The Project Gutenberg EBook of Stories by American Authors (Volume 4), by 
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Title: Stories by American Authors (Volume 4)

Author: Constance Fenimore Woolson
        H. C. Bunner
        N. P. Willis
        Mary Hallock Foote
        J. W. De Forest

Release Date: August 25, 2007 [EBook #22401]

Language: English

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STORIES BY AMERICAN AUTHORS.

VOLUME 4



_The Stories in this Volume are protected by copyright, and are
printed here by authority of the authors or their representatives._


[Illustration: Noah Brooks]



Stories by American Authors

VOLUME IV


_MISS GRIEF_
  By CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON

_LOVE IN OLD CLOATHES_
  By H. C. BUNNER

_TWO BUCKETS IN A WELL_
  By N. P. WILLIS

_FRIEND BARTON'S CONCERN_
  By MARY HALLOCK FOOTE

_AN INSPIRED LOBBYIST_
  By J. W. DE FOREST

_LOST IN THE FOG_
  By NOAH BROOKS



NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1897


Copyright, 1884, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS




Transcriber's Note: In the story LOVE IN OLD CLOATHES, the circumflex
(^) is used to indicate that the letters following it are printed in
superscript type.





MISS GRIEF.

By Constance Fenimore Woolson.

(_Lippincott's Magazine, May,_ 1880.)


"A conceited fool" is a not uncommon expression. Now, I know that I am
not a fool, but I also know that I am conceited. But, candidly, can it
be helped if one happens to be young, well and strong, passably
good-looking, with some money that one has inherited and more that one
has earned--in all, enough to make life comfortable--and if upon this
foundation rests also the pleasant superstructure of a literary
success? The success is deserved, I think: certainly it was not
lightly-gained. Yet even with this I fully appreciate its rarity. Thus,
I find myself very well entertained in life: I have all I wish in the
way of society, and a deep, though of course carefully concealed,
satisfaction in my own little fame; which fame I foster by a gentle
system of non-interference. I know that I am spoken of as "that quiet
young fellow who writes those delightful little studies of society, you
know;" and I live up to that definition.

A year ago I was in Rome, and enjoying life particularly. I had a large
number of my acquaintances there, both American and English, and no day
passed without its invitation. Of course I understood it: it is seldom
that you find a literary man who is good-tempered, well-dressed,
sufficiently provided with money, and amiably obedient to all the rules
and requirements of "society." "When found, make a note of it;" and the
note was generally an invitation.

One evening, upon returning to my lodgings, my man Simpson informed me
that a person had called in the afternoon, and upon learning that I was
absent had left not a card, but her name--"Miss Grief." The title
lingered--Miss Grief! "Grief has not so far visited me here," I said to
myself, dismissing Simpson and seeking my little balcony for a final
smoke, "and she shall not now. I shall take care to be 'not at home' to
her if she continues to call." And then I fell to thinking of Isabel
Abercrombie, in whose society I had spent that and many evenings: they
were golden thoughts.

The next day there was an excursion; it was late when I reached my
rooms, and again Simpson informed me that Miss Grief had called.

"Is she coming continuously?" I said, half to myself.

"Yes, sir: she mentioned that she should call again."

"How does she look?"

"Well, sir, a lady, but not so prosperous as she was, I should say,"
answered Simpson, discreetly.

"Young?"

"No, sir."

"Alone?"

"A maid with her, sir."

But once outside in my little high-up balcony with my cigar, I again
forgot Miss Grief and whatever she might represent. Who would not
forget in that moonlight, with Isabel Abercrombie's face to remember?

The stranger came a third time, and I was absent; then she let two days
pass, and began again. It grew to be a regular dialogue between Simpson
and myself when I came in at night: "Grief to-day?"

"Yes, sir."

"What time?"

"Four, sir."

"Happy the man," I thought, "who can keep her confined to a particular
hour!"

But I should not have treated my visitor so cavalierly if I had not
felt sure that she was eccentric and unconventional--qualities
extremely tiresome in a woman no longer young or attractive. If she
were not eccentric she would not have persisted in coming to my door
day after day in this silent way, without stating her errand, leaving a
note, or presenting her credentials in any shape. I made up my mind
that she had something to sell--a bit of carving or some intaglio
supposed to be antique. It was known that I had a fancy for oddities. I
said to myself, "She has read or heard of my 'Old Gold' story, or else
'The Buried God,' and she thinks me an idealizing ignoramus upon whom
she can impose. Her sepulchral name is at least not Italian; probably
she is a sharp countrywoman of mine, turning, by means of the present
æsthetic craze, an honest penny when she can."

She had called seven times during a period of two weeks without seeing
me, when one day I happened to be at home in the afternoon, owing to a
pouring rain and a fit of doubt concerning Miss Abercrombie. For I had
constructed a careful theory of that young lady's characteristics in my
own mind, and she had lived up to it delightfully until the previous
evening, when with one word she had blown it to atoms and taken flight,
leaving me standing, as it were, on a desolate shore, with nothing but
a handful of mistaken inductions wherewith to console myself. I do not
know a more exasperating frame of mind, at least for a constructor of
theories. I could not write, and so I took up a French novel (I model
myself a little on Balzac). I had been turning over its pages but a few
moments when Simpson knocked, and, entering softly, said, with just a
shadow of a smile on his well-trained face, "Miss Grief." I briefly
consigned Miss Grief to all the Furies, and then, as he still
lingered--perhaps not knowing where they resided--I asked where the
visitor was.

"Outside, sir--in the hall. I told her I would see if you were at
home."

"She must be unpleasantly wet if she had no carriage."

"No carriage, sir: they always come on foot. I think she _is_ a little
damp, sir."

"Well, let her in; but I don't want the maid. I may as well see her
now, I suppose, and end the affair."

"Yes, sir."

I did not put down my book. My visitor should have a hearing, but not
much more: she had sacrificed her womanly claims by her persistent
attacks upon my door. Presently Simpson ushered her in. "Miss Grief,"
he said, and then went out, closing the curtain behind him.

A woman--yes, a lady--but shabby, unattractive, and more than
middle-aged.

I rose, bowed slightly, and then dropped into my chair again, still
keeping the book in my hand. "Miss Grief?" I said interrogatively as I
indicated a seat with my eyebrows.

"Not Grief," she answered--"Crief: my name is Crief."

She sat down, and I saw that she held a small flat box.

"Not carving, then," I thought--"probably old lace, something that
belonged to Tullia or Lucrezia Borgia." But as she did not speak I
found myself obliged to begin: "You have been here, I think, once or
twice before?"

"Seven times; this is the eighth."

A silence.

"I am often out; indeed, I may say that I am never in," I remarked
carelessly.

"Yes; you have many friends."

"--Who will perhaps buy old lace," I mentally added. But this time I
too remained silent; why should I trouble myself to draw her out? She
had sought me; let her advance her idea, whatever it was, now that
entrance was gained.

But Miss Grief (I preferred to call her so) did not look as though she
could advance anything; her black gown, damp with rain, seemed to
retreat fearfully to her thin self, while her thin self retreated as
far as possible from me, from the chair, from everything. Her eyes were
cast down; an old-fashioned lace veil with a heavy border shaded her
face. She looked at the floor, and I looked at her.

I grew a little impatient, but I made up my mind that I would continue
silent and see how long a time she would consider necessary to give due
effect to her little pantomime. Comedy? Or was it tragedy? I suppose
full five minutes passed thus in our double silence; and that is a long
time when two persons are sitting opposite each other alone in a small
still room.

At last my visitor, without raising her eyes, said slowly, "You are
very happy, are you not, with youth, health, friends, riches, fame?"

It was a singular beginning. Her voice was clear, low, and very sweet
as she thus enumerated my advantages one by one in a list. I was
attracted by it, but repelled by her words, which seemed to me flattery
both dull and bold.

"Thanks," I said, "for your kindness, but I fear it is undeserved. I
seldom discuss myself even when with my friends."

"I am your friend," replied Miss Grief. Then, after a moment, she added
slowly, "I have read every word you have written."

I curled the edges of my book indifferently; I am not a fop, I hope,
but--others have said the same.

"What is more, I know much of it by heart," continued my visitor.
"Wait: I will show you;" and then, without pause, she began to repeat
something of mine word for word, just as I had written it. On she went,
and I--listened. I intended interrupting her after a moment, but I did
not, because she was reciting so well, and also because I felt a desire
gaining upon me to see what she would make of a certain conversation
which I knew was coming--a conversation between two of my characters
which was, to say the least, sphinx-like, and somewhat incandescent as
well. What won me a little, too, was the fact that the scene she was
reciting (it was hardly more than that, though called a story) was
secretly my favorite among all the sketches from my pen which a
gracious public has received with favor. I never said so, but it was;
and I had always felt a wondering annoyance that the aforesaid public,
while kindly praising beyond their worth other attempts of mine, had
never noticed the higher purpose of this little shaft, aimed not at the
balconies and lighted windows of society, but straight up toward the
distant stars. So she went on, and presently reached the conversation:
my two people began to talk. She had raised her eyes now, and was
looking at me soberly as she gave the words of the woman, quiet,
gentle, cold, and the replies of the man, bitter, hot, and scathing.
Her very voice changed, and took, though always sweetly, the different
tones required, while no point of meaning, however small, no breath of
delicate emphasis which I had meant, but which the dull types could not
give, escaped an appreciative and full, almost overfull, recognition
which startled me. For she had understood me--understood me almost
better than I had understood myself. It seemed to me that while I had
labored to interpret, partially, a psychological riddle, she, coming
after, had comprehended its bearings better than I had, though
confining herself strictly to my own words and emphasis. The scene
ended (and it ended rather suddenly), she dropped her eyes, and moved
her hand nervously to and fro over the box she held; her gloves were
old and shabby, her hands small.

I was secretly much surprised by what I had heard, but my ill-humor was
deep-seated that day, and I still felt sure, besides, that the box
contained something which I was expected to buy.

"You recite remarkably well," I said carelessly, "and I am much
flattered also by your appreciation of my attempt. But it is not, I
presume, to that alone that I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Yes," she answered, still looking down, "it is, for if you had not
written that scene I should not have sought you. Your other sketches
are interiors--exquisitely painted and delicately finished, but of
small scope. _This_ is a sketch in a few bold, masterly lines--work of
entirely different spirit and purpose."

I was nettled by her insight. "You have bestowed so much of your kind
attention upon me that I feel your debtor," I said, conventionally. "It
may be that there is something I can do for you--connected, possibly,
with that little box?"

It was impertinent, but it was true; for she answered, "Yes."

I smiled, but her eyes were cast down and she did not see the smile.

"What I have to show you is a manuscript," she said after a pause which
I did not break; "it is a drama. I thought that perhaps you would read
it."

"An authoress! This is worse than old lace," I said to myself in
dismay.--Then, aloud, "My opinion would be worth nothing, Miss Crief."

"Not in a business way, I know. But it might be--an assistance
personally." Her voice had sunk to a whisper; outside, the rain was
pouring steadily down. She was a very depressing object to me as she
sat there with her box.

"I hardly think I have the time at present--" I began.

She had raised her eyes and was looking at me; then, when I paused, she
rose and came suddenly toward my chair. "Yes, you will read it," she
said with her hand on my arm--"you will read it. Look at this room;
look at yourself; look at all you have. Then look at me, and have
pity."

I had risen, for she held my arm, and her damp skirt was brushing my
knees.

Her large dark eyes looked intently into mine as she went on; "I have
no shame in asking. Why should I have? It is my last endeavor; but a
calm and well-considered one. If you refuse I shall go away, knowing
that Fate has willed it so. And I shall be content."

"She is mad," I thought. But she did not look so, and she had spoken
quietly, even gently.--"Sit down," I said, moving away from her. I felt
as if I had been magnetized; but it was only the nearness of her eyes
to mine, and their intensity. I drew forward a chair, but she remained
standing.

"I cannot," she said in the same sweet, gentle tone, "unless you
promise."

"Very well, I promise; only sit down."

As I took her arm to lead her to the chair I perceived that she was
trembling, but her face continued unmoved.

"You do not, of course, wish me to look at your manuscript now?" I
said, temporizing; "it would be much better to leave it. Give me your
address, and I will return it to you with my written opinion; though, I
repeat, the latter will be of no use to you. It is the opinion of an
editor or publisher that you want."

"It shall be as you please. And I will go in a moment," said Miss
Grief, pressing her palms together, as if trying to control the tremor
that had seized her slight frame.

She looked so pallid that I thought of offering her a glass of wine;
then I remembered that if I did it might be a bait to bring her there
again, and this I was desirous to prevent. She rose while the thought
was passing through my mind. Her pasteboard box lay on the chair she
had first occupied; she took it, wrote an address on the cover, laid it
down, and then, bowing with a little air of formality, drew her black
shawl round her shoulders and turned toward the door.

I followed, after touching the bell. "You will hear from me by letter,"
I said.

Simpson opened the door, and I caught a glimpse of the maid, who was
waiting in the anteroom. She was an old woman, shorter than her
mistress, equally thin, and dressed like her in rusty black. As the
door opened she turned toward it a pair of small, dim blue eyes with a
look of furtive suspense. Simpson dropped the curtain, shutting me into
the inner room; he had no intention of allowing me to accompany my
visitor further. But I had the curiosity to go to a bay-window in an
angle from whence I could command the street-door, and presently I saw
them issue forth in the rain and walk away side by side, the mistress,
being the taller, holding the umbrella: probably there was not much
difference in rank between persons so poor and forlorn as these.

It grew dark. I was invited out for the evening, and I knew that if I
should go I should meet Miss Abercrombie. I said to myself that I would
not go. I got out my paper for writing, I made my preparations for a
quiet evening at home with myself; but it was of no use. It all ended
slavishly in my going. At the last allowable moment I presented myself,
and--as a punishment for my vacillation, I suppose--I never passed a
more disagreeable evening. I drove homeward in a murky temper; it was
foggy without, and very foggy within. What Isabel really was, now that
she had broken through my elaborately-built theories, I was not able to
decide. There was, to tell the truth, a certain young Englishman--But
that is apart from this story.

I reached home, went up to my rooms, and had a supper. It was to
console myself; I am obliged to console myself scientifically once in a
while. I was walking up and down afterward, smoking and feeling
somewhat better, when my eye fell upon the pasteboard box. I took it
up; on the cover was written an address which showed that my visitor
must have walked a long distance in order to see me: "A. Crief."--"A
Grief," I thought; "and so she is. I positively believe she has brought
all this trouble upon me: she has the evil eye." I took out the
manuscript and looked at it. It was in the form of a little volume, and
clearly written; on the cover was the word "Armor" in German text, and,
underneath, a pen-and-ink sketch of a helmet, breastplate, and shield.

"Grief certainly needs armor," I said to myself, sitting down by the
table and turning over the pages. "I may as well look over the thing
now; I could not be in a worse mood." And then I began to read.

Early the next morning Simpson took a note from me to the given
address, returning with the following reply: "No; I prefer to come to
you; at four; A. CRIEF." These words, with their three semicolons, were
written in pencil upon a piece of coarse printing-paper, but the
handwriting was as clear and delicate as that of the manuscript in ink.

"What sort of a place was it, Simpson?"

"Very poor, sir, but I did not go all the way up. The elder person came
down, sir, took the note, and requested me to wait where I was."

"You had no chance, then, to make inquiries?" I said, knowing full well
that he had emptied the entire neighborhood of any information it might
possess concerning these two lodgers.

"Well, sir, you know how these foreigners will talk, whether one wants
to hear or not. But it seems that these two persons have been there but
a few weeks; they live alone, and are uncommonly silent and reserved.
The people round there call them something that signifies 'the Madames
American, thin and dumb.'"

At four the "Madames American" arrived; it was raining again, and they
came on foot under their old umbrella. The maid waited in the anteroom,
and Miss Grief was ushered into my bachelor's parlor. I had thought
that I should meet her with great deference; but she looked so forlorn
that my deference changed to pity. It was the woman that impressed me
then, more than the writer--the fragile, nerveless body more than the
inspired mind. For it was inspired: I had sat up half the night over
her drama, and had felt thrilled through and through more than once by
its earnestness, passion, and power.

No one could have been more surprised than I was to find myself thus
enthusiastic. I thought I had outgrown that sort of thing. And one
would have supposed, too (I myself should have supposed so the day
before), that the faults of the drama, which were many and prominent,
would have chilled any liking I might have felt, I being a writer
myself, and therefore critical; for writers are as apt to make much of
the "how," rather than the "what," as painters, who, it is well known,
prefer an exquisitely rendered representation of a commonplace theme to
an imperfectly executed picture of even the most striking subject. But
in this case, on the contrary, the scattered rays of splendor in Miss
Grief's drama had made me forget the dark spots, which were numerous
and disfiguring; or, rather, the splendor had made me anxious to have
the spots removed. And this also was a philanthropic state very unusual
with me. Regarding unsuccessful writers, my motto had been "Væ victis!"

My visitor took a seat and folded her hands; I could see, in spite of
her quiet manner, that she was in breathless suspense. It seemed so
pitiful that she should be trembling there before me--a woman so much
older than I was, a woman who possessed the divine spark of genius,
which I was by no means sure (in spite of my success) had been granted
to me--that I felt as if I ought to go down on my knees before her, and
entreat her to take her proper place of supremacy at once. But there!
one does not go down on one's knees, combustively, as it were, before a
woman over fifty, plain in feature, thin, dejected, and ill-dressed. I
contented myself with taking her hands (in their miserable old gloves)
in mine, while I said cordially, "Miss Crief, your drama seems to me
full of original power. It has roused my enthusiasm: I sat up half the
night reading it."

The hands I held shook, but something (perhaps a shame for having
evaded the knees business) made me tighten my hold and bestow upon her
also a reassuring smile. She looked at me for a moment, and then,
suddenly and noiselessly, tears rose and rolled down her cheeks. I
dropped her hands and retreated. I had not thought her tearful: on the
contrary, her voice and face had seemed rigidly controlled. But now
here she was bending herself over the side of the chair with her head
resting on her arms, not sobbing aloud, but her whole frame shaken by
the strength of her emotion. I rushed for a glass of wine; I pressed
her to take it. I did not quite know what to do, but, putting myself in
her place, I decided to praise the drama; and praise it I did. I do not
know when I have used so many adjectives. She raised her head and began
to wipe her eyes.

"Do take the wine," I said, interrupting myself in my cataract of
language.

"I dare not," she answered; then added humbly, "that is, unless you
have a biscuit here or a bit of bread."

I found some biscuit; she ate two, and then slowly drank the wine,
while I resumed my verbal Niagara. Under its influence--and that of the
wine too, perhaps--she began to show new life. It was not that she
looked radiant--she could not--but simply that she looked warm. I now
perceived what had been the principal discomfort of her appearance
heretofore: it was that she had looked all the time as if suffering
from cold.

At last I could think of nothing more to say, and stopped. I really
admired the drama, but I thought I had exerted myself sufficiently as
an anti-hysteric, and that adjectives enough, for the present at least,
had been administered. She had put down her empty wine-glass, and was
resting her hands on the broad cushioned arms of her chair with, for a
thin person, a sort of expanded content.

"You must pardon my tears," she said, smiling; "it was the revulsion of
feeling. My life was at a low ebb: if your sentence had been against me
it would have been my end."

"Your end?"

"Yes, the end of my life; I should have destroyed myself."

"Then you would have been a weak as well as wicked woman," I said in a
tone of disgust. I do hate sensationalism.

"Oh no, you know nothing about it. I should have destroyed only this
poor worn tenement of clay. But I can well understand how _you_ would
look upon it. Regarding the desirableness of life the prince and the
beggar may have different opinions.--We will say no more of it, but
talk of the drama instead." As she spoke the word "drama" a triumphant
brightness came into her eyes.

I took the manuscript from a drawer and sat down beside her. "I suppose
you know that there are faults," I said, expecting ready acquiescence.

"I was not aware that there were any," was her gentle reply.

Here was a beginning! After all my interest in her--and, I may say
under the circumstances, my kindness--she received me in this way!
However, my belief in her genius was too sincere to be altered by her
whimsies; so I persevered. "Let us go over it together," I said. "Shall
I read it to you, or will you read it to me?"

"I will not read it, but recite it."

"That will never do; you will recite it so well that we shall see only
the good points, and what we have to concern ourselves with now is the
bad ones."

"I will recite it," she repeated.

"Now, Miss Crief," I said bluntly, "for what purpose did you come to
me? Certainly not merely to recite: I am no stage-manager. In plain
English, was it not your idea that I might help you in obtaining a
publisher?"

"Yes, yes," she answered, looking at me apprehensively, all her old
manner returning.

I followed up my advantage, opened the little paper volume and began. I
first took the drama line by line, and spoke of the faults of
expression and structure; then I turned back and touched upon two or
three glaring impossibilities in the plot. "Your absorbed interest in
the motive of the whole no doubt made you forget these blemishes," I
said apologetically.

But, to my surprise, I found that she did not see the blemishes--that
she appreciated nothing I had said, comprehended nothing. Such
unaccountable obtuseness puzzled me. I began again, going over the
whole with even greater minuteness and care. I worked hard: the
perspiration stood in beads upon my forehead as I struggled with
her--what shall I call it--obstinacy? But it was not exactly obstinacy.
She simply could not see the faults of her own work, any more than a
blind man can see the smoke that dims a patch of blue sky. When I had
finished my task the second time she still remained as gently impassive
as before. I leaned back in my chair exhausted, and looked at her.

Even then she did not seem to comprehend (whether she agreed with it or
not) what I must be thinking. "It is such a heaven to me that you like
it!" she murmured dreamily, breaking the silence. Then, with more
animation, "And _now_ you will let me recite it?"

I was too weary to oppose her; she threw aside her shawl and bonnet,
and, standing in the centre of the room, began.

And she carried me along with her: all the strong passages were doubly
strong when spoken, and the faults, which seemed nothing to her, were
made by her earnestness to seem nothing to me, at least for that
moment. When it was ended she stood looking at me with a triumphant
smile.

"Yes," I said, "I like it, and you see that I do. But I like it because
my taste is peculiar. To me originality and force are everything--perhaps
because I have them not to any marked degree myself--but the world at
large will not overlook as I do your absolutely barbarous shortcomings
on account of them. Will you trust me to go over the drama and correct
it at my pleasure?" This was a vast deal for me to offer; I was
surprised at myself.

"No," she answered softly, still smiling. "There shall not be so much
as a comma altered." Then she sat down and fell into a reverie as
though she were alone.

"Have you written anything else?" I said after a while, when I had
become tired of the silence.

"Yes."

"Can I see it? Or is it _them_?"

"It is _them_. Yes, you can see all."

"I will call upon you for the purpose."

"No, you must not," she said, coming back to the present nervously. "I
prefer to come to you."

At this moment Simpson entered to light the room, and busied himself
rather longer than was necessary over the task. When he finally went
out I saw that my visitor's manner had sunk into its former depression:
the presence of the servant seemed to have chilled her.

"When did you say I might come?" I repeated, ignoring her refusal.

"I did not say it. It would be impossible."

"Well, then, when will you come here?" There was, I fear, a trace of
fatigue in my tone.

"At your good pleasure, sir," she answered humbly.

My chivalry was touched by this: after all, she was a woman. "Come
to-morrow," I said. "By the way, come and dine with me then; why not?"
I was curious to see what she would reply.

"Why not, indeed? Yes, I will come. I am forty-three: I might have been
your mother."

This was not quite true, as I am over thirty: but I look young, while
she--Well, I had thought her over fifty. "I can hardly call you
'mother,' but we might compromise upon 'aunt,'" I said, laughing. "Aunt
what?"

"My name is Aaronna," she gravely answered. "My father was much
disappointed that I was not a boy, and gave me as nearly as possible
the name he had prepared--Aaron."

"Then come and dine with me to-morrow, and bring with you the other
manuscripts, Aaronna," I said, amused at the quaint sound of the name.
On the whole, I did not like "aunt."

"I will come," she answered.

It was twilight and still raining, but she refused all offers of escort
or carriage, departing with her maid, as she had come, under the brown
umbrella. The next day we had the dinner. Simpson was astonished--and
more than astonished, grieved--when I told him that he was to dine with
the maid; but he could not complain in words, since my own guest, the
mistress, was hardly more attractive. When our preparations were
complete I could not help laughing: the two prim little tables, one in
the parlor and one in the anteroom, and Simpson disapprovingly going
back and forth between them, were irresistible.

I greeted my guest hilariously when she arrived, and, fortunately, her
manner was not quite so depressed as usual: I could never have accorded
myself with a tearful mood. I had thought that perhaps she would make,
for the occasion, some change in her attire; I have never known a woman
who had not some scrap of finery, however small, in reserve for that
unexpected occasion of which she is ever dreaming. But no: Miss Grief
wore the same black gown, unadorned and unaltered. I was glad that
there was no rain that day, so that the skirt did not at least look so
damp and rheumatic.

She ate quietly, almost furtively, yet with a good appetite, and she
did not refuse the wine. Then, when the meal was over and Simpson had
removed the dishes, I asked for the new manuscripts. She gave me an old
green copybook filled with short poems, and a prose sketch by itself; I
lit a cigar and sat down at my desk to look them over.

"Perhaps you will try a cigarette?" I suggested, more for amusement
than anything else, for there was not a shade of Bohemianism about her;
her whole appearance was puritanical.

"I have not yet succeeded in learning to smoke."

"You have tried?" I said, turning round.

"Yes: Serena and I tried, but we did not succeed."

"Serena is your maid?"

"She lives with me."

I was seized with inward laughter, and began hastily to look over her
manuscripts with my back toward her, so that she might not see it. A
vision had risen before me of those two forlorn women, alone in their
room with locked doors, patiently trying to acquire the smoker's art.

But my attention was soon absorbed by the papers before me. Such a
fantastic collection of words, lines, and epithets I had never before
seen, or even in dreams imagined. In truth, they were like the work of
dreams: they were _Kubla Khan_, only more so. Here and there was
radiance like the flash of a diamond, but each poem, almost each verse
and line, was marred by some fault or lack which seemed wilful
perversity, like the work of an evil sprite. It was like a case of
jeweller's wares set before you, with each ring unfinished, each
bracelet too large or too small for its purpose, each breastpin without
its fastening, each necklace purposely broken. I turned the pages,
marvelling. When about half an hour had passed, and I was leaning back
for a moment to light another cigar, I glanced toward my visitor. She
was behind me, in an easy-chair before my small fire, and she was--fast
asleep! In the relaxation of her unconsciousness I was struck anew by
the poverty her appearance expressed; her feet were visible, and I saw
the miserable worn old shoes which hitherto she had kept concealed.

After looking at her for a moment I returned to my task and took up the
prose story; in prose she must be more reasonable. She was less
fantastic perhaps, but hardly more reasonable. The story was that of a
profligate and commonplace man forced by two of his friends, in order
not to break the heart of a dying girl who loves him, to live up to a
high imaginary ideal of himself which her pure but mistaken mind has
formed. He has a handsome face and sweet voice, and repeats what they
tell him. Her long, slow decline and happy death, and his own inward
ennui and profound weariness of the rôle he has to play, made the vivid
points of the story. So far, well enough, but here was the trouble:
through the whole narrative moved another character, a physician of
tender heart and exquisite mercy, who practised murder as a fine art,
and was regarded (by the author) as a second Messiah! This was
monstrous. I read it through twice, and threw it down; then, fatigued,
I turned round and leaned back, waiting for her to wake. I could see
her profile against the dark hue of the easy-chair.

Presently she seemed to feel my gaze, for she stirred, then opened her
eyes. "I have been asleep," she said, rising hurriedly.

"No harm in that, Aaronna."

But she was deeply embarrassed and troubled, much more so than the
occasion required; so much so, indeed, that I turned the conversation
back upon the manuscripts as a diversion. "I cannot stand that doctor
of yours," I said, indicating the prose story; "no one would. You must
cut him out."

Her self-possession returned as if by magic. "Certainly not," she
answered haughtily.

"Oh, if you do not care--I had labored under the impression that you
were anxious these things should find a purchaser."

"I am, I am," she said, her manner changing to deep humility with
wonderful rapidity. With such alternations of feeling as this sweeping
over her like great waves, no wonder she was old before her time.

"Then you must take out that doctor."

"I am willing, but do not know how," she answered, pressing her hands
together helplessly. "In my mind he belongs to the story so closely
that he cannot be separated from it."

Here Simpson entered, bringing a note for me: it was a line from Mrs.
Abercrombie inviting me for that evening--an unexpected gathering, and
therefore likely to be all the more agreeable. My heart bounded in
spite of me; I forgot Miss Grief and her manuscripts for the moment as
completely as though they had never existed. But, bodily, being still
in the same room with her, her speech brought me back to the present.

"You have had good news?" she said.

"Oh no, nothing especial--merely an invitation."

"But good news also," she repeated. "And now, as for me, I must go."

Not supposing that she would stay much later in any case, I had that
morning ordered a carriage to come for her at about that hour. I told
her this. She made no reply beyond putting on her bonnet and shawl.

"You will hear from me soon," I said; "I shall do all I can for you."

She had reached the door, but before opening it she stopped, turned and
extended her hand. "You are good," she said: "I give you thanks. Do not
think me ungrateful or envious. It is only that you are young, and I am
so--so old." Then she opened the door and passed through the anteroom
without pause, her maid accompanying her and Simpson with gladness
lighting the way. They were gone. I dressed hastily and went out--to
continue my studies in psychology.

Time passed; I was busy, amused and perhaps a little excited (sometimes
psychology is exciting). But, though much occupied with my own affairs,
I did not altogether neglect my self-imposed task regarding Miss Grief.
I began by sending her prose story to a friend, the editor of a monthly
magazine, with a letter making a strong plea for its admittance. It
should have a chance first on its own merits. Then I forwarded the
drama to a publisher, also an acquaintance, a man with a taste for
phantasms and a soul above mere common popularity, as his own coffers
knew to their cost. This done, I waited with conscience clear.

Four weeks passed. During this waiting period I heard nothing from Miss
Grief. At last one morning came a letter from my editor. "The story has
force, but I cannot stand that doctor," he wrote. "Let her cut him out,
and I might print it." Just what I myself had said. The package lay
there on my table, travel-worn and grimed; a returned manuscript is, I
think, the most melancholy object on earth. I decided to wait, before
writing to Aaronna, until the second letter was received. A week later
it came. "Armor" was declined. The publisher had been "impressed" by
the power displayed in certain passages, but the "impossibilities of
the plot" rendered it "unavailable for publication"--in fact, would
"bury it in ridicule" if brought before the public, a public
"lamentably" fond of amusement, "seeking it, undaunted, even in the
cannon's mouth." I doubt if he knew himself what he meant. But one
thing, at any rate, was clear: "Armor" was declined.

Now, I am, as I have remarked before, a little obstinate. I was
determined that Miss Grief's work should be received. I would alter and
improve it myself, without letting her know: the end justified the
means. Surely the sieve of my own good taste, whose mesh had been
pronounced so fine and delicate, would serve for two. I began; and
utterly failed.

I set to work first upon "Armor." I amended, altered, left out, put in,
pieced, condensed, lengthened; I did my best, and all to no avail. I
could not succeed in completing anything that satisfied me, or that
approached, in truth, Miss Grief's own work just as it stood. I suppose
I went over that manuscript twenty times: I covered sheets of paper
with my copies. But the obstinate drama refused to be corrected; as it
was it must stand or fall.

Wearied and annoyed, I threw it aside and took up the prose story: that
would be easier. But, to my surprise, I found that that apparently
gentle "doctor" would not out: he was so closely interwoven with every
part of the tale that to take him out was like taking out one especial
figure in a carpet: that is, impossible, unless you unravel the whole.
At last I did unravel the whole, and then the story was no longer good,
or Aaronna's: it was weak, and mine. All this took time, for of course
I had much to do in connection with my own life and tasks. But, though
slowly and at my leisure, I really did try my best as regarded Miss
Grief, and without success. I was forced at last to make up my mind
that either my own powers were not equal to the task, or else that her
perversities were as essential a part of her work as her inspirations,
and not to be separated from it. Once during this period I showed two
of the short poems to Isabel, withholding of course the writer's name.
"They were written by a woman," I explained.

"Her mind must have been disordered, poor thing!" Isabel said in her
gentle way when she returned them--"at least, judging by these. They
are hopelessly mixed and vague."

Now, they were not vague so much as vast. But I knew that I could not
make Isabel comprehend it, and (so complex a creature is man) I do not
know that I wanted her to comprehend it. These were the only ones in
the whole collection that I would have shown her, and I was rather glad
that she did not like even these. Not that poor Aaronna's poems were
evil: they were simply unrestrained, large, vast, like the skies or the
wind. Isabel was bounded on all sides, like a violet in a garden-bed.
And I liked her so.

One afternoon, about the time when I was beginning to see that I could
not "improve" Miss Grief, I came upon the maid. I was driving, and she
had stopped on the crossing to let the carriage pass. I recognized her
at a glance (by her general forlornness), and called to the driver to
stop: "How is Miss Grief?" I said. "I have been intending to write to
her for some time."

"And your note, when it comes," answered the old woman on the crosswalk
fiercely, "she shall not see."

"What?"

"I say she shall not see it. Your patronizing face shows that you have
no good news, and you shall not rack and stab her any more on _this_
earth, please God, while I have authority."

"Who has racked or stabbed her, Serena?"

"Serena, indeed! Rubbish! I'm no Serena: I'm her aunt. And as to who
has racked and stabbed her, I say you, _you_--YOU literary men!" She
had put her old head inside my carriage, and flung out these words at
me in a shrill, menacing tone. "But she shall die in peace in spite of
you," she continued. "Vampires! you take her ideas and fatten on them,
and leave her to starve. You know you do--_you_ who have had her poor
manuscripts these months and months!"

"Is she ill?" I asked in real concern, gathering that much at least
from the incoherent tirade.

"She is dying," answered the desolate old creature, her voice softening
and her dim eyes filling with tears.

"Oh, I trust not. Perhaps something can be done. Can I help you in any
way?"

"In all ways if you would," she said, breaking down and beginning to
sob weakly, with her head resting on the sill of the carriage-window.
"Oh, what have we not been through together, we two! Piece by piece I
have sold all."

I am good-hearted enough, but I do not like to have old women weeping
across my carriage-door. I suggested, therefore, that she should come
inside and let me take her home. Her shabby old skirt was soon beside
me, and, following her directions, the driver turned toward one of the
most wretched quarters of the city, the abode of poverty, crowded and
unclean. Here, in a large bare chamber up many flights of stairs, I
found Miss Grief.

As I entered I was startled: I thought she was dead. There seemed no
life present until she opened her eyes, and even then they rested upon
us vaguely, as though she did not know who we were. But as I approached
a light came into them: she recognized me, and this sudden
revivification, this return of the soul to the almost deserted bod, was
the most wonderful thing I ever saw. "You have good news of the drama?"
she whispered as I bent over her: "tell me. I _know_ you have good
news."

What was I to answer? Pray, what would you have answered, puritan?

"Yes, I have good news, Aaronna," I said. "The drama will appear." (And
who knows? Perhaps it will in some other world.)

She smiled, and her now brilliant eyes did not leave my face.

"He knows I'm your aunt: I told him," said the old woman, coming to the
bedside.

"Did you?" whispered Miss Grief, still gazing at me with a smile. "Then
please, dear Aunt Martha, give me something to eat."

Aunt Martha hurried across the room, and I followed her. "It's the
first time she's asked for food in weeks," she said in a husky tone.

She opened a cupboard-door vaguely, but I could see nothing within.
"What have you for her?" I asked with some impatience, though in a low
voice.

"Please God, nothing!" answered the poor old woman, hiding her reply
and her tears behind the broad cupboard-door. "I was going out to get a
little something when I met you."

"Good Heavens! is it money you need? Here, take this and send; or go
yourself in the carriage waiting below."

She hurried out breathless, and I went back to the bedside, much
disturbed by what I had seen and heard. But Miss Grief's eyes were full
of life, and as I sat down beside her she whispered earnestly, "Tell
me."

And I did tell her--a romance invented for the occasion. I venture to
say that none of my published sketches could compare with it. As for
the lie involved, it will stand among my few good deeds; I know, at the
judgment-bar.

And she was satisfied. "I have never known what it was," she whispered,
"to be fully happy until now." She closed her eyes, and when the lids
fell I again thought that she had passed away. But no, there was still
pulsation in her small, thin wrist. As she perceived my touch she
smiled. "Yes, I am happy," she said again, though without audible
sound.

The old aunt returned; food was prepared, and she took some. I myself
went out after wine that should be rich and pure. She rallied a little,
but I did not leave her: her eyes dwelt upon me and compelled me to
stay, or rather my conscience compelled me. It was a damp night, and I
had a little fire made. The wine, fruit, flowers, and candles I had
ordered made the bare place for the time being bright and fragrant.
Aunt Martha dozed in her chair from sheer fatigue--she had watched many
nights--but Miss Grief was awake, and I sat beside her.

"I make you my executor," she murmured, "as to the drama. But my other
manuscripts place, when I am gone, under my head, and let them be
buried with me. They are not many--those you have and these. See!"

I followed her gesture, and saw under her pillows the edges of two more
copybooks like the one I had. "Do not look at them--my poor dead
children!" she said tenderly. "Let them depart with me--unread, as I
have been."

Later she whispered, "Did you wonder why I came to you? It was the
contrast. You were young--strong--rich--praised--loved--successful: all
that I was not. I wanted to look at you--and imagine how it would feel.
You had success--but I had the greater power. Tell me, did I not have
it?"

"Yes, Aaronna."

"It is all in the past now. But I am satisfied."

After another pause she said with a faint smile, "Do you remember when
I fell asleep in your parlor? It was the good and rich food. It was so
long since I had had food like that!"

I took her hand and held it, conscience-stricken, but now she hardly
seemed to perceive my touch. "And the smoking?" she whispered. "Do you
remember how you laughed? I saw it. But I had heard that smoking
soothed--that one was no longer tired and hungry--with a cigar."

In little whispers of this sort, separated by long rests and pauses,
the night passed. Once she asked if her aunt was asleep, and when I
answered in the affirmative she said, "Help her to return home--to
America: the drama will pay for it. I ought never to have brought her
away."

I promised, and she resumed her bright-eyed silence.

I think she did not speak again. Toward morning the change came, and
soon after sunrise, with her old aunt kneeling by her side, she passed
away.

All was arranged as she had wished. Her manuscripts, covered with
violets, formed her pillow. No one followed her to the grave save her
aunt and myself; I thought she would prefer it so. Her name was not
"Crief," after all, but "Moncrief;" I saw it written out by Aunt Martha
for the coffin-plate, as follows: "Aaronna Moncrief, aged forty-three
years, two months, and eight days."

I never knew more of her history than is written here. If there was
more that I might have learned, it remained unlearned, for I did not
ask.

And the drama? I keep it here in this locked case. I could have had it
published at my own expense; but I think that now she knows its faults
herself, perhaps, and would not like it.

I keep it; and, once in a while, I read it over--not as a _memento
mori_ exactly, but rather as a memento of my own good fortune, for
which I should continually give thanks. The want of one grain made all
her work void, and that one grain was given to me. She, with the
greater power, failed--I, with the less, succeeded. But no praise is
due to me for that. When I die "Armor" is to be destroyed unread: not
even Isabel is to see it. For women will misunderstand each other; and,
dear and precious to me as my sweet wife is, I could not bear that she
or any one should cast so much as a thought of scorn upon the memory of
the writer, upon my poor dead, "unavailable," unaccepted "Miss Grief."





LOVE IN OLD CLOATHES.

By H. C. Bunner.

(_Century Magazine, September,_ 1883.)


Newe York, y^e 1^st Aprile, 1883.

Y^e worste of my ailment is this, y^t it groweth not Less with much
nursinge, but is like to those fevres w^ch y^e leeches Starve, 'tis
saide, for that y^e more Bloode there be in y^e Sicke man's Bodie, y^e
more foode is there for y^e Distemper to feede upon.--And it is moste
fittinge y^t I come backe to y^s my Journall (wherein I have not writt
a Lyne these manye months) on y^e 1^st of Aprile, beinge in some Sort
myne owne foole and y^e foole of Love, and a poore Butt on whome his
hearte hath play'd a Sorry tricke.--

For it is surelie a strange happenninge, that I, who am ofte accompted
a man of y^e Worlde, (as y^e Phrase goes,) sholde be soe Overtaken &
caste downe lyke a Schoole-boy or a countrie Bumpkin, by a meere Mayde,
& sholde set to Groaninge and Sighinge, &, for that She will not have
me Sighe to Her, to Groaninge and Sighinge on paper, w^ch is y^e greter
Foolishnesse in Me, y^t some one maye reade it Here-after, who hath
taken his dose of y^e same Physicke, and made no Wrye faces over it; in
w^ch case I double I shall be much laugh'd at.--Yet soe much am I a
foole, and soe enamour'd of my Foolishnesse, y^t I have a sorte of
Shamefull Joye in tellinge, even to my Journall, y^t I am mightie deepe
in Love withe y^e yonge Daughter of Mistresse Ffrench, and all maye
knowe what an Angell is y^e Daughter, since I have chose M^rs. Ffrench
for my Mother in Lawe.--(Though she will have none of my choosinge.)--And
I likewise take comforte in y^e Fancie, y^t this poore Sheete, wh^on I
write, may be made of y^e Raggs of some lucklesse Lover, and maye y^e
more readilie drinke up my complaininge Inke.--

This muche I have learnt y^t Fraunce distilles not, nor y^e Indies
growe not, y^e Remedie for my Aile.--For when I 1^st became sensible of
y^e folly of my Suite, I tooke to drynkinge & smoakinge, thinkinge to
cure my minde, but all I got was a head ache, for fellow to my Hearte
ache.--A sorrie Payre!--I then made Shifte, for a while, withe a
Bicycle, but breakinge of Bones mendes no breakinge of Heartes, and 60
myles a Daye bringes me no nearer to a Weddinge.--This beinge Lowe
Sondaye, (w^ch my Hearte telleth me better than y^e Allmanack,) I will
goe to Churche; wh. I maye chaunce to see her.--Laste weeke, her Eastre
bonnett vastlie pleas'd me, beinge most cunninglie devys'd in y^e mode
of oure Grandmothers, and verie lyke to a coales Scuttle, of white
satine.--


2^nd Aprile.

I trust I make no more moane, than is just for a man in my case, but
there is small comforte in lookinge at y^e backe of a white Satine
bonnett for two Houres, and I maye saye as much.--Neither any cheere in
Her goinge out of y^e Churche, & Walkinge downe y^e Avenue, with a
Puppe by y^e name of Williamson.


4^th Aprile.

Because a man have a Hatt with a Brimme to it like y^e Poope-Decke of a
Steam-Shippe, and breeches lyke y^e Case of an umbrella, and have loste
money on Hindoo, he is not therefore in y^e beste Societie.--I made
this observation, at y^e Clubbe, laste nighte, in y^e hearinge of
W^mson, who made a mightie Pretence, to reade y^e Sp^t of y^e Tymes.--I
doubte it was scurvie of me, but it did me muche goode.


7^th Aprile.

Y^e manner of my meetinge with Her and fallinge in Love with Her (for
y^e two were of one date) is thus--I was made acquainte withe Her on a
Wednesdaie, at y^e House of Mistresse Varick, ('twas a Reception,) but
did not hear Her Name, nor She myne, by reason of y^e noise, and of
M^rsse Varick having but lately a newe sett of Teethe, of wh. she had
not yet gott, as it were, y^e just Pitche and accordance.--I sayde to
Her that y^e Weather was warm for that season of y^e yeare.--She made
answer She thought I was right, for M^r Williamson had saide y^e same
thinge to Her not a minute past--I tolde Her She muste not holde it
originall or an Invention of W^mson, for ye Speache had beene manie
yeares in my Familie.--Answer was made, She wolde be muche bounden to
me if I wolde maintaine y^e Rightes of my Familie, and lett all others
from usinge of my propertie, when perceivinge Her to be of a livelie
Witt, I went about to ingage her in converse, if onlie so I mighte
looke into Her Eyes, wh. were of a coloure suche as I have never seene
before, more like to a Pansie, or some such flower, than anything else
I can compair with them.--Shortlie we grew most friendlie, so that She
did aske me if I colde keepe a Secrett.--I answering I colde, She saide
She was anhungred, having Shopp'd all y^e forenoone since
Breakfast.--She pray'd me to gett Her some Foode.--What, I ask'd.--She
answer'd merrilie, a Beafe-steake.--I tolde Her y^t that _Confection_
was not on y^e Side-Boarde; but I presentlie brought Her such as there
was, & She beinge behinde a Screane, I stoode in y^e waie, so y^t none
mighte see Her, & She did eate and drynke as followeth, to witt--

    iij cupps of Bouillon (w^ch is a Tea, or Tisane, of Beafe, made verie
        hott & thinne)
     iv Alberte biscuit
     ij eclairs
      i creame-cake

together with divers small cates & comfeits wh^of I know not y^e names.

So y^t I was grievously afeard for Her Digestion, leste it be
over-tax'd. Saide this to Her, however addinge it was my Conceite, y^t
by some Processe, lyke Alchemie, wh^by y^e baser metals are transmuted
into golde, so y^e grosse mortall foode was on Her lippes chang'd to
y^e fabled Nectar & Ambrosia of y^e Gods.--She tolde me 'twas a sillie
Speache, yet seam'd not ill-pleas'd withall.--She hath a verie prettie
Fashion, or Tricke, of smilinge, when She hath made an end of
speakinge, and layinge Her finger upon Her nether Lippe, like as She
wolde bid it be stille.--After some more Talke, wh^in She show'd that
Her Witt was more deepe, and Her minde more seriouslie inclin'd, than I
had Thoughte from our first Jestinge, She beinge call'd to go thence, I
did see Her mother, whose face I knewe, & was made sensible, y^t I had
given my Hearte to y^e daughter of a House wh. with myne owne had longe
been at grievous Feud, for y^e folly of oure Auncestres.--Havinge come
to wh. heavie momente in my Tale, I have no Patience to write more
to-nighte.


22^nd Aprile.

I was mynded to write no more in y^s journall, for verie Shame's sake,
y^t I shoude so complayne, lyke a Childe, whose toie is taken f^m him,
butt (mayhapp for it is nowe y^e fulle Moone, & a moste greavous period
for them y^t are Love-strucke) I am fayne, lyke y^e Drunkarde who maye
not abstayne f^m his cupp, to set me anewe to recordinge of My Dolorous
mishapp.--When I sawe Her agayn, She beinge aware of my name, & of y^e
division betwixt oure Houses, wolde have none of me, butt I wolde nott
be putt Off, & made bolde to question Her, why She sholde showe me
suche exceed^g Coldness.--She answer'd, 'twas wel knowne what Wronge my
Grandefather had done Her G.father.--I saide, She confounded me with My
G.father--we were nott y^e same Persone, he beinge muche my Elder, &
besydes Deade.--She w^d have it, 'twas no matter for jestinge.--I tolde
Her, I wolde be resolv'd, what grete Wronge y^is was.--Y^s more for to
make Speache th^n for mine owne advertisem^t, for I knewe wel y^e whole
Knaverie, wh. She rehears'd, Howe my G.father had cheated Her G.father
of Landes upp y^e River, with more, howe my G.father had impounded y^e
Cattle of Hern.--I made answer, 'twas foolishnesse, in my mynde, for
y^e iii^d Generation to so quarrell over a Parsel of rascallie Landes,
y^t had long ago beene solde for Taxes, y^t as to y^e Cowes, I wolde
make them goode, & th^r Produce & Offspringe, if it tooke y^e whole
Wash^tn Markett.--She however tolde me y^t y^e Ffrenche familie had y^e
where w^al to buye what they lack'd in Butter, Beafe & Milke, and
likewise in _Veale_, wh. laste I tooke much to Hearte, wh. She seeinge,
became more gracious &, on my pleadinge, accorded y^t I sholde have y^e
Privilege to speake with Her when we next met.--Butt neyther then, nor
at anie other Tyme th^after wolde She suffer me to visitt Her. So I was
harde putt to it to compass waies of gettinge to see Her at such Houses
as She mighte be att, for Routs or Feasts, or y^e lyke.--

But though I sawe Her manie tymes, oure converse was ever of y^ts
Complex^n, & y^e accursed G.father satt downe, & rose upp with us.--Yet
colde I see by Her aspecte, y^t I had in some sorte Her favoure, & y^t
I mislyk'd Her not so gretelie as She w^d have me thinke.--So y^t one
daie, ('twas in Januarie, & verie colde,) I, beinge moste distrackt,
saide to Her, I had tho't 'twolde pleasure Her more, to be friends w. a
man, who had a knave for a G.father, y^n with One who had no G.father
att alle, lyke W^mson (y^e Puppe).--She made answer, I was exceedinge
fresshe, or some such matter. She cloath'd her thoughte in phrase more
befittinge a Gentlewoman.--Att this I colde no longer contayne myself,
but tolde Her roundlie, I lov'd Her, & 'twas my Love made me soe
unmannerlie.--And w. y^ts speache I att y^e leaste made an End of my
Uncertaintie, for She bade me speake w. Her no more.--I wolde be
determin'd, whether I was Naught to Her.--She made Answer She colde not
justlie say I was Naught, seeing y^t wh^ever She mighte bee, I was One
too manie.--I saide, 'twas some Comforte, I had even a Place in Her
thoughtes, were it onlie in Her disfavour.--She saide, my Solace was
indeede grete, if it kept pace with y^e measure of Her Disfavour, for,
in plain Terms, She hated me, & on Her intreatinge of me to goe, I
went.--Y^is happ'd att y^e house of M^rss Varicke, wh. I 1^st met Her,
who (M^rss Varicke) was for staying me, y^t I might eate some Ic'd
Cream, butt of a Truth I was chill'd to my Taste allreadie.--Albeit I
afterwards tooke to walkinge of y^e Streets till near Midnight.--'Twas
as I saide before in Januarie & exceedinge colde.


20^th Maie.

How wearie is y^is dulle procession of y^e Yeare! For it irketh my
Soule y^t eache Monthe shoude come so aptlie after y^e Month afore, &
Nature looke so Smug, as She had done some grete thinge.--Surelie if
she make no Change, she hath work'd no Miracle, for we knowe wel, what
we maye look for.--Y^e Vine under my Window hath broughte forth Purple
Blossoms, as itt hath eache Springe these xii Yeares.--I wolde have had
them Redd, or Blue, or I knowe not what Coloure, for I am sicke of
likinge of Purple a Dozen Springes in Order.--And wh. moste galls me is
y^is, I knowe howe y^is sadd Rounde will goe on, & Maie give Place to
June, & she to July, & onlie my Hearte blossom not nor my Love growe no
greener.


2^nd June.

I and my Foolishnesse, we laye Awake last night till y^e Sunrise gun,
wh. was Shott att 4-1/2 o'ck, & wh. beinge hearde in y^t stillnesse fm.
an Incredible Distance, seem'd lyke as 'twere a Full Stopp, or Period
putt to y^is Wakinge-Dreminge, wh^at I did turne a newe Leafe in my
Counsells, and after much Meditation, have commenc't a newe Chapter,
wh. I hope maye leade to a better Conclusion, than them y^t came
afore.--For I am nowe resolv'd, & havinge begunn wil carry to an Ende,
y^t if I maie not over-come my Passion, I maye at y^e least over-com
y^e Melanchollie, & Spleene, borne y^of, & beinge a Lover, be none y^e
lesse a Man.--To wh. Ende I have come to y^is Resolution, to departe
fm. y^e Towne, & to goe to y^e Countrie-House of my Frend, Will
Winthrop, who has often intreated me, & has instantlie urg'd, y^t I
sholde make him a Visitt.--And I take much Shame to myselfe, y^t I have
not given him y^is Satisfaction since he was married, wh. is nowe ii
Yeares.--A goode Fellowe, & I minde me a grete Burden to his Frends
when he was in Love, in wh. Plight I mockt him, who am nowe, I much
feare me, mockt myselfe.


3^rd June.

Pack'd my cloathes, beinge Sundaye. Y^e better y^e Daie, y^e better y^e
Deede.


4^th June.

Goe downe to Babylon to-daye.


5^th June.

Att Babylon, att y^e Cottage of Will Winthrop, wh. is no Cottage, but a
grete House, Red, w. Verandahs, & builded in y^e Fash^n of Her Maiestie
Q. Anne.--Found a mightie Housefull of People.--Will, his Wife, a verie
proper fayre Ladie, who gave me moste gracious Reception, M^rss Smithe,
y^e ii Gresham girles (knowne as y^e Titteringe Twins), Bob White,
Virginia Kinge & her Moth^r, Clarence Winthrop, & y^e whole Alexander
Family.--A grete Gatheringe for so earlie in y^e Summer.--In y^e
afternoone play'd Lawne-Tenniss.--Had for Partner one of y^e Twinns,
ag^st Clarence Winthrop & y^e other Twinn, wh. by beinge Confus'd, I
loste iii games.--Was voted a Duffer.--Clarence Winthrop moste
unmannerlie merrie.--He call'd me y^e Sad-Ey'd Romeo, & lykewise cut
down y^e Hammocke wh^in I laye, allso tied up my Cloathes wh. we were
att Bath.--He sayde, he Chaw'd them, a moste barbarous worde for a
moste barbarous Use.--Wh. we were Boyes, & he did y^is thinge, I was
wont to trounce him Soundlie, but nowe had to contente Myselfe w.
beatinge of him iii games of Billyardes in y^e Evg., & w. daringe of
him to putt on y^e Gloves w. me, for Funne, wh. he mighte not doe, for
I coude knocke him colde.


10^th June.

Beinge gon to my Roome somewhatt earlie, for I found myselfe of a
peevish humour, Clarence came to me, and pray^d a few minutes'
Speache.--Sayde 'twas Love made him so Rude & Boysterous he was
privilie betroth'd to his Cozen, Angelica Robertes, she whose Father
lives at Islipp, & colde not containe Himselfe for Joye.--I sayinge,
there was a Breache in y^e Familie, he made Answer, 'twas true, her
Father & His, beinge Cozens, did hate each other moste heartilie, butt
for him he cared not for that, & for Angelica, She gave not a
Continentall.--But, sayde I, Your Consideration matters mightie Little,
synce y^e Governours will not heare to it.--He answered 'twas for that
he came to me, I must be his allie, for reason of our olde Friend^sp.
With that I had no Hearte to heare more, he made so Light of suche a
Division as parted me & my Happinesse, but tolde him I was his Frend,
wolde serve him when he had Neede of me, & presentlie seeing my Humour,
he made excuse to goe, & left me to write downe this, sicke in Mynde,
and thinkinge ever of y^e Woman who wil not oute of my Thoughtes for
any change of Place, neither of employe.--For indeede I doe love Her
moste heartilie, so y^t my Wordes can not saye it, nor will y^is Booke
containe it.--So I wil even goe to Sleepe, y^t in my Dreames perchaunce
my Fancie maye do my Hearte better Service.


12^th June.

She is here.--What Spyte is y^is of Fate & y^e alter'd gods! That I,
who mighte nott gett to see Her when to See was to Hope, muste nowe
daylie have Her in my Sighte, stucke lyke a fayre Apple under olde
Tantalus his Nose.--Goinge downe to y^e Hotell to-day, for to gett me
some Tobackoe, was made aware y^t y^e Ffrench familie had hyred one of
y^e Cottages round-abouts.--'Tis a goodlie Dwellinge Without--Woude I
coude speake with as much Assurance of y^e Innsyde!


13^th June.

Goinge downe to y^e Hotell againe To-day, for more Tobackoe, sawe y^e
accursed name of W^mson on y^e Registre.--Went about to a neighbouringe
Farm & satt me downe behynd y^e Barne, for a 1/2 an Houre.--Frighted
y^e Horned Cattle w. talkinge to My Selfe.


15^th June.

I wil make an Ende to y^is Businesse.--Wil make no longer Staye
here.--Sawe Her to-day, driven Home fm. y^e Beache, about 4-1/2 of y^e
After-noone, by W^mson, in his Dogge-Carte, wh. y^e Cadde has broughten
here.--Wil betake me to y^e Boundlesse Weste--Not y^t I care aught for
y^e Boundlesse Weste, butt y^t I shal doe wel if haplie I leave my
Memourie am^g y^e Apaches & bringe Home my Scalpe.


16^th June.

To Fyre Islande, in Winthrop's Yacht--y^e Twinnes w. us, so Titteringe
& Choppinge Laughter, y^t 'twas worse y^n a Flocke of Sandpipers.--Found
a grete Concourse of people there, Her amonge them, in a Suite of blue,
y^t became Her bravelie.--She swimms lyke to a Fishe, butt everie
Stroke of Her white Arms (of a lovelie Roundnesse) clefte, as 'twere,
my Hearte, rather y^n y^e Water.--She bow'd to me, on goinge into y^e
Water, w. muche Dignitie, & agayn on Cominge out, but y^is Tyme w.
lesse Dignitie, by reason of y^e Water in Her Cloathes, & Her Haire in
Her Eyes.--


17^th June.

Was for goinge awaie To-morrowe, butt Clarence cominge againe to my
Chamber, & mightilie purswadinge of me, I feare I am comitted to a
verie sillie Undertakinge.--For I am promis'd to Help him, secretlie to
wedd his Cozen.--He wolde take no Deniall, wolde have it, his Brother
car'd Naughte, 'twas but y^e Fighte of theyre Fathers, he was bounde it
sholde be done, & 'twere best I stoode his Witnesse, who was wel lyked
of bothe y^e Braunches of y^e Family.--So 'twas agree'd, y^t I shal
stay Home to-morrowe fm. y^e Expedition to Fyre Islande, feigning a
Head-Ache, (wh. indeede I meante to do, in any Happ, for I cannot see
Her againe,) & shall meet him at y^e little Churche on y^e Southe
Roade.--He to drive to Islipp to fetch Angelica, lykewise her Witnesse,
who sholde be some One of y^e Girles, she hadd not yet made her
Choice.--I made y^is Condition, it sholde not be either of y^e
Twinnes.--No, nor Bothe, for that matter.--Inquiringe as to y^e
Clergyman, he sayde y^e Dominie was allreadie Squar'd.


Newe York, y^e Buckingham Hotell,
19^th June.

I am come to y^e laste Entrie I shall ever putt downe in y^s Booke, and
needes must y^t I putt it downe quicklie, for all hath Happ'd in so
short a Space, y^t my Heade whirles w. thynkinge of it. Y^e after-noone
of Yesterdaye, I set about Counterfeittinge of a Head-Ache, & so wel
did I compasse it, y^t I verilie thinke one of y^e Twinnes was mynded
to Stay Home & nurse me.--All havinge gone off, & Clarence on his waye
to Islipp, I sett forth for y^e Churche, where arriv'd I founde it
emptie, w. y^e Door open.--Went in & writh'd on y^e hard Benches a 1/4
of an Houre, when, hearinge a Sounde, I look'd up & saw standinge in
y^e Door-waye, Katherine Ffrench.--She seem'd muche astonished, saying
You Here! or y^e lyke.--I made Answer & sayde y^t though my Familie
were greate Sinners, yet had they never been Excommunicate by y^e
Churche.--She sayde, they colde not Putt Out what never was In.--While
I was bethynkinge me wh. I mighte answer to y^is, she went on, sayinge
I must excuse Her, She wolde goe upp in y^e Organ-Lofte.--I enquiring
what for? She sayde to practice on y^e Organ.--She turn'd verie Redd,
of a warm Coloure, as She sayde this.--I ask'd Do you come hither
often? She replyinge Yes, I enquir'd how y^e Organ lyked Her.--She
sayde Right well, when I made question more curiously (for She grew
more Redd eache moment) how was y^e Action? y^e Tone? how manie Stopps?
Wh^at She growinge gretelie Confus'd, I led Her into y^e Churche, &
show'd Her y^t there was no Organ, y^e Choire beinge indeede a Band, of
i Tuninge-Forke, i Kitt, & i Horse-Fiddle.--At this She fell to
Smilinge & Blushinge att one Tyme.--She perceiv'd our Errandes were y^e
Same, & crav'd Pardon for Her Fibb.--I tolde Her, If She came Thither
to be Witness at her Frend's Weddinge, 'twas no greate Fibb, 'twolde
indeede be Practice for Her.--This havinge a rude Sound, I added I
thankt y^e Starrs y^t had bro't us Together. She sayde if y^e Starrs
appoint'd us to meete no oftener y^n this Couple shoude be Wedded, She
was wel content. This cominge on me lyke a last Buffett of Fate, that
She shoude so despitefully intreate me, I was suddenlie Seized with so
Sorrie a Humour, & withal so angrie, y^t I colde scarce Containe
myselfe, but went & Sat downe neare y^e Doore, lookinge out till
Clarence shd. come w. his Bride.--Looking over my Sholder, I sawe y^t
She wente fm. Windowe to Windowe within, Pluckinge y^e Blossoms fm. y^e
Vines, & settinge them in her Girdle.--She seem'd most tall and faire,
& swete to look uponn, & itt Anger'd me y^e More.--Meanwhiles, She
discours'd pleasantlie, askinge me manie questions, to the wh. I gave
but shorte and churlish answers. She ask'd Did I nott Knowe Angelica
Roberts was Her best Frend? How longe had I knowne of y^e Betrothal?
Did I thinke 'twolde knitt y^e House together, & Was it not Sad to see
a Familie thus Divided?--I answer'd Her, I wd. not robb a Man of y^e
precious Righte to Quarrell with his Relations.--And then, with
meditatinge on y^e goode Lucke of Clarence, & my owne harde Case, I had
suche a sudden Rage of peevishnesse y^t I knewe scarcelie what I
did.--Soe when She ask'd me merrilie why I turn'd my Backe on Her, I
made Reply I had turn'd my Backe on muche Follie.--Wh. was no sooner
oute of my Mouthe than I was mightilie Sorrie for it, and turninge
aboute, I perceiv'd She was in Teares & weepinge bitterlie. Wh^at my
Hearte wolde holde no More, & I rose upp & tooke Her in my arms &
Kiss'd & Comforted Her, She makinge no Denyal, but seeminge gretelie to
Neede such Solace, wh. I was not Loathe to give Her.--Whiles we were at
This, onlie She had gott to Smilinge, & to sayinge of Things which even
y^is paper shal not knowe, came in y^e Dominie, sayinge He judg'd We
were the Couple he came to Wed.--With him y^e Sexton & y^e Sexton's
Wife.--My swete Kate, alle as rosey as Venus's Nape, was for Denyinge
of y^is, butt I wolde not have it, & sayde Yes.--She remonstrating w.
me, privilie, I tolde Her She must not make me Out a Liar, y^t to
Deceave y^e Man of God were a greavous Sinn, y^t I had gott Her nowe, &
wd. not lett her Slipp from me, & did soe Talke Her Downe, & w. suche
Strengthe of joie, y^t allmost before She knewe it, we Stoode upp, &
were Wed, w. a Ringe (tho' She Knewe it nott) wh. belong'd to My G.
father. (Him y^t Cheated Her^n.)--

Wh. was no sooner done, than in came Clarence & Angelica, & were Wedded
in theyre Turn.--The Clergyman greatelie surprised, but more att y^e
Largenesse of his Fee.

This Businesse beinge Ended, we fled by y^e Trayne of 4-1/2 o'cke, to
y^is Place, where we wait till y^e Bloode of all y^e Ffrenches have
Tyme to coole downe, for y^e wise Mann who meeteth his Mother in Lawe
y^e 1^st tyme, wil meete her when she is Milde.--

And so I close y^is Journall, wh., tho' for y^e moste Parte 'tis but a
peevish Scrawle, hath one Page of Golde, wh^on I have writt ye laste
strange Happ wh^by I have layd Williamson by y^e Heeles & found me y^e
sweetest Wife y^t ever

                         *    *    *    *    *

stopp'd a man's Mouthe w. kisses for writinge of Her Prayses.





TWO BUCKETS IN A WELL.

By N. P. Willis.

(_From "People I Have Met" (now out of print)._)


"Five hundred dollars a year!" echoed Fanny Bellairs, as the first
silver gray of the twilight spread over her picture.

"And my art," modestly added the painter, prying into his bright copy
of the lips pronouncing upon his destiny.

"And how much may that be, at the present rate of patronage--one
picture a year, painted for love!"

"Fanny, how can you be so calculating!"

"By the bumps over my eyebrows, I suppose. Why, my dear coz, we have
another state of existence to look forward to--old man-age and old
woman-age! What am I to do with five hundred dollars a year, when my
old frame wants gilding--(to use one of your own similes)--I sha'n't
always be pretty Fanny Bellairs!"

"But, good Heavens! we shall grow old together!" exclaimed the painter,
sitting down at her feet, "and what will you care for other admiration,
if your husband see you still beautiful, with the eyes of memory and
habit."

"Even if I were sure he would so look upon me," answered Miss Bellairs,
more seriously, "I cannot but dread an old age without great means of
embellishment. Old people, except in poetry and in very primitive
society, are dishonored by wants and cares. And, indeed, before we are
old--when neither young nor old--we want horses and ottomans, kalydor
and conservatories, books, pictures, and silk curtains--all quite out
of the range of your little allowance, don't you see!"

"You do not love me, Fanny!"

"I do--and will marry you, Philip--as I, long ago, with my whole heart,
promised. But I wish to be happy with you--as happy, quite as happy, as
is at all possible, with our best efforts, and coolest, discreetest
management. I laugh the matter over sometimes, but I may tell you,
since you are determined to be in earnest, that I have treated it, in
my solitary thought, as the one important event of my life--(so indeed
it is!)--and, as such, worthy of all forethought, patience, self-denial,
and calculation. To inevitable ills I can make up my mind like other
people. If your art were your only hope of subsistence--why--I don't
know--(should I look well as a page?)--I don't know that I couldn't run
your errands and grind your paints in hose and doublet. But there is
another door open for you--a counting-house door, to be sure--leading
to opulence and all the appliances of dignity and happiness, and
through this door, my dear Philip, the art you would live by comes to
pay tribute and beg for patronage. Now, out of your hundred and twenty
reasons, give me the two stoutest and best, why you should refuse your
brother's golden offer of partnership--my share, in your alternative of
poverty, left for the moment out of the question."

Rather overborne by the confident decision of his beautiful cousin, and
having probably made up his mind that he must ultimately yield to her,
Philip replied in a lower and more dejected tone:

"If you were not to be a sharer in my renown, should I be so fortunate
as to acquire it, I should feel as if it were selfish to dwell so much
on my passion for distinction, and my devotion to my pencil as a means
of winning it. My heart is full of you--but it is full of ambition,
too, paradox though it be. I cannot live ignoble. I should not have
felt worthy to press my love upon you--worthy to possess you--except
with the prospect of celebrity in my art. You make the world dark to
me, Fanny! You close down the sky, when you shut out this hope! Yet it
shall be so."

Philip paused a moment, and the silence was uninterrupted.

"There was another feeling I had, upon which I have not insisted," he
continued. "By my brother's project, I am to reside almost wholly
abroad. Even the little stipend I have to offer you now is absorbed of
course by the investment of my property in his trading capital, and
marriage, till I have partly enriched myself, would be even more
hopeless than at present. Say the interval were five years--and five
years of separation!"

"With happiness in prospect, it would soon pass, my dear Philip!"

"But is there nothing wasted in this time? My life is yours--the gift
of love. Are not these coming five years the very flower of it!--a
mutual loss, too, for are they not, even more emphatically, the very
flower of yours? Eighteen and twenty-five are ages at which to marry,
not ages to defer. During this time the entire flow of my existence is
at its crowning fulness--passion, thought, joy, tenderness,
susceptibility to beauty and sweetness--all I have that can be
diminished or tarnished, or made dull by advancing age and contact with
the world, is thrown away--for its spring and summer. Will the autumn
of life repay us for this? Will it--even if we are rich and blest with
health, and as capable of an unblemished union as now? Think of this a
moment, dear Fanny!"

"I do--it is full of force and meaning, and, could we marry now, with a
tolerable prospect of competency, it would be irresistible. But poverty
in wedlock, Philip--"

"What do you call poverty? If we can suffice for each other, and have
the necessaries of life, we are not poor! My art will bring us
consideration enough--which is the main end of wealth, after all--and,
of society, speaking for myself only, I want nothing. Luxuries for
yourself, Fanny--means for your dear comfort and pleasure--you should
not want if the world held them, and surely the unbounded devotion of
one man to the support of the one woman he loves, _ought_ to suffice
for the task! I am strong--I am capable of labor--I have limbs to toil,
if my genius and my present means fail me, and, oh, Heaven! you could
not want!"

"No, no, no! I thought not of want!" murmured Miss Bellairs, "I thought
only--"

But she was not permitted to finish the sentence.

"Then my bright picture for the future _may_ be realized!" exclaimed
Philip, knitting his hands together in a transport of hope. "I may
build up a reputation, with _you_ for the constant partner of its
triumphs and excitements! I may go through the world, and have some
care in life besides subsistence, how I shall sleep, and eat, and
accumulate gold; some companion, who, from the threshold of manhood,
shared every thought--and knew every feeling--some pure and present
angel who walked with me and purified my motives and ennobled my
ambitions, and received from my lips and eyes, and from the beating of
my heart against her own, all the love I had to give in a lifetime.
Tell me, Fanny! tell me, my sweet cousin! is not this a picture of
bliss, which, combined with success in my noble art, might make a
Paradise on earth for you and me?"

The hand of Fanny Bellairs rested on the upturned forehead of her lover
as he sat at her feet in the deepening twilight, and she answered him
with such sweet words as are linked together by spells known only to
woman--but his palette and pencils were, nevertheless, burned in solemn
holocaust that very night, and the lady carried her point, as ladies
must. And, to the importation of silks from Lyons, was devoted,
thenceforth, the genius of a Raphael--perhaps! Who knows?

                         *    *    *    *    *

The reader will naturally have gathered from this dialogue that Miss
Fanny Bellairs had black eyes, and was rather below the middle stature.
She was a belle, and it is only belle-metal of this particular
description which is not fusible by "burning words." She had mind
enough to appreciate fully the romance and enthusiasm of her cousin,
Philip Ballister, and knew precisely the phenomena which a tall
_blonde_ (this complexion of woman being soluble in love and tears)
would have exhibited under a similar experiment. While the fire of her
love glowed, therefore, she opposed little resistance, and seemed
softened and yielding, but her purpose remained unaltered, and she rang
out "No!" the next morning, with a tone as little changed as a
convent-bell from matins to vespers, though it has passed meantime
through the furnace of an Italian noon.

Fanny was not a designing girl, either. She might have found a
wealthier customer for her heart than her cousin Philip. And she loved
this cousin as truly and well as her nature would admit, or as need be,
indeed. But two things had conspired to give her the unmalleable
quality just described--a natural disposition to confide, first and
foremost, on all occasions, in her own sagacity, and a vivid impression
made upon her mind by a childhood of poverty. At the age of twelve she
had been transferred from the distressed fireside of her mother, Mrs.
Bellairs, to the luxurious roof of her aunt, Mrs. Ballister, and, her
mother dying soon after, the orphan girl was adopted, and treated as a
child; but the memory of the troubled hearth at which she had first
learned to observe and reason, colored all the purposes and affections,
thoughts, impulses, and wishes of the ripening girl, and to think of
happiness in any proximity to privation seemed to her impossible, even
though it were in the bosom of love. Seeing no reason to give her
cousin credit for any knowledge of the world beyond his own experience,
she decided to think for him as well as love him, and, not being so
much pressed as the enthusiastic painter by the "_besoin d'aimer et de
se faire aimer_," she very composedly prefixed, to the possession of
her hand, the trifling achievement of getting rich--quite sure that if
he knew as much as she, he would willingly run that race without the
incumbrance of matrimony.

The death of Mr. Ballister, senior, had left the widow and her two boys
more slenderly provided for than was anticipated--Phil's portion, after
leaving college, producing the moderate income before mentioned. The
elder brother had embarked in his father's business, and it was thought
best on all hands for the younger Ballister to follow his example. But
Philip, whose college leisure had been devoted to poetry and painting,
and whose genius for the latter, certainly, was very decided, brought
down his habits by a resolute economy to the limits of his income, and
took up the pencil for a profession. With passionate enthusiasm, great
purity of character, distaste for all society not in harmony with his
favorite pursuit, and an industry very much concentrated and rendered
effective by abstemious habits, Philip Ballister was very likely to
develop what genius might lie between his head and hand, and his
progress in the first year had been allowed, by eminent artists, to
give very unusual promise. The Ballisters were still together, under
the maternal roof, and the painter's studies were the portraits of the
family, and Fanny's picture, of course, much the most difficult to
finish. It would be very hard if a painter's portrait of his liege
mistress, the lady of his heart, were not a good picture, and Fanny
Bellairs on canvas was divine accordingly. If the copy had more
softness of expression than the original (as it was thought to have),
it only proves that wise men have for some time suspected, that love is
more dumb than blind, and the faults of our faultless idols are noted,
however unconsciously. Neither thumb-screws nor hot coals--nothing
probably but repentance after matrimony--would have drawn from Philip
Ballister, in words, the same correction of his mistress's foible that
had oozed out through his treacherous pencil!

Cupid is often drawn as a stranger pleading to be "taken in," but it is
a miracle that he is not invariably drawn as a portrait-painter. A bird
tied to the muzzle of a gun--an enemy who has written a book--an Indian
prince under the protection of Giovanni Bulletto (Tuscan for John
Bull),--is not more close upon demolition, one would think, than the
heart of a lady delivered over to a painter's eyes, posed, draped, and
lighted with the one object of studying her beauty. If there be any
magnetism in isolated attention, any in steadfast gazing, any in passes
of the hand hither and thither--if there be any magic in _ce doux
demi-jour_ so loved in France, in stuff for flattery ready pointed and
feathered, in freedom of admiration, "and all in the way of
business"--then is a lovable sitter to a love-like painter in "parlous"
vicinity (as the new school would phrase it) to sweet heart-land!
Pleasure in a vocation has no offset in political economy as honor has
("the more honor the less profit"), or portrait-painters would be
poorer than poets.

And, _malgré_ his consciousness of the quality which required softening
in his cousin's beauty, and _malgré_ his rare advantages for obtaining
over her a lover's proper ascendency, Mr. Philip Ballister bowed to the
stronger will of Miss Fanny Bellairs, and sailed for France on his
apprenticeship to Mammon.

                         *    *    *    *    *

The reader will please to advance five years. Before proceeding thence
with our story, however, let us take a Parthian glance at the
overstepped interval. Philip Ballister had left New York with the
triple vow that he would enslave every faculty of his mind and body to
business, that he would not return till he had made a fortune, and that
such interstices as might occur in the building up of this chateau for
felicity should be filled with sweet reveries about Fanny Bellairs. The
forsworn painter had genius, as we have before hinted, and genius is
(as much as it is any one thing) the power of concentration. He entered
upon his duties, accordingly with a force and patience of application
which soon made him master of what are called business habits, and,
once in possession of the details, his natural cleverness gave him a
speedy insight to all the scope and tactics of his particular field of
trade. Under his guidance, the affairs of the house were soon in a much
more prosperous train, and, after a year's residence at Lyons, Philip
saw his way very clear to manage them with a long arm and take up his
quarters in Paris. "_Les fats sont les seuls hommes qui aient soin
d'eux mêmes_," says a French novelist, but there is a period, early or
late, in the lives of the cleverest men, when they become suddenly
curious as to their capacity for the graces. Paris, to a stranger who
does not visit in the Faubourg St. Germain, is a republic of personal
exterior, where the degree of privilege depends, with Utopian
impartiality, on the style of the outer man; and Paris, therefore, if
he is not already a Bachelor of Arts (qu?--_beau's Arts_), usually
serves the traveller as an Alma Mater of the pomps and vanities.

Phil. Ballister, up to the time of his matriculation in _Chaussée
d'Antin_, was a romantic-looking sloven. From this to a very dashing
coxcomb is but half a step, and, to be rid of the coxcombry and retain
a look of fashion, is still within the easy limits of imitation.
But--to obtain superiority of presence, with no apparent aid from dress
and no describable manner, and to display, at the same time, every
natural advantage in effective relief, and, withal, to adapt this
subtle philtre, not only to the approbation of the critical and
censorious, but to the taste of fair women gifted with judgment as God
pleases--this is a finish not born with any man (though unsuccessful if
it do not seem to be), and never reached in the apprenticeship of life,
and never reached at all by men not much above their fellows. He who
has it, has "bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his
bonnet in Germany, and his behavior everywhere," for he must know, as a
chart of quicksands, the pronounced models of other nations; but to be
a "picked man of countries," and to _have been_ a coxcomb and a man of
fashion, are, as a painter would say, but the setting of the palette
toward the making of the _chef-d'oeoeuvre_.

Business prospered, and the facilities of leisure increased, while
Ballister passed through these transitions of taste, and he found
intervals to travel, and time to read, and opportunity to indulge, as
far as he could with the eye only, his passion for knowledge in the
arts. To all that appertained to the refinement of himself, he applied
the fine feelers of a delicate and passionate construction, physical
and mental, and, as the reader will already have included, wasted on
culture comparatively unprofitable, faculties that would have been
better employed but for the meddling of Miss Fanny Bellairs.

                         *    *    *    *    *

Ballister's return from France was heralded by the arrival of statuary
and pictures, books, furniture, and numberless articles of tasteful and
costly luxury. The reception of these by the family at home threw
rather a new light on the probable changes in the long-absent brother,
for, from the signal success of the business he had managed, they had
very naturally supposed that it was the result only of unremitted and
plodding care. Vague rumors of changes in his personal appearance had
reached them, such as might be expected from conformity to foreign
fashions, but those who had seen Philip Ballister in France, and called
subsequently on the family in New York, were not people qualified to
judge of the man, either from their own powers of observation or from
any confidence he was likely to put forward while in their society. His
letters had been delightful, but they were confined to third-person
topics, descriptions of things likely to interest them, etc., and Fanny
had few addressed personally to herself, having thought it worth while,
for the experiment sake, or for some other reason, to see whether love
would subsist without it usual _pabulum_ of tender correspondence, and
a _veto_ on love-letters having served her for a parting injunction at
Phil's embarkation for Havre. However varied by their different
fancies, the transformation looked for by the whole family was
substantially the same--the romantic artist sobered down to a
practical, plain man of business. And Fanny herself had an occasional
misgiving as to her relish for his counting-house virtues and manners;
though, on the detection of the feeling, she immediately closed her
eyes upon it, and drummed up her delinquent constancy for "parade and
inspection."

All bustles are very much alike (we use the word as defined in
Johnson), and the reader will appreciate our delicacy, besides, in not
intruding on the first reunion of relatives and lovers long separated.

The morning after Philip Ballister's arrival, the family sat long at
breakfast. The mother's gaze fastened untiringly on the features of her
son--still her boy--prying into them with a vain effort to reconcile
the face of the man with the cherished picture of the child with sunny
locks, and noting little else than the work of inward change upon the
countenance and expression. The brother, with the predominant feeling
of respect for the intelligence and industry of one who had made the
fortunes of the house, read only subdued sagacity in the perfect
simplicity of his whole exterior. And Fanny--Fanny was puzzled. The
_bourgeoisie_ and ledger-bred hardness of manner which she had looked
for were not there, nor any variety of the "foreign slip-slop" common
to travelled youth, nor any superciliousness, nor (faith!) any wear and
tear of youth and good looks--nothing that she expected--nothing! Not
even a French guard-chain!

What there _was_ in her cousin's manners and exterior, however, was
much more difficult to define by Miss Bellairs than what there _was
not_. She began the renewal of their intercourse with very high
spirits, herself--the simple nature and unpretendingness of his address
awakening only an unembarrassed pleasure at seeing him again--but she
soon began to suspect there was an exquisite refinement in this very
simplicity, and to wonder "at the trick of it;" and, after the first
day passed in his society, her heart beat when he spoke to her, as it
did not use to beat when she was sitting to him for her picture, and
listening to his passionate love-making. And, with all her faculties,
she studied him. What was the charm of his presence? He was himself,
and himself only. He seemed perfect, but he seemed to have arrived at
perfection like a statue, not like a picture--by what had been taken
away, not by what had been laid on. He was as natural as a bird, and as
graceful and unembarrassed. He neither forced conversation, nor pressed
the little attentions of the drawing-room, and his attitudes were full
of repose; yet she was completely absorbed in what he said, and she had
been impressed imperceptibly with his high-bred politeness, and the
singular elegance of his person. Fanny felt there was a change in her
relative position to her cousin. In what it consisted, or which had the
advantage, she was perplexed to discover--but she bit her lips as she
caught herself thinking that if she were not engaged to marry Philip
Ballister, she should suspect that she had just fallen irrecoverably in
love with him.

It would have been a novelty in the history of Miss Bellairs that any
event to which she had once consented, should admit of reconsideration;
and the Ballister family, used to her strong will, were confirmed
fatalists as to the coming about of her ends and aims. Her marriage
with Philip, therefore, was discussed, _coeur ouvert_, from his first
arrival, and, indeed, in her usual fashion of saving others the trouble
of making up their minds, "herself had named the day." This, it is
true, was before his landing, and was, then, an effort of considerable
magnanimity, as the expectant Penelope was not yet advised of her
lover's state of preservation or damages by cares and keeping. If
Philip had not found his wedding-day fixed on his arrival, however, he
probably would have had a voice in the naming of it, for, with Fanny's
new inspirations as to his character, there had grown up a new flower
in her garden of beauties--timidity! What bird of the air had sown the
seed in such a soil was a problem to herself--but true it was!--the
confident belle had grown a blushing trembler! She would as soon have
thought of bespeaking her wings for the sky, as to have ventured on
naming the day in a short week after.

The day _was_ named, however, and the preparations went on--_nem.
con._--the person most interested (after herself) accepting every
congratulation and allusion, touching the event, with the most
impenetrable suavity. The marbles and pictures, upholstery and
services, were delivered over to the order of Miss Bellairs, and
Philip, disposed, apparently, to be very much a recluse in his rooms,
or, at other times, engrossed by troops of welcoming friends, saw much
less of his bride elect than suited her wishes, and saw her seldom
alone. By particular request, also, he took no part in the plenishing
and embellishing of the new abode--not permitted even to inquire where
it was situated; and, under this cover, besides the pleasure of having
her own way, Fanny concealed a little secret, which, when disclosed,
she now felt, would figure forth Philip's comprehension, her whole
scheme of future happiness. She had taken the elder brother into her
counsels a fortnight after Philip's return, and, with his aid and
consent, had abandoned the original idea of a house in town, purchased
a beautifully-secluded estate and _cottage ornée_, on the East River,
and transferred thither all the objects of art, furniture, etc. One
room only of the maternal mansion was permitted to contribute its quota
to the completion of the bridal dwelling--the wing, never since
inhabited, in which Philip had made his essay as a painter--and,
without variation of a cobweb, and, with whimsical care and effort on
the part of Miss Fanny, this apartment was reproduced at Revedere--her
own picture on the easel, as it stood on the night of his abandonment
of his art, and palette, pencils and colors in tempting readiness on
the table. Even the fire-grate of the old studio had been re-set in the
new, and the cottage throughout had been refitted with a view to
occupation in the winter. And to sundry hints on the part of the elder
brother, that some thought should be given to a city residence--for the
Christmas holidays at least--Fanny replied, through a blush, that she
would never wish to see the town--with Philip at Revedere!

Five years had ripened and mellowed the beauty of Fanny Bellairs, and
the same summer-time of youth had turned into fruit the feeling left by
Philip in bud and flower. She was ready now for love. She had felt the
variable temper of society, and there was a presentiment in the heart,
of receding flatteries and the winter of life. It was with mournful
self-reproach that she thought of the years wasted in separation, of
her own choosing, from the man she loved; and, with the power to recall
time, she would have thanked God with tears of joy for the privilege of
retracing the chain of life to that link of parting. Not worth a day of
those lost years, she bitterly confessed to herself, was the wealth
they had purchased.

It lacked as little as one week of "the happy day," when the workmen
were withdrawn from Revedere, and the preparations for a family
breakfast, to be succeeded by the agreeable surprise to Philip of
informing him he was at home, were finally completed. One or two very
intimate friends were added to the party, and the invitations (from the
elder Ballister) proposed simply a _déjeuner sur l'herbe_ in the
grounds of an unoccupied villa, the property of an acquaintance.

With the subsiding of the excitement of return, the early associations
which had temporarily confused and colored the feelings of Philip
Ballister settled gradually away, leaving uppermost once more the
fastidious refinement of the Parisian. Through this medium, thin and
cold, the bubbles from the breathing of the heart of youth, rose rarely
and reluctantly. The Ballisters held a good station in society, without
caring for much beyond the easy conveniences of life, and Fanny, though
capable of any degree of elegance, had not seen the expediency of
raising the tone of her manners above that of her immediate friends.
Without being positively distasteful to Philip, the family circle,
Fanny included, left him much to desire in the way of society, and,
unwilling to abate the warmth of his attentions while with them, he had
latterly pleaded occupation more frequently, and passed his time in the
more congenial company of his library of art. This was the less noticed
that it gave Miss Bellairs the opportunity to make frequent visits to
the workmen at Revedere, and, in the polished devotion of her betrothed
when with her, Fanny saw nothing reflected but her own daily increasing
tenderness and admiration.

The morning of _fête_ came in like the air in an overture--a harmony of
all the instruments of summer. The party were at the gate of Revedere
by ten, and the drive through the avenue to the lawn drew a burst of
delighted admiration from all. The place was exquisite, and seen in its
glory, and Fanny's heart was brimming with gratified pride and
exultation. She assumed at once the dispensation of the honors, and
beautiful she looked with her snowy dress and raven ringlets flitting
across the lawn, and queening it like Perdita among the flowers. Having
narrowly escaped bursting into tears of joy when Philip pronounced the
place prettier than anything he had seen in his travels, she was, for
the rest of the day, calmly happy; and, with the grateful shade, the
delicious breakfast in the grove, the rambling and boating on the
river, the hours passed off like dreams, and no one even hinted a
regret that the house itself was under lock and bar. And so the sun
set, and the twilight came on, and the guests were permitted to order
round their carriages and depart, the Ballisters accompanying them to
the gate. And, on the return of the family through the avenue, excuses
were made for idling hither and thither, till light began to show
through the trees, and, by the time of their arrival at the lawn, the
low windows of the cottage poured forth streams of light, and the open
doors, and servants busy within, completed a scene more like magic than
reality. Philip was led in by the excited girl who was the fairy of the
spell, and his astonishment at the discovery of his statuary and
pictures, books and furniture, arranged in complete order within, was
fed upon with the passionate delight of love in authority.

When an hour had been spent in examining and admiring the different
apartments, an inner room was thrown open, in which supper was
prepared, and this fourth act in the day's drama was lingered over in
untiring happiness by the family.

Mrs. Ballister, the mother, rose and retired, and Philip pleaded
indisposition, and begged to be shown to the room allotted to him. This
was ringing-up the curtain for the last act sooner than had been
planned by Fanny, but she announced herself as his chamberlain, and,
with her hands affectionately crossed on his arm, led him to a suite of
rooms in a wing still unvisited, and, with a goodnight kiss, left him
at the open door of the revived studio, furnished for the night with a
bachelor's bed. Turning upon the threshold, he closed the door with a
parting wish of sweet dreams, and Fanny, after listening a moment with
a vain hope of overhearing some expression of pleasure, and lingering
again on her way back, to be overtaken by her surprised lover, sought
her own bed without rejoining the circle, and passed a sleepless and
happy night of tears and joy.

Breakfast was served the next morning on a terrace overlooking the
river, and it was voted by acclamation that Fanny never before looked
so lovely. As none but the family were to be present, she had stolen a
march on her marriage wardrobe, and added to her demi-toilet a morning
cap of exquisite becomingness. Altogether she looked deliciously
wife-like, and did the honors of the breakfast-table with a grace and
sweetness that warmed out love and compliments even from the sober soil
of household intimacy. Philip had not yet made his appearance, and they
lingered long at table, till at last, a suggestion that he might be ill
started Fanny to her feet, and she ran to his door before a servant
could be summoned.

The rooms were open, and the bed had not been occupied. The candle was
burned to the socket, and on the easel, resting against the picture,
was a letter addressed--"Miss Fanny Bellairs."

    THE LETTER.

    "I have followed up to this hour, my fair cousin, in the path you
    have marked out for me. It has brought me back, in this chamber, to
    the point from which I started under your guidance, and if it had
    brought me back unchanged--if it restored me my energy, my hope,
    and my prospect of fame, I should pray Heaven that it would also
    give me back my love, and be content--more than content, if it gave
    me back also my poverty. The sight of my easel, and of the
    surroundings of my boyish dreams of glory, have made my heart
    bitter. They have given form and voice to a vague unhappiness,
    which has haunted me through all these absent years--years of
    degrading pursuits and wasted powers--and it now impels me from
    you, kind and lovely as you are, with an aversion I cannot control.
    I cannot forgive you. You have thwarted my destiny. You have
    extinguished with sordid cares a lamp within me, that might, by
    this time, have shone through the world. And what am I, since your
    wishes are accomplished? Enriched in pocket, and bankrupt in
    happiness and self-respect.

    "With a heart sick, and a brain aching for distinction, I have come
    to an unhonored stand-still at thirty! I am a successful tradesman,
    and in this character I shall probably die. Could I begin to be a
    painter now, say you? Alas! my knowledge of the art is too great
    for patience with the slow hand! I could not draw a line without
    despair. The pliant fingers and the plastic mind must keep pace to
    make progress in art. My taste is fixed, and my imagination
    uncreative, because chained down by certainties; and the
    shortsighted ardor and daring experiments which are indispensable
    to sustain and advance the follower in Raphael's footsteps, are too
    far behind for my resuming. The tide ebbed from me at the accursed
    burning of my pencils by your pitiless hand, and from that hour I
    have felt hope receding. Could I be happy with you, stranded here
    in ignoble idleness, and owing to you the loss of my whole venture
    of opportunity? No, Fanny?--surely no!

    "I would not be unnecessarily harsh. I am sensible of your
    affection and constancy. I have deferred this explanation unwisely,
    till the time and place make it seem more cruel. You are at this
    very moment, I well know, awake in your chamber, devoting to me the
    vigils of a heart overflowing with tenderness. And I would--if it
    were possible--if it were not utterly beyond my powers of self
    sacrifice and concealment--I would affect a devotion I cannot feel,
    and carry out this error through a life of artifice and monotony.
    But here, again, the work is your own, and my feelings revert
    bitterly to your interference. If there were no other obstacle to
    my marrying you--if you were not associated repulsively with the
    dark cloud on my life, you are not the woman I could now enthrone
    in my bosom. We have diverged since the separation which I pleaded
    against, and which you commanded. I need for my idolatry, now, a
    creature to whom the sordid cares you have sacrificed me to, are
    utterly unknown--a woman born and educated in circumstances where
    want is never feared, and where calculation never enters. I must
    lavish my wealth, if I fulfil my desire, on one who accepts it like
    the air she breathes, and who knows the value of nothing but
    love--a bird with a human soul and form, believing herself free of
    all the world is rich in, and careful only for pleasure and the
    happiness of those who belong to her. Such women, beautiful and
    highly educated, are found only in ranks of society between which
    and my own I have been increasing in distance--nay, building an
    impassable barrier, in obedience to your control. Where I stop,
    interdicted by the stain of trade, the successful artist is free to
    enter. You have stamped me _plebeian_--you would not share my slow
    progress toward a higher sphere, and you have disqualified me for
    attaining it alone. In your mercenary and immovable will, and in
    that only, lies the secret of our twofold unhappiness.

    "I leave you, to return to Europe. My brother and my friends will
    tell you I am mad and inexcusable, and look upon you as a victim.
    They will say that, to have been a painter, were nothing to the
    career that I might mark out for my ambition, if ambition I must
    have, in politics. Politics in a country where distinction is a
    pillory! But I could not live here. It is my misfortune that my
    tastes are so modified by that long and compulsory exile, that
    life, here, would be a perpetual penance. This unmixed air of
    merchandise suffocates me. Our own home is tinctured black with it.
    You yourself, in this rural Paradise you have conjured up, move in
    it like a cloud. The counting-house rings in your voice,
    calculation draws together your brows, you look on everything as a
    _means_, and know its cost; and the calm and means-forgetting
    _fruition_, which forms the charm and dignity of superior life, is
    utterly unknown to you. What would be my happiness with such a
    wife? What would be yours with such a husband? Yet I consider the
    incompatibility between us as no advantage on my part--on the
    contrary, a punishment, and of your inflicting. What shall I be,
    anywhere, but a Tantalus--a fastidious _ennuyé_, with a thirst for
    the inaccessible burning in my bosom continually!

    "I pray you let us avoid another meeting before my departure.
    Though I cannot forgive you as a lover, I can think of you with
    pleasure as a cousin, and I give you as your due ('damages,' the
    law would phrase it,) the portion of myself which you thought most
    important when I offered you my all. You would not take me without
    the fortune, but perhaps you will be content with the fortune
    without me. I shall immediately take steps to convey to you this
    property of Revedere, with an income sufficient to maintain it, and
    I trust soon to hear that you have found a husband better worthy of
    you than your cousin--

    "Philip Ballister."





FRIEND BARTON'S CONCERN.

By Mary Hallock Foote.

(_Scribner's Magazine, July,_ 1879.)


It had been "borne in" upon him, more or less, during the long winter;
it had not relaxed its hold when the frosts unlocked and the streams
were set free from their long winter's silence among the hills. He grew
restless and abstracted under "the turnings of the Lord's hand upon
him," and his speech unconsciously shaped itself into the Biblical
cadences which came to him in his moments of spiritual exercise.

The bedrabbled snows of March shrank away before the keen, quickening
sunbeams; the hills emerged, brown and sodden, like the chrysalis of
the new year. The streams woke in a tumult, and all day and night their
voices called from the hills back of the mill. The waste-weir was a
foaming torrent, and spread itself in muddy shallows across the meadow
beyond the old garden where the robins and blue birds were
house-hunting. Friend Barton's trouble stirred with the life-blood of
the year, and pressed upon him sorely; but as yet he gave it no words.
He plodded about among his lean kine, tempering the winds of March to
his untimely lambs, and reconciling unnatural ewes to their maternal
duties.

Friend Barton had never heard of the doctrine of the survival of the
fittest; though it was the spring of 1812, and England and America were
investigating the subject on the seas, while the nations of Europe were
practically illustrating it. The "hospital tent," as the boys called an
old corn-basket, covered with carpet, which stood beside the kitchen
chimney, was seldom without an occupant,--a brood of chilled chickens,
a weakly lamb, or a wee pig (with too much blue in its pinkness), which
had been left behind by its stouter brethren in the race for existence.
The old mill hummed away through the day, and often late in the evening
if time pressed, upon the grists which added a thin, intermittent
stream of tribute to the family income. Whenever work was "slack,"
Friend Barton was sawing or chopping in the wood-shed adjoining the
kitchen; every moment he could seize or make he was there, stooping
over the rapidly growing pile.

"Seems to me, father, thee's in a great hurry with the wood this
spring. I don't know when we've had such a pile ahead."

"'Twon't burn up any faster for being chopped," Friend Barton said; and
then his wife Rachel knew that if he had a reason for being
"forehanded" with the wood, he was not ready to give it.

One rainy April afternoon, when the smoky gray distances began to take
a tinge of green, and through the drip and rustle of the rain the call
of the robins sounded, Friend Barton sat in the door of the barn,
oiling the road-harness. The old chaise had been wheeled out and
greased, and its cushions beaten and dusted.

An ox team with a load of grain creaked up the hill and stopped at the
mill door. The driver, seeing Friend Barton's broad-brimmed drab felt
hat against the dark interior of the barn, came down the short lane
leading from the mill past the house and farm-buildings.

"Fixin' up for travellin', Uncle Tommy?"

Vain compliments were unacceptable to Thomas Barton, and he was
generally known and addressed as "Uncle Tommy" by the world's people of
a younger generation.

"It is not in man that walketh to direct his own steps, neighbor
Gordon. I am getting myself in readiness to obey the Lord, whichever
way He calls me."

Farmer Gordon cast a shrewd eye over the premises. They wore that
patient, sad, exhumed look which old farm-buildings are apt to have in
early spring. The roofs were black with rain, and brightened with
patches of green moss. Farmer Gordon instinctively calculated how many
"bunches o' shingle" would be required to rescue them from the decline
into which they had fallen, in spite of the hectic green spots.

"Wal, the Lord calls most of us to stay at home and look after things,
such weather as this. Good plantin' weather; good weather for breakin'
ground; fust-rate weather for millin'! This is a reg'lar miller's rain,
Uncle Tommy. You ought to be takin' advantage of it. I've got a grist
back here; wish ye could manage to let me have it when I come back from
store."

The grist was ground and delivered before Friend Barton went in to his
supper that night. Dorothy Barton had been mixing bread, and was wiping
her white arms and hands on the roller towel by the kitchen door, as
her father stamped and scraped his feet on the stones outside.

"I do believe I forgot to toll neighbor Gordon's rye," he said, as he
gave a final rub on the broom Dorothy handed out to him. "It's
wonderful how careless I get!"

"Well, father, I don't suppose thee'd ever forget, and toll a grist
twice!"

"I believe I've been mostly preserved from mistakes of that kind," said
Friend Barton gently. "It may have been the Lord who stayed my hand
from gathering profit unto myself while his lambs go unfed."

Dorothy put her hands on her father's shoulders. She was almost as tall
as he, and could look into his patient, troubled eyes.

"Father, I know what thee is thinking of; but do think _long_. It will
be a hard year; the boys _ought_ to go to school; and mother is so
feeble."

Friend Barton's "concern" kept him awake long that night. His wife
watched by his side, giving no sign, lest her wakeful presence should
disturb his silent wrestlings. The tall, cherry-wood clock in the entry
measured the hours as they passed with its slow, dispassionate tick.

At two o'clock Rachel Barton was awakened from her first sleep of
weariness by her husband's voice whispering heavily in the darkness.

"My way is hedged up! I see no way to go forward. Lord, strengthen my
patience, that I murmur not, after all I have seen of Thy goodness. I
find daily bread is very desirable; want and necessity are painful to
nature; but shall I follow Thee for the sake of the loaves, or will it
do to forsake Thee in times of emptiness and abasement?"

There was silence again, and restless tossings and sighings continued
the struggle.

"Thomas," the wife's voice spoke tremulously in the darkness, "my dear
husband, I know where thy thoughts are tending. If the Spirit is with
thee, do not deny it for our sakes, I pray thee. The Lord did not give
thee thy wife and children to hang as a millstone round thy neck. I am
thy helpmeet, to strengthen thee in his service. I am thankful that I
have my health this spring better than usual, and Dorothy is a
wonderful help. Her spirit was sent to sustain me in thy long absences.
Go, dear, and serve our Master, who has called thee in these bitter
strivings! Dorothy and I will keep things together as well as we can.
The way will open--never fear!" She put out her hand and touched his
face in the darkness; there were tears on the furrowed cheeks. "Try to
sleep, dear, and let thy spirit have rest. There is but one answer to
this call."

With the first drowsy twitterings of the birds, when the
crescent-shaped openings in the board shutters began to define
themselves clearly in the shadowy room, they arose and went about their
morning tasks in silence. Friend Barton's step was a little heavier
than usual, and the hollows round his wife's pale brown eyes were a
little deeper. As he sat on the splint-bottomed chair by the kitchen
fireplace, drawing on his boots, she laid her hands on his shoulders,
and her cheek on the worn spot on the top of his head.

"Thee will lay this concern before meeting to-morrow, father?"

"I had it on my mind to do so,--if my light be not quenched before
then."

Friend Barton's light was not quenched. Words came to him without
seeking, in which to "open the concern which had ripened in his mind,"
of a religious visit to the meeting constituting the yearly meetings of
Philadelphia and Baltimore. A "minute" was given him encouraging him in
the name of, and with the full concurrence of, the monthly meetings of
Nine Partners, and Stony Valley, to go wherever the Truth might lead
him. While Friend Barton was thus freshly anointed, and "abundantly
encouraged," his wife, Rachel, was talking with Dorothy in the low
upper chamber, known as the "wheel-room."

Dorothy was spinning wool on the big wheel, dressed in her light calico
short-gown and brown quilted petticoat; her arms were bare, and her
hair was gathered away from her flushed cheeks and knotted behind her
ears. The roof sloped down on one side, and the light came from a long
low window under the eaves. There was another window (shaped like a
half moon high up in the peak), but it sent down only one long beam of
sunlight, which glimmered across the dust and fell upon Dorothy's white
neck.

The wheel was humming a quick measure, and Dorothy trod lightly back
and forth, the wheel-pin in one hand, the other upraised holding the
tense, lengthening thread, which the spindle devoured again.

"Dorothy, thee looks warm:--can't thee sit down a moment, while I talk
to thee?"

"Is it anything important, mother? I want to get my twenty knots before
dinner." She paused as she joined a long tress of wool at the spindle.
"Is it anything about father?"

"Yes, it's about father, and all of us."

"I know," said Dorothy, stretching herself back with a sigh. "He's
going away again!"

"Yes, dear. He feels that he is called. It is a time of trouble and
contention everywhere,--'the harvest truly is plenteous, but the
laborers are few.'"

"There are not so _many_ 'laborers' _here_, mother, though to be sure,
the harvest--"

"Dorothy, my daughter! don't let a spirit of levity creep into thy
speech. Thy father has striven and wrestled with his urgings. I've seen
it working on him all winter; he feels now it is the Lord's will."

"I don't see how he can be so sure," said Dorothy, swaying gloomily to
and fro against the wheel. "I don't care for myself,--I'm not afraid of
work,--but _thee's_ not able to do what thee does _now_, mother. If I
have outside things to look after, how can I help thee as I should? The
boys are about as much dependence as a flock of barn swallows!"

"Don't fret about me, dear; the way will open. Thy father has thought
and planned for us; have patience while I tell thee. Thee knows Walter
Evesham's pond is small and his mill is doing a thriving business?"

"Yes, I know it!" Dorothy exclaimed. "He has his own share, and ours
too--most of it!"

"Wait, dear, wait! Thy father has rented him the ponds to use when his
own gives out. He is to have the control of the water, and it will give
us a little income, even though the old mill does stand idle."

"He may as well take the mill, too. If father is away all summer it
will be useless ever to start it again. Thee'll see, mother, how it
will end if Walter Evesham has the custom and the water all summer. I
think it's miserable for a young man to be so keen about money."

"Dorothy, seems to me thee's hasty in thy judgments. I never heard that
said of Walter Evesham. His father left him with capital to improve his
mill. It does better work than ours; we can't complain of that. Thy
father was never one to study much after ways of making money. He felt
he had no right to more than an honest livelihood. I don't say that
Walter Evesham's in the wrong. We know that Joseph took advantage of
his opportunities, though I can't say that I ever felt much unity with
some of his transactions. What would thee have, my dear? Thee's
discouraged with thy father for choosing the thorny way, which we tread
with him; but thee seems no better satisfied with one who considers the
flesh and its wants!"

"I don't _know_, mother, _what_ I want for myself. It doesn't matter,
but for thee I would have rest from all these cruel worries thee has
borne so long."

She buried her face in her mother's lap and put her strong young arms
about the frail, toil-bent form.

"There, there, dear. Try to rule thy spirit, Dorothy. Thee's too much
worked up about this. They are not worries to me. I am thankful we have
nothing to decide, one way or the other--only to do our best with what
is given us. Thee's not thyself, dear. Go down-stairs and fetch in the
clothes, and don't hurry; stay out till thee gets more composed."

Dorothy did not succeed in bringing herself into unity with her
father's call, but she came to a fuller realization of his struggle.
When he bade them good-by, his face showed what it had cost him, but
Rachel was calm and cheerful. The pain of parting is keenest to those
who go, but it stays longer with those who are left behind.

"Dorothy, take good care of thy mother!" Friend Barton said, taking his
daughter's face between his hands and gravely kissing her brow between
the low-parted ripples of her hair.

"Yes, father," she said, looking into his eyes. "Thee knows I'm thy
eldest son."

They watched the old chaise swing round the corner of the lane, then
the pollard willows shut it from sight.

"Come, mother," said Dorothy, hurrying her in at the gate. "I'm going
to make a great pot of mush, and have it hot for supper, and fried for
breakfast, and warmed up with molasses for dinner, and there'll be some
cold with milk for supper, and we shan't have any cooking to do at
all."

They went round to the kitchen door. Rachel stopped in the wood-shed,
and the tears rushed to her eyes.

"Dear father! How he has worked over that wood, early and late, to
spare us!"

We will not revive Dorothy's struggles with the farm-work and with the
boys. They were an isolated family at the mill-house; their peculiar
faith isolated them still more, and they were twelve miles from meeting
and the settlement of Friends at Stony Valley. Dorothy's pride kept her
silent about her needs, lest they might bring reproach upon her father
among the neighbors, who would not be likely to feel the urgency of his
spiritual summons.

The summer heats came on apace and the nights grew shorter. It seemed
to Dorothy that she had hardly stretched out her tired young body and
forgotten her cares in the low attic bedroom, before the east was
streaked with light and the birds were singing in the apple-trees,
whose falling blossoms drifted in at the window.

One day in early June, Friend Barton's flock of sheep--consisting of
nine experienced ewes, six yearlings, and a sprinkling of close-curled
lambs whose legs had not yet come into mature relations with their
bodies--were gathered in a little railed inclosure, beside the stream
which flowed into the "mill head." It was supplied by the waste from
the pond, and when the gate was shut, rambled easily over the gray
slate pebbles, with here and there a fall, just forcible enough to
serve as a douche bath for a well-grown sheep. The victims were panting
in their heavy fleeces, and their hoarse, plaintive tremolo mingled
with the ripple of the water and the sound of young voices in a frolic.
Dorothy had divided her forces for the washing to the best advantage.
The two elder boys stood in the stream to receive the sheep, which she,
with the help of little Jimmy, caught and dragged to the bank.

The boys were at work now upon an elderly ewe, while Dorothy stood on
the brink of the stream, braced against an ash sapling, dragging at the
fleece of a beautiful but reluctant yearling. Her bare feet were
incased in a pair of moccasins which laced around the ankle; her
petticoats were kilted, and her broad hat bound down with a ribbon; one
sleeve was rolled up, the other had been sacrificed in a scuffle in the
sheep-pen. The new candidate for immersion stood bleating and
trembling, with her fore feet planted against the slippery bank,
pushing back with all her strength, while Jimmy propelled from the
rear.

"Boys!" Dorothy's clear voice called across the stream. "_Do_ hurry!
She's been in long enough, now! Keep her head up, can't you, and
squeeze the wool _hard_! You're not _half_ washing! Oh, Reuby! thee'll
drown her! Keep her _head_ up!"

Another unlucky douse and another half-smothered bleat,--Dorothy
released the yearling and plunged to the rescue. "Go after that lamb,
Reuby!" she cried, with exasperation in her voice. Reuby followed the
yearling, which had disappeared over the orchard slope, upsetting an
obstacle in its path, which happened to be Jimmy. He was now wailing on
the bank, while Dorothy, with the ewe's nose tucked comfortably in the
bend of her arm, was parting and squeezing the fleece, with the water
swirling round her. Her stout arms ached, and her ears were stunned
with the incessant bleating; she counted with dismay the sheep still
waiting in the pen. "Oh, Jimmy! _do_ stop crying, or else go to the
house!"

"He'd better go after Reuby," said Sheppard Barton, who was now
Dorothy's sole dependence.

"Oh yes; do, Jimmy, that's a good boy. Tell him to let the yearling go,
and come back quick."

The water had run low that morning in Evesham's pond. He shut down the
mill, and strode up the hills, across lots, to raise the gate of the
lower Barton Pond, which had been heading up for his use. He passed the
corn-field where, a month before, he had seen pretty Dorothy Barton
dropping corn with her brothers. It made him ache to think of Dorothy,
with her feeble mother, the boys, as wild as preacher's sons
proverbially are, and the old farm running down on her hands; the
fences all needed mending, and there went Reuben Barton, now, careering
over the fields in chase of a stray yearling. His mother's house was
big, and lonely, and empty; and he flushed as he thought of the "one
ewe-lamb" he coveted, out of Friend Barton's rugged pastures. As he
raised the gate, and leaned to watch the water swirl and gurgle through
the "trunk," sucking the long weeds with it, and thickening with its
tumult the clear current of the stream, the sound of voices and
bleating of sheep came up from below. He had not the farming instincts
in his blood;--the distant bleating, the hot June sunshine and
cloudless sky, did not suggest to him sheep-washing;--but now came a
boy's voice shouting and a cry of distress, and he remembered, with a
thrill, that Friend Barton used the stream for that peaceful purpose.
He shut down the gate and tore along through the ferns and tangled
grass till he came to the sheep-pen, where the bank was muddy and
trampled. The prisoners were bleating drearily and looking with longing
eyes across to the other side, where those who had suffered were now
straying and cropping the short turf, through the lights and shadows of
the orchard.

There was no other sign of life, except a broad hat with a brown
ribbon, buffeted about in an eddy, among the stones. The stream dipped
now below the hill, and the current, still racing fast with the impetus
he had given it, shot away among the hazel thickets which crowded close
to the brink. He was obliged to make a detour by the orchard, and come
out at the "mill-head" below;--a black, deep pool, with an ugly ripple
setting across it to the "head-gate." He saw something white clinging
there and ran round the brink. It was the sodden fleece of the old ewe
which had been drifted against the "head-gate," and held there to her
death. Evesham, with a sickening contraction of the heart, threw off
his jacket for a plunge, when Dorothy's voice called rather faintly
from the willows on the opposite bank.

"Don't jump! I'm here," she said. Evesham searched the willows, and
found her seated in the sun just beyond, half buried in a bed of ferns.

"I wouldn't have called thee," she said shyly, as he sank, pale and
panting, beside her, "but thee looked--I thought thee was going to jump
into the mill-head!"

"I thought _you_ were there, Dorothy!"

"I was there quite long enough. Shep pulled me out; I was too tired to
help myself much." Dorothy held her palm pressed against her temple,
and the blood trickled from beneath, streaking her pale, wet cheek.

"He's gone to the house to get me a cloak. I don't want mother to see
me--not yet," she said.

"I'm afraid you ought not to wait, Dorothy. Let me take you to the
house, won't you? I'm afraid you'll get a deadly chill."

Dorothy did not look in the least like death. She was blushing now,
because Evesham would think it so strange of her to stay, and yet she
could not rise in her wet clothes, which clung to her like the calyx to
a bud.

"Let me see that cut, Dorothy, _please_!"

"Oh, it's nothing. I don't _wish_ thee to look at it!"

"But I will! Do you want to make me your murderer--sitting there in
your wet clothes, with a cut on your head?"

He drew away her hand, and the wound, indeed, was no great affair, but
he bound it up deftly with strips of his handkerchief. Dorothy's wet
curls touched his fingers and clung to them, and her eyelashes drooped
lower and lower.

"I think it was _very_ stupid of thee. Didn't thee hear us from the
dam? I'm sure we made noise enough."

"Yes, I heard you when it was too late. I heard the sheep before, but
how could I imagine that _you_, Dorothy, and three boys, as big as
cockerels, were sheep-washing? It's the most preposterous thing I ever
heard of!"

"Well, I can't help being a woman, and the sheep had to be washed. I
think there ought to be more men in the world when half of them are
preaching and fight