed
at home and taken Blundel in hand he would not have failed us."

Tredennis looked at him stupefied. He could get no grasp upon him. He
wondered if a heavy mental blow would affect him. He tried it in
despair.

"Do you know," he said, slowly, "what people are beginning to say about
Planefield?"

"They are always saying something of Planefield. He is the kind of man
who is always spoken of."

"Then," said Tredennis, "there is all the more reason why his name
should not be connected with that of an innocent woman."

"What woman has been mentioned in connection with him?"

"It has been said more than once that he is in love with--your wife, and
that his infatuation is used to advance your interests."

Richard stopped on his walk.

"Then it is a confoundedly stupid business," he said, angrily. "If she
hears it she will never speak to him again. Perhaps she has heard it;
perhaps that was why she insisted on going away. I thought there was
something wrong at the time."

"May I ask," said Tredennis, "how it strikes _you_?"

"Me!" exclaimed Richard. "As the most awkward piece of business in the
world, and as likely to do me more harm than anything else could."

He made a graceful, rapid gesture of impatience.

"Everything goes against me!" he said. "She never liked him from the
first, and if she has heard this she will never be civil to him again,
or to any of the rest of them. And, of course, she is an influence, in a
measure; what clever woman is not? And why should she not use her
influence in one way as well as another? If she were a clergyman's wife
she would work hard enough to gain favors. It is only a trifle that she
should make an effort to be agreeable to men who will be pleased by her
civility. She would do it if there were nothing to be gained. Where are
you going? What is the matter?" for Tredennis had walked to the table
and taken his hat.

"I am going into the air," he answered; "I am afraid I cannot be of any
use to you to-night. My mind is not very clear just now. I must have
time to think."

"You look pale," said Amory, staring at him. "You look ghastly. You have
not been up to the mark for months. I have seen that. Washington does
not agree with you."

"That is it," was Tredennis' response. "Washington does not agree with
me."

And he carried his hat and his pale and haggard countenance out into the
night, and left Richard gazing after him, feverish, fretted, thwarted in
his desire to pour forth his grievances and defend himself, and also
filled with baffled amazement at his sudden departure.




CHAPTER XXXI.


Mrs. Amory did not receive on New Year's day. The season had well set in
before she arrived in Washington. One morning in January Mrs. Sylvestre,
sitting alone, reading, caught sight of the little _coupé_ as it drew up
before the carriage-step, and, laying aside her book, reached the parlor
door in time to meet Bertha as she entered it. She took both her hands
and drew her toward the fire, still holding them.

"Why did I not know you had returned?" she said. "When did you arrive?"

"Last night," Bertha answered. "You see I come to you early."

It was a cold day and she was muffled in velvet and furs. She sat down,
loosened her wrap and let it slip backward, and as its sumptuous fulness
left her figure it revealed it slender to fragility, and showed that the
outline of her cheek had lost all its roundness. She smiled faintly,
meeting Agnes' anxious eyes.

"Don't look at me," she said. "I am not pretty. I have been ill. You
heard I was not well in Newport? It was a sort of low fever, and I am
not entirely well yet. Malaria, you know, is always troublesome. But you
are very well?"

"Yes, I am well," Agnes replied.

"And you begin to like Washington again?"

"I began last winter."

"How did you enjoy the spring? You were here until the end of June."

"It was lovely."

"And now you are here once more, and how pretty everything about you
is!" Bertha said, glancing around the room. "And you are ready to be
happy all winter until June again. Do you know, you look happy. Not
excitably happy, but gently, calmly happy, as if the present were enough
for you."

"It is," said Agnes, "I don't think I want any future."

"It would be as well to abolish it if one could," Bertha answered; "but
it comes--_it comes_!"

She sat and looked at the fire a few seconds under the soft shadow of
her lashes, and then spoke again.

"As for me," she said, "I am going to give dinner-parties to Senator
Planefield's friends."

"Bertha!" exclaimed Agnes.

"Yes," said Bertha, nodding gently. "It appears somehow that Richard
belongs to Senator Planefield, and, as I belong to Richard, why, you
see"--

She ended with a dramatic little gesture, and looked at Agnes once more.

"It took me some time to understand it," she said. "I am not quite sure
that I understand it quite thoroughly even now. It is a little puzzling,
or, perhaps, I am dull of comprehension. At all events, Richard has
talked to me a great deal. It is plainly my duty to be agreeable and
hospitable to the people he wishes to please and bring in contact with
each other."

"And those people?" asked Agnes.

"They are political men: they are members of committees, members of the
House, members of the Senate; and their only claim to existence in our
eyes is that they are either in favor of or opposed to a certain bill
not indirectly connected with the welfare of the owners of Westoria
lands."

"Bertha," said Agnes, quickly, "you are not yourself."

"Thank you," was the response, "that is always satisfactory, but the
compliment would be more definite if you told me who I happened to be.
But I can tell you that I am that glittering being, the female lobbyist.
I used to wonder last winter if I was not on the verge of it; but now I
know. I wonder if they all begin as innocently as I did, and find the
descent--isn't it a descent?--as easy and natural. I feel queer, but
not exactly disreputable. It is merely a matter of being a dutiful wife
and smiling upon one set of men instead of another. Still, I am slightly
uncertain as to just how disreputable I am. I was beginning to be quite
reconciled to my atmosphere until I saw Colonel Tredennis, and I confess
he unsettled my mind and embarrassed me a little in my decision."

"You have seen him already?"

"Accidentally, yes. He did not know I had returned, and came to see
Richard. He is quite intimate with Richard now. He entered the parlor
and found me there. I do not think he was glad to see me. I left him
very soon."

She drew off her glove, and smoothed it out upon her knee, with a thin
and fragile little hand upon which the rings hung loosely. Agnes bent
forward and involuntarily laid her own hand upon it.

"Dear," she said.

Bertha hurriedly lifted her eyes.

"What I wish to say," she said, "was that the week after next we give a
little dinner to Senator Blundel, and I wanted to be sure I might count
on you. If you are there--and Colonel Tredennis--you will give it an
unprofessional aspect, which is what we want. But perhaps you will
refuse to come?"

"Bertha," said Mrs. Sylvestre, "I will be with you at any time--at all
times--you wish for or need me."

"Yes," said Bertha, reflecting upon her a moment, "I think you would."

She got up and kissed her lightly and without effusion, and then Agnes
rose, too, and they stood together.

"You were always good," Bertha said. "I think life has made you better
instead of worse. It is not so always. Things are so
different--everything seems to depend upon circumstances. What is good
in me would be far enough from your standards to be called wickedness."

She paused abruptly, and Agnes felt that she did so to place a check
upon herself; she had seen her do it before. When she spoke again it was
in an entirely different tone, and the remaining half-hour of her visit
was spent in the discussion of every-day subjects. Agnes listened, and
replied to her with a sense of actual anguish. She could have borne
better to have seen her less self-controlled; or she fancied so, at
least. The summer had made an alteration in her, which it was almost
impossible to describe. Every moment revealed some new, sad change in
her, and yet she sat and talked commonplaces, and was bright, and witty,
and epigrammatic until the last.

"When we get our bill through," she said, with a little smile, just
before her departure, "I am to go abroad for a year,--for two, for
three, if I wish. I think that is the bribe which has been offered me.
One must always be bribed, you know."

As she stood at the window watching the carriage drive away, Agnes was
conscious of a depression which was very hard to bear. The brightness of
her own atmosphere seemed to have become heavy,--the sun hid itself
behind the drifting, wintry clouds,--she glanced around her room with a
sense of dreariness. Something carried her back to the memories which
were the one burden of her present life.

"Such grief cannot enter a room and not leave its shadow behind it," she
said. And she put her hand against the window-side, and leaned her brow
upon it sadly. It was curious, she thought, the moment after, that the
mere sight of a familiar figure should bring such a sense of comfort
with it as did the sight of the one she saw approaching. It was that of
Laurence Arbuthnot, who came with a business communication for Mrs.
Merriam, having been enabled, by chance, to leave his work for an hour.
He held a roll of music in one hand and a bunch of violets in the other,
and when he entered the room was accompanied by the fresh fragrance of
the latter offering.

Agnes made a swift involuntary movement toward him.

"Ah!" she said, "I could scarcely believe that it was you."

He detected the emotion in her manner and tone at once.

"Something has disturbed you," he said. "What is it?"

"I have seen Bertha," she answered, and the words had a sound of appeal
in them, which she herself no more realized or understood than she
comprehended the impulse which impelled her to speak.

"She has been here! She looks so ill--so worn. Everything is so sad!
I"--

She stopped and stood looking at him.

"Must I go away?" he said, quietly. "Perhaps you would prefer to be
alone. I understand what you mean, I think."

"Oh, no!" she said, impulsively, putting out her hand. "Don't go. I am
unhappy. It was--it was a relief to see you."

And when she sank on the sofa, he took a seat near her and laid the
violets on her lap, and there was a faint flush on his face.


The little dinner, which was the first occasion of Senator Blundel's
introduction to the Amory establishment, was a decided success.

"We will make it a success," Bertha had said. "It _must_ be one." And
there was a ring in her voice which was a great relief to her husband.

"It will be one," he said. "There is no fear of _your_ failing when you
begin in this way." And his spirits rose to such an extent that he
became genial and fascinating once more, and almost forgot his late
trials and uncertainties. He had always felt great confidence in Bertha.

On the afternoon of the eventful day Bertha did not go out. She spent
the hours between luncheon and the time for dressing with her children.
Once, as he passed the open door of the nursery, Richard saw her sitting
upon the carpet, building a house of cards, while Jack, and Janey, and
Meg sat about her enchanted. A braid of her hair had become loosened and
hung over her shoulder; her cheeks were flushed by the fire; she looked
almost like a child herself, with her air of serious absorbed interest
in the frail structure growing beneath her hands.

"Won't that tire you?" Richard asked.

She glanced up with a smile.

"No," she said, "it will rest me."

He heard her singing to them afterward, and later, when she went to her
dressing-room, he heard the pretty lullaby die away gradually as she
moved through the corridor.

When she appeared again she was dressed for dinner, and came in
buttoning her glove, and at the sight of her he uttered an exclamation
of pleasure.

"What a perfect dress!" he said. "What is the idea? There must be one."

She paused and turned slowly round so that he might obtain the full
effect.

"You should detect it," she replied. "It is meant to convey one."

"It has a kind of dove-like look," he said.

She faced him again.

"That is it," she said, serenely. "In the true artist spirit, I have
attired myself with a view to expressing the perfect candor and
simplicity of my nature. Should you find it possible to fear or suspect
me of ulterior motives--if you were a senator, for instance?"

"Ah, come now!" said Richard, not quite so easily, "that is nonsense!
You have no ulterior motives."

She opened her plumy, dove-colored fan and came nearer him.

"There is nothing meretricious about me," she said.

"I am softly clad in dove color; a few clusters of pansies adorn me; I
am covered from throat to wrists; I have not a jewel about me. Could the
effect be better?"

"No, it could not," he replied, but suddenly he felt a trifle
uncomfortable again, and wondered what was hidden behind the inscrutable
little gaze she afterwards fixed upon the fire.

But when Blundel appeared, which he did rather early, he felt relieved
again. Nothing could have been prettier than her greeting of him, or
more perfect in its attainment of the object of setting him at his ease.
It must be confessed that he was not entirely at his ease when he
entered, his experience not having been of a nature to develop in him
any latent love for general society. He had fought too hard a fight to
leave him much time to know women well, and his superficial knowledge of
them made him a trifle awkward, as it occasionally renders other men
astonishingly bold. In a party of men all his gifts displayed
themselves; in the presence of women he was afraid that less substantial
fellows had the advantage of him,--men who could not tell half so good a
story or make half so exhilarating a joke. As to this special dinner he
had not been particularly anxious to count himself among the guests, and
was not very certain as to how Planefield had beguiled him into
accepting the invitation.

But ten minutes after he had entered the room he began to feel
mollified. Outside the night was wet and unpleasant, and not calculated
to improve a man's temper; the parlors glowing with fire-light and
twinkling wax candles were a vivid and agreeable contrast to the sloppy
rawness. The slender, dove-colored figure, with its soft, trailing
draperies, assumed more definitely pleasant proportions, and in his
vague, inexperienced, middle-aged fashion he felt the effect of it. She
had a nice way, this little woman, he decided; no nonsense or airs and
graces about her: an easy manner, a gay little laugh. He did not
remember exactly afterward what it was she said which first wakened him
up, but he found himself laughing and greatly amused, and when he made a
witticism he felt he had reason to be proud of, the gay little peal of
laughter which broke forth in response had the most amazingly
exhilarating effect upon him, and set him upon his feet for the evening.
Women seldom got all the flavor of his jokes. He had an idea that some
of them were a little afraid of them and of him, too. The genuine mirth
in Bertha's unstudied laughter was like wine to him, and was better than
the guffaws of a dozen men, because it had a finer and a novel flavor.
After the joke and the laugh the ice was melted, and he knew that he was
in the humor to distinguish himself.

Planefield discovered this the moment he saw him, and glanced at
Richard, who was brilliant with good spirits.

"She's begun well," he said, when he had an opportunity to speak to him.
"I never saw him in a better humor. She's pleased him somehow. Women
don't touch him usually."

"She will end better," said Richard. "He pleases her."

He did not displease her, at all events. She saw the force and humor of
his stalwart jokes, and was impressed by the shrewd, business-like
good-nature which betrayed nothing. When he began to enjoy himself she
liked the genuineness of his enjoyment all the more because it was a
personal matter with him, and he seemed to revel in it.

"He enjoys _himself_," was her mental comment, "really _himself_, not
exactly the rest of us, except as we stimulate him, and make him say
good things."

Among the chief of her gifts had always been counted the power of
stimulating people, and making them say their best things, and she made
the most of this power now. She listened with her brightest look, she
uttered her little exclamations of pleasure and interest at exactly the
right moment, and the gay ring of her spontaneous sounding laugh was
perfection. Miss Varien, who was one of her guests, sat and regarded her
with untempered admiration.

"Your wife," she said to Amory, in an undertone, "is simply
incomparable. It is not necessary to tell you that, of course; but it
strikes me with fresh force this evening. She really seems to enjoy
things. That air of gay, candid delight is irresistible. It makes her
seem to that man like a charming little girl--a harmless, bright,
sympathetic little girl. How he likes her!"

When she went in to dinner with him, and he sat by her side, he liked
her still more. He had never been in better spirits in his life; he had
never said so many things worth remembering; he had never heard such
sparkling and vivacious talk as went on round this particular table. It
never paused or lagged. There was Amory, all alight and stirred by every
conversational ripple which passed him; there was Miss Varien,
scintillating and casting off showers of sparks in the prettiest and
most careless fashion; there was Laurence Arbuthnot, doing his share
without any apparent effort, and appreciating his neighbors to the full;
there was Mrs. Sylvestre, her beautiful eyes making speech almost
superfluous, and Mrs. Merriam, occasionally casting into the pool some
neatly weighted pebble, which sent its circles to the shore; and in the
midst of the coruscations Blundel found himself, somehow, doing quite
his portion of the illumination. Really these people and their
dinner-party pleased him wonderfully well, and he was far from sorry
that he had come, and far from sure that he should not come again if he
were asked. He was shrewd enough, too, to see how much the success of
everything depended upon his own little companion at the head of the
table, and, respecting success beyond all things, after the manner of
his kind, he liked her all the better for it. There was something about
her which, as Miss Varien had said, made him feel that she was like a
bright, sympathetic little girl, and engendered a feeling of fatherly
patronage which was entirely comfortable. But, though she rather led
others to talk than talked herself, he noticed that she said a sharp
thing now and then; and he liked that, too, and was greatly amused by
it. He liked women to be sharp, if they were not keen enough to
interfere with masculine prerogatives. There was only one person in the
company he did not find exhilarating, and that was a large, brown-faced
fellow, who sat next to Mrs. Merriam, and said less than might have been
expected of him, though, when he spoke, his remarks were well enough in
their way. Blundel mentioned him afterward to Bertha when they returned
to the parlor.

"That colonel, who is he?" he asked her. "I didn't catch his name
exactly. Handsome fellow; but he'd be handsomer if"--

"It is the part of wisdom to stop you," said Bertha, "and tell you that
he is a sort of cousin of mine, and his perfections are such as I regard
with awe. His name is Colonel Tredennis, and you have read of him in the
newspapers."

"What!" he exclaimed, turning his sharp little eyes upon
Tredennis,--"the Indian man? I'm glad you told me that. I want to talk
to him." And, an opportunity being given him, he proceeded to do so with
much animation, ruffling his stiff hair up at intervals in his interest,
his little eyes twinkling like those of some alert animal.

He left the house late and in the best of humors. He had forgotten for
the time being all questions of bills and subsidies. Nothing had
occurred to remind him of such subjects. Their very existence seemed a
trifle problematical, or, rather, perhaps it seemed desirable that it
should be so.

"I feel," he said to Planefield, as he was shrugging himself into his
overcoat, "as if I had rather missed it by not coming here before."

"You were asked," answered Planefield.

"So I was," he replied, attacking the top button of the overcoat. "Well,
the next time I am asked I suppose I shall come."

Then he gave his attention to the rest of the buttons.

"A man in public life ought to see all sides of his public," he said,
having disposed of the last one. "Said some good things, didn't they?
The little woman isn't without a mind of her own, either. When is it she
receives?"

"Thursdays," said Planefield.

"Ah, Thursdays."

And they went out in company.

Her guests having all departed, Bertha remained for a few minutes in the
parlor. Arbuthnot and Tredennis went out last, and as the door closed
upon them she looked at Richard.

"Well?" she said.

"Well!" exclaimed Richard. "It could not have been better!"

"Couldn't it?" she said, looking down a little meditatively.

"No," he responded, with excellent good cheer, "and you see how simple
it was, and--and how unnecessary it is to exaggerate it and call it by
unpleasant names. What we want is merely to come in contact with these
people, and show them how perfectly harmless we are, and that when the
time comes they may favor us without injury to themselves or any one
else. That's it in a nutshell."

"We always say 'us,' don't we?" said Bertha,--"as if we were
part-proprietors of the Westoria lands ourselves. It is a little
confusing, don't you think so?"

She paused and looked up with one of her sudden smiles.

"Still I don't feel exactly sure that I have been--but no, I am not to
call it lobbying, am I? What must I call it? It really ought to have a
name."

"Don't call it anything," said Richard, faintly conscious of his
dubiousness again.

"Why, what a good idea!" she answered. "What a good way of getting round
a difficulty--not to give it a name! It almost obliterates it, doesn't
it? It is an actual inspiration. We won't call it anything. There is so
much in a name--too much, on the whole, really. But--without giving it a
name--I have behaved pretty well and advanced our--your--whose
interests?"

"Everybody's," he replied, with an effort at lightness. "Mine
particularly. I own that my view of the matter is a purely selfish one.
There is a career before me, you know, if all goes well."

He detected at once the expression of gentleness which softened her eyes
as she watched him.

"You always wanted a career, didn't you?" she said.

"It isn't pleasant," he said, "for a man to know that he is not a
success."

"If I can give you your career," she said, "you shall have it, Richard.
It is a simpler thing than I thought, after all." And she went upstairs
to her room, stopping on the way to spend a few minutes in the nursery.




CHAPTER XXXII.


The professor sat in his favorite chair by his library fire, an open
volume on his knee, and his after-dinner glass of wine, still
unfinished, on the table near him. He had dined a couple of hours ago
with Mr. Arbuthnot, who had entertained him very agreeably and had not
long since left him to present himself upon some social scene.

It was of his departed guest that he was thinking as he pondered, and of
certain plans he had on hand for his ultimate welfare, and his thoughts
so deeply occupied him that he did not hear the sound of the door-bell,
which rang as he sat, nor notice any other sound until the door of the
room opened and some one entered. He raised his head and looked around
then, uttering a slight ejaculation of surprise.

"Why, Bertha!" he said. "My dear! This is unexpected."

He paused and gave her one of his gently curious looks. She had thrown
her cloak off as she came near him, and something in her appearance
attracted his attention.

"My dear," he said, slowly, "you look to-night as you did years ago. I
am reminded of the time when Philip first came to us. I wonder why?"

There was a low seat near his side, and she came and took it.

"It is the dress," she said. "I was looking over some things I had laid
aside, and found it. I put it on for old acquaintance' sake. I have
never worn it since then. Perhaps I hoped it would make me feel like a
girl again."

Her tone was very quiet, her whole manner was quiet; the dress was
simplicity itself. A little lace kerchief was knotted about her throat.

"That is a very feminine idea," remarked the professor, seeming to give
it careful attention. "Peculiarly feminine, I should say. And--does it,
my dear?"

"Not quite," she answered. "A little. When I first put it on and stood
before the glass I forgot a good many things for a few moments, and
then, suddenly, I heard the children's voices in the nursery, and
Richard came in, and Bertha Herrick was gone. You know I was Bertha
Herrick when I wore this--Bertha Herrick, thinking of her first party."

"Yes, my dear," he responded, "I--I remember."

There were a few moments of silence, in which he looked abstractedly
thoughtful, but presently he bestirred himself.

"By the by," he said, "that reminds me. Didn't I understand that there
was a great party somewhere to-night? Mr. Arbuthnot left me to go to it,
I think. I thought there was a reason for my surprise at seeing you.
That was it. Surely you should have been at the great party instead of
here."

"Well," she replied, "I suppose I should, but for some curious accident
or other--I don't know what the accident is or how it happened--I should
have had an invitation--of course if it had chanced to reach me; but
something has occurred to prevent it doing so, I suppose. Such things
happen, you know. To all intents and purposes I have not been invited,
so I could not go. And I am very glad. I would rather be here."

"I would rather have you here," he returned, "if such seclusion pleases
you. But I can hardly imagine, my dear, how the party"--

She put her hand on his caressingly.

"It cannot be an entire success," she said. "It won't, in my absence;
but misfortunes befall even the magnificent and prosperous, and the
party must console itself. I like to be here--I like very much to be
here."

He glanced at her gray dress again.

"Bertha Herrick would have preferred the party," he remarked.

"Bertha Amory is wiser," she said. "We will be quiet together--and
happy."

They were very quiet. The thought occurred to the professor several
times during the evening. She kept her seat near him, and talked to him,
speaking, he noticed, principally of her children and of the past; the
time she had spent at home before her marriage seemed to be present in
her mind.

"I wonder," she said once, thoughtfully, "what sort of girl I was? I can
only remember that I was such a happy girl! Do _you_ remember that I was
a specially self-indulgent or frivolous one? But I am afraid you would
not tell me, if you did."

"My dear," he said, in response, "you were a natural, simple, joyous
creature, and a great pleasure to us."

She gave his hand a little pressure.

"_I_ can remember that you were always good to me," she said. "I used to
think you were a little curious about me, and wondered what I would do
in the future. Now it is my turn to wonder if I am at all what you
thought I would be?"

He did not reply at once, and then spoke slowly.

"There seemed so many possibilities," he said. "Yes; I thought it
possible that you might be--what you are."

It was as he said this that there returned to his mind the thought which
had occupied it before her entrance. He had been thinking then of
something he wished to tell her, before she heard it from other
quarters, and which he felt he could tell her at no more fitting time
than when they were alone. It was something relating to Laurence
Arbuthnot, and, curiously enough, she paved the way for it by mentioning
him herself.

"Did you say Laurence was here to-night?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, "he was so good as to dine with me."

"He would say that you were so good as to invite him," she said. "He is
very fond of coming here."

"I should miss him very much," he returned, "if he should go away."

She looked up quickly, attracted by his manner.

"But there is no likelihood of his going away," she said.

"I think," he answered, "that there may be, and I wished to speak to you
about it."

He refrained from looking at her; he even delicately withdrew his hand,
so that if hers should lose its steadiness he might be unconscious of
it.

"Go away!" she exclaimed,--"from Washington? Laurence! Why should you
think so? I cannot imagine such a thing."

"He does not imagine it himself yet," he replied. "_I_ am going to
suggest it to him."

Her hand was still upon his knee, and he felt her start.

"You are!" she said; "why and how? Do you think he will go? I do not
believe he will."

"I am not sure that he will," he answered, "but I hope so; and what I
mean is that I think it may be possible to send him abroad."

She withdrew her hand from his knee.

"He won't go," she said; "I am sure of it."

He went on to explain himself, still not looking at her.

"He is wasting his abilities," he said; "he is wasting his youth; the
position he is in is absurdly insignificant; it occurred to me that if I
used, with right effect, the little influence I possess, there might
finally be obtained for him some position abroad, which would be at
least something better, and might possibly open a way for him in the
future. I spoke to the Secretary of State about it, and he was very
kind, and appeared interested. It seems very possible, even probable,
that my hopes will be realized."

For a few seconds she sat still; then she said, abstractedly:

"It would be very strange to be obliged to live our lives without
Laurence; they would not be the same lives at all. Still, I suppose it
would be best for him; but it would be hard to live without Laurence. I
don't like to think of it."

In spite of his intention not to do so, he found himself turning to look
at her. There had been surprise in her voice, and now there was sadness,
but there was no agitation, no uncontrollable emotion.

"Can it be," he thought, "that she is getting over it? What does it
mean?"

She turned and met his eyes.

"But, whether it is for the best or not," she said, "I don't believe he
will go."

"My dear," he said, "you speak as if there was a reason."

"I think there is a reason," she answered, "and it is a strong one."

"What is it?" he asked.

"There is some one he is beginning to be fond of," she replied; "_that_
is the reason."

He kept his eyes fixed upon her.

"Some one he is _beginning_ to be fond of?" he repeated.

"I don't know how it will end," she said. "I am sometimes afraid it can
only end sadly, but there is some one he would find it hard to leave, I
am sure."

The professor gradually rose in his chair until he was sitting upright.

"I wish," he said, "that you would tell me who it is."

"I do not think he would mind your knowing," she answered. "It seems
strange you have not seen. It is Agnes Sylvestre."

The professor sank back in his chair, and looked at the bed of coals in
the grate.

"Agnes _Sylvestre_!" he exclaimed; "_Agnes_ Sylvestre!"

"Yes," she said; "and in one sense it is very hard on him that it should
be Agnes Sylvestre. After all these years, when he has steadily kept
himself free from all love affairs, and been so sure that nothing could
tempt him, it cannot be easy for him to know that he loves some one who
has everything he has not--all the things he feels he never will have.
He is very proud and very unrelenting in his statement of his own
circumstances, and he won't try to glaze them over when he compares them
with hers. He is too poor, she is too rich--even if she loved him."

"Even!" said the professor. "Is it your opinion that she does not?"

"I do not know," she answered. "It has seemed to me more probable
that--that she liked Colonel Tredennis."

"I thought so," said the professor. "I must confess that I thought so;
though, perhaps, that may have been because my feeling for him is so
strong, and I have seen that he"--

"That he was fond of her?" Bertha put in as he paused to reflect.

"I thought so," he said again. "I thought I was sure of it. He sees her
often; he thinks of her frequently, it is plain; he speaks of her to me;
he sees every charm and grace in her. I have never heard him speak of
any other woman so."

"It would be a very suitable marriage," said Bertha; "I have felt that
from the first. There is no one more beautiful than Agnes--no one
sweeter--no one more fit"--

She pushed her seat back from the hearth and rose from it.

"The fire is too warm," she said. "I have been sitting before it too
long."

There was some ice-water upon a side table and she went to it and
poured out a glass, and drank it slowly. Then she took a seat by the
centre-table and spoke again, as she idly turned over the leaves of a
magazine without looking at it.

"When first Agnes came here," she said, "I thought of it. I remember
that when I presented Philip to her I watched to see if she impressed
him as she does most people."

"She did," said the professor. "I remember his speaking of it afterward,
and saying what a charm hers was, and that her beauty must touch a man's
best nature."

"That was very good," said Bertha, faintly smiling. "And it was very
like him. And since then," she added, "you say he has spoken of her
often in the same way and as he speaks of no one else?"

"Again and again," answered the professor. "The truth is, my dear, I am
fond of speaking of her myself, and have occasionally led him in that
direction. I have wished for him what you have wished."

"And we have both of us," she said, half sadly, "been unkind to poor
Laurence."

She closed the magazine.

"Perhaps he will go, after all," she said. "He may see that it is best.
He may be glad to go before the year is ended."

She left her book and her chair.

"I think I must go now," she said, "I am a little tired."

He thought that she looked so, and the shadow which for a moment had
half lifted itself fell again.

"No," he thought, "she has not outlived it, and this is more bitter for
her than the rest. It is only natural that it should be more bitter."

When he got up to bid her good-night she put a hand upon either of his
shoulders and kissed him.

"I am glad I was not invited to the grand party, dear," she said, "I
have liked this better. It has been far better for me."

There were only a few yards of space between her father's house and her
own, and in a few seconds she had ascended the steps and entered the
door. As she did so she heard Richard in the parlor, speaking rapidly
and vehemently, and, entering, found that he was talking to Colonel
Tredennis. The colonel was standing at one end of the room, as if he had
turned around with an abrupt movement; Richard was lying full length
upon a sofa, looking uneasy and excited, his cushions tumbled about him.
They ceased speaking the moment they saw her, and there was an odd
pause, noticing which she came forward and spoke with an effort at
appearing at ease.

"Do you know that this seems like contention?" she said. "Are you
quarrelling with Richard, Colonel Tredennis, or is he quarrelling with
you? And why are you not at the reception?"

"We are quarrelling with each other violently," said Richard, with a
half laugh. "You arrived barely in time to prevent our coming to blows.
And why are you not at the reception?"

Bertha turned to Tredennis, who for a moment seemed to have been struck
dumb by the sight of her. The memories the slender gray figure had
brought to the professor rushed back upon him with a force that
staggered him. It was as if the ghost of something dead had suddenly
appeared before him and he was compelled to hold himself as if he did
not see it. The little gray gown, the carelessly knotted kerchief,--it
seemed so terrible to see them and to be forced to realize through them
how changed she was. He had never seen her look so ill and fragile as
she did when she turned to him and spoke in her quiet, unemotional
voice.

"This is the result of political machination," she said. "He has
forgotten that we were not invited. Being absorbed in affairs of state
he no longer keeps an account of the doings of the giddy throng."

Then he recovered himself.

"You were not invited," he said. "Isn't there some mistake about that? I
thought"--

"Your impression naturally was that we were the foundation-stone of all
social occasions," she responded; "but this time they have dispensed
with us. We were not invited."

"Say that you did not receive your invitation," put in Richard,
restlessly. "The other way of stating it is nonsense."

She paused an instant, as if his manner suggested a new thought to her.

"I wonder," she said, slowly, "if there _could_ be a reason; but no, I
think that is impossible. It must have been an accident. But you," she
added to Tredennis, "have not told me why you are not with the rest of
the world."

"I came away early," he answered. "I was there for an hour."

He was glad that she did not sit down; he wished that she would go away;
it would be better if she would go away and leave them to themselves
again.

"It was very gay, I suppose," she said. "And you saw Agnes?"

"I have just left her," he replied.

"You ought to have stayed," she said, turning away with a smile. "It
would have been better than quarrelling with Richard."

And she went out of the room and left them together, as he had told
himself it would be best she should.

He did not look at her as she ascended the staircase; he stood with his
back to the open door, and did not speak until he heard her go into the
room above them. Then he addressed Richard.

"Do you understand me now?" he said, sternly. "This is the beginning!"

"The beginning!" exclaimed Richard, with a half frantic gesture. "If
this is the beginning--and things go wrong--imagine what the end will
be!"

The room Bertha had entered was the nursery. In the room opening out of
it Jack and Janey slept in their small beds. Upon the hearth-rug lay a
broken toy. She bent to pick it up, and afterward stood a moment holding
it in her hand without seeing it; she still held it as she sank into a
chair which was near her.

"I will stay here a while," she said. "This is the best place for me."

For a few minutes she sat quite still; something like a stupor had
settled upon her; she was thinking in a blind, disconnected way of Agnes
Sylvestre. Everything would be right at last. Agnes would be happy. This
was what she had wished--what she had intended from the first--when she
had brought them together. It was she who had brought them together. And
this was the plan she had had in her mind when she had done it; and she
had known what it would cost her even then. And then there came back to
her the memory of the moment when she had turned away from them to pour
out Laurence's coffee with hands she could not hold still, and whose
tremor he saw and understood. Poor Laurence! he must suffer too! Poor
Laurence!

She looked down suddenly at the broken toy in her hand.

"I will stay here more," she said. "It is better here. There is nothing
else! And if I were a good woman I should want nothing else. If I had
only not spoken to Agnes,--that was the mistake; if she will only forget
it! _Some_ one should be happy--_some_ one! It will be Agnes."

She got up and went into the children's room, and knelt down by Janey's
bed, laying the toy on the coverlet. She put her arms around the child
and spoke her name.

"Janey!" she said. "Janey!"

The child stirred, opened her eyes, and put an arm sleepily about her
neck.

"I said my prayers," she murmured. "God bless mamma and papa--and
everybody! God bless Uncle Philip!"

Bertha laid her face near her upon the pillow.

"Yes," she said, brokenly. "You belong to me and I belong to you. I will
stay here, Janey--with you."




CHAPTER XXXIII.


Sometimes during the winter, when she glanced around her parlor on the
evenings of her receptions Bertha felt as if she was in a waking
dream,--so many people of whom she seemed to know nothing were gathered
about her; she saw strange faces on every side; a new element had
appeared, which was gradually crowding out the old, and she herself felt
that she was almost a stranger in it. Day by day, and by almost
imperceptible degrees at first, various mysterious duties had devolved
upon her. She had found herself calling at one house because the head of
it was a member of a committee, at another because its mistress was a
person whose influence over her husband it would be well to consider;
she had issued an invitation here because the recipients must be
pleased, another there because somebody was to be biassed in the right
direction. The persons thus to be pleased and biassed were by no means
invariably interesting. There was a stalwart Westerner or so, who made
themselves almost too readily at home; an occasional rigid New
Englander, who suspected a lack of purpose in the atmosphere; and a
stray Southerner, who exhibited a tendency towards a large and rather
exhaustive gallantry. As a rule, too, Bertha was obliged to admit that
she found the men more easily entertained than the women, who were most
of them new to their surroundings, and privately determined to do
themselves credit and not be imposed upon by appearances; and when this
was not the case were either timorously overpowered by a sense of their
inadequacy to the situation, or calmly intrenched behind a shield of
impassive composure, more discouraging than all else. It was not always
easy to enliven such material: to be always ready with the right thing
to say and do; to understand, as by inspiration, the intricacies of
every occasion and the requirements of every mental condition, and while
Bertha spared no effort, and used her every gift to the best of her
ability, the result, even when comparatively successful, was rather
productive of exhaustion, mental and physical.

"They don't care about me," she said to Arbuthnot one night, with a
rueful laugh, as she looked around her. "And I am always afraid of their
privately suspecting that I don't care about them. Sometimes when I look
at them I cannot help being overpowered by a sense of there being a kind
of ludicrousness in it all. Do you know, nearly every one of them has a
reason for being here, and it is never by any chance connected with my
reason for inviting them. I could give you some of the reasons. Shall I?
Some of them are feminine reasons, and some of them are masculine. That
woman at the end of the sofa--the thin, eager-looking one--comes because
she wishes to accustom herself to society. Her husband is a 'rising
man,' and she is in love with him, and has a hungry desire to keep pace
with him. The woman she is talking to has a husband who wants something
Senator Planefield may be induced to give him--and Senator Planefield is
on his native heath here; that showy little Southern widow has a large
claim against the government, and comes because she sees people she
thinks it best to know. She is wanted because she has a favorite cousin
who is given patriotically to opposing all measures not designed to
benefit the South. It is rather fantastic when you reflect upon it,
isn't it?"

"You know what I think about it without asking," answered Arbuthnot.

"Yes, you have told me," was her response; "but it will be all over
before long, and then--Ah! there is Senator Blundel! Do you know, it is
always a relief to me when he comes;" and she went toward him with a
brighter look than Arbuthnot had seen her wear at any time during the
entire evening.

It had taken her some time herself to decide why it was that she liked
Blundel and felt at ease with him; in fact, up to the present period she
had scarcely done more than decide that she did like him. She had not
found his manner become more polished as their acquaintance progressed;
he was neither gallant nor accomplished; he was always rather full of
himself, in a genuine, masculine way. He was blunt, and by no means
tactful; but she had never objected to him from the first, and after a
while she had become conscious of feeling relief, as she had put it to
Arbuthnot, when his strong, rather aggressive, personality presented
itself upon the scene. He was not difficult to entertain, at least.
Finding in her the best of listeners he entertained himself by talking
to her, and by making sharp jokes, at which they both laughed with equal
appreciation. He knew what to talk about too, and what subjects to joke
on; and, however apparently communicative his mood might be, his
opinions were always kept thriftily in hand.

"He seems to talk a good deal," Richard said, testily; "but, after all,
you don't find out much of what he really thinks."

Bertha had discovered this early in their acquaintance. If the object in
making the house attractive to him was that he might be led to commit
himself in any way during his visits, that object was scarcely attained.
When at last it appeared feasible to discuss the Westoria lands project
in his presence, he showed no unwillingness to listen or to ask
questions; but, the discussion being at an end, if notes had been
compared no one could have said that he had taken either side of the
question.

"He's balancing things," Planefield said. "I told you he would do it.
You may trust him not to speak until he has made up his mind which side
of the scale the weight is on."

When these discussions were being carried on Bertha had a fancy that he
was more interested than he appeared outwardly. Several times she had
observed that he asked her questions afterward which proved that no word
had dropped on his ear unheeded, and that he had, for some reason best
known to himself, reflected upon all he had heard. But their
acquaintance had a side entirely untouched by worldly machinations, and
it was this aspect of it which Bertha liked. There was something homely
and genuine about it. He paid her no compliments; he even occasionally
found fault with her habits, and what he regarded as the unnecessary
conventionality of some of her surroundings; but his good-natured
egotism never offended her. A widower without family, and immersed in
political business, he knew little of the comforts of home life. He
lived in two or three rooms, full of papers, books, and pigeon-holes,
and took his meals at a hotel. He found this convenient, if not
luxurious, and more than convenience it had never yet occurred to him to
expect or demand. But he was not too dull to appreciate the good which
fell in his way; and after spending an hour with the Amorys on two or
three occasions, when he had left the scene of his political labors
fagged and out of humor, he began to find pleasure and relief in his
unceremonious visits, and looked forward to them. There came an evening
when Bertha, in looking over some music, came upon a primitive ballad,
which proved to be among the recollections of his youth, and she aroused
him to enthusiasm by singing it. His musical taste was not remarkable
for its cultivation; he was strongly in favor of pronounced melody, and
was disposed to regard a song as incomplete without a chorus; but he
enjoyed himself when his prejudices were pandered to, and Bertha rather
respected his courageous, if benighted, frankness, and his obstinate
faith in his obsolete favorites. So she sang "Ben Bolt" to him, and "The
Harp that once through Tara's Halls," and others far less classical and
more florid, and while she sang he sat ungracefully, but comfortably,
by the fire, his eyes twinkling less watchfully, the rugged lines of his
blunt-featured face almost settling into repose, and sometimes when she
ended he roused himself with something like a sigh.

"Do you like it?" she would say. "Does it make you forget 'the gentleman
from Indiana' and the 'senator from Connecticut'?"

"I don't want to forget them," he would reply with dogged good-humor.
"They are not the kind of fellows it is safe to forget, but it makes my
recollections of them more agreeable."

But after a while there were times when he was not in the best of
humors, and when Bertha had a fancy that he was not entirely at ease or
pleased with herself. At such times his visits were brief and
unsatisfactory, and she frequently discovered that he regarded her with
a restless and perturbed expression, as if he was not quite certain of
his own opinions of her.

"He looks at me," she said to Richard, "as if he had moments of
suspecting me of something."

"Nonsense!" said Richard. "What could he suspect you of?"

"Of nothing," she answered. "I think that was what we agreed to call
it."

But she never failed to shrink when the twinkling eyes rested upon her
with the disturbed questioning in their glance, and the consciousness of
this shrinking was very bitter to her in secret.

When her guest approached her on the evening before referred to, she
detected at once that he was not in a condition of mind altogether
unruffled. The glances he cast on those about him were not encouraging,
and the few nods of recognition he bestowed were far from cordial; his
hair stood on end a trifle more aggressively than usual, and his short,
stout body expressed a degree of general dissatisfaction which it was
next to impossible to ignore.

Bertha did not attempt to ignore it.

"I will tell you something before you speak to me," she said. "Something
has put you out of humor."

He gave her a sharp glance, and then looked away over the heads of the
crowd.

"There is always enough to put a man out of humor," he said. "What a lot
of people you have here to-night! What do they come for?"

"I have just been telling Mr. Arbuthnot some of the reasons," she
answered. "They are very few of them good ones. You came hoping to
recover your spirits."

"I came to look at you," he said.

He was frequently blunt, but there was a bluntness about this speech
which surprised her. She answered him with a laugh, however.

"I am always worth looking at," she said. "And now you have seen me"--

He was looking at her by this time, and even more sharply than before.
It seemed as if he was bent upon reading in her face the answer to the
question he had asked of it before, but he evidently did not find it.

"There's something wrong with you," he said. "I don't know what it is. I
don't know what to make of you."

"If you could make anything of me but Bertha Amory," she replied, "you
might do a service to society; but that is out of the question, and as
to there being something wrong with me, there is something wrong with
all of us. There is something wrong with Mr. Arbuthnot, he is not
enjoying himself; there is something wrong with Senator Planefield, who
has been gloomy all the evening."

"Planefield," he said. "Ah! yes, there he is! Here pretty often, isn't
he?"

"He is a great friend of Richard's," she replied, with discretion.

"So I have heard," he returned. And then he gave his attention to
Planefield for a few minutes, as if he found him also an object of deep
interest. After this inspection he turned to Bertha again.

"Well," he said, "I suppose you enjoy all this, or you wouldn't do it?"

"You are not enjoying it," she replied. "It does not exhilarate you as I
hoped it would."

"I am out of humor," was his answer. "I told you so. I have just heard
something I don't like. I dropped in here to stay five minutes, and take
a look at you and see if"--

He checked himself and rubbed his upright hair impatiently, almost
angrily.

"I am not sure that you mightn't be enjoying yourself better," he said,
"and I should like to know something more of you than I do."

"If any information I can give you"--she began.

"Come," he said, with a sudden effort at better humor, "that is the way
you talk to Planefield. We are too good friends for that."

His shrewd eyes fixed themselves on her as if asking the unanswered
question again.

"Come!" he said. "I'm a blunt, old-fashioned fogy, but we are good,
honest friends,--and always have been."

She glanced across the room at Richard, who was talking to a stubborn
opposer of the great measure, and making himself delightful beyond
description. She wished for the moment that he was not quite so
picturesque and animated; then she gathered herself together.

"I think we have been," she said. "I hope you will believe so."

"Well," he answered, "I shouldn't like to believe anything else."

She thought that perhaps he had said more than he originally intended;
he changed the subject abruptly, made a few comments upon people near
them, asked a few questions, and finally went away, having scarcely
spoken to any one but herself.

"Why did he not remain longer?" Richard asked afterward, when the
guests were gone and they were talking the evening over.

"He was not in the mood to meet people," Bertha replied. "He said he had
heard something he did not like, and it had put him out of humor. I
think it was something about me."

"About you!" Richard exclaimed. "Why, in Heaven's name, about you?"

"His manner made me think so," she answered, coldly. "And it would not
be at all unnatural. I think we may begin to expect such things."

"Upon my word," said Richard, starting up, "I think that is going rather
far. Don't you see"--with righteous indignation--"what an imputation you
are casting on me? Do you suppose I would allow you to do anything
that--that"--

She raised her eyes and met his with an unwavering glance.

"Certainly not," she said, quickly. And his sentence remained
unfinished, not because he felt that his point had been admitted, but
because, for some mysterious reason, it suddenly became impossible for
him to say more.

More than some of late, when he had launched into one of his spasmodic
defences of himself, he had found himself checked by this intangible
power in her uplifted eyes, and he certainly did not feel his grievances
the less for the experiences.

Until during the last few months he had always counted it as one of his
wife's chief charms that there was nothing complicated about her, that
her methods were as simple and direct as a child's. It had never seemed
necessary to explain her. But he had not found this so of late. He had
even begun to feel that, though there was no outward breach in the tenor
of their lives, an almost impalpable barrier had risen between them. He
expressed no wish she did not endeavor to gratify her manner toward
himself, with the exception of the fleeting moments when he had felt the
check, was entirely unchanged; the spirit of her gayety ruled the house,
as it had always done; and yet he was not always sure of the exact
significance of her jests and laughter. The jests were clever, the laugh
had a light ring; but there was a difference which puzzled him, and
which, because he recognized in it some vague connection with himself,
he tried in his moments of leisure to explain. He had even spoken of it
to Colonel Tredennis on occasions when his mood was confidential.

"She used to be as frank as a child," he said, "and have the lightest
way in the world; and I liked it. I am a rather feather-headed fellow
myself, perhaps, and it suited me. But it is all gone now. When she
laughs I don't feel sure of her, and when she is silent I begin to
wonder what she is thinking of."

The thing she thought, the words she said to herself oftenest were: "It
will not last very long." She said them over to herself at moments she
could not have sustained herself under but for the consolation she found
in them. Beyond this time, when what she faced from day to day would be
over, she had not yet looked.

"It is a curious thing," she said to Arbuthnot, "but I seem to have
ceased even to think of the future. I wonder sometimes if very old
people do not feel so--as if there was nothing more to happen."

There was another person who found the events of the present sufficient
to exclude for the time being almost all thought of the future. This
person was Colonel Tredennis, who had found his responsibilities
increase upon him also,--not the least of these responsibilities being,
it must be confessed, that intimacy with Mr. Richard Amory of which
Bertha had spoken.

"He is very intimate with Richard," she had said, and she had every
reason for making the comment.

At first it had been the colonel who had made the advances, for reasons
of his own, but later it had not been necessary for him to make
advances. Having found relief in making his first reluctant
half-confidences, Richard had gradually fallen into making others. When
he had been overpowered by secret anxiety and nervous distrust of
everything, finding himself alone with the colonel, and admiring and
respecting above all things the self-control he saw in him,--a
self-control which meant safety and silence under all temptations to
betray the faintest shadow of a trust reposed in him,--it had been
impossible for him to resist the impulse to speak of the trials which
beset him; and, having once spoken of them, it was again impossible not
to go a little farther, and say more than he had at first intended. So
he had gone on from one step to another until there had come a day when
the colonel himself had checked him for an instant, feeling it only the
part of honor in the man who was the cooler of the two, and who had
nothing to risk or repent.

"Wait a moment," he said. "Remember that, though I have not asked
questions so far, I am ready to hear anything you choose to say, but
don't tell me what you might wish you had kept back to-morrow."

"The devil take it all," cried Richard, dashing his fist on the table.
"I must tell some one, or I shall go mad." But the misery which impelled
him notwithstanding, he always told his story in his own way, and gave
it a complexion more delicate than a less graceful historian might have
been generous enough to bestow. He had been too sanguine and
enthusiastic; he had made mistakes; he had been led by the duplicity of
a wily world into follies; he had been unfortunate; those more
experienced than himself had betrayed the confidence it had been only
natural he should repose in them. And throughout the labyrinth of the
relation he wound his way,--a graceful, agile, supple figure, lightly
avoiding an obstacle here, dexterously overstepping a barrier there, and
untouched by any shadow but that of misfortune.

At first he spoke chiefly of the complications which bore heavily upon
him; and these complications, arising entirely from the actions of
others, committed him to so little that the colonel listened with
apprehension more grave than the open confession of greater blunders
would have awakened in him. "He would tell more," he thought, "if there
were less to tell."

The grim fancy came to him sometimes as he listened, that it was as if
he watched a man circling about the edge of a volcano, drawing nearer
and nearer, until at last, in spite of himself, and impelled by some
dread necessity, he must plunge headlong in. And so Richard circled
about his crater: sometimes drawn nearer by the emotion and excitement
of the moment, sometimes withdrawing a trifle through a caution as
momentary, but in each of his circlings revealing a little more of the
truth. The revelations were principally connected with the Westoria
lands scheme, and were such in many instances as the colonel was not
wholly unprepared to hear. He had not looked on during the last year for
nothing, and often, when Richard had been in gay good spirits, and had
imagined himself telling nothing, his silent companion had heard his
pleasantries with forebodings which he could not control. He was not
deceived by any appearance of entire frankness, and knew that he had not
been told all until one dark and stormy night, as he sat in his room,
Richard was announced, and came in pallid, haggard, beaten by the rain,
and at the lowest ebb of depression. He had had a hard and bitter day of
it, and it had followed several others quite as hard and bitter; he had
been fagging about the Capitol, going the old rounds, using the old
arguments, trying new ones, overcoming one obstacle only to find himself
confronted with another, feeling that he was losing ground where it was
a matter of life and death that he should gain it; spirits and courage
deserting him just when he needed them most; and all this being over, he
dropped into his office to find awaiting him there letters containing
news which gave the final blow.

He sat down by the table and began his outpourings, graceful,
attractive, injured. The colonel thought him so, as he watched him and
listened, recognizing meanwhile the incompleteness of his recital, and
making up his mind that the time had come when it was safer that the
whole truth should be told. In the hours in which he had pondered upon
the subject he gradually decided that such an occasion would arrive; and
here it was.

So at a certain fitting juncture, just as Richard was lightly skirting a
delicate point, Tredennis leaned forward and laid his open hand on the
table with a curious simplicity of gesture.

"I think," he said, "you had better tell me the whole story. You have
never done it yet. What do you say?"

The boarder on the floor below, who had heard him walking to and fro on
the first New Year's night he had spent in Washington, and on many a
night since, heard his firm, regular tread again during the half hour in
which Richard told, in fitful outbursts, what he had not found himself
equal to telling before. It was not easy to tell it in a very clear and
connected manner; it was necessary to interlard it with many
explanations and extenuations, and even when these were supplied there
was a baldness about the facts, as they gradually grouped themselves
together, which it was not agreeable to contemplate; and Richard felt
this himself gallingly.

"I know how it appears to you," he said; "I know how it sounds! That is
the maddening side of it,--it looks so much worse than it really is!
There is not a man living who would accuse me of intentional wrong.
Confound it! I seem to have been forced into doing the very things it
was least natural to me to do! Bertha herself would say it,--she would
understand it. She is always just and generous!"

"Yes," said the colonel; "I should say she had been generous."

"You mean that I have betrayed her generosity!" cried Richard. "That,
of course! I expected it."

"You will find," said the colonel, "that others will say the same
thing."

He had heard even more than his worst misgivings had suggested to him,
and the shock of it had destroyed something of his self-control. For the
time being he was in no lenient mood.

"I know what people will say!" Richard exclaimed. "Do you suppose I have
not thought of it a thousand times? I know what I should say if I did
not know the circumstances. It is the circumstances that make the
difference."

"The fact that they are your circumstances, and not another man's,"
began Tredennis; but there he checked himself. "I beg your pardon," he
said, coldly. "I have no right to meet your confidence with blame. It
will do no good. If I can give you no help, I might better be silent.
There were circumstances which appeared extenuating to you, I suppose."

He was angered by his own anger, as he had often been before. He told
himself that he was making the matter a personal cause, as usual; but
how could he hear that her very generosity and simplicity had been used
against her by the man who should have guarded her interests as his
first duty, without burning with sharp and fierce indignation.

"If I understand you," he said, "your only hope of recovering what you
have lost lies in the success of the Westoria scheme?"

"Yes," answered Amory, with his forehead on his hands, "that is the
diabolical truth!"

"And you have lost?"

"Once I was driven into saying to you that if the thing should fail it
would mean ruin to me. That was the truth, too."

The colonel stood still.

"Ruin to you!" he said. "Ruin to your wife--ruin to your
children--serious loss to the old man who"--

"Who trusted me!" Richard finished, gnawing his white lips. "I see it in
exactly the same light myself, and it does not make it easier to bear.
That is the way a thing looks when it fails. Suppose it had succeeded.
It may succeed yet. They trusted me, and, I tell you, I trusted myself."

It was easy to see just what despair would seize him if the worst came
to the worst, and how powerless he would be in its clutches. He was like
a reed beaten by the wind, even now. A sudden paroxysm of fear fell upon
him.

"Great God!" he cried. "It can't fail! What could I say to them--how
could I explain it?"

A thousand wild thoughts surged through Tredennis' brain as he heard
him. The old sense of helplessness was strong upon him. To his upright
strength there seemed no way of judging fairly of, or dealing
practically with, such dishonor and weakness. What standard could be
applied to a man who lied agreeably in his very thoughts of himself and
his actions? He had scarcely made a statement during the last hour which
had not contained some airy falsehood. Of whom was it he thought in his
momentary anguish? Not of Bertha--not of her children--not of the gentle
old scholar, who had always been lenient with his faults. It was of
himself he was thinking--of Richard Amory, robbed of his refined
picturesqueness by mere circumstance and placed by bad luck at a baleful
disadvantage!

For a few minutes there was a silence. Richard sat with his brow upon
his hands, his elbows on the table before him. Tredennis paced to and
fro, looking downward. At length Richard raised his head. He did so
because Tredennis had stopped his walk.

"What is it?" he asked.

Tredennis walked over to him and sat down. He was pale, and wore a set
and rigid look, the chief characteristic of which was that it expressed
absolutely nothing. His voice was just as hard and expressed as little
when he spoke.

"I have a proposition to make to you," he said, "and I will preface it
by the statement that, as a business man, I am perfectly well aware that
it is almost madness to make it. I say 'almost.' Let it rest there. I
will assume the risks you have run in the Westoria scheme. Invest the
money you have charge of in something safer. You say there are chances
of success. I will take those chances."

"_What!_" cried Richard. "_What!_"

He sat upright, staring. He did not believe the evidence of his senses;
but Tredennis went on, without the quiver of a muscle, speaking
steadily, almost monotonously.

"I have money," he said. "More than you know, perhaps. I have had
recently a legacy which would of itself make me a comparatively rich
man. That I was not dependent upon my pay you knew before. I have no
family. I shall not marry. I am fond of your children, of Janey
particularly. I should have provided for her future in any case. You
have made a bad investment in these lands; transfer them to me and
invest in something safer."

"And if the bill fails to pass!" exclaimed Richard.

"If it fails to pass I shall have the land on my hands; if it passes I
shall have made something by a venture, and Janey will be the richer;
but, as it stands, the venture had better be mine than yours. You have
lost enough."

Richard gave his hair an excited toss backward, and stared at him as he
had done before; a slight, cold moisture broke out on his forehead.

"You mean"--he began, breathlessly.

"Do you remember," said Tredennis, "what I told you of the comments
people were beginning to make? They have assumed the form I told you
they would. It is best for--for your children that they should be put
an end to. If I assume these risks there will be no farther need for you
to use--to exert yourself." He began to look white about the mouth, and
through his iron stolidity there was something revealed before which
Richard felt himself quail. "The night that Blundel came in to your
wife's reception, and remained so short a time, he had heard a remark
upon the influence she was exerting over him, and it had had a bad
effect. The remark was made publicly at one of the hotels." He turned a
little whiter, and the something all the strength in him had held down
at the outset leaped to the surface. "I have no wife to--to use," he
said; "if I had, by Heavens, I would have spared her!"

He had held himself in hand and been silent a long time, but he could
not do it now.

"She is the mother of your children," he cried, clenching his great
hand. "And women are beginning to avoid her, and men to bandy her name
to and fro. You have deceived her; you have thrown away her fortune; you
have used her as an instrument in your schemes. _I_, who am only an
outsider, with no right to defend her--_I_ defend her for her father's
sake, for her child's, for her own! You are on the verge of ruin and
disgrace. I offer you the chance to retrieve yourself--to retrieve her!
Take it, if you are a man!"

Richard had fallen back in his chair breathless and ashen. In all his
imaginings of what the future might hold he had never thought of such a
possibility as this,--that it should be this man who would turn upon him
and place an interpretation so fiercely unsparing upon what he had done!
Under all his admiration and respect for the colonel there had been
hidden, it must be admitted, an almost unconscious touch of contempt for
him, as a rather heavy and unsophisticated personage, scarcely versatile
or agile enough, and formed in a mould somewhat obsolete and
quixotic,--a safe person to confide in, and one to invite confidence
passively by his belief in what was presented to him; a man to make a
good listener and to encourage one to believe in one's own statements,
certainly not a man to embarrass and discourage a historian by asking
difficult questions or translating too literally what was said. He had
not asked questions until to-night, and his face had said very little
for him on any occasion. Among other things Richard had secretly--though
leniently--felt him to be a trifle stolid, and had amiably forgiven him
for it. It was this very thing which made the sudden change appear so
keen an injustice and injury; it amounted to a breach of confidence,
that _he_ should have formed a deliberate and obstinate opinion of his
own, entirely unbiassed by the presentation of the case offered to him.
He had spoken more than once, it was true, in a manner which had
suggested prejudice; but it had been the prejudice of the primeval mind,
unable to adjust itself to modern conditions and easily disregarded by
more experienced. But now!--he was stolid no longer. His first words had
startled Richard beyond expression. His face said more for him than his
words; it burned white with the fire it had hidden so long; his great
frame quivered with the passion of the moment; when he had clenched his
hand it had been in the vain effort to hold it still; and yet the man
who saw it recognized in it only the wrath and scorn which had reference
to himself. Perhaps it was best that it should have been so,--best that
his triviality was so complete that he could see nothing which was not
in some way connected with his own personality.

"Tredennis," he gasped out, "you are terribly harsh! I did not think
you"--

"Even if I could lie and palter to you," said Tredennis, his clenched
hand still on the table, "this is not the time for it. I have tried
before to make you face the truth, but you have refused to do it.
Perhaps you had made yourself believe what you told me,--that no harm
was meant or done. _I_ know what harm has been done. I have heard the
talk of the hotel corridors and clubs!" His hand clenched itself harder
and he drew in a sharp breath.

"It is time that you should give this thing up," he continued, with
deadly determination. "And I am willing to shoulder it. Who else would
do the same thing?"

"No one else," said Richard, bitterly. "And it is not for my sake you do
it either; it is for the sake of some of your ideal fancies that are too
fine for us worldlings to understand, I swear!" And he felt it specially
hard that it was so.

"Yes," replied the colonel, "I suppose you might call it that. It is not
for your sake, as you say. It has been one of my fancies that a man
might even deny himself for the sake of an--an idea, and I am not
denying myself. I am only giving to your child, in one way, what I meant
to give to her in another. She would be willing to share it with her
mother, I think."

And then, somehow, Richard began to feel that this offer was a demand,
and that, even if his sanguine mood should come upon him again, he would
not find it exactly easy to avoid it. It seemed actually as if there was
something in this man--some principle of strength, of feeling, of
conviction--which almost constituted a right by which he might contend
for what he asked; and before it, in his temporary abasement and anguish
of mind, Richard Amory faltered. He said a great deal, it is true, and
argued his case as he had argued it before, being betrayed in the course
of the argument by the exigencies of the case to add facts as well as
fancies. He endeavored to adorn his position as much as possible, and,
naturally, his failure was not entire. There were hopes of the passage
of the bill, sometimes strong hopes, it seemed; if the money he had
invested had been his own; if it had not been for the failure of his
speculations in other quarters; if so much had not depended upon failure
and success,--he would have run all risks willingly. There were,
indeed, moments when it almost appeared that his companion was on the
point of making a capital investment, and being much favored thereby.

"It is really not half so bad as it seems," he said, gaining
cheerfulness as he talked. "But, after such a day as I have had, a man
loses courage and cannot look at things collectedly. I have been up and
down in the scale a score of times in the last eight hours. That is
where the wear and tear comes in. A great deal depends on Blundel; and I
had a talk with him which carried us farther than we have ever been
before."

"Farther," said Tredennis. "In what direction?"

Richard flushed slightly.

"I think I sounded him pretty well," he said. "There is no use mincing
matters; it has to be done. We have never been able to get at his views
of things exactly, and I won't say he went very far this afternoon; but
I was in a desperate mood, and--well, I think I reached bottom. He half
promised to call at the house this evening. I dare say he is with Bertha
now."

Something in his flush, which had a slightly excited and triumphant air,
something in his look and tone, caused Tredennis to start in his chair.

"What is he there for?" he said. "What do you mean?"

Richard thrust his hands in his pockets. For a moment he seemed to have
lost all his grace and refinement of charm,--for the moment he was a
distinctly coarse and undraped human being.

"He has gone to make an evening call," he said. "And if she manages him
as well as she has managed him before,--as well as she can manage any
man she chooses to take in hand, and yet not give him more than a smile
or so,--your investment, if you make it, may not turn out such a bad
one."




CHAPTER XXXIV.


Bertha had spent the greater part of the day with her children, as she
had spent part of many days lately. She had gone up to the nursery after
breakfast to see Jack and Janey at their lessons, and had remained with
them and given herself up to their entertainment. She was not well; the
weather was bad; she might give herself a holiday, and she would spend
it in her own way, in the one refuge which never failed her.

"It is always quiet here," she said to herself. "If I could give up all
the rest--all of it--and spend all my days here, and think of nothing
else, I might be better. There are women who live so. I think they must
be better in every way than I am--and happier. I am sure I should have
been happier if I had begun so long ago."

And as she sat, with Janey at her side, in the large chair which held
them both, her arm thrown round the child's waist, there came to her a
vague thought of what the unknown future might form itself into when she
"began again." It would be beginning again when the sea was between the
new life and the old; everything would be left behind--but the children.
She would live as she had lived in Virginia, always with the
children--always with the children. "It is the only safe thing," she
thought, clasping Janey closer. "Nothing else is safe for a woman who is
unhappy. If one is happy one may be gay, and look on at the world with
the rest; but there are some who must not look on--who dare not."

"Mamma," said Janey, "you are holding me a little too close, and your
face looks--it looks--as if you were thinking."

Bertha laughed to reassure her. They were used to this gay, soft laugh
of hers, as the rest of the world was. If she was silent, if the room
was not bright with the merriment she had always filled it with, they
felt themselves a trifle injured, and demanded their natural rights with
juvenile imperiousness. "Mamma always laughs," Jack had once announced
to a roomful of company. "She plays new games with us and laughs, and we
laugh too. Maria and Susan are not funny. Mamma is funny, and like a
little girl grown up. We always have fun when she comes into the
nursery." "It is something the same way in the parlor," Planefield had
said, showing his teeth amiably, and Bertha, who was standing near
Colonel Tredennis, had laughed in a manner to support her reputation,
but had said nothing. So she laughed now, not very vivaciously, perhaps.
"That was very improper, Janey," she said, "to look as if I was
thinking. It is bad enough to be thinking. It must not occur again."

"But if you were thinking of a story to tell us," suggested Jack,
graciously, "it wouldn't matter, you see. You might go on thinking."

"But the story was not a new one," she answered. "It was sad. I did not
like it myself."

"We should like it," said Janey.

"If it's a story," remarked Jack, twisting the string round his top,
"it's all right. There was a story Uncle Philip told us."

"Suppose you tell it to me," said Bertha.

"It was about a knight," said Janey, "who went to a great battle. It was
very sorrowful. He was strong, and happy, and bold, and the king gave
him a sword and armor that glittered and was beautiful. And his hair
waved in the breeze. And he was young and brave. And his horse arched
its neck. And the knight longed to go and fight in the battle, and was
glad and not afraid; and the people looked on and praised him, because
they thought he would fight so well. But just as the battle began,
before he had even drawn his sword, a stray shot came, and he fell. And
while the battle went on he lay there dying, with his hand on his
breast. And at night, when the battle was over, and the stars came out,
he lay and looked up at them, and at the dark-blue sky, and wondered why
he had been given his sword and armor, and why he had been allowed to
feel so strong, and glad, and eager,--only for that. But he did not
know. There was no one to tell him. And he died. And the stars shone
down on his bright armor and his dead face."

"I didn't like it myself," commented Jack. "It wasn't much of a story. I
told him so."

"He was sorry he told it," said Janey, "because I cried. I don't think
he meant to tell such a sad story."

"He wasn't funny, that day," observed Jack. "Sometimes he isn't funny at
all, and he sits and thinks about things; and then, if we make him tell
us a story, he doesn't tell a good one. He used to be nicer than he is
now."

"I love him," said Janey, faithfully; "I think he is nice all the time."

"It wasn't much of a story, that is true," said Bertha. "There was not
enough of it."

"He died too soon," said Jack.

"Yes," said Bertha; "he died too soon, that was it,--too soon." And the
laugh she ended with had a sound which made her shudder.

She got up from her rocking-chair quickly.

"We won't tell stories," she said. "We will play. We will play ball and
blind-man's bluff--and run about and get warm. That will be better."

And she took out her handkerchief and tied it over her eyes with
unsteady hands, laughing again,--laughing while the children laughed,
too.

They played until the room rang with their merriment. They had not been
so gay together for many a day, and when the game was at an end they
tried another and another, until they were tired and ready for their
nursery dinner. Bertha did not leave them even then. She did not expect
Richard home until their own dinner-hour in the evening, so she sat at
the children's table and helped them herself, in the nurse's place; and
they were in high spirits, and loquacious and confidential.

When the meal was over they sat by the nursery fire, and Meg fell asleep
in her mother's arms; and after she had laid her on her bed Bertha came
back to Jack and Janey, and read and talked to them until dusk began to
close in about them. It was as they sat so together that a sealed
package was brought to her by a servant, who said it had been left at
the door by a messenger. It contained two letters,--one addressed to
Senator Blundel, and one to herself,--and both were in Richard's hand.

"I suppose something has detained him, and I am not to wait dinner," she
thought, as she opened the envelope bearing her own name.

The same thing had occurred once or twice before, so it made but little
impression upon her. There were the usual perfectly natural excuses. He
had been very hard at work and would be obliged to remain out until some
time past their dinner-hour. He had an engagement at one of the hotels,
and could dine there; he was not quite sure that he should be home until
late. Then he added, just before closing:

"Blundel said something about calling this evening. He had been having a
hard day of it and said he wanted a change. I had a very satisfactory
talk with him, and I think he begins to see the rights of our case.
Entertain him as charmingly as possible, and if he is not too tired, and
is in a good humor, hand him the enclosed letter. It contains testimony
which ought to be a strong argument, and I think it will be."

Bertha looked at the letter. It was not at all imposing, and seemed to
contain nothing more than a slip of paper. She put it down on the mantel
and sighed faintly.

"If he knew what a service he would do me by seeing the rights of the
case," she said to herself, "I think he would listen to their arguments.
I think he likes me well enough to do it. I believe he would enjoy being
kind to me. If this should be the end of it all, it would be worth the
trouble of being amusing and amiable one evening."

But she did not look forward with any great pleasure to the prospect of
what was before her. Perhaps her day in the nursery had been a little
too much for her; she was tired, and would have been glad to be left
alone. But this was not to be. She must attire herself, in all her
bravery, and sing, and laugh, and be gay a little longer. How often had
she done the same thing before? How often would she do it again?

"There are some people who are born to play comedy," she said afterward,
as she stood before her mirror, dressing. "They can do nothing else. I
am one of them. Very little is expected of me, only that I shall always
laugh and make jokes. If I were to try tragedy, that would be a better
jest than all the rest. If I were to be serious, what a joke that would
be!"

She thought, as she had done a thousand times, of a portrait of herself
which had been painted three years before. It had been her Christmas
gift to Richard, and had been considered a great success. It was a
wonderfully spirited likeness, and the artist had been fortunate in
catching her brightest look.

"It is the expression that is so marvellous," Richard had often said.
"When I look at it I always expect to hear you laugh."

"Are they never tired of it?" she said; "never tired of hearing me
laugh? If I were to stop some day and say, 'See, I am tired of it
myself. I have tears as well as the rest of you. Let me'"--She checked
herself; her hands had begun to tremble--her voice; she knew too well
what was coming upon her. She looked at herself in the glass.

"I must dress myself carefully," she said, "if I am to look vivacious.
One's attire is called upon to do a great deal for one when one has a
face like that."

Outwardly her attire had done a great deal for her when, after she had
dined alone, she sat awaiting her guest. The fire burned brightly; the
old songs lay upon the piano; a low stand, with a pretty coffee service
upon it, was drawn near her; a gay little work-basket, containing some
trifle of graceful work, was on her knee. Outside, the night was
decidedly unpleasant. "So unpleasant," she said to herself, "that it
will surprise me if he comes." But though by eight o'clock the rain was
coming down steadily, at half-past eight she heard the familiar heavy
tread upon the door-step, and her visitor presented himself.

What sort of humor he was in when he made his entry Bertha felt that it
was not easy to decide; but it struck her that it was not a usual humor,
and that the fatigues of the day had left their mark upon him. He looked
by no means fresh, and by the time he had seated himself felt that
something had disturbed him, and that it was true that he needed
distraction.

It had always been very simple distraction she offered him; he had never
demanded subtleties from her or any very great intellectual effort; his
ideas upon the subject of the feminine mind were, perhaps, not so
advanced as they might have been, and belonged rather to the days and
surroundings of his excellent, hard-worked mother and practical,
unimaginative sisters than to a more brilliant world. Given a
comfortable seat in the pretty room, the society of this pretty and
smiling little person, who poured out his coffee for him, enjoyed his
jokes, and prattled gayly of things pleasant and amusing, he was
perfectly satisfied. What he felt the need of was rest and light
recreation, cheerfulness, and appreciation, a sense of relief from the
turmoil and complications of the struggling, manoeuvring, overreaching,
ambitious world he lived in.

Knowing this, Bertha had given him what he enjoyed, and she offered him
no other entertainment this evening. She gave him his cup of coffee, and
talked to him as he drank it, telling him an amusing story or so of the
children or of people he knew.

"I have been in the nursery all day," she said. "I have been playing
blind-man's buff and telling stories. You have never been in the
nursery, have you? You are not like Colonel Tredennis, who thinks the
society there is better than that we have in the parlor."

"Perhaps he's not so far wrong," said her guest, bluntly, "though I have
never been in the nursery myself. I have a nursery of my own up at the
Capitol, and I don't always find it easy to manage."

"The children fight, I have heard," said Bertha, "and sometimes call
each other names; and it is even reported that they snatch at each
other's toys and break those they cannot appropriate. I am afraid the
discipline is not good!"

"It isn't," he answered, "or there isn't enough of it."

He set his coffee-cup down and watched her as she leaned back in her
chair and occupied herself with the contents of her work-basket.

"Do you go into the nursery often," he asked, "or is it out of the
fashion?"

"It is out of the fashion," she answered, "but"--She stopped and let her
work rest on her knee as she held it. "Will you tell me why you ask me
that?" she said, and her face changed as she spoke.

"I asked you because I didn't know," he answered. "It seemed to me you
couldn't have much time for things of that sort. You generally seem to
be pretty busy with one thing and another. I don't know much about
fashionable life and fashionable women. The women I knew when I was a
boy--my own mother and her sisters--spent the most of their time with
their children; and it wasn't such a bad way either. They were pretty
good women."

"Perhaps it was the best way," said Bertha, "and I dare say they were
better for it. I dare say we compare very unfavorably with them."

"You don't compare at all," he returned. "I should not compare you. I
don't know how it would work with you. They got old pretty soon, and
lost their good looks; but they were safe, kind-hearted creatures, who
tried to do their duty and make the best of things. I don't say they
were altogether right in their views of life; they were narrow, I
suppose, and ran into extremes, but they had ways a man likes to think
of, and did very little mischief."

"I could scarcely estimate the amount of mischief I do," said Bertha,
applying herself to her work cheerfully; "but I do not think my children
are neglected. Colonel Tredennis would probably give a certificate to
that effect. They are clothed quite warmly, and are occasionally allowed
a meal, and I make a practice of recognizing them when I meet them on
the street."

She was wondering if it would not be better to reserve the letter until
some more auspicious occasion. It struck her that in the course of his
day's fatigues he had encountered some problem of which he found it
difficult to rid himself. There were signs of it in his manner. He wore
a perturbed, preoccupied expression, and looked graver than she had ever
seen him. He sat with his hands in his pockets, his hair on end, his
bluff countenance a rather deeper color than usual, and his eyes resting
upon her.

"This isn't an easy world," he said, "and I suppose it is no easier for
women than for men. I shouldn't like to be a woman myself, and have to
follow my leader, and live in one groove from beginning to end. It is
natural that some should feel the temptation to try to get out of it,
and use their power as men use theirs; but it does not pay--it can't.
Women were meant to be good--to be good and honest and true, and--and
innocent."

It was an amazingly ingenuous creed, and he presented it with a rough
simplicity and awkwardness which might have been laughable but for their
heavy sincerity. Bertha felt this seriousness instantaneously, and,
looking up, saw in his sharp little eyes a suggestion of feeling which
startled her.

"Wondering what I'm thinking of?" he said. "Well, I am thinking of you.
I've thought of you pretty often lately, and to-night I've a reason for
having you in my mind."

"What is the reason?" she asked, more startled than before.

He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets; there was no mistaking the
evidences of strong emotion in his face.

"I am a friend of yours," he said. "You know that; you've known it some
time. My opinion of you is that you are a good little woman,--the right
sort of a little woman,--and I have a great deal of confidence in you."

"I hope so," said Bertha.

She felt that as he gained warmth and color she lost them; she thought
of the letter which lay on the mantel-piece within a few feet of him,
and wished that it was not so near. There had been evil spoken of her,
and he had heard it. She realized that, and knew that she was upon her
defence, even while she had no knowledge of what she was to defend
herself against.

"I hope so," she said again, tremulously. "I hope so, indeed;" and her
eyes met his with a helplessness more touching than any appeal she could
have made.

It so moved him that he could remain quiet no longer, but sprang to his
feet and drew his hand from his pocket and rubbed it excitedly over his
upright hair.

"Damn it!" he broke forth, "let them say what they will,--let what will
happen, I'll believe in you! Don't look at me like that; you are a good
little woman, but you are in the wrong place. There are lies and
intrigues going on about you, and you are too--too bright and pretty to
be judged fairly by outsiders. You don't know what you are mixed up in;
how should you! Who is to tell you? These fellows who dangle about and
make fine speeches are too smooth-tongued, even when they know enough.
I'll tell you. I never paid you compliments or made love to you, did I?
I'm no good at that; but I'll tell you the truth, and give you a bit of
good advice. People are beginning to talk, you see, and tell lies. They
have brought their lies to me; I don't believe them, but others will.
There are men and women who come to your house who will do you no good,
and are more than likely to do you harm. They are a lot of intriguers
and lobbyists. You don't want that set here. You want honest friends,
and an innocent, respectable home for your children, and a name they
won't be ashamed of. Send the whole set packing, and cut yourself loose
from them."

Bertha stood up also. She had forgotten the little work-basket, and
still held it in her hands, suspended before her.

"Will you tell me," she said, "what the lies were,--the lies you heard?"

Perhaps she thought, with a hopeless pang, they were not lies at all;
perhaps he had only heard what was the truth, that she had been told to
try to please him, that his good-will might be gained to serve an end.
Looked at from Richard's stand-point that had been a very innocent
thing; looked at from his stand-point it might seem just what it had
seemed to herself, even in the reckless, desperate moment when she had
given way.

He paused a moment, barely a moment, and then answered her.

"Yes," he said, "I will tell you if you want to know. There has been a
big scheme on hand for some time,--there are men who must be influenced;
I am one of them, and people say that the greater part of the work is
carried on in your parlors here, and that you were set on me because you
were a clever little manoeuvrer, and knew your business better than I
should be likely to suspect. That is what they say, and that is what I
must believe, because"--

He stopped short. He had drawn nearer the mantel-piece, and as he spoke
some object lying upon it caught his eye. It was the letter directed to
himself, lying with the address upward, and he took it in his hand.

"What is this?" he demanded. "Who left it here?"

Bertha stood perfectly motionless. Richard's words came back to her:
"Give it to him if he is in a good humor. It contains arguments which I
think will convince him." Then she looked at Blundel's face. If there
could be any moment more unfit than another for the presentation of
arguments it was this particular one. And never before had she liked him
so well or valued his good opinion so highly as she did now, when he
turned his common, angry, honest face upon her.

"What is it?" he said again. "Tell me."

She thought of Richard once more, and then of the children sleeping
upstairs, and of the quiet, innocent day she had spent with them. They
did not know that she was an intriguing woman, whom people talked of;
she had never realized it herself to the full until this moment. They
had delicately forborne giving any name to the thing she had done; but
this man, who judged matters in a straightforward fashion, would find a
name for it. But there was only one answer for her to make.

"It is a letter I was to give you," she said.

"And it is from your husband?"

"I have not read it," she replied.

He stopped short a moment and looked at her--with a sudden suggestion of
doubt and bewilderment that was as bad as a blow.

"Look here!" he said. "You were going to give it to me,--you intended to
do it."

"Yes."

He gave her another look,--amazement, anger, disbelief, struggling with
each other in it,--and then thrust his obstinate fists into his pockets
again and planted himself before her like a rock.

"By the Lord!" he said. "I won't believe it!"

The hard common-sense which had been his stronghold and the stand-by of
his constituents for many a year came to his rescue. He might not know
much of women; but he had seen intrigue, and trickery, and detected
guilt, and it struck him if these things were here, they were before him
in a new form.

"Now," he said, "tell me who gave it to you."

"You will know that," she answered, "when you read it."

"Tell me," he demanded, "if you know what is in it."

"I know something," she replied, "of what is in it."

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I'd give a great deal to know how much."

Only Richard could have told him how much or how little, and he was not
there.

"Come," he said, as she made no reply, "they might easily deceive you.
Tell me what you know, and I will believe you,--and there are very few
women in your place I would say as much to."

"I do not think," she answered, "that they have deceived me."

"Then," he returned, his face hardening, "_you_ have deceived _me_!"

"Yes," she answered, turning white, "I suppose I have."

There was a moment of dead silence, in which his shrewd eyes did their
work as well as they had done it at any time during his fifty years of
life. Then he spoke to her again.

"They wanted me here because they wanted to make use of me," he said.
"You knew that."

"They did not put it in that way," she answered. "I dare say you know
that."

"You were to befool me as far as you could, and make the place agreeable
to me,--you knew that?"

She turned paler.

"I--I have liked you very sincerely!" she broke forth, piteously. "I
have liked you! Out of all the rest, that one thing was true! Don't--ah,
don't think it was not."

His expression for a moment was a curiously undecided one; he was
obliged to rally himself with a sharp rub at his hair.

"I'll tell you what I think of that when you have answered me another
question," he said. "There is a person who has done a great deal of work
in this matter, and has been very anxious about it, probably because he
has invested in it more money than he can spare,--buying lands and doing
one thing and another. That person is your husband, Mr. Richard Amory.
Tell me if you knew that."

The blood rushed to her face and then left it again.

"Richard!" she exclaimed. "Richard!" and she caught at the mantel and
held to it.

His eyes did not leave her for an instant. He nodded his head with a
significance whose meaning was best known to himself.

"Sit down," he said. "I see you did not know that."

She did as he told her. It was as if such a flash of light had struck
across her mental vision as half blinded her.

"Not Richard!" she cried out; and even as she said it a thousand proofs
rushed back upon her and spoke the whole shameful truth for themselves.

Blundel came nearer to her, his homely, angry face, in spite of its
anger, expressing honest good feeling as strongly as any much handsomer
one might have done.

"I knew there had been deep work somewhere," he said. "I saw it from the
first. As for you, you have been treated pretty badly. I supposed they
persuaded you that you might as well amuse one man as another,--and I
was the man. I dare say there is more behind than I can see. You had
nothing to gain as far as you knew, that's plain enough to me."

"No," she exclaimed, "it was not I who was to gain. They did not think
of--of me!"

"No," he went on, "they lost sight of you rather often when they had a
use for you. It's apt to be the way. It's time some one should think of
you, and I mean to do it. I am not going to say anything more against
those who--made the mistake" (with a resentful shuffle of his shoulders
as he put it thus mildly), "than I can help, but I am going to tell you
the truth. I have heard ugly stories for some time, and I've had my
suspicions of the truth of them; but I meant to wait for proof, and it
was given me this afternoon. More was said to me than it was safe to say
to an honest man, and I let the person who talked go as far as he would,
and he was too desperate to be cautious. I knew a bold move was to be
made, and I guessed it would be made to-night."

He took the envelope from his pocket where he had tucked it unopened.
His face grew redder and hotter.

"If it were not for you," he said; "if I didn't have faith in your being
the honest little woman I took you for; if I didn't believe you spoke
the truth when you said you liked me as honestly as I liked you,--though
the Lord knows there is no proof except that I do believe you in spite
of everything,--I'd have the thing spread the length and breadth of the
land by to-morrow morning, and there would be such an uproar as the
country has not seen for a year or so."

"Wait!" said Bertha, half-starting from her seat. "I did not understand
before. This is too much shame. I thought it was--only a letter. I did
not know"--

He went to the fire.

"I believe that, too," he said, grimly; "but it is not a little thing
I'm doing. I'm denying myself a great deal. I'd give five years of my
life"--He straightened out his short, stout arm and closed hand with a
robust gesture, and then checked himself. "You don't know what is in
it. I don't know. I have not looked at it. There it goes." And he tossed
it into the fire.

"The biggest fool of all," he said, "is the fool who takes every man for
a knave. Do they think a country like this has been run for a century by
liars and thieves? There have been liars and thieves enough, but not
enough to bring it to a stand-still, and that seems to argue that there
has been an honest man or so to keep a hand on their throats. When there
are none left--well, it won't be as safe to belong to the nation as it
is to-day, in spite of all that's bad in it."

The envelope had flamed up, and then died down into tindery blackness.
He pointed to it.

"You can say it is there," he said, "and that I didn't open it, and they
may thank you for it. Now I am going."

Bertha rose. She put her hand on the mantel again.

"If I do not thank you as I ought," she said, brokenly, "you must
forgive me. I see all that you have spared me, but--I have had a heavy
blow." He paused to look at her, rubbing his upright hair for the last
time, his little eyes twinkling with a suspicious brightness, which had
its softness too. He came back and took her hand, and held it in an
awkward, kindly clasp.

"You are a good little woman," he said. "I'll say it to you again. You
were not cut out to be made anything else of. You won't be anything
else. You are young to be disappointed and unhappy. I know all that, and
there doesn't seem much to say. Advice wouldn't amount to much, and I
don't know that there is any to give."

They moved slowly toward the door together. When they stood upon the
threshold he dropped her hand as awkwardly as he had taken it, and made
a gesture toward the stairway, the suspicious brightness of his eyes
more manifest than ever.

"Your children are up there asleep," he said, unsteadily. "Go to them."

And turning away, shrugged himself into his overcoat at the hat-stand,
opened the door for himself, and went out of the house without another
word.




CHAPTER XXXV.


The last words of his half-reluctant, half-exultant confession had
scarcely left Richard Amory's lips when Tredennis rose from his chair.

"If you can," he said, "tell me the literal truth. Blundel is at your
house with your wife. There is something she is to do. What is it?"

"She is to hand him an envelope containing a slip of paper," said
Richard, doggedly. "That is what she is to do."

Tredennis crossed the room, and took his hat from its place.

"Will you come with me," he said, "or shall I go alone?"

"Where?" asked Richard.

Tredennis glanced at his watch.

"He would not call until late, perhaps," he said, "and she would not
give it to him at once. It is ten now. We may reach there in time to
spare her that, at least."

Richard bit his lip.

"There seems to be a good deal of talk of sparing her," he said. "Nobody
spares me. Every folly I have been guilty of is exaggerated into a
crime. Do you suppose that fellow isn't used to that sort of thing? Do
you suppose I should have run the risk if he had not shown his hand this
afternoon? She knows nothing of what she is to give him. There is no
harm done to her."

"How is he to know she is not in the plot?" said Tredennis. "How is he
to guess that she is not--what she has been made to seem to be? What
insult is he not at liberty to offer her if he chooses?"

"She will take care of herself," said Richard. "Let her alone for
that."

"By Heaven!" said Tredennis. "She has been let alone long enough. Has
she ever been anything else but alone? Has there been one human creature
among all she knew to help or defend or guide her? Who has given her a
thought so long as she amused them and laughed with the rest? Who"--

Richard got up, a dawning curiosity in his face.

"What is the matter with _you_?" he said. "Have you been"--

The words died away. The colonel's gleaming eye stopped him.

"We will go at once, if you please," said Tredennis, and strode out of
the room before him.

When they reached the house Bertha was still standing where her guest
had left her a few moments before, and but one glance at her face was
needed to show both of them that something unusual had occurred.

"You have had Blundel here?" Richard asked, with an attempt at his usual
manner, which ill-covered his excitement. "We thought we saw him
crossing the street."

"Yes," she answered. "He has just left me."

She turned suddenly and walked back to the hearth.

"He left a message for you," she said. "That is it,"--and she pointed to
the last bit of tinder flickering on the coals.

"The--letter!" exclaimed Richard.

"Yes," she answered. "Do you want Colonel Tredennis to hear about the
letter, Richard, or does he know already?"

"He knows everything," answered Richard, "as every one else will
to-morrow or the day after."

For a moment his despair made him so reckless that he did not make an
effort at defence. He flung himself into a chair and gave up to the
misery of the hour.

"You knew," said Bertha, looking toward Tredennis, "and did not tell
me. Yes, I forgot,"--with a bitter little smile,--"there was something
you warned me of once and I would not listen, and perhaps you thought I
would not listen now. If you know, will you tell me what was in the
letter? I do not know yet, and I want to hear it put into words. It was
money--or an offer of money? Tell me, if you please."

"It was money," said Richard, defiantly. "And there are others who have
taken the same thing peacefully enough."

"And I was to give it to him because--because he was a little more
difficult, and seemed to be my friend. Do all female lobbyists do such
things, Richard, or was I honored with a special service?"

"It is not the first time it has been done," he answered, "and it won't
be the last."

"It is the first time I have done it," she returned, "and it will be the
last. The--risk is too great."

Her voice shook a little, but it was perfectly cold; and, though her
eyes were dilated, such fire as might have been in them was quenched by
some light to which it would have been hard to give a name.

"I do not mean the risk to myself," she said to Richard. "That I do not
count. I meant risk to you. When he burned the letter he said, 'Tell
them I did it for your sake, and that it is safer for them that I did
it.'"

"What else did he say?" asked Richard, desperately. "He has evidently
changed his mind since this afternoon."

"He told me you had a reason for your interest in the scheme, which was
not the one you gave me. He told me you had invested largely in it, and
could not afford to lose."

Richard started up, and turned helplessly toward Tredennis. He had not
expected this, just yet at least.

"I--I"--he faltered.

The colonel spoke without lifting his eyes from the floor.

"Will you let me explain that?" he asked. "I think it would be better."

There was a moment's silence, in which Bertha looked from one to the
other.

"You?" she said.

Richard's lids fell. He took a paper-knife from the table he leaned
against, and began to play with it nervously. He had become a haggard,
coarsened, weakened copy of himself; his hair hung in damp elf-locks
over his forehead; his lips were pale and dry; he bit them to moisten
them.

"The money," said Tredennis, "was mine. It was a foolish investment,
perhaps; but the money--was mine."

"Yours!" said Bertha. "You invested in the Westoria lands!"

She put her hand in its old place on the mantel, and a strange laugh
fell from her lips.

"Then I have been lobbying for you, too," she said. "I--wish I had been
more successful."

Richard put his hand up, and pushed back the damp, falling locks of hair
from his forehead restlessly.

"_I_ made the investment," he said, "and I am the person to blame, as
usual; but you would have believed in it yourself."

"Yes," she answered; "I should have believed in it, I dare say. It has
been easy to make me believe, but I think I should also have believed in
a few other things,--in the possibility of their being honor and good
faith"--

She paused an instant, and then began again.

"You told me once that you had never regarded me seriously. I think that
has been the difficulty--and perhaps it was my fault. It will not be
necessary to use me any more, and I dare say you will let me go away for
a while after a week or so. I think it would be better."

She left her place to cross the room to the door. On her way there she
paused before Colonel Tredennis.

"I beg your pardon," she said, and went on.

At the door she stopped again one moment, fronting them both, her head
held erect, her eyes large and bright.

"When Senator Blundel left me," she said, "he told me to go to my
children. If you will excuse me, I will go."

And she made a stately little bow, and left them.




CHAPTER XXXVI.


The great social event of the following week was to be the ball given
yearly for the benefit of a certain popular and fashionable charity.
There was no charity so fashionable, and consequently no ball so well
attended; everybody was more or less interested; everybody of importance
appeared at it, showing themselves for a few moments at least. Even Mrs.
Merriam, who counted among the privileges earned by a long and
unswervingly faithful social career, the one of immunity from all
ordinary society duties, found herself drawn into the maelstrom, and
enrolled on the list of patronesses.

"You may do all the work, my dear," she said to Mrs. Sylvestre, "and I
will appropriate the credit."

But she was not so entirely idle as she professed to be, and indeed
spent several mornings briskly driving from place to place in her
comfortable carriage, and distinguished herself by exhibiting an
executive ability, a promptness and decision in difficulty, which were
regarded with secret awe and admiration by her younger and less
experienced colleagues. She had been out doing such work on the
afternoon of the day before the ball, and returned home at her usual
hour; but not in her usual equable frame of mind. This was evident when
she entered the room where Mrs. Sylvestre sat talking to Colonel
Tredennis, who had called. There were indeed such signs of mental
disturbance in her manner that Mrs. Sylvestre, rising to greet her,
observed them at once.

"I am afraid you have had an exciting morning," she said, "and have done
too much work."

"My dear," was the reply, "nothing could be more true than that I have
had an exciting morning."

"I am sorry for that," said Agnes.

"I am sorry for it," said Mrs. Merriam; "more sorry than I can say."
Then turning to Tredennis, "I am glad to find you here. I have been
hearing some most extraordinary stories; perhaps you can tell me what
they mean."

"Whom do they concern?" asked Agnes. "We are entertained by many
stories."

"They will disturb you as much as they have disturbed me," Mrs. Merriam
answered. "They have disturbed me very much. They concern our little
friend, Mrs. Amory."

"Bertha!" exclaimed Agnes.

Her tender heart beat quickly, and a faint flush showed itself on her
cheek; she looked up at Colonel Tredennis with quick, questioning eyes.
Perhaps she was not as unprepared for the statement as she might have
been. She had seen much during the last few weeks which had startled and
alarmed her. Mrs. Merriam looked at Tredennis also.

"You may be able to guess something of what the rumors form themselves
upon," she said. "Heaven knows there has been enough foundation for
anything in that miserable Westoria land scheme."

"You have heard something of it this morning?" said Tredennis.

"I have heard nothing else," was the answer. "The Westoria land scheme
has come to an untimely end, with a flavor of scandal about it, which
may yet terminate in an investigation. The whole city is full of it, and
stories of Mrs. Amory and her husband are the entertainment offered you
on all sides. I say 'Mrs. Amory and her husband,' because it is Mrs.
Amory who is the favorite topic. She has been making the most desperate
efforts to influence people; her parlors have been filled with
politicians and lobbyists all the season; the husband was deeply
involved in the matter; bribes have been offered and taken; there are
endless anecdotes of Senator Planefield and his infatuation, and the
way in which it has been used. She would have accomplished wonders if it
had not been for Senator Blundel, who suspected her and led her into
betraying herself. It is Senator Blundel who is credited with having
been the means of exploding the whole affair. He has been privately
investigating the matter for months, and had an interview with Mrs.
Amory the other night, in which he accused her of the most terrible
things, and threatened her with exposure. That is the way the stories
run."

"Oh, this is very cruel," said Agnes. "We must do something. We must
try; we cannot let such things be said without making an effort against
them."

"Whatever is done must be done at once," replied Mrs. Merriam. "The
conclusion of the matter is that there seems actually to be a sort of
cabal formed against her."

"You mean"--began Agnes, anxiously.

"I mean," said Mrs. Merriam, "that my impression is that if she appears
at the ball there are those who will be so rude to her that she will be
unable to remain."

"Aunt Mildred!" exclaimed Agnes, in deep agitation. "Surely such a thing
is impossible."

"It is not only not impossible," returned Mrs. Merriam, "but it is
extremely probable. I heard remarks which assured me of that."

"She must not go!" said Agnes. "We must manage to keep her at home.
Colonel Tredennis"--

"The remedy must go deeper than that," he answered. "The fact that she
did not appear would only postpone the end. The slights she avoided one
night would be stored up for the future, we may be sure."

He endeavored to speak calmly, but it was not easy, and he knew too well
that such a change had come upon his face as the two women could not but
see. Though he had feared this climax so long, though he had even seen
day by day the signs of its approach, it fell upon him as a blow at
last, and seemed even worse than in his most anxious hour he had thought
it might be.

"She has friends," he said; "her friends have friends. I think there are
those--besides ourselves--who will defend her."

"They must be strong," remarked Mrs. Merriam.

"There are some of them," he answered, "who are strong. I think I know a
lady whose opinion will not go for nothing, who is generous enough to
use her influence in the right direction."

"And that direction?" said Mrs. Merriam.

"If the opposing party finds itself met by a party more powerful than
itself," he said, "its tone will change; and as for the story of Senator
Blundel I think I can arrange that he will attend to that himself."

"Mere denial would not go very far, I am afraid," said Mrs. Merriam. "He
cannot deny it to two or three score of people."

"He can deny it to the entire community," he answered, "by showing that
their intimacy remains unbroken."

"Ah!" cried Agnes, "if he would only go to the ball, and let people see
him talking to her as he used to; but I am sure he never went to a ball
in his life!"

"My dear," said Mrs. Merriam, "that is really a very clever idea, if he
could be induced to go."

"He is an honest man," said Tredennis, flushing. "And he is her friend.
I believe that sincerely; and I believe he would prove it by going
anywhere to serve her."

"If that is true," said Mrs. Merriam, "a great deal will be
accomplished, though it is a little difficult to figure to one's self
how he would enjoy a ball."

"I think we shall have the pleasure of seeing," replied the colonel. "I
myself"--He paused a moment, and then added: "I chance to have a rather
intimate acquaintance with him; he has interested himself in some work
of mine lately, and has shown himself very friendly to me. It would
perhaps be easier for me to speak to him than for any other friend of
Mrs. Amory."

"I think you would do it better than any other friend," Mrs. Merriam
said, with a kindly look at him.

The truth was that, since his first introduction to Colonel Tredennis,
Blundel had taken care that the acquaintance should not drop. He had
found the modest warrior at once useful and entertaining. He had been
able to gather from him information which it was his interest to count
among his stores, and, having obtained it, was not ungrateful, and,
indeed, was led by his appreciation of certain good qualities he
recognized in him into something bordering on an attachment for his new
friend.

"I like that fellow," he used to say, energetically.

And realizing something of this friendliness, and more of the honor and
worth of his acquaintance, the colonel felt that he might hope to reach
his heart by telling his story simply and with dignity, leaving the rest
to him. As for the lady of whom he had spoken, he had but little doubt
that that kind and generous heart might be reached; he had seen
evidences of its truth and charity too often to distrust them. It was,
of course, the wife of the Secretary of State he was thinking of,--that
good and graceful gentlewoman, whose just and clear judgment he knew he
could rely upon, and whose friendship would grant him any favor.

"She is very generous and sympathetic," he said, "and I have heard her
speak most kindly of Mrs. Amory. Her action in the matter must have
weight, and I have confidence that she will show her feeling in a manner
which will make a deep impression. She has always been fond of Professor
Herrick."

"That is as clever an idea as the other," said Mrs. Merriam. "She has
drawn her lines so delicately heretofore that she has an influence even
greater than was wielded by most of those who have occupied her
position. And she is a decided and dignified person, capable of social
subtleties."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Sylvestre, "it seems very hard that it should be
Bertha who should need such defence."

"It is miserable," said Mrs. Merriam, impatiently. "It is disgraceful
when one considers who is the person to blame. It is very delicate of us
not to use names, I suppose; but there has been enough delicacy--and
indelicacy--and I should like to use them as freely as other people do.
I think you remember that I have not been very fond of Mr. Richard
Amory."

When Colonel Tredennis left them he turned his steps at once toward the
house of the woman who was his friend, and upon whose assistance so much
depended. To gain her sympathy seemed the first thing to be done, and
one thought repeated itself again and again in his mind, "How shall I
say it best?"

But fortune favored him, and helped him to speak as he had not
anticipated that it would.

The lady sat alone in her favorite chair in her favorite room, when he
was ushered into her presence, as he had frequently happened to be
before somewhere about the same hour. A book lay open upon her lap, but
she was not reading it, and, he fancied, had not been doing so for some
time. He also fancied that when she saw him her greeting glance had a
shade of relief in it, and her first words seemed to certify that he was
not mistaken.

"I am more than usually glad to see you," she said. "I think that if you
had not appeared so opportunely I should have decided in about half an
hour that I must send for you."

"I am very fortunate to have come," he answered, and he held her kind
hand a moment, and there came into his face a look so anxious that,
being in the habit of observing him, she saw it.

"Are you very well?" she asked, gently. "I am afraid not. You are
rather pale. Sit down by my chair and let me look at you."

"Am I pale?" said the colonel. "You are very good to notice it, though I
am not ill. I am only--only"--

She looked at him with grave interest.

"Have you," she said,--"have you heard ill news of some friend? Is that
it? I am afraid it is!"

"Yes," he answered, "that is it; and I am afraid you have heard of it,
too."

"I am afraid I have," she returned. "Such things travel quickly. I have
heard something which has distressed me very much. It is something I
have heard faint rumors of before, but now it has taken on a definite
form. This morning I was out, and this afternoon I have had some callers
who were not averse to speaking plainly. I have heard a great many
things said which have given me pain, and which embarrass me seriously.
That was the reason I was wishing to see you. I felt that you would at
least tell me a story without prejudice. There is a great deal of
prejudice shown, of course. We need expect nothing else. I am sure
Professor Herrick can know nothing of this. Will you tell me what you
yourself know?"

"That is what I came to do," said the colonel, still paler, perhaps.
"There is a great deal to tell--more than the world will ever know. It
is only to such as you that it could be told."

There was more emotion in his voice and face than he had meant to
reveal; perhaps something in the kind anxiousness of his companion's
eyes moved him; he found that he could not sit still and speak as if his
interest was only the common one of an outsider, so he rose and stood
before her.

"I cannot even tell you how it is that I know what I do to be true," he
said. "I have only my word, but I _know_ you will believe me."

"You may be sure of that," she answered.

"I _am_ sure of it," he returned, "or I should not be here, for I have
no other proof to offer. I came to make an appeal to you in behalf of a
person who has been wronged."

"In behalf of Mrs. Amory?" she said.

"Yes," he replied, "though she does not know I am here, and will never
know it. It scarcely seems my business, perhaps; she should have others
to defend her; but there are no others who, having the interest of
relationship, might not be accused of self-interest too. There is a
slight tie of kinship between us, but it is only a slight one, and we
have not always been very good friends, perhaps, though it must have
been my own fault. I think I never pleased her very well, even when I
saw her oftenest. She was used to brighter companionship. But her father
liked me; we were friends, warm and close. I have felt almost as if I
was his son, and have tried to spare him the knowledge of what would
have hurt him. During the last few weeks I think he has had suspicions
which have disturbed him, but they have not been suspicions of trouble
to his child."

"I felt sure of that," the lady remarked.

"_She_ has no suspicions of the true aspect of affairs," he continued,
"though she has lately gained knowledge of the wrong done her. It has
been a great wrong. She has not been spared. Her inexperience made her a
child in the hands of those who used her as their tool. She understands
now that it is too late--and it is very bitter to her."

"You knew her when she was a girl," his companion said, with her kind
eyes on his sad, stern face.

"Yes," he answered, "when she was a girl and happy, and with all of life
before her, and--she did not fear it."

"I knew her, too," she replied. "She has greatly changed since then."

"I saw that when I returned here," he said. And he turned his head aside
and began to take up and set down a trifle on the mantel. "At first I
did not understand it," he added. "Now I do. She has not changed without
reason. If she has seemed light, there are women, I suppose, who hide
many a pain in that way. She has loved her children, and made them
happy--I know that, at least--and--and she has been a kind wife and an
innocent woman. It is her friends who must defend her."

"She needs their defence," said his hearer. "I felt that when I was out
this morning, and when my callers were with me, an hour ago." She held
out her hand with sympathetic frankness. "I am her friend," she said,
"and her father's--and yours. I think you have some plan; there is
something you wish me to do. Tell me what it is."

"Yes," he answered, "there is something I wish you to do. No one else
can do it so well. There are people who intend to testify to their
belief in the stories they have heard by offering her open slights. It
is likely that the attempt will be made to-morrow night at the ball. If
you testify to your disbelief and disapproval by giving her your
protection, the popular theory will be shaken, and there will be a
reaction in her favor."

"It is not to be denied," she said, "that it is only women who can aid
her. It is women who say these things, as a rule, and who can unsay
them. The actions of men in such matters are of less weight than they
should be, though it is true there is one man who might do her a
service"--

"You are thinking of Senator Blundel," he said. "I--we have thought of
that. We think--hope that he will come to the ball."

"If he does, and shows himself friendly toward her," she returned,
"nothing more can be said which could be of much importance. He is the
hero of the story, as I dare say you have heard. If he remains her
friend, that proves that he did not accuse her of plotting against him,
and that he has no cause for offence. If the story of the grand scene
between them is untrue, the foundation-stone is taken away, and, having
the countenance of a few people who show their confidence with tact and
discretion, she is safe. I will go to the ball, my friend, and I will
use what influence I possess to insure that she is not badly treated."

"I knew you would be kind to her," Tredennis said, with kindling eyes.
"I have seen you kind before to those who needed kindness, even to those
who did not deserve it--and she does!"

"Yes, yes, I am sure she does!" she answered. "Poor child! Poor child!"

And she gave him her hand again, and, as he wrung it in his, her eyes
were fuller of sympathy than ever.


He reached Senator Blundel's rooms an hour later, and found him in the
midst of his papers and pigeon-holes,--letters and pamphlets to right of
him, to left of him, before and behind him.

"Well," he said, by way of greeting, "our Westoria friends are out of
humor this morning."

"So I have heard," Tredennis answered.

"And they may well be--they may well be," he said, nodding sharply. "And
there are some fine stories told, of course."

"I have come to tell you one myself, sir," said Tredennis.

"What!" cried Blundel, turning on his chair,--"you have a story?"

"Yes," returned the colonel, "not a pleasant one, and as it concerns you
I will waste as few words as possible."

He wasted no words at all. The story was a brief one, but as forcible as
simple words could make it. There was no effort to give it
effectiveness, and yet there were touches here and there which appealed
to the man who heard it as he had been rarely appealed to before. They
brought before him things which had found a lodging in corners of his
practical political mind, and had haunted him rather pathetically since
the night he had shrugged himself into his overcoat, and left the
slight, desolate-looking figure behind him. He had enjoyed his
friendship too much not to regret it now that he felt it was a thing of
the past; he had felt the loss more than once of the new element it had
introduced into his life, and had cast about in his mind in vain for a
place where he could spend a spare hour or so as pleasantly as he had
often spent such hours in a bright parlor he knew of. Before Tredennis
had half finished his relation he was moving restlessly in his chair,
and uttering occasional gruff ejaculations, and when it came to an end
he sprang up, looking not a trifle heated.

"That's it, is it?" he exclaimed. "They have been inventing something
new about her, have they, and dragged me into it into the bargain? And
they are making up plots against her,--poor little woman!--as if she
hadn't been treated badly enough. A lot of gossips, I'll wager!"

"Some of them are good enough," said the colonel. "They only mean to
signify their disapproval of what they would have the right to condemn
if it were a truth instead of a lie."

"Well, they shall not do it at my expense, that's all," was the answer.
"It is a lie from beginning to end, and I will do something toward
proving it to them. I don't disapprove of her,--they shall see that.
She's a genuine good little thing. She's a lady. Any fool can see that.
She won _me_ over, by George! when everything was against her. And she
accused nobody when she might have said some pretty hard true things,
and nine women out of ten would have raised the very deuce. She's got
courage, and--yes, and dignity, and a spirit of her own that has helped
her to bear many a bitter thing without losing her hold on herself, I'd
be willing to swear. Look here," he added, turning suddenly and facing
Tredennis, "how much do you know of her troubles? Something, I know, or
you wouldn't be here."

"Yes," answered the colonel, "I know something."

"Well," he continued, in an outburst of feeling, "I don't ask how much.
It's enough, I dare say, to make it safe for me to speak my mind,--I
mean safe for her, not for myself. There's a fellow within a hundred
miles of here I should like to thrash within an inch of his life; and an
elegant, charming, amiable fellow he is too, who, possibly, persuaded
himself that he was doing her very little injury."

"The injury has been done nevertheless," said Tredennis, gravely. "And
it is her friends who must right it."

"I'm willing to do my share," said Blundel. "And let that fellow keep
out of my way. As to this ball--I never went to a ball in my life, but I
will appear at this one, and show my colors. Wait a minute!" As if an
idea had suddenly struck him. "Go to the ball?--I'll _take her_ there
myself."

The spirit of combat was aroused within him; the idea presented itself
to him with such force that he quite enjoyed it. Here, arraigned on one
side, were these society scandal-mongers and fine ladies; here, on the
other, was himself, Samuel Blundel, rough and blunt, but determined
enough to scatter them and their lies to the four winds. He rather
revelled in the thought of the struggle, if struggle there was to be. He
had taken active part in many a row in the House in which the odds had
been against him, and where his obstinate strength had outlived the
subtle readiness of a dozen apparently better equipped men. And his
heart was in this deed of valor too; it glowed within him as he thought
how much really depended upon him. Now, this pretty, bright creature
must turn to him for protection and support. He almost felt as if he
held her gloved hand resting upon his burly arm already with a clinging
touch.

"I'll take her myself," he repeated. "I'll go and see her myself, and
explain the necessity of it--if she does not know all."

"She does not know all yet," said Tredennis, "and I think she was
scarcely inclined to go to the ball; but I am sure it will be better
that she should go."

"She will go," said Blundel, abruptly. "I'll make her. She knows _me_.
She will go if I tell her she must. That is what comes of being an old
fellow, you see, and not a lady's man."

He had not any doubt of his success with her, and, to tell the truth,
neither had Colonel Tredennis. He saw that his blunt honesty and
unceremonious, half-paternal domineering would prove to her that he was
in the right, even if she were at first reluctant; and this being
settled, and the matter left in Blundel's hands, the colonel went away.
Only before going he said a few words, rather awkwardly.

"There would be nothing to be gained by mentioning my name," he said.
"It is mere accident that--that I chance to know what I have spoken of.
She does not know that I know it. I should prefer that she should not."

"What!" said Blundel,--"she is not to know how you have been standing by
her?"

"She knows that I would stand by her if she needed me. She does not need
me; she needs you. I have nothing to do with the matter. I don't wish to
be mentioned."

When he was gone Blundel rubbed his hair backward and then forward by
way of variety.

"Queer fellow!" he said, meditatively. "Not quite sure I've exactly got
at him yet. Brave as a lion and shy as a boy. Absolutely afraid of
women."




CHAPTER XXXVII.


In less than an hour his card was brought to Bertha as she sat with her
children. She read it with a beating heart, and, having done so, put
down Meg and her picture-book.

"I will go down at once," she said to the servant.

In two minutes she was standing in the middle of the parlor, and her
guest was holding her hand in his, and looking at her earnestly and
curiously.

"You didn't expect to see me here, did you?" he said.

"No," she answered; "but you are kind to come."

"I didn't expect to be here myself," he said. "Where is your husband?
Somebody told me he had gone away."

"He is in New York," she replied.

He gave her one of his sharp glances and drew her toward a chair.

"Sit down by me," he said. "You are in no condition to be kept standing.
I want to talk to you. You mustn't look like that," he said. "It won't
do. You are worn out, but you mustn't give up. I have come to order you
to do something."

"I will do anything you tell me," she answered.

"You will? Well, that's good! I thought you would, too. I want you to
take me to this ball that is to be given to-morrow night."

She started in amazement.

"To the ball!" she exclaimed.

"Surprises you, doesn't it? I supposed it would; it surprises me a
little, but I want to go nevertheless, and I have a reason."

"I am sure it is a good one," she said.

"It is," he answered. "None but the best would take me there. I never
went to a ball in my life. _You_ are the reason. I am going to take care
of _you_."

A faint, sad smile touched her lips.

"Some one has said something more against me," she said, "and you want
to defend me. Don't take the trouble. It is not worth while."

"The place is full of lies about you," he answered, suddenly and
fiercely. "And I _am_ going to defend you. No one else can. They are
lies that concern me as well as you."

"Will you tell me what they are?" she asked.

He saw there was no room for hesitation, and told her what the facts
were. As he spoke he felt that they did not improve in the relation, and
he saw the blood rise to her cheeks, and a light grow in her eyes. When
he had finished the light was a brilliant spark of fire.

"It is a charming story," she said.

"_We_ will show them what sort of a story it is," he answered,
"to-morrow night!"

"You are very good to me," she said.

Suddenly she put her hand to her side.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "it seems very strange that they should be saying
these things of Bertha Amory."

She looked at him with a hopeless appeal in her eyes.

"Do they all believe them?" she said. "Ah, how can they? They know I was
not--like that! I have not done anything! I have been unhappy, but--but
I"--

She stopped a moment--or was stopped by her breaking voice.

"This has been too much for you," he said. "You are ill, child!"

"I have been ill for some time," she answered. "And the last few days
have been very hard."

She made an effort to recover herself.

"I will go to the ball," she said, "if you think it best."

"It _is_ best," he replied. "And you need not be afraid"--

"I am not afraid," she interposed, quickly, and the spark of fire showed
itself in her eyes again. "I might allow myself to be beaten, if it were
not for my children; but, as it is, you will see that I will not be
beaten. I will be well for to-morrow night at least. I will not look
like a victim. They will see that I am not afraid."

"It is they who will be beaten," said Blundel, "if anything depends on
me! Confound it! I shall _like_ to do it."




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


He went home quite eager for the fray, and his eagerness was not allowed
to flag. The favorite story came to his ears again and again. Men met
him in the streets, and stopped to speak of it; others dropped into his
rooms to hear the truth from himself, when he went to his hotel to dine;
talkers standing in groups in the lobbies turned to look at him, and
when he had passed them returned to their conversation with renewed
interest. To the first man who referred to the matter he listened until
he had said his say. Then he answered him.

"You want to hear the truth about that," he said, "don't you?"

"That, of course," was the reply.

"And you want to be able to _tell_ the truth about it when you are asked
questions?"

"Most certainly."

"Well, then, the truth is that there isn't a word of truth in it from
beginning to end; and if you want to _tell_ the truth, say it's a lie,
and add that I said so, and I am prepared to say so to every man who
wants to interview me; and, what is more, every man who tells another
that it is a lie does me a favor that gives him a claim on me."

He repeated the same thing in effect each time an opportunity presented
itself, and as these opportunities were frequent and each time he gained
something of heat and lost something of temper and patience, he was
somewhat tired and by no means in the best of humors when he sat down to
his dinner, in the big, glaring, crowded hotel dining-room, amid the
rattle of knives, forks, and crockery, the rushing to and fro of excited
waiters, and the incoming and outgoing of hungry people. His calmness
was not added to by observing that the diners at the tables near him
discovered him as with one accord almost as soon as he entered, and cast
glances of interest at him between the courses.

"Perfectly dreadful scene, they say," he heard one lady remark, with an
unconscious candor born of her confidence that the clatter of dishes
would drown all sound. "Went down on her knees to him and wrung her
hands, imploring him to have mercy on her. Husband disappeared next day.
Quite society people too. She has been a great deal admired."

What further particulars the speaker might have entered into there is no
knowing, as she was a communicative person and plainly enjoyed her
subject; but just at this juncture the lady to whom she was confiding
her knowledge of the topics of the hour uttered an uneasy exclamation.

"Gracious! Maria!" she said. "He has heard you! I am sure he has! He has
turned quite red--redder than he was--and he is looking at us! O Maria!"
in accents sepulchral with fright, "he is getting up! He is coming to
speak to us! O--Mari!"--

He was upon them at that very moment. He was accustomed to public
speaking, and his experience led him to the point at once. He held his
newspaper half folded in his hand, and, as had been said, he was a
trifle redder than usual; but his manner was too direct to be entirely
devoid of dignity.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "but my name is Blundel."

The most hopelessly terrified of the ladies found herself saying that he
"was very kind," and the one who had told the story gasped faintly, but
with an evident desire to propitiate, that she "had heard so."

"I take the liberty of mentioning it," he added, "because I have been
sitting quite near to you and chanced to overhear what you were saying,
and as you are evidently laboring under an impression I am interested
in correcting, I felt obliged to intrude on you with a view to
correcting it. I have been denying that story all day. It isn't true.
Not a word of it. I never said an unkind word to the lady you mention,
and I never had an unkind thought of her. No one has any right to speak
ill of her. I am her friend. You will excuse my interrupting you. Here
is my card." And he laid the card on the table, made a bow not so
remarkable for grace, perhaps, as for perfect respectfulness, and
marched back to his table.

There were few people in the room who did not turn to look at him as he
sat down again, and nine out of ten began to indulge in highly colored
speculations as to why he had addressed the women and who they were.
There had never been a more popular scandal than the Westoria land
scheme; the magnitude of it, the element of romance connecting itself
with it, the social position of the principal schemers, all endeared it
to the public heart. Blundel himself had become a hero, and had the
rumors regarding his irreproachable and dramatic conduct only been rife
at a time of election they would have assured him an overwhelming
majority. Perhaps as he approached the strangers' table there had been a
fond, flickering hope cherished that these two apparently harmless women
were lobbyists themselves, and that their disguise was to be rent from
them, and their iniquities to be proclaimed upon the spot. But the brief
episode ended with apparent tameness, and the general temperature was
much lowered, the two ladies sinking greatly in public opinion, and the
interest in Blundel himself flagging a little. There was one person,
however, who did not lose interest in him. This was a little, eager,
birdlike woman who sat at some distance from him, at a small table,
alone. She had seen his every movement since his entrance, and her
bright, dark eyes followed him with an almost wistful interest. It was
Miss Jessup; and Miss Jessup was full to the brim, and pressed down and
running over, with anecdotes of the great scandal, and her delicate
little frame almost trembled with anxious excitement as she gazed upon
him and thought of what might be done in an interview.

He had nearly finished his dinner before he caught sight of her, but as
he was taking his coffee he glanced down the room, saw and recognized
her.

"The very woman!" he exclaimed, under his breath. "Why didn't I think of
that before?" And in five minutes Miss Jessup's heart was thrilled
within her, for he had approached her, greeted her, and taken the seat
she offered him.

"I have come," he said, "to ask a favor of you."

"Of me!" said Miss Jessup. "That does not sound exactly natural. I have
generally asked favors of you. I have just been looking at you and
making up my mind to ask one."

"Wanted to interview me," he asked,--"didn't you?"

She nodded her head, and her bright eyes brightened.

"Well," sturdily, "I _want_ you to interview me. Go ahead and do it."

"You _want_ to be interviewed!" she exclaimed, positively radiant with
innocent joy. "No! Really?"

"I am here for that purpose," he answered.

She left her seat instantly.

"Come into the parlor," she said. "It is quiet there at this time. We
can sit where we shall not be disturbed at all."

They went into the parlor and found at the far end of it the quiet
corner they needed, and two chairs. Miss Jessup took one and Blundel the
other, which enabled him to present his broad back to all who entered.
Almost before he was seated Miss Jessup had produced her neat note-book
and a pencil.

"Now," she said, "I am ready for anything; but I must say I don't see
how I am favoring _you_."

"You are going to favor me by saving me the trouble of contradicting a
certain story every half-hour," he said.

"Ah!" ejaculated Miss Jessup, her countenance falling a little; "it is
not true?"

"Not a word of it."

Humane little creature as she was, as she glanced down at her note-book,
Miss Jessup felt that some one had been a trifle defrauded.

"And there was no scene?"

"No."

"And you did not threaten to expose her?"

"No."

"And you wish me to tell people that?"

"Yes, as pointedly as possible, in as few words as possible, and without
mentioning names if possible."

"Oh, it would not be necessary to mention names; everybody would
understand the slightest reference."

"Well, when you have done that," said Blundel, "you have granted me my
favor."

"And you want it to be brief?" said Miss Jessup.

"See here," said Blundel; "you are a woman. I want you to speak the
truth for another woman as plainly, and--as delicately as a woman can. A
man would say too much or too little; that is why I come to you."

She touched her book with her pencil, and evidently warmed at once.

"I always liked her," she said, with genuine good feeling, "and I could
not help hoping that the story was not true, after all. As it was public
property, it was my business to find out all about it if I could; but I
couldn't help being sorry. I believe I _can_ say the right thing, and I
will do my best. At any rate, it will be altogether different from the
other versions."

"There won't be any other versions if I can prevent it," returned
Blundel. "I shall have some interviews with newspaper men to-night,
which will accomplish that end, I hope."

"Ah!" exclaimed Miss Jessup, "then mine will be the only statement."

"I hope so," he answered. "It will be if I have any influence."

"Oh, then," she said, "you have done me a favor, after all."

"It won't balance the favor you will have done me," he replied, "if you
do your best in this matter. You see, I know what your best is, and I
depend on it."

"Well," she said, "it is very kind of you to say so, and I will try to
prove myself worth depending on, but"--And she scribbled a little in her
note-book. "I don't mind telling you that the reason that is strongest
in my mind is quite an unprofessional one. It is the one you spoke of
just now. It is because I am a woman, too."

"Then she is safe," he returned. "Nothing could make her safer. And I am
grateful to you beforehand, and I hope you will let me say so."

And they shook hands and parted the best of friends, notwithstanding
that the interview had dwindled down into proportions quite likely to be
regarded by the public as entirely insignificant.




CHAPTER XXXIX.


It had certainly been expected by the public that the morning papers
would contain some interesting reading matter, and in some respects
these expectations were realized. The ignominious failure of the
Westoria land scheme was discussed with freedom and vigor, light being
cast upon it from all sides, but upon the subject which had promised
most there was a marked silence. Only in one paper there appeared a
paragraph--scarcely more--written with much clearness and with a
combined reserve and directness which could not fail to carry weight. It
was very well done, and said so much in little, and with such
unmistakable faith in its own statements and such suggestions of a
foundation for that faith, that it was something of a shock to those who
had delighted in the most elaborate ornamentation of the original story.
In effect it was a denial not only of the ornamentation, but of the
story itself, and left the liberal commentator not a fact to stand upon,
so that he became temporarily the prey of discouragement and spiritual
gloom, which was not a little added to by the events of the day.

There was, however, no sense of discouragement in the mind of Senator
Blundel as he attired himself for the fray when night arrived. His mood
was a fine combination of aggressiveness, generous kindliness, hot
temper, and chivalric good feeling. He thought all day of the prospect
before him, and in the afternoon went to the length of calling at a
florist's and ordering a bouquet to be sent to Mrs. Amory, choosing it
himself and feeling some pride in the good taste of his selection. He
was so eager, indeed, that the day seemed quite long to him, and he
dressed so early after dinner that he had two or three hours to wait
before his carriage arrived.

But it did arrive at last, and he went down to it, drawing on with some
difficulty an exceedingly tight pair of gloves, the obduracy of whose
objections to being buttoned gave him something to combat with and
suited his frame of mind to a nicety.

He was not called upon to wait very long after his entrance into the
parlor. A few moments after his arrival Bertha came down. She was
superbly dressed in white; she carried his roses and violets, and there
burned upon her cheeks a color at once so delicate and brilliant that he
was surprised by it. He had, indeed, rather expected to see her paler.

"Upon my soul," he said, "you don't look much frightened!"

"I am not frightened at all," she answered.

"That is a good thing," he returned. "We shall get on all the better for
it. I never saw you with a brighter color."

She touched her cheek with her gloved finger.

"It is not rouge," she said. "I have been thinking of other parties I
have attended--and of how these ladies will look at me to-night--and of
what they possibly said of me yesterday--and it has been good for me."

"It was not so good for them, however," he suggested, regarding her with
new interest. Her spirit pleased him; he liked it that she was not ready
to allow herself to be beaten down, that she held her head erect and
confronted her enemies with resolute eyes; he had a suspicion that there
were women enough who would have been timorous and pathetic.

"I could not hurt them," she replied. "It would matter very little what
I thought or said of them; it is only they who can harm me."

"They shall none of them harm you," he said, stoutly. "I will see to
that; but I'm glad you are looking your best."

But she could not help seeing that he was a trifle anxious about her.
His concern manifested itself in occasional touches of half-paternal
kindliness which were not lost upon her. He assisted her to put on her
wrap, asked her if it was warm enough, ordered her to draw it closely
about her, and tucked her under his arm as he led her out to the
carriage with an air of determined protection not to be mistaken.

Perhaps his own views as to what form of oppression and opposition they
were to encounter were rather vague. He was sufficiently accustomed to
the opposition of men, but not to that of women; but, whatever aspect it
assumed upon this occasion, he was valiantly determined not to be moved
by it.

"I can't dance with you," he said, "that's true--I wish I could; but I
will see that you have plenty of partners."

"I don't think the difficulty will be in the partners," Bertha replied,
with a faint smile. "The men will not be unkind to me, you will see."

"They won't believe it, eh?" said Blundel. Her eyes met his, and the
faint smile had a touch of bitterness.

"Some of them will not believe it," she answered; "and some will not
care."

There was not the slightest shade of any distrust of herself or her
surroundings, either in her face or manner, when, on reaching their
destination, she made her way into the cloak-room. The place was already
crowded--so crowded that a new-comer was scarcely noticeable. But,
though she seemed to see nothing glancing to neither right nor left, and
occupying herself with the removal of her wraps, and with a few calm
last touches bestowed upon her toilet before a mirror, scarcely a trifle
escaped her. She heard greetings, laughter, gay comments on the
brilliancy and promise of the ball; she knew where stood a woman who
would be likely to appear as an enemy, where stood another who might be
neutral, and another who it was even possible might be a friend. But she
meant to run no risks, and her long training in self-control stood her
in good stead; there was neither consciousness nor too much
unconsciousness in her face; when the woman whom she had fancied might
lean toward friendliness saw and bowed to her, she returned the greeting
with her pretty, inscrutable smile, the entire composure of which so
impressed the matron who was disposed to neutrality that she bowed also,
and so did some one near her. But there were others who did not bow, and
there were those who, discovering the familiar, graceful figure, drew
together in groups, and made an amiable comment or so. But she did not
seem to see them. When, taking up her flowers and her white
ostrich-feather fan, she passed down the little lane, they expressed
their disapproval by making way for her as she turned toward the door.
She was looking at two ladies who were entering, and, general attention
being directed toward them, they were discovered to be Mrs. Sylvestre
and Mrs. Merriam.

"Now," it was asked, "what will _they_ do?"

What they did was very simple in itself, but very remarkable in the eyes
of the lookers-on. They paused and spoke to the delinquent in quite
their usual manner.

"We would ask you to wait for us," Mrs. Merriam was heard to say,
finally, "but there are so many people here to be attended to, and we
saw Senator Blundel waiting for you at the door. May I tell you how
pretty your dress is, and how brilliant you are looking?"

"Senator Blundel!" was repeated by the nearest groups. "It could not be
Senator Blundel who is with her."

But those who were near enough to the door were subjected to the mental
shock of seeing that it was Senator Blundel himself. He appeared in
festal array, rubicund, and obstinately elate, and, stepping forward,
took his charge's hand, and drew it within his portly arm.

"What!" he said, "you are not pale yet--and yet there were plenty of
them in there. What did they do?"

"Three of them were good enough to bow to me," she answered, "and the
rest drew away and discussed me in undertones. The general impression
was, I think, that I was impudent. I did not feel impudent, and I don't
think I looked so."

"Poor little woman!" he said. "Poor little woman!"

"No! no!" she exclaimed, looking straight before her, with dangerously
bright eyes; "don't say that to me. Don't pity me, please--just yet--it
isn't good for me. I need--I need"--

There was a second or so of dead silence. She did not tell him what she
needed.

When they entered the ball-room a waltz was being played, and the floor
was thronged with dancers; the ladies who formed the committee of
reception stood near the door; a party of guests had just received the
usual greetings and retired. The commandress-in-chief turned to meet the
new-comers. She was a stately and severe dowager, with no intention of
flinching from her duty; but her sudden recognition of the approaching
senatorial figure was productive of a bewilderment almost too great for
her experience to cope with. She looked, caught her breath, lost it and
her composure at one and the same time, cast a despairing glance at her
aides, and fell a victim to circumstances. Here was the subject under
ban calmly making the most graceful and self-possessed obeisance before
her, and her escort was the man of whom it had been said that a few days
ago he had exposed her infamous plotting. This was more than even the
most experienced matron could be prepared for. It must be admitted that
her presence of mind deserted her, and that her greetings were not
marked by the ready tact which usually characterized them.

"My first ball, madam," remarked the senator, scenting difficulty in the
breeze, and confronting it boldly. "But for my friend, Mrs. Amory, I am
afraid I should not be here. I begin to feel indebted to her already."

"It promises very well," said Bertha. "I never saw the room gayer. How
pretty the decorations are!"

They passed on to make room for others, leaving the estimable ladies
behind them pale with excitement, and more demoralized than they would
have been willing to admit.

"What does it mean?" they asked one another. "They appear to be the best
of friends! What are we to understand?"

There was one kindly matron at the end of the line who looked after the
pair with an expression of sympathy which was rather at variance with
the severity of the rôle she had been called upon to enact.

"It appears," she said, "as if the whole story might be a fabrication,
and the senator determined to prove it so. I hope with all my heart he
will."

By the time they reached their seats the news of their arrival had made
the circle of the room. Bertha herself, while she had listened with a
smile to her escort's remarks, had seen amazement and recognition flash
out upon a score of faces; but she had preserved her smile intact, and
still wore it when she took her chair. She spoke to Blundel, waving her
fan with a soft, even motion.

"We have run the gauntlet," she said, "and we have chosen a good
position. Almost everybody in the room has seen us; almost every one in
the room is looking at us."

"Let them look!" he answered. "I have no objection to it."

"Ah, they will look!" she returned. "And we came to be--to be looked at.
And it is very good of you to have no objections. Do I seem perfectly
at ease? I hope so--though I am entirely well aware that at least a
hundred people are discussing me. Is the expression of my eyes
good--careless enough?"

"Yes, child, yes," he answered, a little uneasily. There was an
undertone in her voice which troubled him, much as he admired her spirit
and self-control.

"Thank you," she said. "Here is a bold man coming to ask me to dance. I
told you the men would not be afraid of me. I think, if you approve of
it, I will dance with him."

"Go and dance," he answered.

When her partner bore her away he took charge of her flowers and wrap in
the most valiant manner, and carried them with him when he went to pay
his respects to the matrons of his acquaintance who sat against the wall
discussing with each other the most exciting topic of the hour, and who,
when he addressed them, questioned him as closely as good-breeding would
permit, upon all subjects likely to cast light upon this topic.

"Never was at a ball in my life before," he admitted. "Asked Mrs. Amory
to bring me. Wanted to see how I should like it."

"With Mrs. Amory?" remarked matron No. 1. "She is dancing, I believe."

"Yes," he said, good-naturedly. "She will be dancing all night, I
suppose, and I shall be carrying her flowers; but I don't mind it--in
fact, I rather like it. I dare say there are two or three young fellows
who would be glad enough to be in my place."

"I have no doubt," was the reply. "She has been very popular--and very
gay."

"She is very popular with me," said the senator, "though I am an old
fogy, and don't count. We are great friends, and I am very proud to be
her escort to-night. I feel I am making my _début_ under favorable
circumstances."

There could be no doubt of his sentiments after that. He was her
friend. He admired her. He even made a point of saying so. What became
of the story of the scandal? It seemed to have ended in nothing and
worse than nothing; there was something a little ridiculous about such a
tame termination to such an excitement. One or two of the ladies who had
found it most absorbing looked aimlessly into space, and an embarrassed
silence fell upon them.

Bertha ended her dance and returned to her seat. Her color was even
brighter than before, and her smile was more brilliant. For a few
moments a little group surrounded her, and her programme was half full.
Blundel came back to his post like a sentinel. If she had been looked at
before, she was regarded now with a double eagerness. Those who were not
dancing watched her every movement; even those who danced asked each
other questions. The group about her chair was added to and became
gayer, but there were no women numbered in the circle. The general
wonder was as to what would be done in the end. So far, round dances
only had been danced. The next dance was a quadrille. The music struck
up, and the dancers began to take their places. As they did so a party
entered the room and made its way toward the end where the group stood
about the chair. Bertha did not see it; she was just rising to take her
station in the set nearest to her. The matron of the party, who was a
figure so familiar in social circles as to be recognized at once by all
who saw her, was accompanied by her daughter and an escort. It was the
wife of the Secretary of State, and her cavalier was Colonel Tredennis.

"There is Mrs. Amory," she said to him as they approached. "She is
taking her place in the quadrille. One moment, if you please."

Experience had taught her all that might be feared, and a quick eye
showed her that something was wrong. Bertha advanced to her place,
laughing a little at some jest of her partner's. She had not seen who
the dancers were. The jest and the laugh ended, and she looked up at
her _vis-à-vis_. The lady at his side was not smiling; she was gazing
steadily at Bertha herself. It seemed as if she had been waiting to
catch her eye. It was the "great lady," and, having carried the
figurative pebble until this fitting moment, she threw it. She spoke two
or three words to her partner, took his arm, turned her back, and walked
away.

Bertha turned rather pale. She felt the blood ebb out of her face. There
was no mistaking the significance of the action, and it had not escaped
an eye. This was more than she had thought of. She made a movement, with
what intention she herself was too much shaken to know, and, in making
it, her eyes fell upon a face whose expression brought to her an actual
shock of relief. It was the face of the kind and generous gentlewoman
who had just entered, and who, at this moment, spoke to her daughter.

"My dear," she said, "I think you promised Colonel Tredennis the first
quadrille. Go and take that vacant place, and when you speak to Mrs.
Amory ask her to come and talk to me a little as soon as the dance is
over."

There was a tone of gentle decision in her voice and a light in her eye
which were not lost upon the bystanders. She gave Bertha a bow and
smile, and sat down. The most fastidious woman in Washington--the woman
who drew her lines so delicately that she had even been called almost
too rigorous; the woman whose well-known good taste and good feeling had
given her a power mere social position was powerless to bestow--had
taken the subject of the hour's scandal under her protection, and
plainly believed nothing to her discredit.

In five minutes the whole room was aware of it. She had greeted Mrs.
Amory cordially, she had openly checkmated an antagonist, she had sent
her own daughter to fill the place left vacant in the dance.

"She would not have done that if she had not had the best of reasons,"
it was said.

"And Senator Blundel would scarcely be here if the story had been true."

"He has told several of his friends that he is here to prove that it is
_not_ true!"

"He denied it again and again yesterday."

"It was denied in one of the morning papers, and they say he kept it out
of the rest because he was determined she should not be more publicly
discussed."

"She is not one of the women who have been in the habit of giving rise
to discussion."

"She is a pretty, feminine-looking little creature."

"Poor girl! It must have been bitter enough for her."

"Rather fine of old Blundel to stand by her in this way."

"He would not do it if there was not something rather fine in her. He is
not a ladies' man, old Sam Blundel. Look at him! How he looms up behind
his bouquet!"

The tide of public opinion had taken a turn. Before the dance had ended
two or three practical matrons, who were intimately known to Colonel
Tredennis' friendly supporter, had made their way to her and asked her
opinion and intentions frankly, and had received information calculated
to set every doubt at rest.

"It is scarcely necessary for me to speak of my opinion of the matter,"
the lady said, "when we have the evidence of Senator Blundel's presence
here with Mrs. Amory to-night. I should feel myself unpardonably in the
wrong if I did not take the most open measures in the defence of the
daughter of my old friend, who has been treated most unjustly. And I
cannot help hoping that she will have other defenders than myself."

Several of the matrons so addressed were seated within speaking range
when Bertha came to her friend at the close of the dance, and she
recognized at once on approaching them that she need fear them no
longer. But she could not say much in response to their greetings; she
answered them briefly, bowed slightly, and sat down in the chair near
the woman who had protected her. She could even say but little to her;
the color had died out of her face at last; the strain she had borne so
long had reached its highest tension to-night, and the shock of the
moment, received through an envious woman's trivial spite, slight as it
might have been in itself, represented too much to her. As he had passed
her in the dance and touched her hand, Tredennis had felt it as cold as
ice, and the look of her quiet, white face had been almost more than he
could bear to see.

"Bertha," he had said to her once, "for God's sake, take courage!"

But she had not answered him. A few months ago she would have given him
a light, flippant reply, if her very soul had been wrung within her, but
now she was past that.

As she sat, afterwards, by the wife of the Secretary of State, her hand
shook as she held her fan.

"You were very kind to me just now," she said, in a low voice. "I cannot
express my thanks as I wish."

"My dear," was the reply, "do not speak of it. I came to take care of
you. I think you will have no more trouble. But I am afraid this has
been too much for you. You are shivering a little."

"I am cold," Bertha answered. "I--feel as if--something strange had
happened to me. It was not so before. I seem--to have lost courage."

"But you must not lose courage yet," she said, with a manner at once
soft and firm. "A great many people are looking at you. They will be
very curious to know how you feel. It is best that you should not let
them see."

She spoke rather rapidly, but in a low voice. No one near could hear.
She was smiling, as if the subject of the conversation was the least
important in the world.

"Listen to me," she said, in the same manner, "and try to look as if we
were speaking of ordinary topics. I dare say you feel as if you would
prefer to go away, but I think you must remain. Everybody here must
understand that you have friends who entirely disbelieve all that has
been said against you, and also that they wish to make their confidence
in you public. I should advise you to appear to enjoy yourself
moderately well. I think I wish you to dance several times again. I
think there will be no difficulty in arranging the next square dance.
When the presidential party arrives, the President will, I have no
doubt, be pleased to talk to you a little. It would be republican to say
that it is absurd to consider that such a thing can be of consequence;
but there are people with whom it will have weight. As soon as possible,
I shall send you down to the supper-room with Senator Blundel. A glass
of wine will do you good. Here is Senator Blundel now. Do you think you
can talk to him in your usual manner?"

"I will try," said Bertha. "And, if I do not, I think he will
understand."

He did understand. The little incident had been no more lost upon him
than upon others. He was glowing with repressed wrath, and sympathy, and
the desire to do something which should express his feeling. He saw at
once the change which had come upon her, and realized to the full all
that it denoted. When he bore her off to the supper-room he fairly
bristled with defiance of the lookers-on who made way for them.

"Confound the woman!" he said. "If it had only been a man!"

He found her the most desirable corner in the supper-room, and devoted
himself to her service with an assiduity which touched her to the heart.

"You have lost your color," he said. "That won't do. We must bring it
back."

"I am afraid it will not come back," she answered.

And it did not, even though the tide had turned, and that it had done so
became more manifest every moment. They were joined shortly by Colonel
Tredennis and his party, and by Mrs. Merriam and hers. It was plain that
Mrs. Amory was to be alone no more; people who had been unconscious of
her existence in the ball-room suddenly recognized it as she sat
surrounded by her friends; the revulsion of feeling which had taken
place in her favor expressed itself in a hundred trifles. But her color
was gone, and returned no more, though she bore herself with outward
calmness. It was Colonel Tredennis who was her first partner when they
returned to the ball-room. He had taken a seat near her at the
supper-table, and spoken a few words to her.

"Will you give me a place on your card, Bertha?" he had said, and she
had handed it to him in silence.

He was not fond of dancing, and they had rarely danced together, but he
wished to be near her until she had had time to recover herself. Better
he than another man who might not understand so well; he knew how to be
silent, at least.

So they went through their dance together, exchanging but few words, and
interested spectators looked on, and one or two remarked to each other
that, upon the whole, it appeared that Mrs. Amory was rather well
supported, and that there had evidently been a mistake somewhere.

And then the colonel took her back to her seat, and there were new
partners; and between the dances one matron after another found the way
to her, and, influenced by the general revulsion of feeling, exhibited a
cordiality and interest in marked contrast with the general bearing at
the outset of the evening. Perhaps there were those who were rather glad
to be relieved of the responsibility laid upon them. When the
presidential party arrived it was observed that the President himself
was very cordial when he joined the group at the end of the room, the
centre figure of which was the wife of his friend and favorite cabinet
officer. It was evident that he, at least, had not been affected by the
gossip of the hour. His greeting of Mrs. Amory was marked in its
kindness, and before he went away it was whispered about that he also
had felt an interest in the matter when it had reached his ears, and was
not sorry to have an opportunity of indirectly expressing his opinion.

The great lady took her departure in bitterness of spirit; the dances
went on, Bertha went through one after another, and between her waltzes
held her small court, and was glanced at askance no more. Any slight
opposition which might have remained would have been overpowered by the
mere force of changed circumstances. Before the evening was at an end it
had become plain that the attempt to repress and overwhelm little Mrs.
Amory had been a complete failure, and had left her better defended than
it had found her.

"But she has lost something," Senator Blundel said to himself, as he
watched her dancing. "Confound it!--_I_ can see it--she is not what she
was three months ago; she is not what she was when she came into the
room."

Tredennis also recognized the change which had come upon her, and before
long knew also that she had seen his recognition of it, and that she
made no effort to conceal it from him. He felt that he could almost have
better borne to see her old, careless gayety, which he had been wont to
resent in secret bitterness of heart.

Once, when they chanced to stand alone together for a moment, she spoke
to him quickly.

"Is it late?" she asked. "We seem to have been here so long! I have
danced so much. Will it not soon be time to go home?"

"Do you want to go home?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, almost breathlessly; "the music seems so loud it
bewilders me a little. How gay it is! How the people dance! The sound
and motion make me blind and dizzy. Philip!"

The tone in which she uttered his name was so low and tense that he was
startled by it.

"What is it?" he asked.

"If there are many more dances, I am afraid--I cannot go through them--I
think--I am breaking down, and I must not--I must not! Tell me what to
do!"

He made a movement so that he stood directly before her and shielded her
from the observation of those near them. He realized the danger of the
moment.

"Look up at me!" he said. "Try to fix your eyes on me steadily. This
feeling will pass away directly. You will go soon and you must not break
down. Do not let yourself be afraid that you will."

She obeyed him like a child, trying to look at him steadily.

"Tell me one more dance will be enough," she said, "and say you will
dance it with me if you can."

"I will," he answered, "and you need not speak a word."


When the senator found himself alone in the carriage with her his sense
of the triumph achieved found its expression in words.

"Well," he said, "I think we have put an end to _that_ story."

"Yes," Bertha answered, "they will not say anything more about me. You
have saved me from that."

She leaned forward and looked out of the window. Carriages blocked the
street, and were driving up and driving away; policemen were opening and
shutting doors and calling names loudly; a few street-Arabs stood on the
pavement and looked with envious eyes at the bright dresses and
luxurious wraps of the party passing under the awning; the glare of
gas-light fell upon a pretty face upturned to its companions, and a
girl's laugh rang out on the night air. Bertha turned away. She looked
at Senator Blundel. Her own face had no color.

"I think," she said,--"I think I have been to my last ball."

"No--no," he answered. "That's nonsense. You will dance at many a one."

"I think," she said,--"I think this is the last."

Senator Blundel did not accompany her into the house when they reached
it. He left her at the door, almost wringing her small cold hand in his
stout warm one.

"Come!" he said. "You are tired now, and no wonder, but to-morrow you
will be better. You want sleep and you must have it. Go in, child, and
go to bed. Good-night. God bless you! You will--be better to-morrow."

She went through the hall slowly, intending to go to her room, but when
she reached the parlor she saw that it was lighted. She had given orders
that the servants should not sit up for her, and the house was silent
with the stillness of sleep. She turned at the parlor door and looked
in. A fire still burned in the grate, her own chair was drawn up before
it, and in the chair sat a figure, the sight of which caused her to
start forward with an exclamation,--a tall, slender, old figure, his
gray head bowed upon his hand.

"Papa!" she cried. "Can it be you, papa? What has happened?"

He rose rather slowly, and looked at her; it was evident that he had
been plunged in deep thought; his eyes were heavy, and he looked aged
and worn. He put out his hand, took hers, and drew her to him.

"My dear," he said. "My dear child!"

She stood quite still for a moment, looking up at him.

"You have come to tell me something," she said, at length, in a low,
almost monotonous voice. "And it is something about Richard. It is
something--something wretched."

A slight flush mounted to his cheek,--a flush of shame.

"Yes," he answered, "it is something wretched."

She began to shake like a leaf, but it was not from fear.

"Then do not be afraid," she said; "there is no need! Richard--has not
spared me!"

It was the first time through all she had borne and hidden, through all
the years holding, for her, suffering and bitterness and disenchantment
which had blighted all her youth,--it was the first time she had
permitted her husband's name to escape her lips when she could not
compel herself to utter it gently, and that, at last, he himself had
forced such speech from her was the bitterest indignity of all.

And if she felt this, the professor felt it keenly, too. He had marked
her silence and self-control at many a time when he had felt that the
fire that burned in her must make her speak; but she had never spoken,
and the dignity of her reserve had touched him often.

"What is it that Richard has done now, papa?" she said.

He put a tremulous hand into his pocket, and drew forth a letter.

"Richard," he said,--"Richard has gone abroad."

She had felt that she was to receive some blow, but she had scarcely
been prepared for this. She repeated his words in bewilderment.

"Richard has gone abroad!"

The professor put his hand on her shoulder.

"Sit down, my dear," he said. "You must sit down."

There was a chair near her; it stood by the table on which the professor
had been wont to take his cup of tea; she turned and sat down in this
chair, and resting her elbows on the table, dropped her forehead upon
her hands. The professor drew near to her side; his gentle, refined old
face flushed and paled alternately; his hands were tremulous; he spoke
in a low, agitated voice.

"My dear," he said, "I find it very hard to tell you all--all I have
discovered. It is very bitter to stand here upon your husband's hearth,
and tell you--my child and his wife--that the shadow of dishonor and
disgrace rests upon him. He has not been truthful; we have--been
deceived."

She did not utter a word.

"For some time I have been anxious," he went on; "but I blame myself
that I was not anxious sooner. I am not a business man; I have not been
practical in my methods of dealing with him; the fault was in a great
measure mine. His nature was not a strong one,--it was almost impossible
for him to resist temptation; I knew that, and should have remembered
it. I have been very blind. I did not realize what was going on before
my eyes. I thought his interest in the Westoria scheme was only one of
his many whims. I was greatly to blame."

"No," said Bertha; "it was not you who were to blame. I was more blind
than you--I knew him better than--than any one else."

"A short time ago," said the professor, "I received a letter from an old
friend who knows a great deal of my business affairs. He is a business
man, and I have been glad to entrust him with the management of various
investments. In this manner he knew something of the investment of the
money which was yours. He knew more of Richard's methods than Richard
was aware of. He had heard rumors of the Westoria land scheme, and had
accidentally, in the transaction of his business, made some discoveries.
He asked me if I knew the extent to which your fortune had been
speculated with. Knowing a few facts, he was able to guess at others"--

Bertha lifted her face from her hands.

"My money!" she exclaimed. "My fortune!"

"He had speculated with it at various times, sometimes gaining,
sometimes losing; the Westoria affair seems to have dazzled him--and he
invested largely"--

Bertha rose from her chair.

"It was Philip Tredennis' money he invested," she said. "Philip
Tredennis"--

"It was not Philip's money," the professor answered; "that I have
discovered. But it was Philip's generosity which would have made it
appear so. In this letter--written just before he sailed--Richard has
admitted the truth to me--finding what proof I had against him."

Bertha lifted her hands and let them fall at her sides.

"Papa," she said, "I do not understand this--I do not understand. Philip
Tredennis! He gave money to Richard! Richard accepted money from him--to
shield himself, to--This is too much for me!"

"Philip had intended the money for Janey," said the professor, "and when
he understood how Richard had involved himself, and how his difficulties
would affect you and your future, he made a most remarkable offer: he
offered to assume the responsibility of Richard's losses. He did not
intend that you should know what he had done. Such a thing would only
have been possible for Philip Tredennis, and it was because I knew him
so well, that, when I heard that it was his money that had been risked
in the Westoria lands, I felt that something was wrong. He was very
reticent, and that added to my suspicions. Then I made the discoveries
through my friend, and my accusations of Richard forced him to admit the
truth."

"The truth!" said Bertha,--"that _I_ was to live upon Philip Tredennis'
money; that, having been ruined by my husband, I was to be supported by
Philip Tredennis' bounty!"

"Richard was in despair," said the professor, "and in his extremity he
forgot"--

"He forgot _me_!" said Bertha. "Yes, he forgot--a great many things."

"It has seemed always to be Philip who has remembered," said the
professor, sadly. "Philip has been generous and thoughtful for us from
first to last."

Bertha's hand closed itself.

"Yes," she cried; "always Philip--always Philip!"

"What could have been finer and more delicate than his care and planning
for you in this trouble of the last few days, to which I have been so
blind!" said the professor.

"_His_ care and planning!" echoed Bertha, turning slowly toward him.
"His! Did you not hear that Senator Blundel"--

"It was he who went to Senator Blundel," the professor answered. "It was
he who spoke to the wife of the Secretary of State. I learned it from
Mrs. Merriam. Out of all the pain we have borne, or may have to bear,
the memory of Philip's faithful affection for us"--

He did not finish his sentence. Bertha stopped him. Her clenched hand
had risen to her side, and was pressed against it.

"It was Philip who came to me in my trouble in Virginia," she said. "It
was Philip who saw my danger and warned me of it when I would not hear
him; but I could not know that I owed him such a debt as this!"

"We should never have known it from him," the professor replied. "He
would have kept silent to the end."

Bertha looked at the clock upon the mantel.

"It is too late to send for him now," she said; "it is too late, and a
whole night must pass before"--

"Before you say to him--what?" asked the professor.

"Before I tell him that Richard made a mistake," she answered, with
white and trembling lips; "that he must take his money back--that I will
not have it."

She caught her father's arm and clung to it, looking into his troubled
face.

"Papa," she said, "will you take me home again? I think you must, if
you will. There seems to be no place for me. If you will let me stay
with you until I have time to think."

The professor laid his hand upon hers and held it closely.

"My dear," he said, "my home is yours. It has never seemed so much mine
since you left it; but this may not be so bad as you think. I do not
know how much we may rely upon Richard's hopes,--they are not always to
be relied upon,--but it appears that he has hopes of retrieving some of
his losses through a certain speculation he seems to have regarded as a
failure, but which suddenly promises to prove a success."

"I have never thought of being poor," said Bertha; "I do not think I
should know how to be poor. But, somehow, it is not the money I am
thinking of; that will come later, I suppose. I scarcely seem to realize
yet"--

Her voice and her hand shook, and she clung to him more closely.

"Everything has gone wrong," she said, wildly; "everything must be
altered. No one is left to care for me but you. No one must do it but
you. Now that Richard has gone, it is not Philip who must be kind to
me--not Philip--Philip last of all!"

"Not Philip?" he echoed. "_Not_ Philip?"

And, as he said it, they both heard feet ascending the steps at the
front door.

"My child," said the professor, "that is Philip now. He spoke of calling
in on me on his way home. Perhaps he has been anxious at finding me out
so late. I do not understand you--but must I go and send him away?"

"No," she answered, shuddering a little, as if with cold, "it is for me
to send him away. But I must tell him first about the money. I am glad
he has come. I am glad another night will not pass without his knowing.
I think I want to speak to him alone--if you will send him here, and
wait for a little while in the library."

She did not see her father's face as he went away from her; he did not
see hers; she turned and stood upon the hearth with her back toward the
door.

She stood so when, a few minutes afterward, Philip Tredennis came in;
she stood so until he was within a few feet of her. Then she moved a
little and looked up.

What she saw in him arrested for the moment her power to speak, and for
that moment both were silent. Often as she had recognized the change
which had taken place in him, often as the realization of it had wrung
her heart, and wrung it all the more that she had understood so little,
she had never before seen it as she saw it then. All the weariness, the
anxious pain, the hopeless sadness of his past, seemed to have come to
the surface; he could endure no more; he had borne the strain too long,
and he knew too well that the end had come. No need for words to tell
him that he must lose even the poor and bitter comfort he had clung to;
he had made up his mind to that when he had defended her against the man
who himself should have been her defence.

So he stood silent and his deep eyes looked out from his strong, worn,
haggard face, holding no reproach, full only of pity for her.

There was enough to pity in her. If she saw anguish in his eyes, what he
saw in hers as she uplifted them he could scarcely have expressed in any
words he knew; surely there were no words into which he could have put
the pang their look gave him, telling him as it did that she had reached
the point where she could stand on guard no more.

"Richard," she said at length, "has gone away."

"That I knew," he answered.

"When?" she asked.

"I had a letter from him this morning," he said.

"You did not wish to tell me?" she returned.

"I thought," he began, "that perhaps"--and stopped.

"You thought that he would write to me too," she said. "He--did not."

He did not speak, and she went on.

"When I returned to-night," she said, "papa was waiting for me. He had
received a letter, too, and it told him--something he suspected
before--something I had not suspected--something I could not know"--

Her voice broke, and when she began again there was a ring of desperate
appeal to it.

"When I was a girl," she said, "when you knew me long ago, what was
there of good in me that you should have remembered it through all that
you have known of me since then?--there must have been
something--something good or touching--something more than the goodness
in yourself--that made you pitiful of me, and generous to me, and
anxious for my sake. Tell me what it was."

"It was," he said, and his own voice was low and broken too, and his
deep and sad eyes wore a look she had never seen before,--the look that,
in the eyes of a woman, would have spoken of welling tears,--"it
was--yourself."

"Myself!" she cried. "Oh, if it was myself, and there were goodness and
truth, and what was worth remembering in me, why did it not save me from
what I have been--and from what I am to-day? I do not think I meant to
live my life so badly then; I was only careless and happy in a girlish
way. I had so much faith and hope, and believed so much in all good
things; and yet my life has all been wrong, and I seem to believe no
more, and everything is lost to me; and since the days when I looked
forward there is a gulf that I can never, never pass again."

She came nearer to him, and a sob broke from her.

"What am I to say to you," she said, "now that I know all that you have
done for me while I--while I--Why should you have cared to protect me?
I was not kind to you--I was not careful of your feelings"--

"No," he answered. "You--were not."

"I used to think that you despised me," she went on, "once I told you
so. I even tried to give you the reason. I showed my worst self to you;
I was unjust and bitter; I hurt you many a time."

He seemed to labor for his words, and yet he labored rather to control
and check than to utter them.

"I am going away," he said. "When I made the arrangement with Richard,
of which you know, I meant to go away. I gathered, from what your father
said, that you mean to render useless my poor effort to be of use to
you."

"I cannot "--she began, but she could go no farther.

"When I leave you--as I must," he said, "let me at least carry away with
me the memory that you were generous to me at the last."

"At the last," she repeated after him, "the last!"

She uttered a strange, little inarticulate cry. He saw her lift up one
of her arms, look blindly at the bracelet on her wrist, drop it at her
side, and then stand looking up at him.

There was a moment of dead silence.

"Janey shall take the money," she said; "I cannot."

What the change was that he saw come over her white face and swaying
figure he only felt, as he might have felt a blow in the dark from an
unknown hand. What the great shock was that came upon him he only felt
in the same way.

She sank upon the sofa, clinging to the cushion with one shaking hand.
Suddenly she broke into helpless sobbing, like a child's, tears
streaming down her cheeks as she lifted her face in appeal.

"You have been good to me," she said. "You have been kind. Be good to
me--be kind to me--once more. You must go away--and I cannot take from
you what you want to give me; but I am not so bad as I have seemed--or
so hard! What you have wished me to be I will try to be! I will live for
my children. I will be--as good--as I can. I will do anything you tell
me to do--before you leave me! I will live all my life afterward--as
Bertha Herrick might have lived it! Only do not ask me to take the
money!"

For a few seconds all the room was still. When he answered her she could
barely hear his voice.

"I will ask of you nothing," he said.

He lifted her hand and bowed his head over it. Then he laid it back upon
the cushion. It lay there as if it had been carved from stone.

"Good-by," he said. "Good-by."

He saw her lips part, but no sound came from them.

So he went away. He scarcely felt the floor beneath his feet. He saw
nothing of the room about him. It seemed as if there was an endless
journey between himself and the door through which he was to pass. The
extremity of his mortal agony was like drunkenness.

When he was gone, she fell with a shudder, and lay still with her cheek
against the crimson cushion.


The professor was sitting at her bedside when she opened her eyes again.
Her first recognition was of his figure, sitting, the head bowed upon
the hand, as she had seen it when she came first into the house.

"Papa," she said, "you are with me?"

"Yes, my dear," he answered.

"And--there is no one else?"

"No, my dear."

She put out her hand and laid it upon his arm. He thought, with a bitter
pang, that she did it as she had often done it in her girlhood, and
that, in spite of the change in her, she wore a look which seemed to
belong to those days too.

"You will stay with me," she said. "I have come back to you."




CHAPTER XL.


Miss Jessup was very eloquent in the paragraph which she devoted to the
announcement of the departure of Colonel Tredennis, "the well-known hero
of the plains, whose fine, bronzed face and soldierly figure have become
so familiar to us during the past three seasons." She could scarcely
express the regret felt by the many friends he had made, on losing him,
and, indeed, there ran throughout the flowers of speech a suggestion of
kindly, admiring sympathy and womanly good-feeling which quite went to
the colonel's heart, and made him wonder at his own good fortune when he
read the paragraph in question. He was far away from Washington when the
paper reached him. He had become tired of life at the Capital, it was
said, and had been glad to exchange with a man who found its gayeties
better suited to him.

"It is true," he said to himself when he heard of this report, "that
they were not suited to me, nor I to them."

How he lived through the weeks, performing the ordinary routine of his
duty, and bearing with him hour by hour, night and day, the load of
grief and well-nigh intolerable anguish which he knew was never to be
lighter, he did not know. The days came and went. It was morning, noon,
or night, and he did not feel the hours either long or short. There were
nights when, his work being done, he returned to his quarters and
staggered to his seat, falling upon it blind and sick with the heavy
horror of the day.

"This," he would say, again and again, "_this_ is unnatural. To bear
such torture and live through it seems scarcely human."

Sometimes he was so wrought upon by it physically that he thought he
should not live through it; but he bore so much that at last he gained a
hopeless faith in his own endurance. He was not alone. It was as he had
told her it would be. From the hour that he looked his last upon her, it
seemed that her face had never faded from before his aching eyes. He had
all the past to live over again, all its bitter mysteries to read in a
new light and to learn to understand.

There was time enough now for him to think it all over slowly, to recall
to his mind every look and change and tone; her caprices, her coldness,
the wounds she had given him, he bore them all again, and each time he
came back with a pang more terrible to that last moment--to that last
look, to her last, broken words.

"O God!" he cried, "does _she_ bear this too?"

He knew nothing of her save what he gained at rare intervals from Miss
Jessup's society column, which he read deliberately from beginning to
end as each paper reached him. The friends of Mrs. Amory, Miss Jessup's
first statement announced, would regret to learn that the health of that
charming young wife and mother was so far from being what was to be
desired, that it necessitated a temporary absence from those social
circles of which she was so bright and graceful an ornament. For a while
her name was missing from the lists of those who appeared at the various
entertainments, and then he began occasionally to see it again, and
found a little sad comfort in the thought that she must be stronger. His
kind, brown face changed greatly in these days; it grew lean and haggard
and hopeless, and here and there a gray thread showed itself in his
close, soldier-cropped hair. He planned out heavy work for himself, and
kept close in his quarters, and those of his friends who had known him
before his stay in Washington began to ask each other what had so broken
Philip Tredennis.

The first time that Mrs. Amory appeared in society, after her
indisposition, was at the house of her friend, Mrs. Sylvestre. During
her temporary seclusion she had seen Mrs. Sylvestre frequently. There
had been few days when Agnes had not spent some hours with her. When she
had been denied to every one else Agnes was admitted.

"It is only fatigue, this," Bertha had said; "but other people tire me
so! You never tire me."

She was not confined to her bed. She had changed her room, taking
possession of the pretty pink and blue chamber, and lay upon the sofa
through the days, sometimes looking at the fire, often with her eyes
closed.

The two conversed but little; frequently there was silence between them
for some time; but Agnes knew that she was doing as Bertha wished when
she came and sat with her.

At the end of a week Mrs. Sylvestre came in one morning and found Bertha
dressed and sitting in a chair.

"I am going downstairs," she said.

"Do you think you are strong enough?" Agnes asked. She did not look so.

"I must begin to try to do something," was the indirect reply. "One must
always begin. I want to lie still and not speak or move; but I must not
do that. I will go downstairs, and I think I should like to see
Laurence."

As she went down the staircase she moved very slowly, and Agnes saw that
she clung to the balustrade for support. When she reached the parlor
door she paused for a moment, then crossed the threshold a little
hurriedly, and went to the sofa and sat down. She was tremulous, and
tears had risen to her eyes from very weakness.

"I thought I was stronger," she said. But she said nothing more until, a
few moments later, she began to speak of Tom and Kitty, in whom she had
been much interested. It had been at her suggestion that, after divers
fruitless efforts, the struggle to obtain Tom a "place" had been
abandoned, and finally there had been procured for him a position,
likely to prove permanent, in a house of business, where principles
might be of value. Tom's lungs were still a trifle delicate, but he was
rapturously happy in the small home, to purchase which Mrs. Sylvestre
had advanced the means, and his simple bliss was greatly added to by the
advent of Kitty's baby.

So they talked of Tom and Kitty and the baby, and of Arbuthnot, and his
friendship for them, and the oddities of it, and his way of making his
efforts and kindness seem more than half a jest.

"No one can be kinder than Laurence," Bertha said. "No one could be a
truer friend."

"I think so now," Agnes answered, quietly.

"He is not so light, after all," said Bertha. "Perhaps few of us are
quite as light as we seem."

"I did him injustice at first," Agnes replied. "I understand him better
now."

"If he should go away you would miss him a little," said Bertha. "He is
a person one misses when he is absent."

"Does he"--Agnes began. "I have not heard him speak of going away."

"There is just a likelihood of it," Bertha returned. "Papa has been
making an effort for him with the Secretary of State. He might be sent
abroad."

"I have not heard him refer to the possibility," said Agnes. Her manner
was still quiet, but she had made a slight involuntary movement, which
closed the book she held.

"I do not think papa has spoken to him for some time," Bertha replied.
"And when he first referred to his plan Laurence thought it out of the
question, and did not appear to regard it seriously."

For a few moments Mrs. Sylvestre did not speak. Then she said:

"Certainly it would be much better for him than to remain here."

"If he should go," said Bertha, "no one will miss him as I shall. We
used to be so gay together, and now"--

She did not end her sentence, and for a while neither of them spoke
again, and she lay quite still. Agnes remained to dine with her, and in
the evening Arbuthnot came in.

When he entered the bright, familiar room he found himself glancing
round it, trying to understand exactly what mysterious change had come
upon it. There was no change in its belongings,--the touches of color,
the scattered trifles, the pictures and draperies wore their old-time
look of having been arranged by one deft hand; but it did not seem to be
the room he had known so long,--the room he had been so fond of, and had
counted the prettiest and most inspiring place he knew.

Bertha had not left the sofa; she was talking to Agnes, who stood near
her. She had a brilliant flush on her cheeks, her eyes were bright when
she raised them to greet him, and her hand, as he took it, was hot and
tremulous.

"Naturally," she said, "you will begin to vaunt yourself. You told me I
should break down if I did not take care of myself, and I have broken
down--a little. I am reduced to lying on sofas. Don't you know how I
always derided women who lie on sofas? This is retribution; but don't
meet it with too haughty and vainglorious a spirit; before Lent I shall
be as gay as ever."

"I don't doubt it," he answered. "But in the meantime allow me to
congratulate you on the fact that the sofa is not entirely unbecoming."

"Thank you," she said. "Will you sit down now and tell me--tell me what
people are saying?"

"Of"--he began.

She smiled.

"Of me," she answered. "They were saying a great deal of me a week ago;
tell me what they say now. You must hear in going your giddy rounds."

"_You_ are very well treated," he replied. "There is a certain great
lady who is most uncomfortably commented upon. I can scarcely imagine
that she enjoys it."

Her smile ended in a fatigued sigh.

"The tide turned very quickly," she said. "It is well for me that it
did. I should not have had much mercy if I had stood alone. Ah! it was a
good thing for me that you were all so brave. You might have deserted
me, too--it would have been very simple--and then--then the gates of
paradise would have been shut against me."

"That figure of speech meaning--?" suggested Arbuthnot.

"That I should have been invited to no more dinner-parties and
receptions; that nobody would have come up to my Thursday Evenings; that
Miss Jessup would never again have mentioned me in the _Wabash
Gazette_."

"That would have been very bitter," he answered.

"Yes," she returned, "it would have been bitter, indeed."

"Do you know," he said next, "that I have come to-night partly for the
reason that I have something to tell you?"

"I rather suspected it," she replied, "though I could scarcely explain
why."

"Am I to hear it, too?" inquired Agnes.

"If you are kind enough to be interested," he answered. "It will seem a
slight enough affair to the world at large, but it seems rather
tremendous to me. I feel a trifle overpowered and nervous. Through the
kind efforts of Professor Herrick I have been honored with the offer of
a place abroad."

Bertha held out her hand.

"Minister to the Court of St. James!" she said. "How they will
congratulate themselves in London!"

"They would," he replied, "if an ill-adjusted and singularly
unappreciative government had not particularized a modest corner of
Germany as standing in greater need of my special abilities." But he
took her offered hand.

When he glanced at Mrs. Sylvestre--truth to say he had taken some
precautions against seeing her at all as he made his announcement--he
found her bestowing upon him one of the calmest of her soft, reflective
looks.

"I used to like some of those quiet places in Germany," she said; "but
you will find it a change from Washington."

"I think," he answered, "that I should like a change from Washington;"
and as soon as he had spoken he detected the touch of acrid feeling in
his words.

"I should fancy myself," she said, her soft look entirely undisturbed,
"that it might be agreeable after one had been here some time."

He had always admired beyond expression that touch of half-forgetful,
pensive calmness in her voice and eyes, but he did not enjoy it just
now.

"It is a matter of temperament, I suppose," was his thought; "but, after
all, we have been friends."

Neither could it be said that he enjoyed the pretty and picturesque
stories of German life she told afterward. They were told so well that
they brought very near the life he might expect to lead, and he was not
exactly in the mood to care to stand face to face with it. But he
controlled himself sufficiently to make an excellent audience, and never
had been outwardly in better spirits than he was after the stories were
told. He was cool and vivacious; he told a story or two himself; he was
in good voice when he went to the piano and sang. They were all laughing
when Agnes left the room to put on her wraps to return home.

When she was gone the laugh died down with odd suddenness.

"Larry," said Bertha, "do you really want to go?"

"No," he answered, turning sharply, "I don't want to go. I loathe and
abhor the thought of it."

"You want," she said, "to stay here?"

"Yes, I do," was his reply, "and that decides me."

"To go?" she asked, watching his pale, disturbed face.

"Yes, to go! There is nothing to stay here for. I need the change. I
have been here long enough--too long!"

"Yes," she returned, "I think you have been here too long. You had
better go away--if you think there is nothing to stay for."

"When a man has nothing to offer"--he broke off and flushed up hotly.
"If I had a shadow of a right to a reason for staying," he exclaimed,
"do you suppose I should not hold on to it, and fight for it, and demand
what belonged to me? There might be a struggle--there would be; but no
other man should have one jot or tittle that persistence and effort
might win in time for me! A man who gives up is a fool! I have nothing
to give up. I haven't even the right to surrender! I hadn't the right to
enter the field and take my wounds like a man! It is pleasant to reflect
that it is my own--fault. I trifled with my life; now I want it, and I
can't get it back."

"Ah!" she said, "that is an old story!"

And then Agnes returned, and he took her home.

On their way there they talked principally of Tom and Kitty.

"They will miss you greatly," Agnes said.

"They will be very kind to do it," was his reply.

"We shall all miss you," she added.

"That will be kinder still," he answered. "Might I be permitted to quote
the ancient anecdote of the colored warrior, who, on running away in
battle, was reproached and told that a single life counted as nothing on
such great occasions, and that if he had fallen he would not have been
missed,--his reply to this heroic statement of the case being, that he
should have been likely to miss himself. I shall miss myself, and
already a gentle melancholy begins to steal over me. I am not the
gleesome creature I was before good luck befell me."

But, despite this lightness of tone, their walk was not a very cheerful
one; indeed, after this speech they were rather quiet, and they parted
with few words at the door, Arbuthnot declining to go into the house.

When Agnes entered alone Mrs. Merriam looked up from her novel in some
surprise.

"I thought I heard Mr. Arbuthnot," she said.

"He left me at the door," Mrs. Sylvestre answered.

"What!" said Mrs. Merriam, "without coming to say good-night to me! I
wanted to tell him what a dissipated evening I have been spending with
my new book."

"He has been telling us good news," said Agnes, standing before the fire
and loosening her furs. "He has been offered a consulship."

Mrs. Merriam closed her book and laid it on the table.

"Will he accept it?" she asked.

"He could scarcely refuse it," Agnes replied. "It is a decided advance;
he likes the life abroad, and it might even lead to something better in
the future; at least one rather fancies such things are an opening."

"It is true," reflected Mrs. Merriam, "that he seems to have no
particular ties to hold him in one place rather than another."

"None," said Agnes. "I don't know whether that is his fortune or his
misfortune."

"His fortune," said Mrs. Merriam. "He is of the nature to know how to
value them. Perhaps, after all, he may form them if he goes abroad. It
is not too late."

"Perhaps so," said Agnes. "That would be another reason why it would be
better for him to go."

"Still," remarked Mrs. Merriam, "for my own part, I don't call it good
news that he is going."

"I meant," said Agnes, "good news for him."

"It is bad news for us," Mrs. Merriam replied. "He will leave a gap. I
have grown inconveniently fond of him myself."

But Agnes made no response, and soon afterward went to her room in
silence. She was rather silent the next day when she made her visit to
Bertha. Mrs. Merriam observed that she was rather silent at home; but,
having seen her retire within herself before, she was too just to assign
a definite reason for her quiet mood. Still she watched her with great
interest, which had a fashion of deepening when Laurence Arbuthnot
appeared upon the scene. But there was no change in her manner toward
Arbuthnot. She was glad to see him; she was interested in his plans. Her
gentle pleasure in his society seemed neither greater nor less than
usual; her gentle regret at his approaching absence from their circle
said absolutely nothing. In the gayeties of the closing season they saw
even more of each other than usual.

"It will be generous of you to allow me a few additional privileges,"
Arbuthnot said; "an extra dance or so, for instance, on occasion; a few
more calls that I am entitled to. Will you kindly, if you please, regard
me in the light of a condemned criminal, and be lenient with me in my
last moments?"

She did not refuse to be lenient with him. Much as he had been in the
habit of enjoying the evenings spent in her parlor, he had never spent
evenings such as fell to him in these last days. Somehow it happened
that he found her alone more frequently. Mrs. Merriam had letters to
write, or was otherwise occupied; so it chanced that he saw her as it
had not been his fortune to see her very often.

But it was decided that he was to spend no more winters in Washington,
for some time, at least; and, though he spent his evenings thus
agreeably, he was making daily preparation for his departure, and it
cannot be said that he enjoyed the task. There had been a time, it is
true, when he would have greeted with pleasure the prospect of the
change before him; but that time was past.

"I am having my bad quarter of an hour," he said, "and it serves me
right."

But as the days slipped by he found it even a worse quarter of an hour
than he had fancied it would be. It cost him an effort to bear himself
as it was only discretion that he should. His one resource lay in
allowing himself no leisure. When he was not otherwise occupied, he
spent his time with his friends. He was oftenest with the professor and
Bertha. He had some quiet hours in the professor's study, and in the
parlor, where Bertha sat or lay upon the sofa before the fire. She did
not allow herself to lie upon the sofa often, and refused to be regarded
as an invalid; but Arbuthnot never found himself alone with her without
an overpowering realization of the change which had taken place in her.
But she rarely spoke of herself.

"There is nothing more," she said, once, "to say about _me_."

She was willing enough to speak of him, however, and of his future, and
her gentleness often moved him deeply.

"We have been such good friends," she would say,--"such good friends. It
is not often that a man is as true a friend to a woman as you have been
to me. I wish--oh, I wish you might be happy!"

"It is too late," he would reply, "but I shall not waste time in
complaining. I will even try not to waste it in regretting."

But he knew that he did waste it so, and that each passing day left a
sharper pang behind it, and marked a greater struggle.

"There is a great deal of trouble in this world," the professor said to
him, simply, after watching him a few minutes one day. "I should like to
know what _you_ are carrying with you to Germany."

"I am carrying nothing," Arbuthnot answered. "That is my share."

They were smoking their cigars together, and through the blue haze
floating about him the professor looked out with a sad face.

"Do you," he said,--"do you leave anything behind you?"

"Everything," said Arbuthnot. The professor made a disturbed movement.

"Perhaps," he said, "this was a mistake. Perhaps it would be better if
you remained. It is not yet too late"--

"Yes, it is," Arbuthnot interposed, with a faint laugh. "And nothing
would induce me to remain."

It was on the occasion of a reception given by Mrs. Sylvestre that he
was to make his last appearance in the social world before his
departure. He had laid his plans in such a manner that, having made his
adieus at the end of the evening, half an hour after retiring from the
parlors he would be speeding away from Washington on his way to New
York.

"It will be a good exit," he said. "And the eye of the unfeeling world
being upon me, I shall be obliged to conceal my emotions, and you will
be spared the spectacle of my anguish."

There were no particular traces of anguish upon his countenance when he
presented himself, the evening in question having arrived. He appeared,
in fact, to be in reasonably good spirits. Nothing could have been more
perfect than the evening was from first to last: the picturesque and
charming home was at its best; Mrs. Sylvestre the most lovely central
figure in its picturesqueness; Mrs. Merriam even more gracious and
amusing than usual. The gay world was represented by its gayest and
brightest; the majority of those who had appeared on the night of the
ball appeared again. Rather late in the evening Blundel came in, fresh
from an exciting debate in the Senate, and somewhat flushed and elated
by it. He made his way almost immediately to Bertha. Those who stood
about her made way for him as he came. She was not sitting alone
to-night; there seemed no likelihood of her being called upon to sit
alone again. She had not only regained her old place, but something
more. The professor had accompanied her, and at no time was far away
from her. He hovered gently about in her neighborhood, and rarely lost
sight of her. He had never left her for any great length of time since
the night Tredennis had gone away. He had asked her no questions, but
they had grown very near to each other, and any mystery he might feel
that he confronted only made him more tender of her.

When Senator Blundel found himself standing before her he gave her a
sharp glance of scrutiny.

"Well," he said, "you are rested and better, and all the rest of it.
Your pink gown is very nice, and it gives you a color and brightens you
up."

"I chose the shade carefully," she answered, smiling. "If it had been
deeper it might have taken some color away from me. I am glad you like
it."

"But you are well?" he said, a little persistently. He was not so sure
of her, after all. He was shrewd enough to wish she had not found it
necessary to choose her shade with such discretion.

She smiled up at him again.

"Yes, I am well," she said. "And I am very glad to see you again."

But for several seconds he did not answer her; standing, he looked at
her in silence as she remembered his doing in the days when she had felt
as if he was asking himself and her a question. But she knew it was not
the same question he was asking himself now, but another one, and after
he had asked it he did not seem to discover the answer to it, and looked
baffled and uncertain, and even disturbed and anxious. And yet her
pretty smile did not change in the least at any moment while he regarded
her. It only deserted her entirely once during the evening. This was
when she said her last words to Arbuthnot. He had spent the previous
evening with her in her own parlor. Now, before she went away,--which
she did rather early,--they had a few minutes together in the deserted
music-room, where he took her while supper was in progress.

Neither of them had any smiles when they went in together and took their
seats in a far corner.

Bertha caught no reflected color from her carefully chosen pink.
Suddenly she looked cold and worn.

"Laurence!" she said, "in a few hours"--and stopped.

He ended for her.

"In a few hours I shall be on my way to New York."

She looked down at her flowers and then up at him.

"Oh!" she said, "a great deal will go with you. There is no one now who
could take from me what you will. But that is not what I wanted to say
to you. Will you let me say to you what I have been thinking of for
several days, and wanting to say?"

"You may say anything," he answered.

"Perhaps," she went on, hurriedly, "it will not make any difference when
it is said; I don't know." She put out her hand and touched his arm with
it; her eyes looked large and bright in their earnest appeal.

"Don't be angry with me, Larry," she said; "we have been such good
friends,--the best, _best_ friends. I am going home soon. I shall not
stay until the evening is over. You must, I think, until every one is
gone away. You might--you might have a few last words to say to Agnes."

"There is nothing," he replied, "that I could say to her."

"There might be," she said tremulously, "there might be--a few last
words Agnes might wish to say to you."

He put his head down upon his hand and answered in a low tone:

"It is impossible that there should be."

"Larry," she said, "only you can find out whether that is true or not,
and--don't go away before you are quite sure. Oh! do you remember what I
told you once?--there is only one thing in all the world when all the
rest are tried and done with. So many miss it, and then everything is
wrong. Don't be too proud, Larry; don't reason too much. If people are
true to each other, and content, what does the rest matter? I want to
know that some one is happy like that. I wish it might be you. If I have
said too much, forgive me; but you may be angry with me. I will let
you--if you will not run the risk of throwing anything away."

There was a silence.

"Promise me," she said, "promise me."

"I cannot promise you," he answered.

He left his seat.

"I will tell you," he said. "I am driven to-night--driven! I never
thought it could be so, but it is--even though I fancied I had taught
myself better. I am bearing a good deal. I don't know how far I may
trust myself. I have not an idea about it. It is scarcely safe for me to
go near her. I have not been near her often to-night. I am _driven_. I
don't know that I shall get out of the house safely. I don't know how
far I can go, if I _do_ get out of it, without coming back and making
some kind of an outcry to her. One can't bear everything indefinitely.
It seems to me now that the only decent end to this would be for me to
go as quickly as possible, and not look back; but there never was a more
impotent creature than I know I am to-night. The sight of her is too
much for me. She looks like a tall, white flower. She is a little pale
to-night--and the look in her eyes--I wish she were pale for sorrow--for
me. I wish she was suffering; but she is not."

"She could not tell you if she were," said Bertha.

"That is very true," he answered.

"Don't go away," she said, "until you have said good-by to her alone."

"Don't you see," he replied, desperately, "that I am in the condition
to be unable to go until I am actually forced? Oh," he added, bitterly,
"rest assured I shall hang about long enough!" But when he returned to
the supper-room, and gave his attention to his usual duties, he was
entirely himself again, so far as his outward bearing went. He bore
about ices and salads, and endeared himself beyond measure to dowagers,
with appetites, who lay in wait. He received their expressions of grief
at his approaching departure with decorum not too grave and sufficiently
grateful. He made himself as useful and agreeable as usual.

"He is always ready and amiable, that Mr. Arbuthnot," remarked a
well-seasoned, elderly matron, who recognized useful material when she
saw it.

And Agnes, who had chanced to see him just as his civilities won him
this encomium, reflected upon him for a moment with a soft gaze, and
then turned away with a secret thought her face did not betray.

At last the rooms began to thin out. One party after another took its
departure, disappearing up the stairs and reappearing afterward,
descending and passing through the hall to the carriages, which rolled
up, one after another, as they were called. Agnes stood near the
door-way with Mrs. Merriam, speaking the last words to her guests as
they left her. She was still a little pale, but the fatigues of the
evening might easily have left her more so. Arbuthnot found himself
lingering with an agonizing sense of disgust at his folly. Several times
he thought he would go with the rest, and then discovered that the step
would cost him a struggle to which he was not equal. Agnes did not look
at him; Mrs. Merriam did.

"You must not leave us just yet," she said. "We want your last moments.
It would be absurd to bid you good-night as if we were to see you
to-morrow. Talk to me until Agnes has done with these people."

He could have embraced her. He was perfectly aware that, mentally, he
had lost all his dignity, but he could do nothing more than recognize
the fact with unsparing clearness, and gird at himself for his weakness.

"If I were a boy of sixteen," he said inwardly, "I should comport myself
in something the same manner. I could grovel at this kind old creature's
feet because she has taken a little notice of me."

But at length the last guest had departed, the last carriage had been
called and had rolled away. Agnes turned from the door-way and walked
slowly to the fireplace.

"How empty the rooms look!" she said.

"You should have a glass of wine," Mrs. Merriam suggested. "You are
certainly more tired than you should be. You are not as strong as I was
at your age."

Arbuthnot went for the glass of wine into the adjoining room. He was
glad to absent himself for a moment.

"In ten minutes I shall be out of the house," he said; "perhaps in
five."

When he returned to the parlor Mrs. Merriam had disappeared. Agnes stood
upon the hearth, looking down. She lifted her eyes with a gentle smile.

"Aunt Mildred is going to ask you to execute a little commission for
her," she said. "She will be down soon, I think."

For the moment he was sufficiently abandoned and ungrateful to have lost
all interest in Mrs. Merriam. It seemed incredible that he had only ten
minutes before him and yet could retain composure enough to reply with
perfect steadiness.

"Perhaps," he thought, desperately, "I am not going to do it so
villanously, after all."

He kept his eyes fixed very steadily upon her. The soft calm of her
manner seemed to give him a sort of strength. Nothing could have been
sweeter or more unmoved than her voice.

"I was a little afraid you would go away early," she said, "and that we
could not bid you good-by quietly."

"Don't bid me good-by too quietly," he answered. "You will excuse _my_
emotion, I am sure?"

"You have been in Washington," she said, "long enough to feel sorry to
leave it."

He glanced at the clock.

"I have spent ten years here," he said; "one grows fond of a place,
naturally."

"Yes," she replied.

Then she added:

"Your steamer sails"--

"On Wednesday," was his answer.

It was true that he was driven. He was so hard driven at this moment
that he glanced furtively at the mirror, half fearing to find his face
ashen.

"My train leaves in an hour," he said; "I will bid you"--

He held out his hand without ending his sentence. She gave him her
slender, cold fingers passively.

"Good-by!" she said.

Mrs. Merriam was not mentioned. She was forgotten. Arbuthnot had not
thought once of the possibility of her return.

He dropped Agnes' hand, and simply turned round and went out of the
room.

His ten minutes were over; it was all over. This was his thought as he
went up the staircase. He went into the deserted upper room where he had
left his overcoat. It was quite empty, the servant in charge having
congratulated himself that his duties for the night were over, and
joined his fellows downstairs. One overcoat, he had probably fancied,
might take care of itself, especially an overcoat sufficiently familiar
with the establishment to outstay all the rest. The garment in question
hung over the back of a chair. Arbuthnot took it up and put it on with
unnecessary haste; then he took his hat; then he stopped. He sank into
the chair and dropped his brow upon his hand; he was actually
breathless. He passed through a desperate moment as he sat there; when
it was over he rose, deliberately freed himself from his coat again, and
went downstairs. When he reëntered the parlor Agnes rose hurriedly from
the sofa, leaving her handkerchief on the side-cushion, on which there
was a little indented spot. She made a rapid step toward him, her head
held erect, her eyes at once telling their own story, and commanding him
to disbelieve it; her face so inexpressibly sweet in its sadness that
his heart leaped in his side.

"You have left something?" she said.

"Yes," he answered, "I left--you."

She sat down upon the sofa without a word. He saw the large tears well
up into her eyes, and they helped him to go on as nothing else would
have done.

"I couldn't go away," he said. "There was no use trying. I could not
leave you in that cold way, as if our parting were only an ordinary,
conventional one. There is nothing conventional about my side of it. I
am helpless with misery. I have lost my last shred of self-respect. I
had to come back and ask you to be a little kinder to me. I don't think
you know how cold you were. It was like death to drop your hand and turn
away like that. Such a thing must be unendurable to a man who loves a
woman."

He came nearer.

"Beggars should be humble," he said. "I am humble enough. I only ask you
to say good-by a little more kindly."

Her eyes were full and more beautiful than ever. She put out her hand
and touched the sofa at her side.

"Will you sit here?" she said.

"What!" he cried,--"I?"

"Yes," she answered, scarcely above her breath, "no one else." He took
the place and her slender hand.

"I have no right to this," he said. "No one knows that so well as I. I
am doing a terrible, daring thing."

"It is a daring thing for us both," she said. "I have always been
afraid; but it cost me too much when you went out of the door."

"Did it?" he said, and folded her hand close against his breast. "Oh!"
he whispered, "I will be very tender to you."

She lifted her soft eyes.

"I think," she said, "that is what I need."




CHAPTER XLI.


The next six months Laurence Arbuthnot spent in his quiet corner of
Germany, devoting all his leisure moments to the study of certain legal
terms to which he had given some attention at a previous time, when,
partly as a whim, partly as the result of a spasm of prudence, he had
woven himself a strand of thread to cling to in the vague future by
taking a course of law. His plan now was to strengthen this thread until
it might be depended upon, and he spared no determined and persistent
effort which might assist him to the attainment of this object.

"I find myself an astonishingly resolute person," he wrote to Agnes. "I
am also industrious. Resolution and industry never before struck me as
being qualities I might lay claim to with any degree of justice. Dr.
Watts himself, with his entirely objectionable bee, could not 'improve
each shining hour' with more vigor than I do, but--I have an object, and
the hours are shining. Once there seemed no reason for them. It is not
so now. I will confess that I used to hate these things. Do you repose
sufficient confidence in me yet to believe me when I tell you that I
actually feel a dawning interest in Blackstone, and do not shudder at
the thought of the lectures I shall attend in Paris? Perhaps I do not
reflect upon them with due deliberation and coolness--I cannot help
remembering that you will be with me."

When he resigned his position and went to Paris she was with him. He had
made a brief visit to Washington and taken her away, leaving Mrs.
Merriam to adorn the house in Lafayette Square, and keep its hearth warm
until such time as they should return.

It was when they were in Paris that they had the pleasure of meeting
Mr. Richard Amory, who was very well known and exceedingly popular in
the American colony. He was in the most delightful, buoyant spirits; he
had been very fortunate; a certain investment of his had just turned out
very well, and brought him large returns. He was quite willing to talk
about it and himself, and was enraptured at seeing his friends. The news
of their marriage delighted him; he was enchanting in his warm interest
in their happiness. He seemed, however, to have only pleasantly vague
views on the subject of the time of his probable return to America.

"There is no actual necessity for it," he said, "and I find the life
here delightful. Bertha and the children will probably join me in the
spring, and we may ramble about for a year or so." And he evidently felt
he had no reason to doubt the truth of this latter statement. Bertha had
been present at her friend's marriage. She had been with her almost
constantly during the last days preceding it. She found great pleasure
in Agnes' happiness. There had been no change in her own mode of life.
Janey and Jack went out with her often, and when she was at home spent
the greater part of the time with her. She helped them with their
lessons, played with them, and made a hundred plans for them. They found
her more entertaining than ever. Others found her no less entertaining.
The old bright circle closed about her as before, and was even added to.
Mr. Amory had been called abroad by business, and might return at any
moment. The professor was rarely absent from his daughter's parlors when
she had her guests about her. The people who had been interested in the
Westoria scheme disappeared or became interested in something else.
Senator Planefield had made one call after Richard's departure, and then
had called no more. Bertha had seen him alone for a short time, and
before he took his leave, looking a trifle more florid than usual, he
had thrown into the grate a bouquet of hothouse roses.

"Damn all this!" he cried, savagely. "What a failure it has been!"

"Yes," said Bertha; "it has been a great failure."

Senator Blundel did not disappear. He began to like the house again, and
to miss his occasional evening there if anything deprived him of it. He
used to come and talk politics with the professor, and hear Bertha sing
his favorite ballads of sentiment. During the excitement preceding the
presidential election the professor found him absorbingly interesting.
The contest was a close and heated one, and the usual national disasters
were prophesied as the inevitable results of the final election of
either candidate. Bertha read her way industriously through the
campaign, and joined in their arguments with a spirit which gave Blundel
keen delight. She read a great deal to her father, and made herself his
companion, finding that she was able to help him with his work.

"I find great comfort in you, my child," he said gently to her once,
when she had been reading.

"Do you, dearest?" she answered, and she went to him, and, standing near
him, touched his gray hair with her cheek. "I find great comfort in
you," she said, in a low voice. "We seem to belong to each other as
if--a little as if we had been left together on a desert island."

When she went away for the summer with her children the professor went
with her. He had never wondered at and pondered over her as he did in
these days. Her incomings and outgoings were as they had always been.
She shared the summer gayeties and went her way with her world, but it
was but a short time before the kind old eyes looking on detected in her
the lack of all that had made her what she had been in the past. They
returned to Washington the day after the election of the new President.
Their first evening at home was spent in reading the newspapers and
discussing the termination of the campaign.

When Bertha rose to go to her room she stood a moment looking at the
fire, and there was something in her face which attracted the
professor's attention.

"My dear," he said, "tell me what you are thinking of."

She lifted her eyes and made an effort to smile, but the smile died out
and left her face blank and cold.

"I am thinking of the last inaugural ball," she said, "and of Larry--and
Richard--and of how I danced and laughed--and laughed--and that I shall
never laugh so again."

"Bertha," he said, "my child!"

"No," she said, "never, never,--and I did not mean to speak of it--only
just for a moment it all came back;" and she went quickly away without
finishing.


After the election there came the usual temporary lull, and the country
settled itself down to the peaceful avocation of reading stories of the
new President's childhood, and accounts of his daily receptions of
interested friends and advisers. The only reports of excitement came
from the Indian country, where little disturbances were occurring which
caused anxiety among agents and frontiersmen. Certain tribes were
dissatisfied with the arrangements made for them by the government,
quarrels had taken place, and it had become necessary to keep a strict
watch upon the movements of turbulent tribes. This state of affairs
continued throughout the winter; the threatened outbreak was an
inestimable boon to the newspapers, but, in spite of the continued
threatenings, the winter was tided over without any actual
catastrophies.

"But we shall have it," Colonel Tredennis said to his fellow-officers;
"I think we cannot escape it."

He had been anxious for some time, and his anxiety increased as the
weeks went by. It was two days before the inaugural ceremonies that the
blow fell. The colonel had gone to his quarters rather early. A batch of
newspapers had come in with the eastern mail, and he intended to spend
his evening in reading them. Among these there were Washington papers,
which contained descriptions of the preparations made for the
ceremonies,--of the triumphal arches and processions, of the stands
erected on the avenue, of the seats before the public buildings, of the
arrangements for the ball. He remembered the belated flags and pennants
of four years before, the strollers in the streets, his own feelings as
he had driven past the decorations, and at last his words:

"I came in with the Administration; I wonder if I shall go out with it,
and what will have happened between now and then."

He laid his paper down with a heavy sigh, even though he had caught a
glimpse of Miss Jessup's letter on the first sheet. He could not read
any more; he had had enough. The bitter loneliness of the moment
overpowered him, and he bowed his face upon his arms, leaning upon the
pile of papers and letters on the table. He had made, even mentally, no
complaint in the last month. His hair had grown grizzled and his youth
had left him; only happiness could have brought it back, and happiness
was not for him. Every hour of his life was filled with yearning sadness
for the suffering another than himself might be bearing; sometimes it
became intolerable anguish; it was so to-night.

"I have no part to play," he thought; "every one is used to my grim
face; but she--poor child!--poor child!--they will not let her rest. She
has worn her smile too well."

Once, during the first winter of his stay in Washington, he had found
among a number of others a little picture of herself, and had asked her
for it. It was a poor little thing, evidently lightly valued; but he had
often recalled her look and words as she gave it to him.

"Nobody ever wanted it before," she had said. "They say it is too sad
to be like me. I do not mind that so much, I think. I had rather a fancy
for it. Yes, you may have it, if you wish. I have been gay so long--let
me be sad for a little while, if it is only in a picture."

He had carried it with him ever since. He had no other relic of her. He
took it from his breast-pocket now, and looked at it with aching eyes.

"So long!" he said. "So long!" And then again, "Poor child! poor child!"

The next instant he sprang to his feet. There was a sound of hurried
feet, a loud knocking at his door, which was thrown open violently. One
of his fellow-officers stood before him, pale with excitement.

"Tredennis," he said, "the Indians have attacked the next settlement.
The devils have gone mad. You are wanted"--

Tredennis did not speak. He gave one glance round the room, with its
blazing fire and lonely, soldierly look; then he put the little picture
into his pocket and went out into the night.




CHAPTER XLII.


In all her honest, hard-worked little life Miss Jessup had never done
more honest, hard work than she was called upon to do on the day of the
inauguration. She had written into the small hours the night before; she
had described bunting and arches, evergreens and grand stands, the
visiting regiments, club uniforms, bands, banners, torch-lights and
speeches, and on the eventful day she was up with the dawn, arranging in
the most practicable manner her plans for the day. With letters
containing a full and dramatic description of the ceremonies to be
written to four western papers, and with extra work upon the Washington
weekly and daily, there was no time to be lost. Miss Jessup lost none.
Each hour of the day was portioned off--each minute, almost. Now she was
to take a glance at the procession from the steps of the Treasury; now
she was to spend a few moments in a balcony overlooking another point;
she was to see the oath administered, hear the President's address and
form an estimate of his appreciation of the solemnity of the moment; she
was to take his temperature during the afternoon, and be ready to greet
him at the ball, and describe dresses, uniforms, decorations, flags, and
evergreens again. Even as she took her hasty breakfast she was jotting
down appropriate items, and had already begun an article, opening with
the sentence, "Rarely has Washington witnessed a more brilliant
spectacle," etc.

It could scarcely be said that she missed anything when she went her
rounds later. No familiar face escaped her; she recognized people at
windows, in carriages, on platforms. Among others she caught a glimpse
of Mrs. Amory, who drove by on her way to the Capitol with her father
and Jack and Janey.

"She looks a little tired about the eyes," thought Miss Jessup. "She has
looked a little that way all the season, though she keeps going steadily
enough. They work as hard as the rest of us, in their way, these society
women. She will be at the ball to-night, I dare say."

Bertha herself had wondered if she would find herself there. Even as she
drove past Miss Jessup, she was thinking that it seemed almost
impossible; but she had thought things impossible often during the
winter which had gone by, and had found them come to pass and leave her
almost as before. Gradually, however, people had begun to miss something
in her. There was no denying, they said, that she had lost some of her
vivacity and spirit; some tone had gone from her voice; something of
color from her manner. Perhaps she would get over it. Amory had not
behaved well in the Westoria land affair, and she naturally felt his
absence and the shadow under which he rested.

"Very gradually," she said to the professor once, "I think I am retiring
from the world. I never was really very clever or pretty. I don't hide
it so well as I used to, and people are finding me out. Often I am a
little dull, and it is not likely they will forgive me that."

But she was not dull at home, or the professor never thought so. She was
not dull now, as she pointed out objects of interest to Jack and Janey.

"I wish Uncle Philip were here!" cried Jack. "He would have his sword on
and be in uniform, and he would look taller than all the rest,--taller
than the President."

The day was very brilliant to the children; they were as indefatigable
as Miss Jessup, and missed as little as if they had been in search of
items. The blare of brazen instruments, the tramp of soldiers, the
rattle of arms, the rushing crowds, the noise and color and excitement,
filled them with rapture. When they finally reached home they were worn
out with their delights. Bertha was not less fatigued; but, after the
nursery was quiet and the children were asleep, she came down to dine
with the professor.

"And we will go to the ball for an hour," she said. "We cannot submit to
having it described to us for the next two weeks by people who were
there."

The truth was that she could not sit at home and listen to the carriages
rolling by, and watch the dragging hours with such memories as must fill
them.

So at half-past ten she stood in her room, putting the last touches to
her toilet, and shortly afterward she was driving with the professor
toward the scene of the night's gayeties. She had seen the same scene on
each like occasion since her eighteenth year. There was nothing new
about it to-night; there was some change in dances and music, but the
same types of people crowded against each other, looking on at the
dancing, pointing out the President, asking the old questions, and
making the old comments; young people whirled together in the centre of
the ballroom, and older ones watched them, with some slight wonder at
the interest they evinced in the exercise. Bertha danced only a few
quadrilles. As she went through them she felt again what she had felt on
each such occasion since the night of the ball of the last year,--the
music seemed too loud, the people too vivacious, the gayety about her
too tumultuous; though, judged by ordinary standards, there could have
been no complaint against it.

But, notwithstanding this feeling, she lingered longer than she had
intended, trying to hide from herself her dread of returning home. No
one but herself knew--even the professor did not suspect--how empty the
house seemed to her, and how its loneliness grew and grew until
sometimes it overpowered her and became a sort of deadly presence.
Richard's empty rooms were a terror to her; she never passed their
closed doors without a shock.

At half-past twelve, however, she decided to go home. She had just ended
a dance with a young _attaché_ of one of the legations; he was a
brilliantly hued and graceful young butterfly, and danced and talked
well. There had been a time when she had liked to hear his sharp,
slightly satirical nonsense, and had enjoyed a dance with him. She had
listened to-night, and had used her pretty smile at opportune moments;
but she was glad to sit down again.

"Now," she said to him, "will you be so good as to find my father for
me, and tell him I will go home?"

"I will, if I must," he answered. "But otherwise"--

"You will if you are amiable," she said. "I blush to own that I am
tired. I have assisted in the inaugural ceremonies without flinching
from their first step until their last, and I begin to feel that His
Excellency is safe and I may retire."

He found her a quiet corner and went to do her bidding. She was partly
shielded by some tall plants, and was glad of the retreat they afforded
her. She sat and let her eyes rest upon the moving crowd promenading the
room between the dances; the music had ceased, and she could catch
snatches of conversation as people passed her. Among the rest were a
pretty, sparkling-eyed girl and a young army officer who attracted her.
She watched them on their way round the circle twice, and they were just
nearing her for the second time when her attention was drawn from them
by the sound of voices near her.

"Indian outbreak," she heard. "Tredennis! News just came in."

She rose from her seat. The speakers were on the other side of the
plants. One of them was little Miss Jessup, the other a stranger, and
Miss Jessup was pale with agitation and professional interest, and her
note-book trembled in her little, bird-like hand.

"Colonel Tredennis!" she said. "Oh! I knew him. I liked him--every one
did--every one! What are the particulars? Are they really authenticated?
Oh, what a terrible thing!"

"We know very few particulars," was the answer; "but those we know are
only too well authenticated. We shall hear more later. The Indians
attacked a small settlement, and a party went from the fort to the
rescue. Colonel Tredennis commanded it. The Indians were apparently
beaten off, but returned. A little child had been left in the house,
through some misunderstanding, and Tredennis heard it crying as the
Indians made their second attack, and went after it. He was shot as he
brought it out in his arms."

Little Miss Jessup burst into tears and dropped her note-book.

"Oh!" she cried. "He was a good, brave man! He was a good man!"

The band struck up a waltz. The promenading stopped; a score or two of
couples took their place upon the floor, and began to whirl swiftly past
the spot where Bertha stood; the music seemed to grow faster and faster,
and louder, and still more loud.

Bertha stood still.

She had not moved when the professor came to her. He himself wore a sad,
grief-stricken face; he had heard the news too; it had not taken it long
to travel around the room.

"Take me home," she said to him. "Philip is dead! Philip has been
killed!"

He took her away as quickly as he could through the whirling crowd of
dancers, past the people who crowded, and laughed, and listened to the
music of the band.

"Keep close to me!" she said. "Do not let them see my face!"

When they were shut up in the carriage together she sat shuddering for a
moment, he shuddering, also, at the sight of the face he had hidden;
then she trembled into his arms, clung to his shoulder, cowered down and
hid herself upon his knee, slipped down kneeling upon the floor of the
carriage, and clung to him with both her arms.

"I never told you that I was a wicked woman," she said. "I will tell you
now; always--always I have tried to hide that it was Philip--Philip!"--

"Poor child!" he said. "Poor, unhappy--most unhappy child!" All the
strength of her body seemed to have gone into the wild clasp of her
slender arms.

"I have suffered," she said. "I have been broken; I have been crushed. I
knew that I should never see him again, but he was alive. Do you think
that I shall some day have been punished enough?"

He clasped her close to his breast, and laid his gray head upon her
brown one, shedding bitter tears.

"We do not know that this is punishment," he said.

"No," she answered. "We do not know. Take me home to my little children.
Let me stay with them. I will try to be a good mother--I will try"--

She lay in his arms until the carriage stopped. Then they got out and
went into the house. When they closed the door behind them, and stood in
the hall together, the deadly silence smote them both. They did not
speak to each other. The professor supported her with his arm as they
went slowly up the stairs. He had extinguished the light below before
they came up. All the house seemed dark but for a glow of fire-light
coming through an open door on the first landing. It was the door Philip
Tredennis had seen open the first night when he had looked in and had
seen Bertha sitting in her nursery-chair with her child on her breast.

There they both stopped. Before the professor's eyes there rose, with
strange and terrible clearness, the vision of a girl's bright face
looking backward at him from the night, the light streaming upon it as
it smiled above a cluster of white roses. And it was this that remained
before him when, a moment afterward, Bertha went into the room and
closed the door.


THE END.




THE NOVELS AND STORIES OF

Frances Hodgson Burnett

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, PUBLISHERS


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In Connection with

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The tragedy of the story, intensified by the contrast of the fanatical
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NOVELS BY MRS. BURNETT


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CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

597-599 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK





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